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Insulting Hillary Part One - By Jason Pinaster

We had arrived at this moment—Amber on tiptoes, her arms spread wide and taunting me, the roar of the crowd demanding vengeance—because Amber had slandered Hillary, my best friend.

After learning of the vile insults which Amber had levelled at Hillary, I’d waited a full twenty-four hours to calm down.  Then I had cornered Amber in the hallway outside the gym where she and I both trained.  I’d intended the confrontation to be private but just then the video crew taping a promotional piece for an upcoming bout came up.

I had no choice but to continue.  I jabbed a finger at Amber’s chest, a couple of inches above the center of her breasts.  “Hillary never cheats,” I told her.  “You need to apologize.”

Amber smirked at me and angled the fronts of her sweaty cotton sports bra and bikini bottom towards the camera.  “I have no such need.”

“You will apologize.”  I emphasized each syllable of the last word with a jab to her chest, connecting each time.  A pol o gize.

Amber gently moved my finger to the side.  “I will do no such thing.”

“Then you will meet me in the ring.”

“You?  Fiona?  The skinny little blonde nymph?  Challenging me to a grudge match?”

“Unless you’re afraid.”

Amber shook her head slowly back and forth, pretending to be sorrowful.  “Even if you do beat me, it won’t restore Hillary’s honor.”

“If you lose, you will have to apologize.”

She nodded, as if considering.  “And when I win?”

“The winner will have the loser at her mercy, free to inflict any humiliation she wants.  In the ring.  In front of the crowd.”

“Any humiliation?”

I nodded, regretting the corner I’d painted myself into.  But with the camera rolling, there was no way I could back out.

On the wrestling circuit, Amber was a heel, the villain, the bad guy.  As a heel, it was her role to portray evil.  Yet Amber was trying to break out of the strict confines of her role.  She wanted to become a rebellious antihero.  I was a face, the heroine who the fans loved to cheer for.  It was my job to let good triumph over the evil heel.

Hillary was a true babyface who tended to triumph at the last minute.  She was smaller and would sustain round after round of punishment.  The fans would cringe.  They would feel the pain of each blow endured by Hillary as if the blows were landing on their own bodies.  And when Hillary won, they would cheer as she exacted her revenge.

Almost all wrestlers cheated at some point—striking with an elbow or a knee, for instance—but not Hillary.  Now matter how badly she was being beaten, she would never cheat.  She would never, ever use the props she wore into the ring until her foe was utterly and clearly defeated.

Even though I was a face, I would only win half my fights.  Maintaining a more-or-less 50-50 win-loss ratio was the best way for the promoters to keep each match interesting.  If I won too many fights in a row, the promoters would require me to lose a few to even up my stats.  But today’s bout with Amber was a grudge match, anyone’s to win, and didn’t count towards our win-loss ratio.

The night of the fight, we pranced around the ring to let the audience feast their eyes on us.

I’m skinny, a little shorter than most of my opponents, definitely shorter than Amber.  Long legs, narrow hips, slim waist, long neck—skinny.  My trademark blonde hair is short on one side, combed long to the right.  My face is on the severe side—good for stare downs, but no one would ever describe me as being pretty.

Amber had more flesh on her legs and a lot more on her hind quarters.  She wore her customary red thong.  I’d seen more buttock on display in a beach volleyball match, but the amount revealed by her thong was still on the risqué side for the wrestling ring.  Her waist was as narrow as mine which accentuated her wider hips and larger breasts.  Amber’s top was an elaborate sports bra with built-in fishnet sleeves that left only her fingers exposed.

Her long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail behind her head.  My opponent’s long and angular face, eyes which narrowed slightly downwards, and prominent cheekbones which squeezed her nose, gave her a fierce look.  She enhanced this ferocity with black eyeliner.  Glossy black lipstick completed the intimidating display.

My sports bra cupped the bottom of my breasts and covered to just below my neck.  My low-cut bikini was a crowd-pleaser but covered everything it was supposed to.  Both were black.

Just as Amber lowered her arms and came down from her tiptoes, Hillary used the ropes to pull herself into the ring.  She was wearing a bikini with vertical black and white stripes together with the rest of her wrestling props.

Amber pointed at Hillary.  “She’s not allowed in the ring.”

“Fiona?” said Hillary.

I glanced at Hillary, then turned back to Amber.  “It’s her honor at stake.”

Hillary was a crowd favorite and a chant of her name began to reverberate through the sold-out arena.

Amber slashed her hand sideways.  When the crowd quieted, she pointed at Hillary: “She can watch.  She can count.  But if she touches either of us, you forfeit the fight.”

I looked at Hillary to make sure she agreed.

“No touching,” said Hillary.

I nodded and Amber and we began to circle each other.

Amber was quiet now, no longer trash talking.  Instead, she waved her ponytail back and forth, taunting me with its long and luxurious strands.  Amber was lucky she hadn’t dissed my short blonde hair.  Pulling on her hair would be cheating but if I got the opportunity to make it look like an accident, I just might give it a tug anyways.  Not so much of a tug as to affect the fight.  Not so much of a tug that Amber would have grounds to protest.  Just enough that some of the audience would see, that the better-informed fans would understand what was going on.  Just enough to get under Amber’s skin.

We kept circling, searching for a weakness in our opponent’s posture.  The crowd shuffled in its seats.  I fought against the adrenaline surging into my bloodstream.  The word ‘Fight’ started to surge on the large video screens located above the last row of the seats, sometimes with exclamation marks.

The crowd began to chant, “Fight, fight,” at first a low rumble, then a full-bodied roar: “Fight!  Fight!  Fight!”

Many thanks to Jason Pinaster for the text of this story (www.deviantart.com/jasonpinast… ). For the Not Safe for Work remaining six parts to this story, please see my patreon page (www.patreon.com/bePatron?u=126… ) or Jason’s Main or Bonus tiers at www.deviantart.com/jasonpinaster/subscriptions

Description

Insulting Hillary Part One - By Jason Pinaster

We had arrived at this moment—Amber on tiptoes, her arms spread wide and taunting me, the roar of the crowd demanding vengeance—because Amber had slandered Hillary, my best friend.

After learning of the vile insults which Amber had levelled at Hillary, I’d waited a full twenty-four hours to calm down.  Then I had cornered Amber in the hallway outside the gym where she and I both trained.  I’d intended the confrontation to be private but just then the video crew taping a promotional piece for an upcoming bout came up.

I had no choice but to continue.  I jabbed a finger at Amber’s chest, a couple of inches above the center of her breasts.  “Hillary never cheats,” I told her.  “You need to apologize.”

Amber smirked at me and angled the fronts of her sweaty cotton sports bra and bikini bottom towards the camera.  “I have no such need.”

“You will apologize.”  I emphasized each syllable of the last word with a jab to her chest, connecting each time.  A pol o gize.

Amber gently moved my finger to the side.  “I will do no such thing.”

“Then you will meet me in the ring.”

“You?  Fiona?  The skinny little blonde nymph?  Challenging me to a grudge match?”

“Unless you’re afraid.”

Amber shook her head slowly back and forth, pretending to be sorrowful.  “Even if you do beat me, it won’t restore Hillary’s honor.”

“If you lose, you will have to apologize.”

She nodded, as if considering.  “And when I win?”

“The winner will have the loser at her mercy, free to inflict any humiliation she wants.  In the ring.  In front of the crowd.”

“Any humiliation?”

I nodded, regretting the corner I’d painted myself into.  But with the camera rolling, there was no way I could back out.

On the wrestling circuit, Amber was a heel, the villain, the bad guy.  As a heel, it was her role to portray evil.  Yet Amber was trying to break out of the strict confines of her role.  She wanted to become a rebellious antihero.  I was a face, the heroine who the fans loved to cheer for.  It was my job to let good triumph over the evil heel.

Hillary was a true babyface who tended to triumph at the last minute.  She was smaller and would sustain round after round of punishment.  The fans would cringe.  They would feel the pain of each blow endured by Hillary as if the blows were landing on their own bodies.  And when Hillary won, they would cheer as she exacted her revenge.

Almost all wrestlers cheated at some point—striking with an elbow or a knee, for instance—but not Hillary.  Now matter how badly she was being beaten, she would never cheat.  She would never, ever use the props she wore into the ring until her foe was utterly and clearly defeated.

Even though I was a face, I would only win half my fights.  Maintaining a more-or-less 50-50 win-loss ratio was the best way for the promoters to keep each match interesting.  If I won too many fights in a row, the promoters would require me to lose a few to even up my stats.  But today’s bout with Amber was a grudge match, anyone’s to win, and didn’t count towards our win-loss ratio.

The night of the fight, we pranced around the ring to let the audience feast their eyes on us.

I’m skinny, a little shorter than most of my opponents, definitely shorter than Amber.  Long legs, narrow hips, slim waist, long neck—skinny.  My trademark blonde hair is short on one side, combed long to the right.  My face is on the severe side—good for stare downs, but no one would ever describe me as being pretty.

Amber had more flesh on her legs and a lot more on her hind quarters.  She wore her customary red thong.  I’d seen more buttock on display in a beach volleyball match, but the amount revealed by her thong was still on the risqué side for the wrestling ring.  Her waist was as narrow as mine which accentuated her wider hips and larger breasts.  Amber’s top was an elaborate sports bra with built-in fishnet sleeves that left only her fingers exposed.

Her long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail behind her head.  My opponent’s long and angular face, eyes which narrowed slightly downwards, and prominent cheekbones which squeezed her nose, gave her a fierce look.  She enhanced this ferocity with black eyeliner.  Glossy black lipstick completed the intimidating display.

My sports bra cupped the bottom of my breasts and covered to just below my neck.  My low-cut bikini was a crowd-pleaser but covered everything it was supposed to.  Both were black.

Just as Amber lowered her arms and came down from her tiptoes, Hillary used the ropes to pull herself into the ring.  She was wearing a bikini with vertical black and white stripes together with the rest of her wrestling props.

Amber pointed at Hillary.  “She’s not allowed in the ring.”

“Fiona?” said Hillary.

I glanced at Hillary, then turned back to Amber.  “It’s her honor at stake.”

Hillary was a crowd favorite and a chant of her name began to reverberate through the sold-out arena.

Amber slashed her hand sideways.  When the crowd quieted, she pointed at Hillary: “She can watch.  She can count.  But if she touches either of us, you forfeit the fight.”

I looked at Hillary to make sure she agreed.

“No touching,” said Hillary.

I nodded and Amber and we began to circle each other.

Amber was quiet now, no longer trash talking.  Instead, she waved her ponytail back and forth, taunting me with its long and luxurious strands.  Amber was lucky she hadn’t dissed my short blonde hair.  Pulling on her hair would be cheating but if I got the opportunity to make it look like an accident, I just might give it a tug anyways.  Not so much of a tug as to affect the fight.  Not so much of a tug that Amber would have grounds to protest.  Just enough that some of the audience would see, that the better-informed fans would understand what was going on.  Just enough to get under Amber’s skin.

We kept circling, searching for a weakness in our opponent’s posture.  The crowd shuffled in its seats.  I fought against the adrenaline surging into my bloodstream.  The word ‘Fight’ started to surge on the large video screens located above the last row of the seats, sometimes with exclamation marks.

The crowd began to chant, “Fight, fight,” at first a low rumble, then a full-bodied roar: “Fight!  Fight!  Fight!”

Many thanks to Jason Pinaster for the text of this story (www.deviantart.com/jasonpinast… ). For the Not Safe for Work remaining six parts to this story, please see my patreon page (www.patreon.com/bePatron?u=126… ) or Jason’s Main or Bonus tiers at www.deviantart.com/jasonpinaster/subscriptions