Bondage Debut: Kaede Komatsuzaki vs Misaki Risu

Match Type: Special Bondage
Victory Conditions: A wrestler is declared the winner when the following conditions are met:

• The would-be loser is conscious.
  
• the winner has nothing more than one foot touching the loser.
  
• The loser is unable to stand or resist the winner thanks to bondage gear.
  
• This lasts for a count of ten.
  

"But when she turns her back on the boy,
He creeps up from behind...
Bang! Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer
Came down upon her head."

Misaki stopped halfway down the runway and leaned, slow-like, over the partition towards a fan. A cute fan. Blonde with freckles all over her white-girl nose. She'd have been so sexy if  she just hadn't had that cigarette between her fingers. Shaking her shoulders to the music, this wrestler in blue spandex tighter than skin, made eye contact and grinned like the cheshire clown.

"Uh..." Poor blonde didn't know how to act--and her friends were watching. Poor. Thing.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Bang bang bang! went Misaki's pretend-hammer as she pretend-bashed the girl up and down her head with an invisible, pretend-killer-hammer.  But girl didn't want to play. She just gave that whatever kind of look valley girls give.

Oh well. Misaki just kept grinning and plucked the cigarette out of her victim's hand.

"Hey..!"

No no, honey! said Misaki's pouting lips and wagging finger, emoting with every inch of her painted-on, locked-in-powder face. She took a drag on the smoke.

"Maxwell's silver hammer
Made sure that she was dead!"

Back in the rows of steel bleachers, the audience...muttered. All fifteen of them, mostly drunk teenagers. What a weird bunch of kids, thought Misaki, who'd spend their weekend watching a bondage match. Well, Misaki would have to make sure to give them all the jollies they'd come to have rocked.

Enough with the girl. Misaki flicked the nicotine faggot at the teeny-bopper's face and trotted on down to the ring, dancing to the music with her shoulders and her hips with that same essence-of-mime jerk.

And when she got in the ring, she saw four sets of tools laid out on the grey mat, one each by a tall stainless steel post:

Two pairs of handcuffs in two opposite corners.

Six feet of rope curled at the deadly-gleaming base of another.

A dog-collar and leash in the final spot-lit point.

She tried the handcuffs first and held them up to the audience, tilted in one hand like she was showing off jewelry. You like? said her lifted eye-brows. The tittering out in the boozed up audience went up maybe an inch.

But theirs wasn't the voice that mattered.

Fuck no! went the inner-voice of Misaki. Hell no. That isn't Misaki's style. Not her style at all. That crazy cunt would never settle, not for any cliche man, not for any cliche friend, and not for no pair of boring handcuffs...

No, Misaki...Well. Her first bondage tool would be like a special friend to her. A daughter. Yeah, and she wanted a stylish girl: the dog collar. The bitch-loop. The this animal's my property piece. And she took it, and she wrapped it around her hand, full-toothed grin lighting up slow on her face like a candle coming to life. And then she looked away from her collar. Down the dark aisle opposite her metaphorical home, down her opponent's runway. She pointed her finger-pistol down the hostile hatch.

"Bang bang bang!
Maxwell's silver hammer
Made sure that she was dead..."

Yes, she decided. Misaki would sing along.

"Dead, dead-dead-dead."

Misaki let out a giggle and stood there, staring. Staring down, down, down at that opponent not yet seen. Even once the music stopped, she just stood in the middle of the ring, leash wrapped around her fist, grinning and still as a stone gargoyle.

Then, as if responding to a signal only apparent to her, she jerked awake and slid back into her corner.

Kaede Komatsuzaki knew this was going to be a strange day. It hadn’t been apparent from the moment she woke, not exactly, but as the day went on and she got prepared for her match - her match that she’d been notified about on the last minute, how professional - the weirdness became more and more apparent.

First, she’d been scheduled for a bout with a new girl, which was kind of a slap in the face all by itself, and she’d made sure to let the stagehand who presented her with the card know.

”The heck is this?” Kaede had asked the meek woman before her, a weird little muppet of a woman with thick, round glasses and a name she hadn’t cared enough to remember. ”You’re putting me up against a rookie?”

”You are a rookie.” The woman rubbed her temples. ”You only had two matches. Which you lost. Badly.”

Second, it was a match against someone named ‘the Kennel-Master’ Or ‘the Kennel-Keeper’. Or ‘the Kennel’. She couldn’t recall at the moment. Kaede hadn’t even known what a kennel was until she looked it up in her Japanese-to-English dictionary.

”The Kennel-Master?” Once more, Kaede’d looked from the card glared at the muppet-stagehand, staring straight into her weirdo glasses. ”What, does she have a dog gimmick?”

”Don’t look at me, I don’t pick names.” She rubbed her temples, twice as hard. ”I guess you’ll have to find out.”

But, what was weirdest of all, was the match type they’d gone with. ‘Special Domination’. Sounded like a weird match someone thought up after too many late nights with a can of Red Bull and one too many naughty thoughts.

”What is this shit?” Kaede had shook the paper in the stagehand’s face, as if it would be easier to read something while it was being violently whipped about. ”I didn’t sign up for hentai matches!”

”It’s not a hentai match.” Still rubbing her temples. Looked like she could drill a hole in her skull. ”And it’s covered under your contract. You did read your contract, didn’t you?”

This conversation ended with Kaede stomping out, acquiescing to the demands of her job and emerging after her opponent’s music was finished. Music that, if her English was correct, was a about some kid kiling people with a fancy hammer.

Weird day.

Fists balled, eyes forward, stepping wide, Kaede made her way down to the ring, taking notice of the small, pathetically tiny crowd that had came out to watch this match between an up-and-coming star and her would-be prey. Not that she blamed the fans for being in low attendance for this one, since she hadn’t exactly set the world on fire with her disastrous match against Astra, and her even more disastrous match against Silver Ace. But that was all changing. Right now, right here.

She made her way into the ring and tossed her jacket out over the ropes, before turning to her opponent with a wide, wild grin. She looked Misaki over, head to toe, and chuckled. ”Ha! Nice look. Were you looking for the blandest thing on the rack on purpose, or did it just end up that way?” Kaede actually liked Misaki's look a lot - fresh, kind of shiny, made her body look good - she just wouldn't give this newbie the satisfaction of knowing it.  

She pointed a finger at the dog collar, then wagged it at Misaki's face. "Might as well put that thing around your own neck, dogcatcher. Not going around mine, damn sure on that."

And there was Kaede. Who was, by the way, the perfect opponent by the looks of her.  Between the trench-coat and the Navy-sergeant cap and that I'm-gonna-CHEW-this-grass-cause-I-just-have-too-much-damn-aggression scowl...

"Baby...You reek of swagger. You know that? Like a bull rhino. You that excited to fuck me, or..." Misaki jerked towards the audience, hand over her eyes in mock-search. "Is there a guy out in the audience? Hands up if you'd bang Pink-Hair, boys!"

Was that low? Maybe it was low. It felt low, especially since about half the dudes started hooting (half-heartedly) and the rest kind of chuckled. But, you know--kayfabe. And fuck her, this bitch insulted a $500 costume that took five hours to put on.

And anyway, guilt was for Frances. Misaki just kept running her mouth and sauntering down loudmouth's direction.

The referee tried to get in the way.

"Ma'am. I need you in the corner before I start the match."

Misaki glanced down briefly. Pale boy, this ref. And not just in his skin, but in everything. Blonde, blue-eyed, so skinny you might wonder if his parents fed him. Cute scruff of facial hair, though. Frances might have wanted to ask him out. Misaki shouldered and hipped him out of the way without breaking a beat in her talk to Kaede.


"But I'm kidding! No, I'm excited to fight you now. Confidence is so good in a fighter. Managers like it, audiences just eat that shit up, and even me...

Misaki slid onto the ropes next to Kaede, leaning back right next to her. Up close--in Amy-the-hedgehog-qua-biker-gang's 'bubble' as it were--Misaki could see why bitch wore all those baggy clothes. They hid how small her body was. How slender. How delicate.

"Even I like it. Because it means once I get you down, for a while, you're gonna just keep on fighting.  And when someone like that finally...breaks...Oh, baby." Misaki closed her eyes and sucked in a breath. "It's fireworks. Tears and fireworks."

Misaki cocked her head back and smiled with all the sarcastic shine her thrice-lipsticked-in-black lips could muster. "Only way I could enjoy fucking you more is if this were hentai."

Let the teens in the audience perk their ears to that.

The ref, meanwhile, was standing all alone in the middle of the ring. Looked like he was about to start wringing his hands. Poor baby.

"Uh, are...you two ready...?"

It was hard to put a finger on the exact reason, but somehow, Kaede got the impression that Misaki was a talkative type. A little strange, but she had a sense for people like that.

She resisted the strong urge to just punch the yapping bitch in the face, an urge that only got stronger when she started polling the audience to see how many of the guys found her bangable. It wasn’t exactly the most enthusiastic endorsement, sure, but at least she got some lovers out there. Probably would’ve done better with a bigger sampling size. None of them were her type, anyway.

For a moment, Kaede’s focus was outside of the ring. In that moment, Misaki came close to her. Frightfully close. Really, uncomfortably, undeniably in her personal space.

Kaede started to step back as the odd woman spoke, not wanting to look like she was retreating away from the admittedly hot and possibly crazy woman who was getting in her personal space. But she stopped herself after a step. Perception was everything. Couldn’t look weak, couldn’t look  scared.

Even if she was. A little bit. There was something off about Misaki, aside from all the obvious things, and it set the pink punkette on edge.

Kaede puffed back up when Misaki moved away, sliding back over to her corner with a hardened scowl. She kicked her getta off and let them clatter to the floor outside, going barefoot, and set her hat on top of the post. Go time.

”You’re damn right I’m ready!” Kaede shouted back, stomping the mat hard and getting psyched up. She pointed straight towards Misaki with a rigid finger.”You like confidence? Well, I’m confident that i’m about to mudstomp you all over this ring!”

The bell rang. It might as well have been a starting pistol, because Kaede took off in full sprint the moment she heard, dashing towards Misaki without a hint of restraint. She came rushing in, fast and furious, and threw a straight right at her opponent’s face the second she was close enough.

In the past week, Frances had spent more hours staring at, brushing, feeling up and analyzing down her own body than...Well, more than she cared to admit. Her hornet's nest of hair had been the first and the hardest mercy-killing. It took seven products to flatten it, make it smooth and long and raven-black. It cost $129.00 to give her a woman's head of hair instead of her own teenage mess.

And after that, no life was spared. Not her skin: it needed to be smoother, dark like a Japanese icon's, buried under foundation, face paint, and sealant powder. Not her lips: they needed to be full, voluptuous, blood-black and dangerous, the kind of lips that would make weak boys fear her and men with backbone want her. Something, at least, different from her own too-thin, too-pale Irish pair of unkissed lips. She put in red-iris contacts, even after her first foray into that kind of costuming had made her eyes swell up like two ripe strawberries. Because every detail mattered, and the Japanese don't have green eyes.

She'd felt like a clown walking down the runway. Bang bang went Maxwell's hammer--So what was the idea there again? That crazy would seem dangerous? Stupid. Stupid stupid. She'd need to change it. She'd have changed it there half-way to the ring if she could have...And then there was her attempt at smack talk.

Oh, it felt good while she was saying it. Bluster always does. But then--especially when the audience is as bored as these kids, especially when their chatter and their silence builds up like an anvil-weight--then you start to listen to yourself. And the sweat pours out and runs down your water-resistant makeup.

Hey, at least you didn't break character, babe.

"Character." Yeah, right.

By the time Misaki got into her corner and faced Kaede, her evil-grin had gone stiff as fiber glass and her stomach had turned to putty.  

And then, Kaede charged straight at her throat.  That's when Frances got to see Misaki come to life.

She was all fire and no thought, a valkyire who'd refuse to just dodge to the left and hit Kaede in the ribs. No no, that's a Frances move. A boring move. Misaki was going to duck under Kaede's blow, come out around behind her, and wrap her steel-studded leather leash around her opponent's throat, garrote style.

Yep. That was a Misaki tactic. Time to see if, for once, it would play out in the real world.

Kaede was getting the life choked out of her all of the sudden. She was honestly having trouble remembering exactly how that happened.

She’d been running, moving across the ring like the terrible, undaunted force that she truly was. She was small, but she knew that didn’t matter. It just made her compact, like a wrecking ball. A tight, solid power that was going to knock Ms. Hot-And-Purple over when she hit.

If she hit.

She was so ready to knock the head off of Misaki’s smug shoulder, so eager to knock the bitch on her partly-exposed butt. She came with a  meteor of punch, nothing wrong with it, except for one, tiny detail: Misaki wasn’t around to take it anymore.

”Damn-”

One syllable. That was all Kaede had time to blurt out before Misaki slipped the collar around her neck, making it feel like a noose had wrapped her up. The effect was about the same, too. Her mind was confused and out-of-bounds, but her body knew what to do, as it went into Pure Panic Mode.

She started to thrash about wildly, swinging her arms about in wide, futile attempts to hit Misaki. Probably wouldn’t work, her flexibility wasn’t good enough for that. So, she tried to reach out and grab the ropes, even though she wasn’t even sure if rope breaks worked in this sort match.

Probably should’ve paid more attention to that match card...

All the while, Kaede made these weird, angered sputtering sounds, that were sounding more and more like whiny whimpers the longer she was choked.

Kaede wrenched around like an eel. An electric eel--a live-wire whipping around the ring. You'd want to describe it as all muscle and pink hair ripping around the ring in a fury like a hurricane, except that wasn't true. Her muscles were almost as pathetic as Misaki's. The only thing ferocious abut her was the determination in her small, unclothed body--the fury in her pale, Asian skin, glistening with sweat and heaving with wasted exertion.

At least, until she started whimpering.

"Aw man. You were so big when you came down to the ring! So threatening. So scary." Misaki was close enough to whisper this in her ear, and as she did something ecstatic shivered up her back--something golden. The feeling of power. "I guess it was just the clothes."

Kaede took the coward's way out and grabbed the rope. Collar still in hand, Misaki unwound the leash from around Ms. Pufferfish's neck. She glanced at the audience, wondering if they got as much pleasure as her from watching this Japanese tremble.

They were...well. They were at least watching. Minus the two making out in the back.

These fuckers.

Before Kaede could regain her bearings, Misaki cracked the steel-studs of her leash whip-like at the loser's back. Those studs were heavy enough to make a bone-on-metal clack to be heard around the ring, if they hit.

Loser's back? Kind of harsh...

Were you looking for the blandest thing on the rack on purpose, or did it just end up that way?

And the sympathy went right down the drain. Frances smirked.

Bitch. You shoulda listened a little harder to what this look said about Misaki.

To be fair, Kaede’s whimpering was wholly involuntary. She wouldn’t be making those kinds of pathetic noses unless she had to, after all - it was simply the way her throats was being squeezed, restricting her windpipe in a such a way that the noise she made resembled whimpering. It didn’t mean she was getting freaked out or that Misaki was getting into her head or that she was afraid of getting choked out like a bitch in the middle of the ring in record time.

So she told herself, at least.

She was grateful that the rope break still seemed to be in effect, even though she would’ve surely figured here way out it momentarily. Kaede fell forward and collapsed to her knees, coughing and gagging up a storm, sucking air back into her tortured lungs.

But she was good. She was okay. She’d been through rougher before. She was about get up, spin about, and smack Misaki in her stupid, smirking face.

Kaede had just started to get her body in motion for that, too, when something thin and metal and extremely painful sliced across her back, making her yelp like a scalded dog. The leash - did the rutty little skank just whip her with the leash?

A quick look over her shoulder as she crawled away confirmed that, yes, Misaki had, in fact, just whipped her with the leash, and was probably going to do it again if she didn’t get moving in a hurry.

She crawled over to one of the corner’s with handcuffs, moving along as fast as she could on her knees. Kaede struggled up to her feet and turned towards Misaki, so she could at least face her opponent and make sure the contempt on her face was clearly seen. "That- that as hard as you can hit, huh?" She threw some bravado in, too, getting pumped back up.

The blandest thing...

Crack!

The whip skinned Kaede's back, and if Misaki were a dog, the feeling that gave her would have sent her tail a-waggin'. Her mouth a-smilin'. Yum! Fresh meat.

"That- that as hard as you can hit, huh?"


Fuck you. She kept on smirking, kept on pacing hyena-like opposite Kaede. You don't get to talk to me like that, skank.

And of course the audience would agree. They wouldn't be able to help it, the way she was dominating. Except--

Except fuck the audience. Misaki kept on smirking-pacing, but she was getting livid under that shell, and it had nothing to do with this tool's smack-talk. That fucking blonde by the entrance. She was smoking again--with one hand. On the other, she was in her phone. And she wasn't the only one.

Misaki broke her pacing like a thunderbolt. She charged at Kaede.

Kids.

She'd keep going until she was just out of striking range. Then she'd feint left but jump right.

Brats. She dressed in a chafing spandex leotard for them. She put herself in the spotlight under a geological layer of makeup for them. She wrote lines, practiced posing, rewrote the call-outs, acted out scenes like an asshole in her apartment, while her roommate shouted at her to quiet down.

Feint left, jump right. She'd land on the ropes opposite the way Kaede would punch, unless Kaede had the brains to call the feint.

These kids in the audience were high school.

The girls who made ignoring her a team sport. The guys who'd never see her until she beat them down and kicked them in their ribs...except for the ones where she couldn't.

Is that the hardest you can hit?
Yes.
So like. Do you wear that shirt every day, or do you just have ten of them?
I can't afford more. I'm in high school. My parents...
Who are you?
I'm Frances Murphy.
Who?
Frances God Damn Murphy.
You're just some brat who beats on kids smaller than her.
Nobody!
If you died tomorrow, no one here would miss you.
No one.
And guess whose fault that is?
Brat! Pervert! Skank! Whore!

Misaki would put a flying knee in the back of Kaede's head. As hard as she could. Hard enough to make a sickening kind of thunk that would get some attention from these millennial zombies. And they'd better watch close, after that. Misaki was going to show them exactly what they wanted to see.

As Kaede started to rise and turn around look back to Misaki like a badass such as her was supposed to, she came to a small, strange realization: she hated Misaki more than just about anyone else in the AFW.

Considering the fact that they’d known each other for, what, two minutes? Three? That was saying something. Astra had beaten her worse, Ace had beaten her faster. But Misaki, so far, was giving her just the right mix of taunting and teasing and torture to make a perfect cocktail of sheer annoyance and hate that was building up quick in the pink punkette’s stomach. When she saw her foe coming straight towards her, she saw her chance to let it out.

She readied herself, performing the mental checklist. Feet in the right position? Check. Muscles tensed? Check. Fist drawn back, like a cobra before the strike, ready to lash out? She about to unload a full boatload of pain all over Misaki’s smug little face.

Swing and a miss.

There was a second, an awful second, where Kaede was swinging at dead space, when she realized how screwed she was. Her flank was wide open, and you didn’t have to be a fighting genius to know what that would mean wth a first class bitch like Misaki would do with an opportunity like that. Maybe if she turned her head fast enough, maybe-

All that accomplished was making her face took the knees instead of the back of her head.

The blow landed straight on her jaw, and Kaede went down a half-second later, flopping to the floor liked a felled deer. This time, she stumbled forward a bit before she had to take a knee by the ropes, one hand on the floor while the other grasped her battered nose.

Not broken. Closer than she’d like, though.