La Belle Dame sans Merci

Makoto found herself wishing that Margaux would simply go back to beating her up and smashing her face in.

That, at least, was something she knew how to deal with. Violence was part of her lifestyle, a major part of it, and while it was true that no one had ever done close to what Margaux had done before, it was at least within the realm of her experiences. She could cope. She could compartmentalize. She coulda adapt.

But this? Margaux was striking at something deep, something dark, something Makoto didn’t think was even possible. She’d found a way to turn her own body against her.

Maybe it was just all the pain, but the pleasure that Margaux presented cut through her like a hot knife, making her toes curl, making her body quiver, making unwanted moans of lust flee from her throat. The sensations grew with every inch that the Frenchwoman traveled, moving towards an obvious destination, but one that Makoto didn't think her captor would be bold enough to make.

She should’ve known better, and maybe the head trauma was affecting her thought processes. There was nothing Margaux wouldn’t dare, and when she looked down and saw those devilish, demon’s eyes looking back at her, she knew just how true that sentiment was.
Makoto dug her fingernails into the mat, scratched hard enough to peel away it, anything to distract from the sinful sensation of that tongue against her sex, but it was like tossing water out of a sinking ship. She could delay the inevitable all she wanted, but there was no stopping it in the end. She’d gone a long time, far too long, without this sort of touch, and if she were being honest, she’d hoped her night at Margaux’s would go something like this, in the end.

Just not like this. Never like this.

In the pit of despair, seeing no other recourse, Makoto did the one thing she could think to do: she screamed. At the top of her lungs, ignoring all the pain it caused. It was filled with rage, filled with hate, filled with lust, filled with distress. It was a potluck of emotions, a swirling caution that echoed through the room, but more than anything it was an act of sheer desperation, an attempt to reach the ears of someone, anyone who could come to her aid.

Why people would ever settle for traditional, rudimentary love making was beyond Margaux. She couldn’t imagine ravaging a body such as this, exploring its pleasing depths and lovely smell, without the taste of hate and fear on the tip of her tongue. It made everything all the more potent.

The Judo Babe had an exquisite taste. Her tongue felt every inch of the untouched layers of tender, willing flesh. She nudged deeper and deeper into her sweet nethers, caressing the folds with slow, burning licks, moving so close that her nose rubbed up against the bud of sex. The Frenchwoman drew back for only a second, taking in a deep breath, which she exhaled into Makoto’s crotch, before moving back in with ravenous hunger.

All the while, the moans from the judoka filled her ear. She could hear the sorrow lingering in each gasp, the fear and pain still fresh in the woman’s body. Her hands slide up and down her thighs, attempting to aggravate one of the bruises and bring forth even more delicious cries for her.

And it seemed Makoto was all too willing to oblige. A blood-curdling scream pierced her ears, bouncing off the walls and filling the room with its dread. Unbeknownst to either of them, the portraits hanging in the next room began to shake ever so slightly. The tremors were enough to make a man deaf if done right in his ear and afforded a minute.

None of it, however, would help her. The screams reinvigorated her. Made her hairs stand up on end. She couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but there was something about the danger of it all, something about being “caught in the act”, that made it all the more exhilarating. It made her blood rush. She licked with greater friction, greater speed, until it was all too much to bear.

The pinkette brought herself away from the woman’s sex and quickly moved her body over Makoto’s. She brought herself to the woman’s side, turning her head horizontal as she snaked her right hand under the judoka’s head. The hand came up and pressed against the Japanese woman’s cheek, coasting her head slightly as Margaux brought herself down and pressed their lips together.

No. That wasn’t exactly right. Her mouth fell over Makoto’s, completely covering and devouring it as their lips lapped over one another’s. Her tongue dove deep and explored the judoka’s mouth, wrestling with her tongue and attempting to stifle the scream while it was still freshly born. At the same time, her hand would slide back down the Olympian’s remarkable body, running its fingers over the soft flesh, the toned muscle, and feeling as much of the skin as she could before it found its way back to Makoto’s crotch. With two fingers, she plunged back into the woman’s depths, continuing her work with renewed vigor.

The walls were too thick. Makoto’s plea for rescue was a faint hope, she’d known that from the start, but she had at least though there was a chance of the noise escaping this room. It was only know that she realized just how much she’d fallen for Margaux’s ploy, how deep this deception went. It was no mere accident that she chose this room, with its fortified walls and thick padding, as the spot for their spar. Her scream echoed about, bounced from wall to wall, but she doubted there was so much as a tremor beyond that. She was well and truly trapped.

Maybe Margaux sensed her mounting despair. Maybe the screams drove her on, fueled her fervor. Maybe she just had a random spark and drew energy from it, for reasons that only made sense in her twisted head. Whatever the reason, the vile woman upped her efforts with renewed vigor, dragging Makoto to heights she hadn’t reached in so long, heights she didn’t want to reach in this way, ever.

She tried to fight the natural reactions so hard, did her best to focus on anything that could calm her rushing blood, but it was a futile effort. She was going to reach her climax. She was going to explode. Her scream was growing weaker by the second, loosing its vigor, but she kept on with the death wail all the same. It was all she could think to do.

But even that luxury was taken from her, as Margaux moved her way back up and proceed to devour her mouth, greedily eating every noise that the judoka tried to make. Her tongue forced its way past her lips like a serpent, an animal separate from the rest of her body, and all Makoto could do was weakly bite at it in a faint attempt at defense. No matter how she tried to turn her head, no matter how much she fought and floundered, Margaux countered every attempt, kissing and consuming with a voracious appetite.

It was a hellish moment, but Makoto thought she could take solace in the fact that she no longer had that mouth of Margaux’s at her sex. That relief was shortlived, dying the second she felt the two fingers enter her most sacred place.

Moans of pleasure wormed their way through her screams of distress, as those fingers finished the work that Margaux’s tongue had started. There was no fighting it before, and that resistance was even weaken now, as her pussy was taken to like a jackhammer. There was just no denying nature. Not at this point.

Makoto came. And came. And came. The proof her submission spilled out over Margaux’s fingers, drenching them and creating a steady stream between Makoto’s legs, joining a puddle that was already filled with blood and sweat.

And there it was. The culmination of every slight twitch she could feel at her fingers, every indecent moan and cry of denial, slipping through her fingers.

A crooked smile took shape as Margaux continued to wrestle her lips against Makoto’s. The burst came through in waves, and her hand could feel each and every one pass through with resounding force. She pulled her fingers out of the beautiful woman’s sex and brought her mouth from her delicious lips. Bringing her hand close, the pinkette rubbed her fingers together, quirking an eyebrow at the judoka as the potent reward dripped from her fingers to the woman’s bare chest.

“My.” She looked back from her hand to Makoto’s eyes, narrowing her eyes with a wide smirk. A substantial volume for someone so vehemently battling her the whole way. The Frenchwoman could scarcely imagine how much larger the growing pool between her legs would be had this a been a more...willing venture. In that thought alone was the only tinge of regret felt that she hadn’t kept her facade going for a while longer. “So these are the riches the great Khatun left behind.” Her smile brightened a bit.

She brought her hand over to Makoto’s face, slowly running her palm against one cheek, then repeating the motion on the other with the back of her hand, removing the chilling nectar onto the judoka’s refined and lifeless face.

“Je reviendrai, mon cheri.” She gave Makoto’s forehead a tender kiss. “Do not move.” She brought herself up to two feet and turned to make her way towards the door...but stopped a moment before doing so. The Frenchwoman turned back around, leering over Makoto. “And just for the sake of assurance…”

Slowly, she brought her foot high into the air over Makoto’s leg. Then, in a single snap motion, she shot it down to stomp on the judoka’s knee. Her heel crooked forward in its descent, digging its way into the woman’s kneecap to leave it sunken in and flare the cluster of nerves underneath, attempting to numb it entirely. The moment after she accomplished that, Margaux would turn around and walk out the door.

Breathing was hard now, and Makoto wasn’t even sure why. She had to force out every single breath, as if they were getting choked within her throat, caught by all the sobs and cries being forced from her. Her chest rose and fell moment after moment, accompanied by shivers and stutters, but that was the only movement to be found, save for an occasional twitch.

She was done. A broken, beaten, bloodied thing on the floor, that looked like trash and certainly felt it. All that pain, all that torment, and she still didn’t truly understand why.

Not that it was important, now. It didn’t mean much to the woman smiling down on her, giving her those taunting words. To her, Makoto was just an amusement, and it seemed that amusement had come to an end. That was a small relief, but it was one that the judoka was willing to take. She closed her eyes, shut them tight, not wanting to look at her tormentress for a second longer, and also trying to dam the overflowing stream of tears. If she couldn’t block her words, at least she would be spared that cruel, vile smile.

But that also meant she didn’t see Margaux’s stomp coming, didn’t know what was happening until it shot into her kneecap and crushed the bone beneath. It hurt. Excruciating, in fact, but you wouldn’t have known that to hear the weak, whimpering cry that came from Makoto’s lips. She was spent, so much so that she couldn’t make much noise beyond that, a toy whose voicebox was running out of batteries.

And that was how Margaux left her. Shattered and immobile on the mats, a defeated and dying husk, staring up at the ceiling as a single, simple question ran through her mind.

What now?

It was as if she’d turned on the stereo to her favorite album as she left the room behind her, letting the blissful noise of Makoto’s whimpers travel softly into the adjacent room. A pleased little smile grew on her lips. This may have been one of her most enjoyable sessions thus far. The pink pugilist couldn’t help but leave with a spring in her step as she traipsed back down and around the corner towards the main room. Her guest had done well to stay with her this long.

But if Makoto believed her worries were now over, she had best steel herself before it was too late.

Her body may have taken the toll, but Margaux still had a few lingering doubts about her mind. The essential aspect of their agreement, save for not permanently incapacitating the Olympian. Madame Cutter hadn’t merely needed the Rumble Roses judoka beaten. A woman of her prestige could have hired any of the AFW’s seemingly infinite supply of dime-a-dozen thugs for such a simple-minded task.

What her employer also needed was a vulnerability. A window from which to enter. Just one, faint glimmer of hopelessness that could refashion the Judo Babe from the inside out. Margaux was nearly there, as well. It just needed one final, grand push. As it would happen, Makoto had already left the Frenchwoman the answer to her dilemma.

As she once again made her way into the room, she rounded the couch and gave the table a quick look over. Her eyes stopped at the edge closest to her, a wide, wicked smirk growing on her face as she reached down and picked up Makoto’s phone from the glass surface.

Now, let us see. The home button. Swipe to enter and…

..oh. The homepage? Really, now? She shook her head and gave her tongue a couple clicks. “Far too trusting.”

Gleefully, Margaux pivoted on her back foot and made her back to their sparring room, fiddling with the device along the way. Some uninteresting emails, mostly business related and a couple family notices. Dull little games designed to pass the time. A surprisingly diverse taste in music from a mere glance into her library. Nothing of import. On to the main event, then.

She rounded back around the doorway, pleasantly surprised to see Makoto still laying on the mats, either unable or unwilling to have dragged herself outside or tucked herself away into some cupboard to wither and cry. Excellent. She needed her docile for what she had in mind next, as the Frenchwoman sat upon her waist. She brought her arms up to rest them on her knees as she looked down at the judoka, so broken and lifeless, before turning her attention to the phone in her hand. Her finger scrolled through to the contact list, and quickly spotted one number, one name, that had been called with an impressive amount of frequency. Her smile broadened, her eyes met Makoto’s once again, and she pressed the call button.

The phone dialed, and dialed, and dialed, then went silent. She called the number again, and the process repeated itself. But Margaux continued, undeterred, unaffected, content to simply repeat history, swinging an imaginary pendulum over Makoto’s head.

Ring…Ring...Ring...Nothing.

Ring...Ring...Ring...Nothing.

Ring...Ring...Ring…“The number you have attempted to reach-”

Margaux hung up the phone again and redialed the number. She continued to look at Makoto from her comfortable seat atop the woman’s battered stomach. Was she getting closer on her search? Was she getting further? Was nothing changing at all? How would this last gambit play out for her?

The silence was the worst part. That and the waiting. Makoto couldn’t know what was coming next, had no way of fathoming what Margaux’s next move would be. She wasn’t going to call an ambulance, that much was a sure bet, but if not that, then what could the pinkette possibly want? She laid there, silent and still save for the steady rise and fall of her chest, listening to the madwoman move around outside the room, contemplating the possibilities.

She could leave her there. Just let her lie there like a broken husk, a piece of meat that would just rot and wither away.

She could get her back to health, help her recover, only to break her apart again. That certainly seemed like Margaux’s style, the sort of thing she would get some perverse pleasure. A toy to be used again and again.

She could kill her.

She couldn’t be sure which possibility was the most terrifying, and that terrified her even further.

Makoto wouldn’t have to wait long for her answer, either. Margaux re-entered the room only moments later, calm as could be, not a single care in the world, with a phone in her hand. Makoto’s phone, to be specific. ”What are you...what are you doing?” She asked that question almost on pure reflex, knowing full well she wouldn’t get an answer. It was all she could do, as Margaux sat on her waist like it was a throne and played with her phone.

Thousands of miles away, however, that question was being answered, nestled among the windswept plains of Mongolia. Though the nation was no stranger to technology, there were still many who kept to the older ways, who lived among nature and tended the flocks, who went months, even years without coming across a single piece of technology more advanced than a wagon.

There were notable exceptions to this, however, and one of them could be found inside a hut, one deep in the middle of a prominent village. In that hut, you could find a single cell phone. A flip phone, crude and basic, but something that was so out of place amongst all the wood and stray, as if it had been plucked clean out of another world.

A cell phone that now, after months of inactivity, had finally lit up, coming to life with the last vestiges of its battery and ringing into the night. It rang and rang and rang again, until its owner finally came along to shut it up.

Aigle picked up the phone, read the name on its lit screen, and, after a moment of lip-chewing, answered the call, whispering into the receiver as if she were speaking some secret. ”Makoto? Makoto, that you?”

When would it come? When would it come? The phone continued to ring in her hand and, after three cycles, would cease and fall silent. Again and again. One attempt after the other. Fate having no intention of allowing this insanity to suddenly bear fruit. The ring of the dial echoed across the empty space around them, the only thing aside from Makoto’s

The entire time, Margaux continued to look down upon the judoka. There was a certain void, an absent lifelessness behind her eyes, despite the smile stretched across her face. Was she worried that she would move? That she would attempt an escape? Was the Frenchwoman simply taunting her from atop her unconventional perch, playing with a potential key to her freedom in her hand like an errant child, knowing there was nothing she could do about it?

And finally, the answers to her questions would come.

The cycle had broken. The pinkette’s eyes brightened, hearing the harrowing dial tone finally cease and a brief moment of silence filled the room. Margaux did nothing. Said nothing. A second after the voice came through the phone, she merely leaned forward, passed the phone to her other hand, and set it down face-up beside them on the bloodstained mat. Just far away enough to be kept from Makoto’s grasp by a fingernail.

She moaned. And a rather sporadic moan it was. She wasn’t aroused. Hadn’t received some curious pleasure from hearing another woman’s voice through another woman’s phone. She just did. And her body followed suit. Her body unraveled against the judoka’s, squirming and contorting this way and that in smooth, fluid motions over her shapely abdomen. Each thrust against Makoto’s seemed to raise the moan another octave, growing louder and louder as if directly feeding her arousal. She was so caught up in the act, she had almost forgotten the most important part.

Margaux leaned forward with the widest leer her face would allow, and went to seize Makoto by the throat, clamping down on her windpipe enough to prevent even the slightest fabrication of speech from leaving her mouth. All the while, she continued her arbitrary moaning and grinding against the Judo Babe’s lithe body. Why? What was the purpose?

“Mhmm….Makoto…”

It was quiet in this room, so deathly quiet, unbelievably so. Having lived and worked in the city for so long Makoto had almost forgotten what true silence was. Even when she was alone in her apartment, she was still surrounded by the sounds of city about her - babies crying, cars honking, dogs barking, a constant stream of noise pollution that swirled past her ears.

You learned to live with it, to block it out, to ignore it. But then came a moment like this, and you remembered what quiet - true quiet - really was. A moment so quiet that even the faint voice in a cell phone could echoe from wall to wall. A simple noise that struck a chord in Makoto’s heart, one that hadn’t be plucked for so long.

”Aigle?”

She would know that voice anywhere, recognize the tone and the timber without any question. Margaux had called her, but why? It couldn’t have been to lure her into some trap - as horrid a thought as that was, Mongolia was 3,200 kilometers away, a distance she’d Googled an unhealthy amount of times. She wasn’t coming, wouldn’t be anywhere near this place.

That confusion only heightened when Margaux simply sat the phone aside, and instead opted to gyrate against her, undulating and making unearned moans. It was a strange sight, one that made Makoto’s eyebrow raise despite all the pain she was enduring. She didn’t get any pleasure from it, wouldn’t have even if there was total consent. There wasn’t any of the passion of sex here, only the motions. Only the sound.

The sound…

The realization hit like a thunderbolt, and Makoto opened her mouth at once, summoning her tortured lungs, readying herself to make a desperate plea. It worked its way through her body, started through her throat, only to meet a dead end when Margaux’s hands clamped down on her windpipe, trapping the scream inside her. Tears, fresh tears, began to stream down Makoto’s face as the pinkette said her name, confirming her dark feas, and all she could was weakly reach out of the phone, grasping for it. So close, so close. If her fingers had an extra digit, she could’ve reached it with ease, pressed the red button and ended this farce.

But she couldn’t. She was stuck. Helpless. Forced to look on with fading eyes as Margaux tore everthing she held dear apart, for the simple reason that she could.

Moan. Gasp. Gulp. Pant.

Margaux replayed the motions again and again inside of her head. Her body moved all of its own as she writhed ceaselessly atop the judoka’s limp form. Back and forth, back and forth. Left and right, left and right. Her spine arched and chest pressed out, half of her mind operating on muscle movement alone from meaningless nights of lust from days long past. The cool breeze wafting over her skin, the smell of wine in the air, cigarettes burning close to an open window, a cabaret being sung in the streets below.

In an odd way, the heinous actions she continued to perform over her fallen prey saw a yearning well up inside of her. A slight, brief desire boiling up from underneath to experience those nights again. But she knew better than to become too attached. Too much of a good thing…

She sighed as she opened her eyes and looked back down at Makoto. A beautiful sight awaited her, one she longed to become intimately familiar with. Tears streamed from the Olympian’s eye sockets. Warm with anger, humiliation, embarrassment, despair...all sorts of unpleasant nouns. Tears from a once proud woman, the pride of her nation and tempered in the gentle art in both body and mind.

The waters and whimpers of anguish were nothing in themselves. Even the strongest of bodies were forced to submit to their despair when enough physical pain had been inflicted upon them. But she hadn’t inflicted any such pain at this moment. Her pain wasn’t one manifesting from scars laden across the body, but from the heart. Her suffering had gone beyond that, rending her from the inside out, reaching into far more sacred areas until it was too much to bear.

All of it told Margaux one, vital thing: she was broken. So nearly broken. All she needed was to shove the blade in a little deeper...and twist.

Her body exploded into a convulsion of sensual thrusts and contortions. Her hips bucked as she humped against the broken body beneath her. Her moans became bolder, louder. The tone grew increasingly profound, enough to rattle the fine glass on the dresser. She let the anticipation rise and rise, finally reaching the apex of their empty passion...

“I love you too, Makoto!” She cried out, wanting her voice to reach the heavens and beyond. “Oh, I love you so much!”

The word felt foreign and vile on her tongue, but what may have been poison to her was honey to others. Specifically, to the woman between her legs and the one listening in. Fools caught in a web of mixed emotions and longing, free for Margaux to toy with as she saw fit. The frailty of the human soul demonstrated for her here and now.

Her back arched, one final cry shook the ceiling, and she fell forward, her hand still grasped around Makoto’s throat as she made heavy pants in the direction of the phone.