Showdown '19: Zulime Lafitte vs Pierre Vulliard: Hardstyle Hentai Match

Zulime never really had a plan. There were guidelines, of course, ideas and actions that she would move towards if she felt the inclination. But Zulime was a daughter of the Crescent City, a town summoned from the swamp without plans or rules or even any meaningful concepts that would keep the city floating. The city was practically synonymous with jazz, a musical genre that not only encouraged a wild improvisational style but nothing short of demanded it. The Riverboat Queen didn't have this particular move planned out when she was stewing with her ideas of revenge, but she was incredibly pleased when she found the opportunity.

And it appeared that she was far from the only one who was getting a lot out of what was going on at the moment. The crowd showed their support for what Zulime was doing in hoots and hollers and shouting the whole house down. When she was back on the riverboat, she had gotten applause from everyone in the hall a few times at first, and then on a fairly regular basis once she really learned the ability to invent musical runs and find the right way to move her hips as she was dancing and find those high notes when she had a microphone in front of her. But none of those could be compared to what was going on now, as the audience let loose a full throated roar.

And Pierre, too, was having a good time, much to his protest. The Riverboat Queen kept working on Pierre's cock. Even if she weren't as sensual as she was, the Cajun girl knew that Pierre was not far from the climax. The moan and the stare was her first inclination. Then came the throbbing that she was feeling with her feet. Zulime could not help but let out a few breathy sighs alongside the French Canadian man as he was getting his member worked. The Cajun girl clenched her fist and bit her lip. The great denoument of this particular act was nigh, but Zulime wanted to come as soon as it could.

Then Pierre exploded. Zulime felt his honey wet her sock, and gave the object of her revenge a few more strokes before she came to a halt. Her brown eyes scanned the crowd to let them know that they should be applauding her, and they responded in kind. She lifted her foot up and wiggled it, which she imagined was sure to delight those watching who had slightly odder inclinations when it came to what was desirable.

"Wasn't that nice, suga? Ain't you just the happiest little boy?" The words coming out of her mouth were positively dripping with condescension. Everyone in the world knew that this would not represent the end of the match, not by far. But Zulime was feeling like she had achieved something momentous, and no one in the world could take that away from her.

Which meant that it was perhaps time to rub it in. She removed her foot from Pierre's cock, and with an easy grace removed it. The crowd bayed for it, but she would deny them this concupiscent pleasure. The joy of this moment would be reserved just for her, inasmuch as it was the inverse of how much frustration and humiliation Pierre was feeling. She pulled the sock off, and moved to stuff it into Pierre's mouth. The degradation of the move would surely not be lost on her opponent, and that was precisely her intent. Zulime wondered if Pierre had tasted his own cum before, a thought that she maintained with perverse entertainment.

But the night's activities were far from over. Just as she had done with the other sock, she pricked a hole, and then inserted the whole onto Pierre's member. She wasn't entirely sure what sort of refactory period Pierre had, but she was going to find out. But it would simply not suffice to go hard on the poor French Canadian man's member straight from the onset. After having partaken in such earthly delights, he would have to be eased into his next orgasm. And that is precisely what Zulime intended to do.

Fail to plan, plan to fail. A saying that was drilled into Pierre’s mind by his parents. Something that does remain true to this very day. One cannot live life wandering or going into big projects without going over things. Preparation is key. Despite how the world of business can be unpredictable at times, it is good to cover every angle, prepare for the worst and come up with plans that would bring him success at the end of the day. The Quebecoise may not have gotten into the world of business like his parents, but such a mindset can be applied into grappling. The French-Canadian knew that Zulime would be coming after him after that one incident and he prepared as such. Going over all the things he could do to terminate her petty desire for revenge, negating and making sure such need will be gainsaid. One other saying is this. Even the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

In truth, not having a plan was considered suicide and not taking the chance to concoct a battleplan meant that the chances of winning would be drastically low. However, that didn’t translate into this match at all, not even in the slightest. Not that the French-Canadian would know this, but the Louisianan was going at this with no strategy to her name, a living, breathing and fucking juxtaposition that irritated Pierre. Mainly because that the things she came up with at random worked out for her, attacks done at impulse performed better than ones carefully thought out. Its one thing to be unlucky but to be losing to a woman who is acting on a whim, that was blasphemous. An affront to smarter and better grapplers than she could ever be.

But Zulime, despite being such an anomaly, was producing results, one result coming out of his own member. Quite literally, in fact. Another of Zulime’s unsystematic and haphazard concoctions that Pierre had no answer to or could have even conceived in his mind, the Riverboat Queen managing to keep surprising him with every turn. It was ingenious to those that were watching. Arbitrary, as were all things with the Cajun, but intelligent. The sheer fabric of the nylon, mixed with the foot that had previously teased his cock, brought sensations to the nerves that he had no defence for. The Kyoto audience could not deny the result, shown for all to see as Zulime raised that foot and showed off the instrument to Pierre’s first climax. Pierre’s body slacked after this. As much as he hated this, as much as his cheeks burned red with indignation…a part of his brain realised that felt good. Way too good. ["Nnnnnhh...just...shut the...fuck up..."] The only thing that forced him not to succumb fully was the fact that she hated Zulime. Loathed Zulime.

Compounded even more once Zulime slipped off the cum stained, stocking-clad foot off his member, peeling it off before shoving right inside his mouth, showing his outright disgust over as soon as it passed his lips. He was just rocked still from that previous orgasm to have done anything. Such degradation was undoubtedly not lost on Zulime’s opponent, but he knew she didn’t care. All to satisfy such perverse entertainment. Sickening. Perhaps to make up for this, that previous sensation that had brought him to the highest of peaks came back, setting his nerves alight to his still leaking cock. His manhood throbbed, feeling it being worked to get out of such a stupor. Not even a respite, she was going to give her. A weak moan of protest that is muffled by the Riverboat Queen’s stocking gave her all that she wanted, going up for round two of such outlandish and bizarre move that showed that Zulime was going to give no quarter.

Zulime giggled. In Japan, she had rarely gotten the opportunity to speak French, and this particular flavor of French sounded beautiful to her in both its content and the way that it was spoken. It came out haltingly, with pauses, with a lot of intent behind it that spoke of a desperate hate that Zulime wished to invoke. The hollow laugh must have made matters far worse, which is something that Zulime enjoyed greatly. There were a few wonderful juxtapositions on the mat right now: Zulime's giddiness at getting to sate her petty sense of revenge against someone who would have barely registered that they slighted anyone, Pierre's systematic way of thinking versus Zulime's wild improvisation, and the two of them being so intimate in such an impersonal space. The irony was not lost on a cultured woman like Zulime.

Nor was she above using that culture to her advantage, namely the hypnotic nature that voodoo dances could induce in people. The Riverboat Queen displayed some flexibility as her foot rose daintily once more before bending back down to Pierre's face. It was a hard bend, but Zulime knew that she could do it. Most of all, because there would be quite the reward for it if she pulled what she wanted to do off right. Just like with Pierre's member, she was going to start off slowly. Her foot waved back and forth slowly, establishing a hypnotic rhythm to charm Pierre. There must have been a lot of anguish going through Pierre's mind right now, and she wanted to alleviate some of that anger with a sexy dance. She was both the cobra and the snake charmer, moving her foot to get Pierre into a daze that he would not recover from.

But she was not going to let that be the only effect that she was having on him. She began tugging that little bit harder, trying to get Pierre's juices flowing once more. The Riverboat Queen was going faster, breathing in deeply as she did so. Gently, she grabbed at Pierre's hand. As an experienced witch doctor, she knew that a spell was a hard thing to cast but a very easy thing to break. Grabbing the French Canadian's hands and jerking them down to the mat was a surefire way to break the emotive state that Zulime wanted Pierre to be in. Instead, she guided Pierre's hands down and made sure that they were not going to stray too far from her grip. It was not the strongest handle she had ever had on anyone, but she was confident that was enough to get him under her control.

And once she had that control, it would take all but an act of the loa to deprive her of what she was doing. The Cajun girl was hitting her stride with both feet, and she knew that the combination would mean that Pierre was not going to last terribly long. She let out a breathy sigh. "Let the night take you, darlin'..." Her words were muted, calm even. The curse she was putting on Pierre was a sensual one.

If anyone was to know what Pierre was saying, it would be Zulime. The language of love is pretty much lost on the Japanese crowd in attendance, a few having a good grasp of the English language considering the international talent it can attract like a magnet. Japan is regarded as the mecca when it comes to wrestling and having language barriers would, at the time hurt the experience, the raw emotion. French was just something that the Quebecoise naturally regressed to, finding himself reverting back to his mother tongue, most notably when things aren’t going his way, or he’s angry. Even with the language, it’s known for, Pierre had no love to give when it comes to this woman. None at all. The hollow laugh of hers just added fuel to the fire that, sadly, wouldn’t be used upon.

Even though the crowd may not understand the language, they can still read their body language, how his face is scrunched up in confused disgust, mostly to do with the nylon shoved in his mouth and lingering without a chance to take it out. Despite the voluminous breasts that rest upon his crown, they see his facial features, reading when he’s showing absolute repugnance to the cum-stained material. Still, the addled aversion when it came to having his member worked by Zulime’s foot, fuelled by its perry sense of revenge, tugging on the manhood and picking up the pace after starting so slowly and carefully. As much as he would want to deny such a sensual feeling, the hardened manhood said otherwise, standing in full attention, flexing and pulsing as if it was to show off its muscles. Not that he could protest with the offensive material that is in his mouth and the crowd wouldn’t be able to see the veins that would be visible had it not been to the sheer fabric that covered it, shrouding itself in mystery. However, the large member was still showing underneath. His shaft met with her heel to her toes, all the nerves reacting like crazy. Then again, who has ever gotten a footjob like this. Many would want to trade places with the French-Canadian. However, that is just as dangerous as being caught between the thighs of a particular Darling of Tension. Eventually, one would think twice about such a thought.

Besides, this was merely a tool to emasculate and humiliate the French-Canadian, a rare showing that the Japanese audience is lucky to even lay eyes on, cameras taping the whole thing. Any chance of trashing about just to free himself would only tire him out, not that Zulime was willing to let him escape anyways with the headscissor still in place. Or so he thought. For a moment, he felt the pressure alleviating from his head as she suddenly let go. Befuddled, his mind was still in a haze, trying to work out what her deal was. Admittedly, he could have tried his hardest to struggle now that his head was free, but the opportunity was taken away from him once he found a foot dangling over his face. Slow on the mark, Pierre’s eyes focused on what is above him, questioning how she managed to get that kind of bend but all these questions went out of his mind once she started to wave from one side to another, dangling back and forth. Following the same kind of rhythm, the same kind of pace as her movements on his cock, the French-Canadian watching as if he was in awe as to what he is seeing. That was the foot that got him to orgasm first, stull seeing traces of his semen on the sole from earlier. The way it wrinkled, the way it flexed and waved as if it was a cobra luring its prey, he couldn’t help but be enamoured. What he wouldn’t know is that it came with a curse. One that Zulime herself put on; a spell cast on the Quebecoise that he wouldn’t have even knew of.

Captivated so much, Pierre didn’t even know that his hands were brought down to the mat, carefully letting his guard down. He moaned past the nylon in his mouth, any opportunity to gulp down saliva would come at the cost of his own manly juices doing down his throat, salty as it is. But he wasn’t focusing on that, just the pair of feet that were loving and bringing pleasure, forgetting what it’s used for. Both combinations were working to its fullest effect, and no amount of defences could hold back the tide that was coming. A deep moan that reverberated and a shiver down his spine was very noticeable tells that gave the Riverboat Queen what was happening. An earlier tell to prepare for what is to come, at least before his member gave one big pulse before gifting her foot the same present. Ropes of hot white cum spurted all over, again, not going far due to the fabric that is covering it, some managing to escape from the micro holes of the nylon like a Siv. His balls flared as if it was finally able to be granted such a release as more came out from his member, coating Zulime’s foot from the inside, the crowd, gave a roar of approval. It wasn’t the cumshots that they had seen before. Still, with the technique involved, this was a sight to behold as Pierre’s body seized, his own toes curling inside his boots, fists clenching underneath the pinning hands of the Riverboat Queen, surrendering to his lust once again, letting the night take him. Just as she had said.

Zulime was one who studied reveries and rhapsodies closely. Well, study was not quite the right word for it. Having received the finest education that the state of Louisiana had to offer, she scried for any hint of how to achieve the flow state necessary to invoke the loa, to go on jazz runs that would set the entire dancehall alight, to twirl and dance up on the stage until everyone had officially lost their minds. The answers that she sought could not be found in the dusty tomes that adorned the walls of the library in her childhood home, but rather had to be summoned up from the Louisiana swamp like the swamp gas that creaked out of the fetid bayous themselves. While that gas was terribly powerful, she knew that it could be dispelled by a single gust of wind. That lesson was not lost on the Riverboat Queen. While she could cast that spell, it could just as easily be gotten rid of.

After making the French Canadian man cum, she was taking it slowly. The Riverboat Queen was not going to do anything too abrupt, reckoning that it would be the start of the process wherein the spell that she was casting would be dispersed. Her foot kept going for the next little bit, slowly weening Pierre off the pleasure that he had gotten so accustomed to. Her hands were still gripping Pierre's, but she made sure not to be too hamfisted with that. She let out a deep breath as Pierre let out the last of his juice, clearing the air so that she could go through with what she wanted to do next. The thread she was weaving was the brassy voice of Nina Simone, the smooth trumpet of Louis Armstrong, the quiet grace of the Mississippi River. It was a non-trivial thing to compare herself to masters such as those, but Zulime felt that she was more than up to the task. She had a rich tapestry of experience to call upon, guided by her muse of petty vengeance.

Slowly, Zulime rose to her feet like the sun in the morning. Even behind Pierre's back, she was moving and shaking. The dance was a wild one, uncoordinated. Because she was a lady of class and merit, she knew the foxtrot and the tango and the waltz. Those dances could be learned by using practical guides, in classes at the rec center. What Zulime was doing now could hardly be replicated, let alone learned. Her arms and legs extended out and then came back in as her hips and shoulders moved to the left and right. She was a building during an earthquake, a drop of rain on the side of a window, a hummingbird flittering about a flower. The moves that she was making were wild and elegant at the same time, never fully losing their continuity yet liable to burst the bubble at any moment.

With a few smooth spins, she found herself in front of Pierre. Her foot shot out, then came back in, then shot out again. The same foot that had just taken Pierre in rapture was now swinging threateningly close to his face, coming within mere inches of his nose. But it was always controlled, always within her grasp. Zulime was a master of her own body, and she knew exactly what it could and could not do.

One of the things that she knew that it could do was influence others. A finger was all that she would have in her employ to summon this odious man to his feet, and Zulime tried to charm the man to his feet. After all, once he was there he may have the chance to embrace her lovely hips, the same ones that were swaying side to side. The crowd, for their part, fell silent. They were just as invested in Zulime's movements as Zulime hoped that Pierre would be taken in by what she was doing.

It wasn't enough to bring about such a state, however. The Riverboat Queen was a woman on a mission from the loa. With a broad spin, she launched a kick forward towards her opponent's face, stopping just short of it. She was an ostentatious woman, and it would do her just fine to let Pierre know just how much trouble he was in. Especially because she had made Pierre cum with both feet.

One would have to forgive the French-Canadian if he wasn’t currently operating under the apparent objective of winning the match at the moment. Or remembering what the exact specifics were in regards to the rules of this matchup that Zulime herself concocted. Or remember where he even was and how he got in this enthralled stupor. Not when he had become a slave to his based impulses and temptations that have plagued him ever since that day. Which was considered ironic seeing how the French-Canadian strove to subvert expectations and set fire to the Riverboat Queen’s blueprint to achieve her petty revenge. But most of all, to break the shackles that have kept him in mental bondage. The enraptured lust the Quebecoise is experiencing has just as much to do with the salacious mind games brought upon by Zulime, unaware of the spell that was cast that bound him more…no, merely reinforced the chains and making them more durable. The Quebecoise’s mind was beyond cloud nine and in some altogether different stratosphere, flying higher with every pump that came with the naked sole and nylon combo. The slow, careful, rhythmic strokes growing with time, the Louisianan’s continued and masterful application of her foot. Even with the figure-four headscissor unapplied, Pierre was incapable of catching his breath in between the strained, muffled wailing and baited breaths. The thought of this performance and the feeling it came with was becoming too much to bear.

With that eventually being just the case as the final stroke pushed him over the edge. His steaming, white lava exploding from the volcano that is his manhood, captured and contained inside of the nylon stocking, the discharge of his semen came with him slackening up considerably with a shivering moan and a tremble up his spine. A crimson blush colouring his cheeks in disgust and embarrassment. His eyes staring at the shining roof lights. He was starting to perspire, something that Zulime would no doubt have felt and loved, having him on the ropes from start to finish. Pierre might as well submit right now and walk away as the loser…even though with this experience, he could not feel like one. Which did have something to do with the not so coherent state that Pierre was in. As if all the forces were against him, those seen and unseen. At this moment, doing anything resembling strategy was something he couldn’t do. Not after just coming back down to earth from that ecstatic high. Only in time to see Zulime dancing. As if she was dancing upon the grave, she dug up for him, got the measurements, got the casket and now needed to pour the cement over his decaying remains.

The crowd had got to see something that resembled a dance, away from Pierre’s eyes. What the French-Canadian was going to get was much more personable and tailored just for his retinas. He couldn’t begin counting the number of times Zulime’s foot came threateningly close to his face, almost like she was “accidentally” going to take his head off, being “careless” with her movements. But with those moments, his nose inhaled sharply in response to the shock, unintentionally inhaling the scent that came off it. Intoxicating, wherever it was the case because it just had his cum sprayed on it was to be determined. The crowd weren’t dumb and could pick out that the Riverboat Queen was doing this on purpose. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have controlled it well so that she doesn’t hit him square in the face. What the intent was for, that was the question only Zulime knew. But everyone can tell that with that performing arts background, she is always in control.

This was a performance, and Kyoto was about to get into the 3rd Movement. A beckoning finger was all that took to summon the man up to his feet, Pierre would argue that he was going to stand up anyways. Which would be stupid, considering how wobbly his legs were, almost in the brink of stumbling towards the Cajun. Deep breaths followed, and his cum still seeped out of his member. Many would think that he was ready to reset and get back to the more visceral side of the battle. But the reaction to the oncoming kick by Zulime would prove to be false. Pierre got up too quickly and wasn’t completely balanced, which is what his gameplan relied upon. The kick would have been bad if he was ready for it. If Pierre’s guard had been up and his body fully reset to fight bode. As it was, however, he only started to switch at the last moment as the Quebecoise saw the foot coming towards his face at high speeds. Not enough time to dodge, not enough time to block. None to do anything but blink. Yet the meaty smack of the impact never came, the blunt force that Pierre wasn’t prepared for didn’t materialise. What he would see was that same foot, the one that had just taken Pierre in erotic rapture was only an inch close to his face. The French-Canadian didn’t realise his heart was beating out of his chest with the adrenaline, simply caught staring at the weapon sent to destroy him by the Ioa itself.

Zulime was loving every second of this. Every bead of Pierre's sweat on her dark skin, every drip of his cum on her feet, every set of eyes on the dancing woman standing in the middle of the ring. The Riverboat Queen was taking this moment seriously, and was imbuing each turn of the hips she made with a sense of power, the slow churning power of the Mississippi River as it wound its way down the middle of the United States. Zulime was just as curvy and just as fluid as she carried on with her mad dance, and capricious in the same way that the river was during the turbulent rainy season. The more she danced, the more she felt like a force of nature, compelling the humans around her to sway and move and follow her every command. The serious look on her face faded into a wild smile, which soon contorted into a look of grim realization.

The Cajun girl knew what powers she had. She had witnessed it firsthand at revivals and onstage and behind the blackjack table. But to tap into these powers her and now, in a wrestling when in front of someone whom she absolutely loathed, that took another level. Pierre rose to his feet the same way that the voodoo queens of old could summon people from their graves, transfixed on her like she was the conduit of the loa herself. Just like with all facets of the supernatural, there was a price to pay for power, a price that Pierre was paying in feinted kicks and potential for disaster. The Riverboat Queen was building up for the big one.

And when she launched it, she loved the reaction. Or more appropriately, the lack of reaction. Pierre might have been expecting some devastating kick to come when he was in such a torpor. But Zulime was a natural daughter of the creative arts, and loved to subvert expectations. She lowered her foot a little bit and peered over the top of her toes, looking into Pierre with a look of quiet condescension. Kicking him right in the face right then would have been too banal, too ordinary. She wanted something that had a little bit more dramatic flair to it.

As such, she lowered her foot. What she was going to do next would have been far easier to do with her words, but all the things that she had done so far had transcended words. Nothing she wanted could fit into human speech, even the beautiful tongue of French which they both so uneasily shared. So she spoke the oldest language of mankind, even before mankind, body language and suggestion and interpretation. Her hand came down to her hips with a flourish, and she signalled to Pierre what she wanted him to do. She was moving inelegantly now as she found the act in and of itself distasteful, not for the act of stimulation but because that stimulation was not mutual.

The suggestion was not enough. With a flourish of her hand around his eye level, she thought she could capture the attention that she needed to go south of his waistline. and work himself. Zulime showed her Canadian friend exactly what she wanted him to do, and the look in her eyes told her that there would be no arguments. Zulime wanted to accomplish something that only the grandmistresses of the black arts were able to pull off, and she strongly suspected that they had the loa on their side. The Riverboat Queen had nothing more than fluid hips and gusto, but she was goign to go for it anyways.

Even the privilege to live a life like Pierre had with two successful parents giving him the tools needed to get through in life, the man still went through his struggles. Scratching and clawing his way through life that seemed more intent on taking whatever joy he had and stomping it down to the gutter. It meant that the French-Canadian never quite had the opportunity to appreciate even the tiniest of pleasurable idiosyncrasies that mad strife and conflict all the worthwhile. Hard to do so when a tremendously humiliating incident was posted for all the world to see. Everyone has a “but” in their life, something which stops people from getting to where they should be, to their potential. A physical deformity, a mental disability, anything that impedes and places an embargo that one cannot cross and people cannot look over. His parents said that this might be a humbling experience that was needed to get his life back on track. That’s what they said to give him hope and bring him out of the pit that he hid in. However, people do not forget. Especially when that reminder is all over the internet. And what goes on there, stays on there. Nothing went right, always judged by others, it was clear that he needed to flee from such a curse. Funny how that went right now. Being told that to stand back up every-time life knocks you down is a victory. Yet for as long as it keeps one stalwart, ready to take on the next challenge, that had shut him off to what would happen should a gentle and loving touch is levied against him instead of a punch, kick or grapple.

To say that the French-Canadian is disarmed from Zulime’s alluring sensuality would be an understatement, at a time where there could be no overstating how utterly spellbound Pierre was in front of the Riverboat Queen, taken into a world that didn’t resemble reality. Pierre still had the taste of his indecency on his tastebuds, compounding the shame that is consistently amplified as Zulime danced around him, parading around and near-hitting him each time. Not only that but the Quebecoise didn’t get up at his own accord, only by the “will” of Zulime, a single finger taking him up on wobbly legs. He almost looks like Bambi on ice, barely keeping his balance so that he doesn’t fall down to the ground. All of his instincts telling him to strike now while she is playing around, but after those two orgasms, he just froze. As if he was in ice, his body didn’t will itself to move, all energy resources are used to keeping him standing. Recover and build up his strength for something good. That’s a good excuse he could use. And then he could start sticking it to Zulime and ruin her whole night. One punch was enough to turn the tides, and that can be used right here.

Well, if he was trying to bide his time, then he is pretty slow at it, Zulime’s foot shot out towards the man and if it wasn’t for the fact that she simply stopped it short of his face, Pierre would have been knocked down again hard. Perhaps even switching his lights off. But that was not enough for Zulime. This was her night of revenge, and it seemed as if she didn’t want it to be cut short that quickly. Apparently, the fun isn’t finished yet, and there was more in store for Pierre. Stuff that is beyond his comprehension and his knowledge of the human mind.

The Quebecoise could see that foot just dangerously hovering at his face, seeing traces of his shame dripping down the near smooth skin of the sole. He saw every single detail from the tip of her toes to the bottom of her heel. That is what he saw. What he did not understand was that Zulime actually lowered her foot. The image that is staring right in his eyes isn’t the same as what is happening in reality. He didn’t know if that was something that the Riverboat Queen intended or it was just his own imagination running wild, but that image stayed. Like someone tampered with the CCTV footage and created a fake picture. But it was still unbeknownst to the French-Canadian as he just stood there.

“Ooooh. Zo la boy does lik zis?”

Wait, who was that?

“Ai should 'ave known. You couldn't reseest yurself when zumtheng zis daintay eez dangleng around yur face. Steehl le same weak, pompous ass lik béfaire.”

The voice was familiar, but with the erotic haze in his mind, he couldn’t put a voice to face. But soon a voice appeared before the corner of his sight. And it wasn’t the African-American that he’s battling with. She appeared. That very woman that changed his life. And not for the better. Blonde. Long and curly, reaching down to her shoulders behind her. The face looked as if she could be a princess and everyone would believe that, elegant features, the rose lips, the blue pools that showed a window to the soul if one looks into them for too long. It seemed like a massive juxtaposition when it came to what she is wearing, someone like her wearing the cotton, heavy judoka gi, the black belt with five stripes at one of the ends holding it all together. The bottoms not as long so that it shows off more of her ankle and foot. She was just behind, resting on one of the turnbuckles while the foot is still in view. That smirk. Pure, sultry, yet hidden something disingenuous.

“Victorie…”

“Well? Are you just jenna stand zere, gawkéng? Jairk yursélf off.”

“Nggh?” His right hand unclenched. There was hesitation with it, almost rethinking his choices. And where that had led him.

“Go on zen. Do eet. And give up wiv zis foulishnez of rebuildeng yursélf. Péople lik you don't get a second chancé. Not when you ‘ave shown yursélf to bé zis wéak.”

“Ghh…”

“Do eet.” The blonde said, moving her hand with a flourish that wasn’t as elegant, but the vulgarity of such movements would definitely get the point across to Pierre. “Just lik zis.” Pierre’s hand, shakily, moved towards his manhood. His heart sank down to levels more profound than he could never have imagined, a wave of coldness washed all over as his fingers wrapped around it, seeing the instruction not from Zulime, but from the judoka that the French-Canadian saw all these years ago. He moved in just like she told him to. Everything was telling him that this was wrong. But the mind was in control. And the brain was in agreement with her. Somewhere in all of this…., it was as if she was right.

Zulime was listening intently. The crowd was making sounds of course, but they were completely immaterial to either of the duo in the ring at the moment. What Zulime was listening to was not the thousands upon thousands of people in the arena cheering and hooting and hollering at the displays of sex currently taking place inside the ring, but something far beyond that. It was music that was coming out of the ether, coming out of the act that Pierre and Zulime had just so intimately shared, coming out of all the ill will that Zulime bore towards this man like the demon manifest upon the far corners of the earth. There were strains of jazz in it, mixed up with a heavy application of the blues. But it was more to it than just that. There was the hooting of owls, the low bellows of alligators, the hissing of snakes.

Her movements reflected that music. With a long run of the brass, she would wiggle her hips. With a croaking of a bullfrog, her arms and legs would shoot out. With the soft sound of waves lapping upon the shore, she would gyrate back and forth. The Riverboat Queen was but a pawn in the hands of the loa who were far above her, watching her do a dance that would be more appropriate in the swamp's backwoods. Zulime was lost in reverie.

Her eyes opened and closed. She was in the ring, but she was not present. In the brief flashes that her eyes were open, she could see that Pierre too was lost in a reverie of his own. Through intimations and ideas transmitted through the ether, Pierre was now working his own member. A smile flashed across her face as she continued the dance, recognizing that even far from the swamps of her homeland, she still had a lot of power. That the loa were still smiling down on this woman. She looked up for a second to find the powerful lights of the arena. A deep part of her wanted to turn those lights into the moon, which inspires the divinity and the madness of poets and musicians and lunatics. The celestial lights above her were poor imitations of the stars that she so cherished, a fact that brought her down to the earth.

While Pierre was distracted enjoying himself, Zulime would act. Usually, she went for two spinning kicks before she butt blasted her opponent for a finisher, but that would simply not suffice here and now. It would take quite a lot to awaken Pierre from his torpor, so to speak, and even more to put him down for the evening. The music was slowly starting to fade as a hardened look appeared on her face. She hadn't planned this beforehand, and like all things, she was going to do this through improvisation.

The first thing that she did was a powerful spinning roundhouse kick with her arms stretching out wide, as if to embrace the coming violence. Then came another, with even more flourish than the last one. Upon completing the circle, she turned gracefully, and was now facing her hated opponent. The Riverboat Queen jumped into the air and then sent some leaping front kicks towards the chest of her opponent. She wondered if she had awoken Pierre at this point, but then she wondered if it mattered. There was no stopping this particular strain of Rhythm and Blues. She turned halfway around, to launch another back kick towards her opponent's tight abs. She would then bring her other leg up and swing it around for a roundhouse kick towards Pierre's head. But she would not stop there, as she used that momentum to continue on around for a 540° kick, that came with a jump and a strong blow to Pierre's head once more.

From there, she would turn and launch herself backwards with full force, to butt blast her opponent right in his stomach and send the man sprawling down to the mat to complete her finisher. She rose up, and was breathing heavily, like she had just gotten done with one of her dances. In a way, she had.

Whatever Pierre was hearing, it most certainly isn't music. Far from it. But at this point in time, he wished he was. And whatever Zulime was hearing, such tunes weren't shared, unable to participate in the ethereal party that the Riverboat Queen was having in her mind. One could argue that this was simply a one-person party, which isn't all too weird when you're all alone with no one else around. Because neither the audience could hear, the sounds of hooting and whooping filled the Kyoto arena. Clearly, they couldn't get enough of the coquettish, tantalizing, alluring, stimulating X-Rated action that only Zulime Laffite could bring. Still, the Quebecoise was clearly unable to hear any of this. Then again, his own music tastes would perhaps vastly differ to the African-American, such tunes probably weren't as mellifluous or euphonious. Freestyle type of sounds that have no rhyme or reason coming together seldom gets his attention.

Zulime's inviting, and voluptuous hips danced to its own beat, many in the audience would probably be caught staring at such an appealing sight that treats the eyes. All but for the debuting French-Canadian who had a different kind of viewpoint…which could only be described as a program suddenly crashing while the user tries to open Task Manager. Who knew that the loa would know stuff about computers? Unforeseen forces weren't something that piqued his interests, continually joking about voodoo magic. Complete balderdash is what his parents said when there was a documentary shown about one of the tribes back in Africa. Pierre claimed that even if they were to put a curse on him, it would be easily broken anyways or entirely ineffective. The Vuillard name was more magnificent and he held that name with pride.

Right now, he would be kicking himself, rather than letting Zulime do it herself. Sights that are beyond comprehension appeared before his eyes, and if he was to explain something like this, then he would have been laughed at. In truth, Pierre would be akin to a born-again Christian that has just found Jesus as their Lord and saviour. Not only what he sees the foot that had since been lowered down before him, he saw her. Great. Just what he needed. To be jerking off to the very person that had ruined his life. Inconceivable.
Nevertheless, he wouldn't have the chance to deny such claims as this is being witnessed by millions of horny individuals all over. Outwardly, he has shown no shame, yet inwardly, there was a tiny voice that was telling him not to do this. But that voice is dominated by his own lusts, unsure if this is the machinations of the loa or not.

"That's right. Just lik zat, you 'airny dog." Victorie spoke to him and only him. Did Zulime knew about her? No, that was impossible, the Cajun didn't seem like she would have known about the woman. Not unless she dug deep and tried to find that particular forbidden footage. Most likely, this was playing out of his own memories and his own imagination. Perhaps this was merely a dream. Who knows? But the pleasure that came from his throbbing dick was real as it hardened, tense and throbbing with each stroke bringing him closer to the peak once more. Just that it wasn't under the careful and deft touch of Zulime's foot, it was the quick and feverish pave of his hand that went up and down as if he really wanted to offer that seed to Zulime. "Now why couldn't you be lik zat to mé? Now I'm just jeahlous. Pairhaps girls lik hair are yur taype, non?" There was no comment about that one. Not that he is choosing not to answer but that he was very into his own erotic downfall. He couldn't take his eyes off it. Not that he can since it took up most of his field of vision, save for the sight of the blonde judoka. His object of desire. Pierre wasn't going to take his time, he worked his manhood as if he wanted to speed into the ending, knowing it was going to be sweet. And he perhaps would have gotten to that ending, had there not been a massive curveball.

Pierre felt something smacking right across the face. He couldn't have told where it had come from, but he clearly wasn't ready for it. A high-pitched sound rang from his ears as his head violently turned to where the attack came from. Another struck, and the foot that was just hovering his face has left his vision, the Quebecoise blinking furiously, the hand that was wrapped around his cock would be used only to try and steady himself, flailing with careless abandon. He was stunned, completely taken aback at what just happened, and his senses couldn't wake up to help him discern. Pierre wasn't in battle mode, and it showed with the next few kicks that launched right at the French-Canadian, the balls of her foot struck his chest that made his ribs bend underneath, threatening to crack. Ill-advised, the second made him lean forward a bit before catching the third right onto the chin, snapping his head straight up to the powerful lights that illuminated the whole arena. He kept taking some steps back, unaware that he was reaching towards the ropes with each powerful strike that came from Zulime's muscular legs and feet, one of them drilling into his navel. If they were tensed and guarded, that would have mitigated the damage some. But his abdomen was untensed. Unguarded. And that had drew massive amount of air from his lungs, winding him there and then. Admittedly, Pierre had never been winded from a kick before, the first time was from a simple o soto gari. But that's another story for another day, her sole smacking him straight in the face that was audible from ringside, the audience cringing somewhat by the sound of it. Even Victorie mockingly winced at the action.

Though if that was bad, the discernible, tumultuous smack that came from the 540 kick ringed all over the arena, sending Pierre spinning and seeing white flashes. His more significant body bounced off the ropes, carried by the momentum off that kick. Had it not been for that butt blast by the Riverboat Queen, he would have fallen squarely on his face. Then again, that probably would have been better than having Zulime's butt slamming right into his stomach. Which would have been bad in of itself, yet the forward momentum had him keeling over, collapsing over the Riverboat Queen as if she did a shoulder throw without the use of his arm. Pierre landed right onto his back, hard, unable to break his fall even if he could. Out before he had even touched the mat, the Quebecoise man laid there motionlessly, the crowd giving a massive uproar of applause at such a sight!