Making the Cut

In one of the rings in the AFW gym, Isa Armstrong grinned.

A pair of white cycling shorts sheathed her from just below her belly button, clinging tightly to the taut curves of her broad hips and thick thighs down to just above her knees. From there, her calves were bare until a pair of matching white training shoes.

Above the waist, she’d picked out an equally pale sports top that left a brief swathe of her toned midriff bare while the scoop neckline revealed just enough cleavage to tease. And that was it.

Nothing complicated but then Isa had thought she’d be sparring this morning.

At the moment, Isa hadn’t even broken a sweat and she had the trainer facedown and totally immobilised – from a rear mount position, Isa had one arm snaked under the other woman’s, trapping it in a half Nelson with her hand shoving the trainer’s face against the mat, while her free hand caught the trainer’s other wrist.

With both arms trapped and Isa’s hooks in deep, the trainer was reduced to frustrated squirming under Isa’s weight – which was pretty humiliating in her book at least.

Hey, it wasn’t as if she’d expected the trainers here to be world-beating superstars. There was a reason why they were trainers, not actual fighters. Isa didn’t exactly subscribe to the whole ‘those who can, do; those who can’t, teach’ thing – her own father had gone from doer to teacher – but she really felt like she’d been paired with a mobile punching bag rather than someone who could actually help her raise her game in anything but the most basic of ways.

Speaking of which, this was getting boring.

Sliding up the trainer’s back, Isa straddled her head and rolled them both over, kicking her legs out and locking her ankles with a grace born of lots of practice. Resting on her braced hands, the Temptress tensed her thighs hard enough to make plenty of people scream right then and there.

But only a whine emerged.

Isa’s thighs were thick enough to engulf not just the trainer’s neck but the lower half of her face too, while still compressing that vulnerable throat.

She wasn’t even squeezing hard yet, merely flexing her legs without engaging her steel-cord adductors – she didn’t want to KO the trainer, at least not so fast. Why ruin her fun?

Training. Sorry, sorry. Training.

Despite that, the other woman’s face was already going pink as the pressure mounted, her heels drumming an agonised rhythm on the canvas.

Isa grinned.

This never got old.

“What do you mean the prototype collapsed?”

Umph. Umph! The woman sitting on the bench lifted another weight into the air with one hand while she spoke into her phone with the other. It was a good idea to not make this call on the treadmill in hindsight. The frustration was good motivation. Negative to positive energy. If only cybernetics were that simple. Umph!

Gym Fashion:

“That’s why I suggested carbon fiber for the dummy. If steel isn’t-” There was a moment of silence. The woman slammed the weight to the floor and stood up tall as she walked around the bench. She reached down to grab her towel as she went and slung it over one shoulder. “I am hearing far too many semantics to be pleased with that answer. What we need is a stress test."

Elizabeth stopped in the middle of the gym when she noticed a crowd had suddenly formed. “You worry about the results. I’ll worry about finding an ideal…”

The Welshwoman’s words fell away from her lips when she finally managed a clear glimpse of what was occurring behind the ropes. What she noticed first was a woman missing half of her head, the lower half-buried beneath inches of reinforced muscle compacted tightly beneath untouched tanned skin. The sight occupied her attention longer than it likely should have before she noticed the woman who rightfully owned such a lethal pair of legs. Complacent, confident, and barely appearing to even be exerting herself. All the while, the trainer stuck between the dark woman’s legs had turned a shade of color that was starting to become concerning. It was a marvel in how impossible it seemed. For a moment, it almost looked as though that head may pop clean off, and frankly, Elizabeth couldn’t say that she was far from curious to see if that would be the case. From a strictly anatomically phenomenal perspective, that was.

“...candidate.”

It was only when that moment passed and another bark entered her ear that Elizabeth recalled that she was in the middle of a phone call.

“Just send me your findings. I’ll be right back with you.” She rolled her eyes into the back of her head. “Idiot.”

With that distraction cleared, Elizabeth tucked her phone back into the pocket of her yoga pants and made her way around the thin rows of onlookers. The Welshwoman came around the ringside, watching with a sidelong glance at the effortless constriction the wrestler was managing without any support or leverage from her upper body. She turned to fold her arms over the edge of the ring floor and leaned in, getting a closer glance. Elizabeth had to guess at what kind of pressure this woman was putting the trainer under. And she couldn’t help but feel that she looked a little familiar...But for the moment Elizabeth replaced that question with another.

“Is that the best you can do?” The question sounded mocking, but the tone from which it was delivered from Elizabeth’s otherwise genuinely enthralled expression said the exact opposite.

Isa didn’t think she was a sadist. She didn’t exactly enjoy other people’s pain. But she did enjoy the fine art of tying people up in knots submission holds; having someone trapped in her grip, unable to escape, dancing to her tune – it was just as much fun as making them tap instantly, just in different ways.

She craned her head a little, examining the patina of sweat beading over the other woman’s forehead, the pattern of veins bulging at the temples...

Then Isa rested her head on her hands and tightened her grip just a fraction, just enough for her to appreciate the extra burst of squirming it got her without risking any serious damage.

Up till then, her attention had been entirely fixated on her legs and the trainer caught in her web – she’d known there were people watching and hadn’t cared.

But the woman’s direct question immediately caught her interest.

Initially, because of the accent. Cosmopolitan as she knew Tokyo to be, there was just something about hearing an unmistakeably Welsh accent that drew Isa’s interest. And then the question – because Isa had initially taken it as a challenge but, as soon as she met the other woman’s tawny gaze, she knew it was nothing of the sort.

“My best?” Isa cocked her head almost curiously as she considered the question (and the questioner), before a tiny smirk lifted one corner of her lips just enough to show teeth.

“Trust me, hun, her scrawny neck couldn’t take my best. This…”

She paused to consider, running a hand over the firm swell of her quad absently.

“This is maybe 20%. I’m here for a workout - not a knockout.”

It was probably just as well the trainer couldn’t hear what was being said, thinking about it. She had to know Isa wasn’t squeezing as hard as she could but knowing just how little effort this took wouldn’t have done her morale any good at all.

With that little question tidied up, Isa took a moment to look over the woman asking – she wasn’t great at spotting heights from down here, but at a guess the Welshwoman wasn’t quite as tall as her but her pale frame was visibly toned (at least the part Isa could see). Even those biceps and abs weren’t as striking as the amber eyes regarding her with avid interest or the silvery white hair on a woman who couldn’t be that much older than she was.

“Seems you’re almost as far from home as me, Welshie.”

Because Isa wasn’t about to just come out and ask who this woman was or whatever. Where was the fun in that?

Naturally, she hadn’t let the trainer go either; that poor soul was still trapped in the fleshy shackles of Isa’s thighs, her hands tugging at the Temptress’ limbs in a manner equally frantic and futile.

Good god, twenty percent? That poor head was lucky to still be in one piece.

Elizabeth wanted to believe that this woman was speaking mostly in jest about her capabilities. She was in AFW after all, the premier league for hotshot talents and daydreaming superstars from all across the world. It was impossible to find a place on the roster without overselling it here and there. But then again, she had to recall why she was even standing here in the first place, admiring this deeply interesting woman from the safety of the sidelines.

Exceptional wasn’t a word that Elizabeth liked to throw around without adequate evidence and a few spreadsheets for comparison, though she felt comfortable in this case with that assessment. Her submission skills spoke for themselves and that cool demeanor radiated a confidence that was strangely alluring with the hint of danger behind it. It was hard to tell whether this woman was confident, sadistic, or some odd combination of the two.

The business woman's eyes regarded the trainer once more. She seemed to be consistently on the verge of passing out only for the pressure to be relieved at the last moment. Elizabeth counted that it must have nearly happened about twice now. It was an incredible level of control to match that was matching the power she’d put on display. They’d barely spoken two sentences to each other and already she was

"You’d be right. Must have taken a wrong turn somewhere on my way to London." The Welsh woman shrugged and rested her chin on her palm. “While I’m here, I figured I’d do some sightseeing at all of the local attractions. I take it you don’t mind...Irish?”

Elizabeth reckoned she had a pretty good ear for accents, but ironically it was the ones that were closest to home that were the hardest to tell apart. She hadn’t been away nearly long enough to feel homesick, but she wouldn’t deny the strange sense of comfort if speaking with someone from her neck of the woods. Something that might be a bit of a rarity going forward.

She loved that reaction, one she’d seen in a few guises on a few faces and a fair few voices as well. It made it all the more satisfying when she crushed their doubts.

Isa rewarded the Welshwoman’s guess (and joke) with a wide grin and a tip of an imaginary hat in her direction, acknowledging the point with amusement. Her accent wasn’t something she tried to hide but neither did she exactly flaunt it, her Irish lilt a subtle but noticeable flavouring to her throaty and husky tones.

“A local attraction, huh? Here's me, not even had my debut match and I've already got my first fan..."

Her smile sharpening, Isa rolled over to her side (and forcibly taking the trainer with her, silly woman still hadn’t tapped) to get a better look at her visitor.

She’d be the first to admit she hadn’t done the most thorough research into the AFW roster, beyond the big names and the champions (and her visitor hadn’t been on either list), and there were literally dozens of wrestlers she didn’t know from Adam or Eve.

Was the Welsh woman one of them? She looked like she could be, and she had the look of someone fresh from a workout… And was she just interested, scoping out the competition or was something else going on here?

Isa found herself a touch intrigued already.

“I’d ask if you were enjoying the show, but why bother?”

Isa propped herself up on one elbow now, tilting her head back to let her hair flow free as she subtly arched her back – both to emphasise the swell of her ample bust but also to add a fraction more torque to the trainer’s neck as she pushed her hips just that bit further forward.

The strangled moan that resulted was plentiful demonstration that she’d not lost her touch. This time the trainer did tap and Isa finally undid her hold, letting the other woman breathe unimpeded. Deep, frantic gasps for air, the trainer massaging her neck with wide, panicked eyes.

“Given you’re still watching, I think we both know the answer…”

Lovely smile.

Just one of the many things to appreciate about this woman. The deathly impressive legs were what caught her attention from the Marketable, too. Elizabeth could only imagine the field day her PR department would have with someone with Isa's looks. A rare mix of smart, sultry, and mysterious. Her demeanor was like watching a Vogue cover in motion.

Far and away the most interesting Irish girl she'd ever met. And that was saying something.

It made watching her at work all the more alluring. The Welshwoman rested her chin in the palm of her hand and leaned a bit closer in. ‘Show’ was a relatively accurate assessment of what she was witnessing. Mostly because Irish was just so good at presentation. Every movement was so smooth and fluid. The muscles rippling beneath her legs danced like waves along with the river’s current. She had the entire room enraptured and Elizabeth didn’t even know her name. Tragedy.

When she finally let the poor woman go, Elizabeth felt the slightest pang of disappointment in her heart. Some people might call that sadism, the tech mogul on the other hand just preferred a complete picture before she made her investments. Investments in money, investments in time; for a Winterbourne it was all one and the same. How much of it this mystery woman earned was the only important matter at the end of the day. Elizabeth didn’t feel as though she would be wasting her time.

"Fair enough, though I feel I might have missed one or two of the better scenes. Can I request an encore, Ms...?" The trainer, who couldn’t help but notice that her own opinion on things was being overlooked, flashed a look somewhere between bewilderment and abject panic to the white-haired philanthropist. Elizabeth seemed too invested in the pair of thighs around her neck to notice anything else.

Isa quirked a brow, then a corner of her lips rose as she glanced from the white-haired Welshwoman to the trainer’s pleading face and back again. She might not be sure how to read the Welshwoman, but she’d have to be blind to miss the message she thought was written on the trainer’s features.

“Hmm,” she pretended to consider the request, tapping a finger against her mouth for a moment in mock thought.

She did love to squeeze. The trainer’s neck was as good a demonstration aid as any she could think of. And the Welshie – maybe Isa was reaching here – seemed to have more of a reason to her request than just asking for the sake of it. All very good reasons to just say yes and put the clamps back on her victim.

But… well, the woman had tapped out (eventually). And Isa didn’t like to think of herself as an out-and-out sadist. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have options, right?

“Armstrong,” She introduced herself at last with a lopsided smirk, “Isabel Armstrong. And I’d hate to disappoint a fan…”

Isa cast a very pointed look at the trainer, reaching over to tuck a lock of the other woman’s sweaty hair back behind an ear.

“… But I think I’ll need another dummy. This one’s all tuckered out and I don’t think she’s got another dance in her.”

She pretended not to see the sudden wash of gratitude across the trainer’s features.

Instead, Isa pulled her legs back, settling herself easily into a crossed-leg Lotus pose, smiling sweetly at the other woman – the ball was firmly in her court now.

Playful, this one. Serenely confident, peaceful in her composure, and yet the atmosphere around her sent out all sorts of danger signals that made hairs rise on the back of one’s neck.

This was why Elizabeth could never stop being a businesswoman. You met all sorts of interesting people.

She hadn’t known many Irish people before today. She’d lived a privileged and somewhat sheltered upbringing. Business nowadays never took her that close to home and she had few relatives living across the border, giving her even fewer reasons to stop in and visit. Her impressions of the hinterlands were somewhat underwhelming with little more than rolling greens and hardy folk none too keen on surprises. Isabella Armstrong was quickly changing her opinion of her dear neighbors.

The Winterbourne's eyes gave the woman another once over as she sat cross-legged, modeling herself in the middle of the ring for the public’s adoration. The interest was well-earned for Elizabeth. Beyond the raw power, there was a unique talent that almost seemed bewilderingly natural. A flair.

And she had the opportunity to sample all of it firsthand?

“Really? Well, that’s a shame.” The golden eyes of the Winterbourne regarded Isa’s broken down protege, who’d started to drag her way out of the ring towards the rescuing arms of a fellow trainer waiting at the other end. Fortune smiles on both of them this day, it seemed. “Maybe we should just get more hands-on then.”

“Don’t take it personally, but I feel like your partner was being a little dramatic at the end there. It couldn’t have been that bad, right?” Elizabeth asked as she slipped between the ropes and stepped into the ring.

Isa just sat there, now leaning back on her hands with her legs still neatly folded in front of her, as she watched the white-haired woman duck into the ring.

Well now, wasn’t that interesting?

She hadn’t been quite sure how the Welshie would take her show of mercy – disappointment, looking for another trainer – but stepping into the anaconda’s den herself? Isa liked that.

Looking up at the Welsh woman now, the Temptress took a moment to drink in the body now on display to her veridian gaze.

Welshie, it turned out, was a pretty impressive specimen. Not the tallest, definitely not the shortest, but she was built. Like, really built. Not huge but her pale skin was covering some serious muscle in those arms and taut abs.

Very much enjoying what she was seeing, Isa made no secret of her interest as she raked her eyes up and down.

“Mm,” She hummed, “I think it’s worked out pretty well…”

But a low laugh followed the comment about getting hands-on; which was true as far as it went but Isa had another set of limbs she fully intended the other woman to become near-intimately familiar with in the very immediate future – if everything kept going the way it seemed, at least.

And no, she wasn’t going to take it personally. As a challenge though? That sounded more her speed.

“Guess it depends,” Isa lowered her gaze, almost demurely, “You’re thinking she’s just a trainer, right? That she’s just a crybaby and there’s no way I could do that to a real tough girl. I couldn’t be that strong. Right?”

She tilted her head to the side, admiring her own deadly limbs.

“Or maybe that’s just your pride talking. Maybe I’ll have you tapping the second I get these legs around you.”

Her tone was coy, her expression flirtatious as she glanced up from behind a wave of black hair, one hand now extended as though inviting the other woman to a dance.

“How about it, Miss Welshie? Care to take me for a spin and find out?”

She already knew the answer, was sure they both did. She just wanted to hear it.

Once upon a time in the more carefree days of her now-fleeting youth, Elizabeth trekked across countless miles of deserts and unforgiving steppes. The shape-shifting, scorching sands were hostile to the touch, but often what was worse was that which lurked just beneath.

The scene was familiar to Elizabeth now. She had stopped for repast in the shade of a lone tree. She was close to her destination, a festival of warriors said to be held in a neighboring village on some lost oasis. As she was checking her map, she heard the hiss and rattle. She stood and turned immediately, but it was already upon her. In the imprint she had left behind, the heiress suddenly found her eyes locked with the razor-sharp gaze of a dark-scaled serpent baring its fangs. She gulped once and took the moment to catch her breath. Slowly, she started to back away, considering herself lucky that she’d avoided a trepidatious fate.

That was when she noticed her map by the snake’s side, drumming its tail mockingly over the paths and sketches she’d penned. Elizabeth gulped and leaned forward, reaching her hand out slowly. The snake hissed back, rearing its head slightly as her fingertips drew ever nearer to the venomous fangs waiting patiently.

Why did she get the same blistering chill on her spine now as she had back then? It could have been the look in Isa’s eyes. The predatory gleam reflected in her clear brown irises.

She felt as though her mind was being read as she heard Isa's deduction. Elizabeth's eyes couldn't help wandering a tad, seeing how her body reacted. Every ounce of muscle on that lithe body seemed pronounced and freshened from her earlier bout, eager to sink into something more robust. It was equally impressive and intimidating to approach. The hissing at the back of her ears grew louder.

The Winterbourne knelt and took her partner's hand in a tight grip. She intended to help Isa up from the floor, assuming that was what the gesture was intended for. She was content to follow her lead.

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth 'Pride' Winterbourne." She responded simply with a none-too-subtle curl of her lip. The Welshie had almost forgotten to mention it, lost in her admiration and fantasy. Blessed to be in the presence of Ireland's finest and Elizabeth had already abandoned common courtesy.

Surely that would be the worst thing to happen to her tonight. "By all means, show me what you're really capable of, Isabel."