Layla McCarthy vs Lynette de Villiers

Despite the amount of pressure that was being applied to Lynette's throat,she would be able to get to her feet, with Layla latched onto her back like a monkey. "Damn it, stay down!" she snarled, and squeezed the sleepr and bodyscissors even tighter. But still, her French foe kept going. It was admirable, and annoying at the same time.

When Lynette stepped onto the bottom rope, Layla knew what she was about to attempt, and her green eyes widened. With one last burst of power, she attempted to knock Lynette once and for all, knowing she was tempting fat now. But it was no use. With an alarmed cry, Layla fell through the air, and slammed right into the mat, with Lynette's bodyweight crushing her further.

Almost immediately the sleeper was released, as well as the bodyscissors, leaving Layla a sprawled out mess beneath Lynette. Layla groaned in pain, her entir body screaming with pain. after a short while, Layla would start to crawl out from under Lynette, clutching her head and gritting her teeth.

After the collision with the mat, Lynette felt a sudden divine gasp of sweet, free air enter her lungs, and she gasped audibly enough for the first front rows of spectators to hear her. The match had flashed before her eyes, and that brutal submission had almost done her in, and Lynette wasn't afraid to admit it, so long as it HADN'T done her in. And it hadn't.

The choking and struggling and last-ditch effort required to get free had certainly taken its toll on the taller woman, but with with each passing moment of parole from Layla's clutches, she felt a little bit more balance and strength return to her. As soon as she felt consciously stable enough to move, she did, and rolled off of Layla, far and away from the smaller girl until she was laying at the edge of the ring, her fingers clasping at the ropes, having to take several precious seconds to just catch her breath. Her eyes finally fully focused, and she watched Layla crawling, a wounded smirk flickering momentarily over Lynette's face, and the french woman hoped that the little girl's head hurt as much as it possibly could.

In retrospect, Layla probably should have abandoned the sleeperhold as soon as she saw Lynette climbing onto the ropes. Maybe she would have spared herself the immense pain that urrently plagued her body. Her head was pounding, having taken the most of the impact. And because of this she was now dazed and muddled. She got back to her feet out of pure necissity, and promply stumbled into the ropes when she did. when her eyes finally did focus, she saw Lynette in a similiar position, also trying to recover from the last exhange. Layla grit her teeth in anger. If things kept going this way, both women would need stretchers to leave the ring.

Lynette would never concede to it, but she was infinitely thankful to see Layla struggling as much as she was, and did not press an attack immediately. This gave the long-legged fighter a short, albeit much needed respite to collect herself and gradually climb to her own feet, similarly using the ropes to keep her balance on the rise up.

Lynette repeatedly shook her head to clear her mind and her vision, the oxygen and the power slow in returning to her body, before she finally focused hard on the plucky little wrestler opposite her. She needed to end this, and quickly.

"...Enough..." she mused sternly, more to herself than to Layla.

Throwing herself with gritty abandon, Lynette charged towards Layla, hoping that enough time hadn't passed for Layla to be able to formulate any kind of response, and hooked her left arm out once she was in two strides of the girl, acting to clothesline the girl hard enough that her head would spin...both figuratively and physically, as an after-effect of the blow.

Layla stayed where she was on the ropes, panting and cluthing her head as she glared at the woman in her sights. Lynette was becoming more trouble than she thought she would be. Underneath that 'holier than thou; attitude was a woman who could back up her words. If Layal was gonna take her down, she was gonna take her down hard.

She saw her hance when Lynette suddenly sprang at her, apparently having shaken off the earlier effects of the sleeper. Layla waited until the French woman was close enough, playing the part of the wounded animal until she could strike. as soon as Lynette was upon her her Layla quickly ducked under the incoming clothesline, easily done due to her size, and quickly grabbed both of Lynette' legs. With a mighty heave and taking advantage of Lynette' own momentum, Layla would try to toss the French woman right over her shoulders. From where she was standing right in front of the ropes, Lynette would be taken up and over them, and take the long fall to the concrete floor.

Lynette's charge was neither as precise nor as controlled as she would have ever displayed had she been at the top of her game, but the match had worn down both girls, and in Lynette's case, the pompous flair and eloquent delivery of moves had finally vanished in favor of maintaining aggression. And in this instance, she suffered for it.

The french fighter felt a wave of dread pierce into her heart as she felt her would-be deadly clothesline whiff cleanly over Layla's head, and in a terrifying moment of lost balance, her body found itself lifted up, feet first, and she was sent careening over the ropes, and plummeted to the floor like a beautiful tragedy. She half-flipped in mid-air, and landed harshly flat on her back, onto the concrete floor with a painful thud. Her first flash of a thought was an almost peaceful moment of clarity, in which she was infinitely thankful she didn't hear or feel something go 'crack.'

The moment that immediately followed, however, felt like an electrocution of pain, and the breath was brutally driven from her lungs again, this time in a much more agonizing fashion. Lynette's deep blue eyes widened as she tried in vain to breathe, but found she couldn't for at least a few moments. It was here the french woman showed her first moment of real vulnerability or faltered strength, writhing on the ground, gasping, grasping at her ribs, her eyes watering from the force of her fall.

She had risked large, and chance had struck back without mercy. It was all she could do to simply keep her wits about her, to try to maintain a fledgling sense of awareness of where she was and what she could do to recover.

The crowd in the front row that had actually witnessed Lynette's brutal fall let out a sympathetic 'oooohhhh!' as the sight, while the rest of the arena was one their feet cheering for Layla McCarthy and her very effective manuever. Layla herself was amazed she had even been able to pull that off. It was a spur of the moment tactic, but she couldn't argue with the results.

Now that her French opponant was finally down and helpless Layla could begin to inflict some real damage. Being close to the ropes already Layla was quick to slip under them where Lynette still lay writhing. Outside of the ring, Layla practically had free reign with the rules, and that alone made her smile. So to start off her comeback, she would quickly approach both of Lynette's long legs, grab both of them, and hook them under her armpits. With both of her opponant's legs spread and restrained, Layla was presented with a target she couldn't pass up.

With an evil grin, Layla would lift her foot up, and stomp it hard right into Lynette's crotch!

While Lynette saw Layla neatly slip through ropes and come towards her, there was little she could do while she still struggled with her arduous recovery; her body ached and her breath was still short as Layla took hold of her legs and spread them. Even in this demoralizing position, Lynette offered some degree of noncompliance, mildly kicking at Layla, but it was to no avail in stopping the shorter foe. Bitter to the end, a deathly glare was given to Layla, accompanied by a venomous, accusatory hiss: "Salope."

Only a moment later, however, as the heel of the Canadian dropped into the tender split of Lynette's legs, the french woman released a high-pitched howl, and Layla would be able to feel the trembling and shivering of pain through the legs of her enemy. Her arms flailed, fingers hopelessly dragging along the concrete floor for anything to hold onto, to direct her woeful hurt into.

"SALOPE!" she screamed again, blistering with hurt and rage.

'Yeah, 'salope' to you too," Layla snickered after completing the less than honorable manuever. It had taken some time, but she finally had the haughty woman screaming. And it felt sooooooo good!

Now that the more than painful strike had been delivered Layal should have let go of Lynette's legs, and yet she didn't. The reason would soon become clear. Layla began to work with the buttons of Lynette's pants, trying to get them undone, and one she did, Layla would start to yank Lynette's pants right off her, exposing whatever the French girl was wearing underneath.

The searing pain in her most sensitive of spots was horribly slow at subsiding, and it took Lynette a few full seconds to start wondering why more blows weren't following. Then, blinking up through a haze of misery, she saw Layla fiddling with the last of the buttons on her pants, and then beginning to pull them off of her. Lynette's deep sea blues widened, shocked at the audacity of this tactic, and a slight shade of pink rose in the pristine features of the french woman.

"How DARE you--!" she yelped, kicking out desperately and with significantly more urgent force that moments before. Humiliation?! No, not her! Lynette was a paragon of class, this simply would not do!

But alas, it would have to. Lynette's kicking was wild and frenzied, but through unfortunate coordination between Layla's tugging and Lynette's thrashing, at last, the bottom half of the Lady de Villier's attire came clean off, exposing her slender, silky legs and the incriminating undergarment she wore beneath her wrestling attire.

A tiny pair of high cut boyshort panties clung provocatively to her hips, the back part of which easily exposed at least the bottom half of her impressively shapely derriere. The soft lace was a particularly alluring shade of dark blue, matching Lynette's eyes. Aghast, Lynette's flush deepened, and for a few strickened moments, she attempted to cover herself with her arms, ending accidently looking more like a pin-up model.

However, Layla's tactic had exposed more than just Lynette's rear; it also exposed an opening. While looking around for anything to cover herself, her eyes fell delightfully onto something even better; her riding crop, which through a stroke of immense fortune was just within arm's reach!

While Layla tumbled back, still clutching Lynette's leggings victoriously, Lynette stretched and snatched it off the floor, and pumped full of adrenaline from the pain and the psychological attack on her modesty, rose with a sweeping gesture and swung hard, aiming a precise and likely terribly painful strike directly at Layla's head, the stinging leather tip raking harshly right across her face.

With a fresh fire burning in her aching body, Lynette would prove she could descend to dishonorable tactics as well.