Littlest Pet Shop of Horrors

It had taken a long time. It had taken a very, very long time for Phoebe to force those words out of Gemma.

“Thatâ€s motherfucking right, you little whiny bitch!” Phoebe yelled triumphantly, after hearing Gemma choke out the three little words that handed victory in the match to the American. She would not release Gemma from the sharpshooter right away. She savored the moment, waiting a few seconds and continuing to hold Gemma in the painful hold before, with a primal roar, letting go and throwing the girlâ€s legs down onto the mat, putting her hands up in the air. The cheers were few and far between. Phoebe knew that she wasnâ€t exactly the kind of wrestler that they could cheer for easily—especially not with her potty mouth. Well, fuck them.

“You lose, bitch,” Phoebe said, as she turned to face Gemma. She walked around to stand in front of the British girl. “You lose. Youâ€re my pet. Fucking limey cunt.” She would put a boot on top of Gemmaâ€s head and grind her sole against the girlâ€s platinum hair, sneering as she rubbed her victory in her opponentâ€s face.

Gemma could hardly believe what had just come out of her mouth. Part of her knew that she was going to have to lose an AFW match eventually. But doing so like this, in such a humiliating manner, declaring herself her opponent's “pet,” was hardly how she would have wanted to do it. And worst of all, Phoebe didn't seem to want to let up, on the punishment. The pain was overwhelming, and Gemma was powerless to do a single thing about it. In utter agony, all Gemma could do is utter the words again and again, “I'm your pet,” as she weakly tapped the mat and struggled to keep her hold on consciousness.

When Phoebe's dominant roar hit her ears, and Gemma's body was finally released from her hold, Gemma could only drop flat against the mat. Through the pain, she could just barely make out Phoebe's taunts, the bile she was spewing at the battered, humbled young Brit. Gemma's face burned with the shame of taking a loss against an opponent like this abrasive, foul-mouthed American. More than that, though, she heard the silence that seemed to settle over the crowd, and realized how few of them seemed to be cheering the cowgirl's malicious mean streak on, now.

For a moment, Gemma felt a sting of guilt at having let those people down. Then, she felt the sting of Phoebe's cowgirl boots, planted against her head, the dirty sole of it grinding against her fair hair. Yet again, embarrassment flowed over Gemma. This time, however, in the face of Phoebe's taunts and the crowd's silent disapproval, she was able to turn that feeling into something else. Lacking the strength to fight back, Gemma instead planted her hands against the mat, weakly struggled to lift her head despite Phoebe's dominating boot, and then presented a middle finger to the American in a sign of spiteful defiance. Gemma couldn't even muster the strength to speak her defiance, but she hoped that the single, disobedient finger would express everything she wanted to say, to her opponent.

Phoebe panted, her chest heaving, but despite her exhaustion—and despite the booing that the crowd was giving her—the American cowgirl was all smiles. The match had drained her and had been utterly humiliating, but it was all over now, and she had come out on top. She deserved a chance to bask in the glory of victory, and she would do just that, grinding the sole of her boot on top of Gemmaâ€s head as the British girl repeated “Iâ€m your pet” over and over again.

Gemma, evidently, did not want to be humiliated any more. She lifted her head up, turned to look at Phoebe, and flipped her the bird. The cowgirl sneered and growled at her nearly-unconscious opponent. “Oh, you donâ€t want to fuck with me, bitch. Youâ€d better put that finger away,” Phoebe hissed. She would slide her boot down to Gemmaâ€s shoulders, then give the British girl a hard shove towards the ropes. “You get the fuck out of here. Crawl on all fours like the dirty fucking dog you are. And youâ€d better crawl, you limey slut, or else Iâ€ve got something real good in mind for you!”

Gemma gave out a whimper of pain, as Phoebe's boot pressed down between her shoulder blades, sending the poor Brit rolling towards the edge of the ring. Once there, Gemma lay on her side, lifting one arm to grasp at a ring rope, as she tried to gather her strength. Phoebe had beaten her, completely and utterly, and Gemma knew she had to accept that. The rest of it, though? Gemma had given her all in this match, and come up short. The humiliation of that alone was enough, she could have though, but apparently it wasn't enough, to satisfy the sadistic cowgirl. The thought of crawling on her knees, debasing herself even further, made Gemma sick to her stomach. More than anything, though, Gemma wanted to get out of the arena tonight without suffering any more pain and humiliation. To just get back to the locker room, hit the showers, and start working at putting this whole nightmare behind her, without having to endure anything else her opponent might have in mind, for her ...

Slowly, head bowed, hair hanging over her face, Gemma slowly rolled over, and pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. Gemma stayed in that position a moment, trembling slightly, mustering the strength to not simply collapse, again. The air raid siren's fists clenched against the mat, tension mounting in her entire body. Gemma's head was swimming in pain, but the jeers and displeasure of the crowd filled her ears, helping her to focus on something other than the pain. Gemma latched onto that reaction, feeling as if she'd be letting each of those fans down, not to mention her fans and family back home, if she let herself cave to Phoebe's demands, now. Hoping to get them behind her with another act of brazen defiance, Gemma reminded herself that she was was beaten, but not quite broken. Before taking a single step to exit the ring, Gemma grunted with effort as she rose to one knee, stared the cowgirl down, and gave the dominant American a pronounced sneer. Leaning back on the ropes for support, one arm hugging her aching midsection tightly, Gemma looked Phoebe square in the eyes as she told her, “Like- like hell I will ... you slag hick ...” And, again, practically daring Phoebe to do her worst, Gemma raised a single middle finger to her foe.

Phoebe figured that Gemma might not want to go meekly and quietly. That didnâ€t mean that the cowgirl was just going to let this British slut get back up onto her feet, though. While Phoebe wasnâ€t feeling all too strong herself right now, she was sure she had more than enough strength left to properly humiliate Gemma if she misbehaved. And, of course, Gemma did misbehave. The crowd seemed to support her in her efforts, too. Phoebe sighed. She hadnâ€t really intended to be a villain when she came to AFW, but all these girls were just so fucking stupid.

“Listen here, you pus-dripping limey cunt,” Phoebe snapping, pointing a finger at Gemma as the girl rose back up onto one knee, “you put that fucking finger away and you get back down on your four dirty fucking paws, or thereâ€s going to be trouble.” Stooping down, Phoebe would pick up the bowl of wet dog food, remnants of which still coated each of their faces. Holding up the half-full bowl menacingly, her meaning should be perfectly clear. She began walking towards Gemma, ready to punish the pet if she didnâ€t start acting like one.

"A-always ... with the pus ..." Gemma said, her arm (and the offending finger) dropping, as she struggled back to her feet. For a moment, a look of anguish and pain played out clear as day across the young Brit's face. Gemma knew that she didn't have the strength to resist anything that Phoebe might try to do to her, at this point. Gemma had to admit that, as humiliating as it was, crawling out of the ring on her hands and knees right now might actually be the best decision she could make, at the moment. To make matters worse, though, was that Phoebe had that bowl of dog food in her hand, again. Gemma's stomach sank, as she watched the cowgirl pick it up, again. She could still feel the meaty grit of it on her skin, in her hair ... did she really want to endure that again?

Drowning out those fears, however, was the cheering of the crowd. Gemma's chest swelled in pride, a bit, as she heard them egging her on, seemingly encouraging the young Brit not to give up, even in the face of humiliating defeat. In all of this, Gemma's greatest fear had been that of letting the fans down. But now, while Phoebe clearly held all of the power, having beaten Gemma thoroughly, the steampunk girl had to make a choice. Giving the audience something to cheer for, or being able to get back to the locker room with some measure of her dignity ...

Gemma raised an open hand, the one she'd previously used to flip Phoebe the bird, in a defensive gesture. Slowly, she started to lean down, preparing to take to her hands and knees. But the cheers of the audience continued, and Gemma's pride continued to burn at the back of her mind. Suddenly, Gemma shot straight up again, raising the middle finger of her other hand defiantly, practically daring Phoebe to make her next move. "Do ... your worst, skank ..." Gemma shouted, even as her voice quivered in doubt.

Phoebe thought that the British girl was going to acquiesce to her demands, get back on her hands and knees and crawl out of the arena. She started to bend down, and Phoebe smirked, knowing she had broken the will of her opponent. She ran a hand around the rim of the dog bowl, taunting the platinum-haired loser as she lowered herself…

Of course, the crowd wasnâ€t very happy with this. Phoebe wasnâ€t hated like some of the wrestlers here at AFW, but she did have a temper, and she was easily cast as the bad guy against a pathetic, spaghetti-limbed crybaby like Gemma. She understood why they booed her, even though she also understood that they were all fucking morons. She ignored them as she watched Gemma. But Gemma didnâ€t seem to be ignoring them. She was listening to them as they shouted, and, as they got louder, her spirits seemed to rise up again. “You stay down,” Phoebe said, waving the dog bowl menacingly at her foe. “You stay down, now.”

Gemma didnâ€t do as she was told. She shot back up and raised her middle finger again. Phoebe growled. “Okay, you want my worst?” she asked, stalking over to Gemma and grabbing onto the girlâ€s hair. “Here you go, then, bitch.” Phoebe would shove the bowl of dog food into Gemmaâ€s face, letting the slop completely cover the British girlâ€s features once again. But she wasnâ€t content with just that. “Eat it, you bitch,” Phoebe demanded. “I want you to fucking lick this bowl clean, you hear me?”

Gemma bit her lip as Phoebe came down on her, lacking the strength to fight back. She groaned in pain as she failed to pry Phoebe's fingers out of her hair, to no avail. Wide-eyed, the young Brit stared helplessly at the looming bowl, a whine forming at the back of her throat, knowing there was no way to avoid what was coming down on her, next.

“No, w-” Gemma managed to get out just a quick shout, before the bowl collided once again with her face. As she felt the wet slop splattering against her, the blonde fell back, collapsing to lean against the ropes. Completely lacking the strength to fight back, Gemma could only go limp, as she suffered the cowgirl's abuse. Phoebe's vicious taunts, the ringing cheers of the crowd, all of it went silent as Gemma felt the cold combination of wet meat and shame washing over her. Only her arms falling to drape over the top rope kept her upright. Her abs tightened, audible gasps game from the girl, as she struggled to get air between the chunks of dog food.

It was more humiliating and disgusting than anything that had ever happened to the young Brit, but she couldn't escape the feeling that this was her own damned fault. Gemma felt like she couldn't just let herself cow to Phoebe, that she was above such a thing, and this was the result of not being good enough to back up that bravado. Feeling the meaty chunks plopping down from the bowl and onto her shoulders and chest, Gemma couldn't help but allow bits of the dog food to creep between her lips. With a low sob, Gemma suppressed her gag reflex, and began to swallow embarrassingly loud mouthfuls of the slop. As disgusting and debasing as all of this was, Gemma needed to start clearing some room in that bowl, if she was going to keep breathing. Gemma had no will to fight back, now, only wanting this entire night to finally end. No more attempts to impress the crowd, no more hope of getting out of the ring tonight with her pride intact. "Yuh ... yes, mistress," Gemma said, between gulps, hoping that her acquiescence would buy her some measure of mercy.

Phoebe would push the dog bowl into Gemmaâ€s face hard. She would try to bend the British girl back over the ropes using just the force of the dog bowl pressing into her face. She watched with satisfaction as the meaty slop once again spread across the loserâ€s face and dripped down over her neck and shoulders. With a sinister smile, Phoebe watched Gemmaâ€s will to resist wither and die.

“Thatâ€s right, bitch…” Phoebe hissed, as the blonde went limp beneath her. “Thatâ€s right, bitch…” she said again, all of a sudden feeling very glad that Gemma had decided to try and defy her.

It took a little while, but, after what Phoebe presumed to be a brief period of mental deliberation, Gemma began to eat the dog food. The audience was almost silent now, shocked by the show of submission from their favored fighter. Some of them hurried out of the arena. They didnâ€t want to see Gemma eating dog food. Making herself into nothing but a pet. But that was what the British girl was doing. Phoebe had completely broken her will now, and, when Gemma looked up at her, it was obvious to Phoebe that the girl wanted mercy.

“Heh heh heh…are you ready to walk out of here on all fours like my little doggy bitch, huh?” Phoebe would ask.

As Phoebe drove the slop-bowl mercilessly into Gemma's helpless face, she could feel the ring ropes digging into her already-agonizing back. More than that, however, she could feel the wet mess that was creeping slowly down her skin. Nothing else really registered with Gemma, as she grew more and more numb with the mouthfuls of slop forced between her lips. The only consolation (if it could be called that) was that she seemed to be wearing more of the miserable dog food than she was managing to actually eat.

When Phoebe finally released the poor girl, Gemma slumped down to her knees. The young Brit's shoulders and chest heaved, as she tried to fight back both shame and revulsion, at what had just happened to her. Still in a state of shock, Gemma noticed the fans' stunned silence. She could hear the shuffling of feet, as some fans were even walking out, on this. For a moment, Gemma felt the sting of abandonment, guilt at letting her fans down. However, she was far beyond any help that cheers or support could provide to her. When Gemma looked up into Phoebe's eyes, saw the look of sadistic glee that the young cowgirl wore, she realized that even if she weren't completely broken by now, it wouldn't matter. Gemma was defeated, dominated, and whatever Phoebe wanted at the moment, Phoebe was going to get.

With a barely suppressed sob, Gemma fell forward, planting her hands on the mat. For a moment, the young up-and-comer wondered how she would ever recover from this. Not just the loss, which was bad enough, but everything that came after. Would the fans ever take her seriously again, after this? Or the other girls in the locker room, for that matter? How could she possibly recover from this? Still, Gemma couldn't worry about that, now. Dripping in slop and sweat, visibly battered, with the hole that was torn in her trunks earlier making her current posture even more humiliating, Gemma slowly crawled towards the edge of the ring. The handle of the leash dragged behind her, and the platinum blond tried to keep her head bowed. She couldn't bear to look at the cowgirl, right now, and certainly couldn't stand to face the audience, currently staring Gemma down at what had to be the lowest point in her young career.