"Skeet, I want you to wrestle Jax."
Seven short words, but they spoke volumes. Skeet was my name. Jax was a blonde fireball with a reputation for voracious appetites. Yes, those kind of appetites. The person speaking was the owner of the fetish wrestling gym where Jax was a member. As if I needed confirmation that fighting Jax would be a step up in difficulty, Sarah handed me a set of videos of her past bouts and told me to study them. Several days later I told Sarah I was ready. She raised an eyebrow but scheduled the match nonetheless.
As expected, Jax started fast and furious. We began standing and I had to chase her around the edge of the mats. She was glorious to watch—rippling thigh muscles, glutes clenching and releasing, feet always in the right position. As she moved, her pecs undulated beneath her breasts, letting her perfect mounds subtly slip and slide beneath her bikini. But best of all, every time Jax's ankles crossed over, her bikini bottom accentuated the way her heavenly hips sloped into a perfect pelvis before rising up to the provocative prominence of her pubic bone.
My plan was to tire her out and get her aroused before submitting her the first time. Then I'd get her more tired and more aroused with each subsequent round. I'd win the first two rounds and then let her win the rest. On the other hand, maybe we'd have to see about the fifth round...
