My mature girlfriend is 49 years old tall athletic and strong. She works as a cat fighter in an underground club. She participates at an catfight tournament there she has to fight other older mature women at least of her age. The fights are very naughty and dirty. There is no love between the women. They hate each other. The winner of the tournament wins a ig sum of money. The women wear different clothing and always revealing footwear. They are not allowed to wear closed boots or closed shoes. The toes have to be visible. Always different at every fight. Explain what my girlfriend and their opponent are wearing in detail. There are 11 women participating at that tournament. My girlfriend is the tallest and most athletic and also strongest. But the other contender are also very mean.

Chapter 22: Post-Fight Provocation

The harsh fluorescent lights of the press conference room felt surgical, bleaching the color from everything except the two women at the center table. Ingrid sat rigid as rebar in the unforgiving posture chair, the black leather corset biting into her ribs and waist with every shallow breath. The high-heeled gladiator sandals, straps winding up her calves, felt like instruments of torture, the studs pressing into flesh already screaming from the cage. Beneath the red shorts, a dull, deep ache pulsed, a constant reminder of Violet’s invasion. The fresh stitches above her right eyebrow itched fiercely. Her ice-blonde hair was still pulled back severely, but a few damp strands clung to her temples. She kept her expression neutral, a mask of granite, but her knuckles were white where her hands gripped the edge of the table.

Violet, on the other hand, was a study in predatory ease. She practically draped herself across her chair, one leg crossed over the other, showcasing the slit that ran impossibly high up the deep purple silk dress. The strappy stiletto on her extended foot dangled precariously, the sharp heel catching the light. Her green eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over Ingrid with undisguised malice beneath a veneer of amusement. The scent of her heavy, musky perfume clashed with the sterile air and the lingering smell of antiseptic soap from Ingrid’s post-fight cleanup.

Reporters shouted questions, a dull roar echoing off the bare walls. Cameras clicked relentlessly. Ingrid answered in clipped tones, focusing on the tournament, the rules, the spirit of competition. Her voice was rougher than usual, carrying the rasp of exhaustion and suppressed pain.

Then, during a momentary lull as a reporter consulted notes, Violet leaned forward. Her movement was fluid, serpentine. She rested her forearms on the table, the sleeves of her dress falling back to reveal wiry, scarred arms. She came so close Ingrid could see the fine lines etched around those cruel eyes, smell the wine on her breath underneath the perfume.

The microphone barely caught her whisper, a venomous slide of sound meant for Ingrid alone, though her lips curved in a camera-ready smile. "Still bleeding between those thick thighs, Maiden?"

Ingrid didn't flinch. She met Violet's gaze, her own steely blue eyes chips of ice. She felt the heat rush to her face, a mix of fury and the undeniable truth – a fresh, uncomfortable wetness seeped onto the bandage beneath her shorts. Violet saw the minute tightening around Ingrid’s eyes, the slight catch in her breath. Her smile widened, predatory.

Violet licked her lips slowly, deliberately, her tongue tracing the outline before retreating. The gesture was obscene, loaded, perfectly timed as camera shutters exploded in a fresh frenzy. "Looks painful," Violet murmured, her voice still low but carrying slightly more now, riding the crest of the camera clicks. "That little… tear. Bet it stings every time you move. Or breathe." Her eyes flickered down towards Ingrid’s lap for a fraction of a second. "Valeria certainly left her mark too, didn't she? Puncture wounds are a bitch." She tapped her own shoulder meaningfully.

Ingrid felt the phantom burn of Valeria’s teeth in her trapezius, the deep, sickening throb from her core radiating outwards. The urge to lunge across the table, to smash that smug face into the microphone, was a physical tremor she forced down deep. Her jaw ached from clenching.

"Don't worry," Violet cooed, leaning back slightly but keeping her focus locked on Ingrid, her smile brittle. "I'm sure they stitched you up tight. Like a prize sow after slaughter." She let out a soft, tinkling laugh that grated like shattering glass. "Though I doubt even the best surgeon can stitch up that fragile pride of yours. Not after what happened in there. Not after I happened in there."

A low murmur rippled through the press corps. They sensed blood in the water, even if they couldn't hear the specifics.

Ingrid finally spoke, her voice low, controlled, but carrying a dangerous edge that cut through Violet’s brittle amusement. "You talk a lot, Violet, for someone who needed an ambush and a cheap shot to even leave a scratch." She deliberately shifted her weight, ignoring the flare of agony from her core, the sharp protest from her shoulder. Her exposed toes curled inside the gladiator sandals against the cool floor. "Tell me, does it ache? Knowing you couldn't break me? Knowing Valeria couldn't finish what you started? That I’m still here?"

Violet’s smile faltered for a microsecond, her eyes narrowing. The carefully constructed mask of amusement slipped, revealing the raw bitterness beneath. "Still here?" she echoed, her voice losing its playful lilt, turning flinty. "Barely, darling. You're held together with thread and spite." She picked up the plastic water glass in front of her, tapping a long fingernail against it. Tap. Tap. Tap. "You look like hell warmed over. And you smell," she added with a delicate wrinkle of her nose, "like iodine and desperation." She took a slow sip, her gaze never leaving Ingrid's. "Enjoy this little sit-down. Catch your breath. Because next time we meet in that cage..."

She paused, letting the threat hang heavy in the air. The room fell silent except for the hum of the lights and the frantic scribbling of pens. Violet slowly lowered the glass, leaving a smudge of dark red lipstick on the rim.

"...I won't just open the door, Ingrid," she whispered, the sound carrying clearly in the sudden quiet. "I'll tear the whole damn house down. Around your ears." She gave a final, dismissive flick of her gaze over Ingrid's battered form. "Try not to bleed out before then. It would be... anticlimactic."

Violet leaned back fully in her chair, crossing her legs again, the stiletto resuming its lazy pendulum swing. Her expression smoothed back into that dangerous, camera-friendly smile as she turned it on the reporters. "Next question?"

Ingrid remained perfectly still. The sterile light glinted off the studs on her sandal straps and the sweat beading on her upper lip. The ache in her body was a symphony of pain, but it was drowned out by the cold, focused rage crystallizing within her. Her fingers, still gripping the table edge, trembled – not with weakness, but with the volcanic pressure of contained fury. She met the next reporter's gaze, her own eyes burning with an icy, unbreakable resolve. The press conference wasn't over, but the next battle had already been declared. Violet had drawn the line in blood. Ingrid would cross it. And burn the house down herself.