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 29: Cloth and Clitoris Carnage

The arena lights drilled into Ingrid’s skull, amplifying the blinding agony radiating from her core. Scarlett’s desperate, clawing hands hadn’t just raked her arms; they’d shredded the last flimsy remnants of the hospital gown. Cool, stale air hit Ingrid’s completely exposed skin – back, hips, the brutal roadmap of fresh surgical scars across her abdomen a livid, weeping testament to Violet’s earlier work. But it was the violation between her legs that seized her nervous system in a white-hot vice.

Scarlett’s free hand, snaking up while Ingrid was momentarily paralyzed by the chokehold, had found its target with vicious precision. Her fingers weren't gentle; they were instruments of focused cruelty, twisting Ingrid’s exposed clit with brutal, grinding force. It wasn't sexual. It was pure, unadulterated torture.

Ingrid’s vision tunneled. A strangled, inhuman sound tore from her throat, utterly unlike her. The improvised garrote – Violet’s frayed obi sash – went slack in her hands as her entire body convulsed, arching backwards involuntarily against the wave of nauseating pain.

Simultaneously, Scarlett’s bare heels, slick with sweat, pistoned upwards. They found the tender, swollen ridges of Ingrid’s lower abdominal scars – already stressed from the fight – and drove into them with desperate, grinding force. It was like shoving red-hot pokers into freshly opened wounds. The combined assault – the intimate torture and the assault on her surgical trauma – was catastrophic.

Ingrid’s grip vanished. The sash slithered free. She collapsed sideways off Scarlett, hitting the canvas hard on her back, her legs instinctively drawing up, trying to shield herself. She gasped, sucking air that felt like shards of glass. Tears of pure, unadulterated agony blurred her vision. Her hands flew down, one instinctively covering her lower belly, the other hovering uselessly near the source of the deeper, more personal violation, trembling violently.

Above her, Scarlett rolled away, coughing and gagging, rubbing her bruised throat. The torn purple kimono hung off one shoulder, the black lace thong fully visible. Her flip-flops were askew. She looked dazed, bruised, but triumph blazed in her green eyes as she saw Ingrid curled on the mat, utterly broken.

"Ha!" Scarlett rasped, her voice raw but thick with malice. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, coughing again. "Look at you! The big, bad Maiden... folded like cheap laundry." She spat a gob of blood onto the canvas near Ingrid’s head. "How's the hysterectomy, Ingrid? Doc give you a discount for bulk removal?" She let out a harsh, grating laugh that turned into another cough.

The crowd's roar had dipped into a low, buzzing murmur. Some cheered Scarlett's viciousness; others watched Ingrid's suffering with morbid fascination or uneasy silence. The referee hovered nearby, unsure if this constituted a stoppage.

Scarlett crawled closer, her movements stiff but fueled by hatred and adrenaline. She stopped just out of immediate kicking range, savoring the sight. "Vi always said you were tough. Said it took everything she had to carve you up." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing blood. "Turns out the old bitch was wrong. You're nothing without your fancy leather and heels. Just meat. Broken meat."

Ingrid lay still, shuddering. Every breath was fire. The coarse canvas scraped her bare skin. The cold air felt obscene against her exposed body. Scarlett’s words washed over her, less painful than the physical agony but feeding a deeper, colder fire igniting in the ruins of her pride. Not like this. The thought cut through the haze of pain. Not beaten naked on the floor by this cheap imitation.

"You hear me, Nielsen?" Scarlett snarled, emboldened by Ingrid's stillness. She shuffled forward another foot. "You're done. Finito. I'm gonna walk out of here wearing your scalp." She raised a hand, fingers curled like talons, aiming for Ingrid’s eyes. "Maybe start my collection ri—"

Ingrid moved. Not with her core, screaming and compromised. Not with her legs, still curled defensively. She moved with the desperate, whiplash speed of a cornered animal, using only her upper body. Her right hand, hovering near her groin, snapped out. But not towards Scarlett’s face.

It grabbed the trailing, tattered sleeve of the purple kimono that had ripped loose when Ingrid first pulled Scarlett down. The heavy silk was still bunched near Scarlett's waist from her crawl.

Ingrid yanked down with every atom of strength left in her arm and shoulder.

Scarlett, leaning forward, unbalanced and focused on her impending eye-gouge, was pulled off her hands and knees. She pitched forward, face-first, towards Ingrid. Her startled yelp was cut short.

As Scarlett fell, Ingrid twisted her wrist, gathering the thick silk sleeve material into a rough, padded ball in her fist. She didn't aim for the nose, the mouth, or the chin.

She shoved the wad of silk hard, directly into Scarlett’s wide, panicked green eyes.

Scarlett shrieked – a high-pitched sound of pure shock and sudden, searing pain. The coarse weave of the old silk, combined with the sheer, grinding force Ingrid applied, scraped across her corneas. She instinctively clawed at her face, at the silk jammed into her eyes, her fingers tangling in the fabric. "Argh! My eyes! Get it OFF!"

Ingrid didn't stop. Still lying on her back, leveraging gravity and Scarlett's own momentum, she ground the bunched silk deeper, twisting her fist. She felt the resistance of the eyeballs beneath the fabric, the sharp intake of Scarlett’s breath as the pressure increased. The crowd gasped, a collective sound of horrified realization.

"Like it?" Ingrid rasped, her voice a raw whisper barely audible over Scarlett's cries. The pain in her own body was a distant thunder compared to the cold focus of survival. "That’s from Violet too. Tell her when you see her." She gave one final, brutal twist before releasing the silk and shoving Scarlett away with her foot against the younger woman's hip.

Scarlett rolled onto her back, howling, her hands clamped over her streaming eyes, the torn purple silk stuck to her face. She writhed on the canvas, blind and vulnerable.

Ingrid, breathing in ragged, shallow gasps, forced her trembling arms underneath her. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, every movement igniting fireworks of pain in her abdomen and between her legs. Her body screamed for surrender. Sweat stung her eyes, mixing with the involuntary tears of pain. She was naked, bleeding, her wounds weeping, exposed to the roaring crowd and the harsh lights. But her ice-blue eyes, fixed on the writhing figure in violet silk, held no surrender. Only a weary, terrifying resolve. The referee, finally decisive, stepped between them, shouting something lost in the sudden, chaotic eruption of the crowd, but Ingrid didn't hear him. She saw only the enemy. Still moving. Still breathing. The fight wasn't over. It wouldn't be over until one of them couldn't move at all. Slowly, agonizingly, she began to drag herself towards the blinded, shrieking Scarlett.

The canvas scraped Ingrid’s bare hip raw as she inched forward, each pull of her arms sending white-hot lances through her torn abdomen. Scarlett’s shrieks, raw and terrified, fueled Ingrid’s grim determination more than any roar of the crowd. Her vision swam, the arena lights blurring into painful halos, her focus narrowed to the writhing purple silk ahead.

Scarlett clawed frantically at her face, dislodging the worst of the silk wad, blinking rapidly against the burning grit embedded in her corneas. Tears and mascara streaked her cheeks like war paint gone wrong. "You bitch!" she rasped, her voice ragged, one eye squeezed shut, the other watering furiously. "I'll gouge out your other kidney!"

Ingrid ignored the threat, closing the final foot. She needed control before the younger woman regained full sight. Using the last dregs of her shoulder strength, she lunged, aiming to pin one of Scarlett’s thrashing arms. Her fingers brushed sweat-slicked skin.

Scarlett reacted with feral instinct. Blinded or not, she sensed the movement. Instead of trying to see, she rolled violently towards Ingrid, her free hand – nails now chipped and jagged – raking downwards not at Ingrid’s face, but lower. Much lower.

They found purchase not on unbroken skin, but on the tender, weeping ridges of Ingrid’s surgical scars. Scarlett’s fingers, strong and desperate, didn’t just scratch; they dug. They plunged into the inflamed, partially separated edges of the incision lines on Ingrid’s lower abdomen.

Ingrid’s breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. It wasn’t the superficial tear of skin; it was the deep, sickening violation of violated flesh struggling to heal. Fireworks of agony detonated in her core, radiating outwards, stealing her momentum, her strength, her very thought.

"Remember this, Maiden?" Scarlett hissed, her one open eye blazing with vindictive triumph inches from Ingrid’s pain-contorted face. Her fingers twisted cruelly inside the vulnerable tissue. "Vi opened you up real good. Let’s see what else she missed!" The pressure intensified, probing deeper into the traumatized muscle beneath the scar.

The world dissolved into pure, undiluted sensation: the coarse canvas beneath her back, the blinding spotlights overhead, the reek of sweat, blood, cheap perfume, and the unmistakable metallic tang of fresh trauma. Most overwhelming was the invasive, grinding pressure deep inside her, a violation echoing the surgery but amplified by malice. Ingrid’s body locked rigid, every nerve shrieking. Her hands, which had been reaching for Scarlett’s throat, spasmed uselessly in the air. A low, guttural moan vibrated in her chest, trapped by the sheer force of the torment. Her vision tunneled, threatening blackout. Scarlett claws inside. The phrase echoed in the white noise of her agony, a brutal, literal truth. Violet had started the carving, but Scarlett was mining the ruins with sadistic glee. Ingrid’s remaining strength bled out onto the canvas beneath her, pooled around the younger woman’s probing hand. The roar of the crowd faded into a distant, muffled surf. There was only the hand, the pain, and the terrifying, encroaching darkness promising oblivion. Her focus shattered, survival instinct warring with the primal need for the agony to stop.

The coarse canvas scraped Ingrid’s bare hip raw as she inched forward, each pull of her arms sending white-hot lances through her torn abdomen. Scarlett’s shrieks, raw and terrified, fueled Ingrid’s grim determination more than any roar of the crowd. Her vision swam, the arena lights blurring into painful halos, her focus narrowed to the writhing purple silk ahead.

Survival screamed louder. It wasn't conscious thought, just pure, animal reflex honed by decades in cages worse than this. Her right hand, dangling uselessly near Scarlett’s shoulder, snapped into motion. Not towards the face, not towards the probing arm. It shot down, fingers clamping like a hydraulic press onto Scarlett’s wrist, pinning the invasive hand deeper into her own ruined flesh for a split second of pure, blinding agony. Then, with a surge of strength dredged from the very bottom of her being, Ingrid wrenched Scarlett’s arm sideways and up. Her other hand, knuckles white, seized Scarlett’s thumb – the digit buried deepest inside her weeping scar – and hooked it backwards with savage, unnatural force. Scarlett’s scream cut off abruptly, replaced by a choked gurgle of disbelief. Ingrid didn't stop. She drove Scarlett’s hooked thumb upwards, knuckle-first, with every ounce of her failing strength, straight into Scarlett’s one wide-open, watering eye. The resistance was sickeningly soft, then gave way with a wet, popping sound Ingrid felt more than heard. Scarlett’s body went utterly rigid, a silent scream frozen on her lips. Warmth, thick and viscous, spurted over Ingrid’s hand and chest. The pressure inside Ingrid’s abdomen vanished instantly as Scarlett’s fingers went limp, retracting like startled worms. Ingrid gasped, sucking in air that tasted like copper and victory. She released the thumb. Scarlett reeled backwards, clutching her face, a high-pitched, keening wail erupting from her throat. Blood streamed between her fingers, dripping onto the torn purple silk. Her good eye, wide with shock and unimaginable pain, stared sightlessly past Ingrid. "My eye! She... she popped my fucking eye!" Scarlett shrieked, the sound raw and broken, echoing off the suddenly silent cage walls. She scrambled backwards on her ass, heels digging into the canvas, putting frantic distance between herself and the naked, bleeding woman who had just blinded her. Ingrid lay panting, the fire in her belly momentarily eclipsed by the adrenaline surge. She watched Scarlett writhe, blood painting her face and the kimono a deeper purple. The crowd was dead silent now, stunned by the sudden, visceral brutality. Ingrid tried to push herself up onto her elbows again. Agony lanced through her core, a stark reminder of her own devastation. But Scarlett was hurt. Badly hurt. And Ingrid was still breathing. She spat blood onto the canvas near Scarlett’s discarded flip-flop. "Cleanup crew," Ingrid rasped, her voice a shredded whisper barely carrying. "Looks like you missed a spot." She began the agonizing crawl forward again, towards the sobbing, half-blind wreck in violet silk. The fight wasn't over. It was just uglier.