Chapter 33: Breast and Cervix Torture
The stomp came down like a falling brick. Violet’s beaded flip-flop slammed onto Ingrid’s splayed right hand, crushing the knuckles against the sticky canvas. Bones crunched, a sickening counterpoint to the crowd’s ecstatic roar. Ingrid’s scream was a raw, guttural thing, ripped from deep inside her ruined core, mingling with the agony radiating from her ankle, her gut, her eyes stinging with her own blood.
"STAY DOWN!" Violet shrieked, her voice cracking with effort and her own catastrophic pain. She ground her sandal, the intricate beads slick with gore, twisting on Ingrid’s broken hand. "You’re done, Iron Maiden! Fucking rot!"
But Ingrid wasn’t done. Pain was just fuel now, bitter and thick. Scarlett’s ghost screamed move! in her ear. Through the blinding crimson haze in her eyes, she saw Violet’s stance – weight shifted onto the stomping foot, the other knee bent, vulnerable. Ingrid’s left hand, the one Violet hadn’t targeted, shot out. Not to push the foot away. Not to strike.
She clawed for the only anchor left: the tattered, blood-drenched purple silk kimono sash still partially tangled around Violet’s waist, the remnant of her earlier trophy. Her fingers, slick with her own viscera and blood, closed on the sodden fabric. She yanked sideways with every shred of strength burning in her trembling muscles.
The pull was desperate, off-balance. It didn’t unseat Violet, but it made her stagger. The grinding pressure on Ingrid’s hand lessened for a heartbeat. Ingrid ripped her mangled hand free, tucking it instinctively against her bleeding abdomen, the shattered knuckles screaming. She kicked out blindly with her good leg, her spiked gladiator sandal scraping Violet’s shin. Not powerful, but enough to make Violet stumble back another step.
Ingrid rolled, a clumsy, agonizing movement that smeared intestines across the canvas. She fetched up against the cold steel cage wall, gasping, a wet, rattling sound in her chest. She blinked furiously, trying to clear the blood from her stinging eyes. The world swam – Violet, silhouetted against the harsh lights, swaying like a drunkard, one hand pressed hard to her lower belly where Ingrid’s stiletto had impaled her, the other hanging limp.
"Tough... old... bitch," Violet panted, her face grey-green under the sweat and blood. A fresh trickle of dark red leaked from her nose. "Shoulda... stayed... down." She took a step forward, wincing, her beaded flip-flop leaving a smear of reddish-brown on the mat. Her eyes, though, burned with undimmed malice. They drilled into Ingrid’s chest.
Before Ingrid could brace, Violet lunged, not with fists or feet, but with grasping hands. Both hands clamped onto Ingrid’s leather-corseted breasts, the fingers digging brutally through the stiff material. Violet’s thumbs found the hardened peaks of Ingrid’s nipples beneath the leather and twisted savagely, grinding the leather into the sensitive flesh.
Ingrid arched off the cage wall with a choked cry, the shockwave of pain momentarily eclipsing the agony in her gut and hand. It was a violation deeper than any punch, sharp and intimate. Violet leaned in, her breath hot and rancid with pain in Ingrid’s ear. "Remember Scarlett?" Violet hissed, twisting harder, feeling Ingrid’s body spasm against her. "She squealed just like this when I taught her this move." She slammed her knee up, not into Ingrid’s gut, but lower, viciously into the swollen mound between Ingrid’s thighs, covered only by the thin red shorts.
"FUCK!" Ingrid roared, the sound tearing her throat. She bucked wildly, her vision tunneling. The double assault – the excruciating twist on her nipples, the brutal impact to her clit – short-circuited her thoughts. Pure, feral instinct took over.
She snapped her head forward, teeth bared. Not towards Violet’s face. Towards her throat. Her teeth sank deep into the sweat-slick, corded muscle just above Violet’s collarbone. She tasted salt, copper, and something foul. She bit down with the crushing force of a trap, grinding bone against tendon.
Violet shrieked, a high-pitched sound of pure, animal agony. Her grip on Ingrid’s nipples spasmed open. Her knee-jab stopped. She clawed at Ingrid’s face, raking bloody furrows across her cheek, trying to pry her off. But Ingrid held on, shaking her head like a terrier, ripping the flesh. Blood poured down Violet’s neck, soaking the ragged gold lamé collar.
"Get OFF!" Violet howled, her movements becoming frantic, uncoordinated. She slammed the heel of her hand against the side of Ingrid’s head. Stars exploded behind Ingrid’s eyes, but her jaws only clamped tighter. Violet’s other hand, slick and desperate, scrabbled lower, past Ingrid’s heaving chest, past the blood-soaked corset and shorts, seeking leverage, seeking pain.
It found its mark.
Violet’s index finger, hard and bony, drove like an ice pick into the ragged, torn opening between Ingrid’s legs – the wound she’d created earlier, the wound Ingrid had ripped wider herself. It plunged deep past swollen, traumatized flesh, past the cervix that had already been brutally impaled by the stiletto heel.
Ingrid’s world went white. A scream ripped from her that had no sound, only pure, unadulterated shock and agony ripping through her core. Every nerve ending ignited. Her jaw unlocked from Violet’s throat with a wet tear. Her body convulsed violently, slamming back against the cage, her eyes rolling back. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. There was only the impossible, searing violation inside her, deeper than anything before, a white-hot poker spearing into her very center.
Violet staggered back, gasping, blood pouring from her mangled throat, her finger dripping crimson and viscous fluid. A savage grin split her battered face, grotesque against the pain and blood loss. She held up the offending finger, glistening darkly. "Hurts, doesn't it?" she rasped, swaying on her feet. "Told you... not done bleeding you... yet."
Ingrid couldn’t answer. She could only slump against the unforgiving steel, her body wracked by tremors, a low, continuous moan escaping her lips. Her left hand feebly covered the fresh, obscene wound between her legs. The glistening loop of intestine lay beside her hip like a discarded toy. Violet stood over her, bleeding profusely from neck and core, barely upright, but triumphant. The crowd’s roar was a physical force, demanding more. Violet took a shaky step closer, her beaded flip-flop squelching in the gore. Her good hand clenched into a fist.
Ingrid’s vision blurred. Violet’s silhouette swam. But deep within the wreckage, a cold ember flared. Not pain. Not fear. Hatred, pure and absolute. Her trembling left hand, slick with her own blood, brushed against something rough and wet – the tangled end of Violet’s purple kimono sash. Her fingers curled around it. Not yet, Scarlett’s ghost whispered in the ringing silence of her pain. Not fucking yet. She held on. The world tilted.