Chapter 35: Fistful of Ovary
The ragged gasp that tore from Violet’s throat was drowned by the arena’s collective gasp. Crimson sprayed, painting grotesque patterns on the canvas as she scrambled backwards, hands clamped uselessly over the ragged tear Ingrid’s teeth had left in her neck. Her eyes, wide with shock and primal terror, locked onto Ingrid, who leaned heavily against the cage wall, breathing in wet, ragged bursts. The purple silk sash, slick and heavy with Violet’s blood, dangled from Ingrid’s clenched left fist like a grisly trophy.
Ingrid pushed off the steel mesh. Every movement sent fresh agony screaming from her abdomen, where Violet’s earlier heel strike had torn her open. The sensation of her own insides shifting against her thigh was a nauseating horror she forced down. Her right hand hung limp, shattered. But her left… her left held the sash. And her eyes, burning with glacial fury, held Violet.
Violet kicked out weakly with her beaded flip-flop, trying to crab-crawl away. Fear had momentarily eclipsed her malice. The crowd’s stunned silence shattered into a renewed, bloodthirsty roar. Finish her! The chant pulsed against Ingrid’s skull.
Ingrid took a lurching step forward. The metal studs on her gladiator sandal scraped against the canvas, sticky with gore. Another step. Violet whimpered, scrambling faster, leaving smears of crimson behind her. Ingrid raised the dripping sash. It swung, heavy and ominous.
"Not... done..." Ingrid rasped, her voice shredded gravel. Blood bubbled on her lips. "...bleeding you... yet."
Violet’s terror crystallized into desperate fury. As Ingrid loomed, the sash poised to strike again at her ruined throat, Violet’s wiry body coiled. With a guttural snarl, she kicked upwards, not at Ingrid’s legs, but inside her guard. The beaded sole of her flip-flop slammed hard against the gaping wound low on Ingrid’s abdomen – the wound Violet herself had created.
Ingrid’s roar of agony choked off into a wet gurgle. She staggered, the sash falling momentarily slack. Violet seized the instant. Ignoring the searing agony in her own neck, she surged upwards, propelled by pure, venomous hatred. Her blood-slicked hands shot out, not for Ingrid’s throat, but lower.
One hand clamped onto Ingrid’s hip bone, fingers digging into the torn muscle above the wound for leverage. The other… plunged.
It wasn’t fingers this time. It was her entire fist.
Ingrid’s body went rigid, every muscle locking in an excruciating spasm. Her scream was silent, her mouth gaping wide, eyes bulging. Violet’s fist, knuckles slick with gore and viscera, disappeared completely into the ragged opening. The sheer violation, the impossible intrusion, was beyond pain. It was annihilation.
The crowd’s roar died again, replaced by a collective gasp of horrified disbelief. Violet leaned in, her face inches from Ingrid’s contorted features, her own breath whistling wetly through her damaged throat. She twisted her wrist savagely inside the pulsing heat.
Ingrid felt it. The hard, knobby pressure deep inside her pelvis, grinding against something vital. Violet’s lips peeled back in a grotesque, blood-flecked grin. Her voice, thick with pain and triumph, was a rasping whisper only Ingrid could hear.
"Found... your little... treasure chest," Violet hissed. Her fingers inside clenched, probing, seeking purchase against the slick, yielding tissue. Her knuckles bulged obscenely against the thin skin of Ingrid’s lower abdomen, just above the pubic bone. Violet’s eyes gleamed with malicious delight as she felt the firm, rounded shape beneath her probing fingers, pressing against the uterine wall.
She squeezed.
Ingrid’s vision whited out. A soundless scream tore through her, her body convulsing violently against Violet’s iron grip. Violet chuckled, a wet, bubbling sound. She rotated her fist slightly, grinding the knuckles against the vulnerable organ trapped within.
"Let's see..." Violet gasped, her breath labored but her grip relentless. "...how hard... I can squeeze..." She increased the pressure, her fist a brutal piston inside Ingrid’s core. "...before this egg... pops."
The world dissolved into pure, blinding agony centered deep in Ingrid’s gut. Violet’s fist was a crushing, violating presence, threatening to obliterate her from the inside out. The cold ember of hatred, buried under mountains of pain, flared with desperate, incandescent fury. Her gaze, blurred with tears and blood, locked onto Violet’s triumphant green eyes. The purple sash, forgotten in her left hand, brushed against her thigh.
Now. Scarlett’s command wasn’t a whisper. It was a detonation. Ingrid’s survival screamed louder than the agony. Her left arm, trembling but fueled by primal rage, whipped upwards. Not to strike Violet’s face, but to loop the sodden, blood-slicked silk sash around Violet’s neck – directly over the gaping wound.
Violet’s sadistic grin vanished. Her eyes widened in sudden, panicked understanding. She tried to pull her fist free, to defend her throat, but it was trapped, buried deep in Ingrid’s convulsing body. Ingrid yanked the ends of the sash with every shred of strength left in her broken frame.
The thick, wet silk bit deep into Violet’s torn flesh. Violet’s choked scream was a horrifying gurgle, drowned by the fresh torrent of blood that erupted from her neck wound. Her fist spasmed inside Ingrid, a final, involuntary clench of agony. Then, her eyes rolled back. Her grip on Ingrid’s hip slackened.
Ingrid held the sash taut, her own body shuddering, her breath coming in desperate, ragged gasps. Violet slumped forward, her weight dragging against the sash, her fist finally sliding free from Ingrid’s ruined abdomen with a sickening, wet suck. She collapsed onto the canvas, twitching, drowning silently in her own blood.
Ingrid stared down at her, the purple sash still clenched in her fist, the other end wrapped tight around Violet’s throat. The roar of the crowd was a distant thunder. Pain consumed her, a universe of agony radiating from her core. But she was standing. Violet was not.
She took one staggering step back. Then another. Her gaze lifted from Violet’s still form, sweeping across the roaring, faceless crowd. Her lips, cracked and bloody, moved silently.
Not… done.