Chapter 41: Cervix Crusher Climax
The spotlight pinned them. Violet’s guttural snarl, "Not yet, bitch!", tore from her throat as her bare foot twisted knuckle-deep inside Ingrid’s ravaged core. Her toes clawed against shredded tissue, seeking the torn cervix with vicious precision.
Ingrid’s world exploded into white-hot agony. It wasn't the sharp, localized pain of Violet’s beaded flip-flop on her arch moments before. This was deeper, wetter, a violation that radiated nausea up her spine. Her vision tunnelled, the crowd’s roar fading to a dull throb. Her thighs, slick with the oil she’d applied pre-fight now aiding Violet’s grip, instinctively spasmed around Violet’s skull, but the crushing pressure faltered. Her toes, curled into Violet’s windpipe, lost their deadly purchase.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Only feel the obscene intrusion, the deliberate, grinding destruction inside her. Violet’s foot twisted again. Ingrid’s choked gasp became a ragged scream, ripped from a place beyond pain.
"You’re… done," Violet snarled up at her, her voice muffled against Ingrid’s inner thigh but thick with triumph and blood. She wrenched her trapped toes sideways. The sound was a sickening internal tear.
The scream died in Ingrid’s throat, replaced by a soundless rictus of agony. Her body arched back involuntarily, trying to escape the violation. Her grip on Violet’s neck vanished completely. Violet ripped her foot free, tearing past torn flesh with a wet, sucking sound. Dark blood and viscous fluid splashed onto the canvas between Ingrid’s spread legs, mingling with sweat and oil.
Ingrid staggered. Her legs buckled. She crashed onto her side, curling instinctively around the new, all-consuming fire in her pelvis. Her hands flew to her lower abdomen, pressing uselessly against the gaping corset, slick with her own blood and Violet’s. Her breath came in shallow, rapid gasps. The cold fury that had sustained her flickered, threatened by the sheer biological shock of the wound.
The crowd’s frenzy hit a new, almost hysterical pitch. "VENOM!" "FINISH THE MAIDEN!" "TEAR HER APART!" Money changed hands frantically in the smoky gloom beyond the cage.
Violet pushed herself up onto her knees, panting. Her broken wrist was a useless weight. Blood caked her chin and streaked her bare chest. But her eyes, green and feral, blazed with manic energy. Ingrid was down. Vulnerable. Open. This was the moment she’d clawed for through the agony of her wrist, the near-strangulation. She spat a glob of crimson onto Ingrid’s trembling thigh.
"Fireworks now, Maiden?" Violet taunted, her voice wrecked but victorious. "Or just… wet rags?" She lurched forward, driven by adrenaline and pure malice. Her good hand, fingers curled into a claw, aimed not for Ingrid’s face, but lower. Back towards that ravaged core. To finish the job she’d started inside.
Ingrid saw the movement through a haze of pain. Saw the hatred in Violet’s eyes. The crowd’s bloodlust beat against her eardrums. The deep-seated throb from her earlier injury merged with the fresh, tearing agony. But something else surged through the white noise of suffering. Not just fury. Not just determination. A cold, crystal-clear refusal.
Her right hand, slick with her own blood, shot out. Not to block Violet’s clawing hand, but to slam palm-first against Violet’s face. Not a strike, but a shove. Directed with desperate precision. It caught Violet off balance as she lunged.
Violet stumbled sideways, her clawing hand swiping through empty air inches from Ingrid’s thigh. She caught herself on her good hand, grunting, her back momentarily turned to Ingrid.
It was an opening. A fraction of a second. Ingrid moved not with her battered core, but with the coiled power still left in her legs. Oil and blood made the canvas treacherous. She ignored it. Ignored the firestorm in her pelvis. She scissored her legs.
Her left heel, still encased in the studded gladiator sandal, slammed into the side of Violet’s beaded flip-flop, pinning it to the mat. Simultaneously, her powerful right leg swept up and hooked behind Violet’s knee. It wasn't graceful. It was brutal leverage. Ingrid heaved backwards with everything she had left in her screaming abdomen.
Violet’s leg was ripped out from under her. She crashed face-first onto the canvas with a heavy thud, her breath whooshing out. Before she could even register the fall, Ingrid was moving. She rolled, gritting her teeth against the fresh wave of agony the movement cost her, throwing her body weight over Violet’s prone form. She landed straddling Violet’s lower back, her knees digging hard into the older woman’s kidneys.
Ingrid didn’t hesitate. Didn’t gloat. Survival was a razor’s edge. Her hands, slick and strong, plunged into Violet’s sweat-matted, dark hair. She fisted thick handfuls near the scalp. She wrenched Violet’s head back, arching her spine painfully. Violet’s cry was strangled, her good hand scrabbling uselessly behind her, unable to reach Ingrid.
The crowd was apoplectic. A symphony of screams, chants dissolving into wordless howls of anticipation.
Ingrid leaned down, her lips almost touching Violet’s ear. Her voice was a raw scrape, barely audible over the din, laced with pain and an unbreakable will. "My turn… for fireworks." She slammed Violet’s face downward with every ounce of her waning strength, aiming the older woman’s forehead directly towards the steel turnbuckle post at the corner of the ring. Violet’s eyes widened in dawning horror an instant before impact.