Chapter 43: Gnarled Finger Fury
The agony wasn't a knife. It was a corkscrew. Brenda’s jagged nails tore furrows in Ingrid’s inner thighs, fire blooming hot and immediate. But worse, far worse, was the brutal invasion that followed. Two thick, oil-slicked knuckles punched deep, twisting viciously inside Ingrid. A strangled scream ripped from her throat, high and raw, echoing off the cold cage bars.
Memories of Violet’s knuckles tearing through her uterine wall flashed behind Ingrid’s eyes – a fresh horror layered onto the barely healed scar tissue deep within her pelvis. The pain was blinding, nauseating, radiating outwards in sickening waves that threatened her balance.
"Sweet dreams, Maiden?" Brenda rasped, her hot breath hitting Ingrid’s sweat-slicked neck. The older woman’s face, etched with bitter lines, was inches away, her spiky grey hair glistening under the harsh arena lights. Her oiled fingers twisted again, seeking purchase, grinding against damaged muscle and scarred lining. Ingrid bucked violently, a desperate spasm.
"Get...OFF!" Ingrid gasped, her voice thick with agony and fury. Her hands scrabbled at Brenda’s wrist, fingers slick with her own blood from the thigh wounds. Brenda’s grip was like iron coated in grease. The cheap rubber sandals on Brenda’s feet squeaked slightly on the stained canvas as she widened her stance, leveraging her shorter, powerful frame.
Ingrid threw her weight sideways, trying to wrench herself free. The movement sent searing bolts of pain lancing through her core. Brenda snarled, using Ingrid’s momentum against her, driving her knee hard into Ingrid’s lower back. Ingrid cried out, stumbling forward, her bare feet scrambling for purchase on the slippery canvas. Brenda’s oiled fingers remained lodged deep, a grotesque anchor.
"Still think you’re the queen?" Brenda taunted, grinding her knuckles. "Too slow. Too old. Too torn up." She punctuated each word with another sickening twist. "That Violet chick really did a number on your plumbing, huh? Bet it’s like kicking a rotten pumpkin in there."
The crowd’s roar was a physical thing, pressing in. "RIP HER APART, BRUISER!" "MAIDEN’S DONE!" Ingrid gritted her teeth against the bile rising in her throat. The pain was consuming, threatening to pull her under. Violet’s violation had left her vulnerable, the internal damage Brenda was now exploiting a cruel echo. No. The denial was pure instinct, colder than the steel cage. Not like this.
With a surge of desperate strength fueled by humiliation and fury, Ingrid slammed her elbow backwards. It connected solidly with Brenda’s ribs. Brenda grunted, her grip loosening fractionally. It was enough. Ingrid tore herself free, the abrupt withdrawal sending another wave of tearing agony through her core. She stumbled forward, leaving streaks of bright red on the canvas beneath her.
She spun, breathing ragged, clutching her lower abdomen. Blood ran freely down her inner thighs, mingling with the oil Brenda had smeared. Her face was pale, sweat stinging her eyes, but her blue eyes blazed with a renewed, feral intensity. Brenda stood a few feet away, wiping Ingrid’s blood off her knuckles onto her frayed denim thong. She grinned, a predatory flash of teeth.
"Ooh, touchy!" Brenda chuckled darkly, flexing her oiled fingers. "Hurts worse comin' out, don't it?" She bounced lightly on the balls of her oiled feet, her cheap sandals making soft thwaps against the mat. Her movements were economical, predatory, confident. "Shoulda stayed down after the Viper bit ya. Woulda been kinder."
Ingrid didn't waste breath on a reply. She charged. Not with her usual controlled power, but with reckless, pain-fueled rage. She aimed a devastating roundhouse kick at Brenda’s head. Brenda ducked smoothly, the kick whistling overhead. As Ingrid’s momentum carried her forward, off-balance, Brenda shot forward.
Her oiled hand shot out again, not for the brutal internal strike this time, but for Ingrid’s ankle. Her fingers closed like greased manacles. Before Ingrid could react, Brenda yanked hard, pulling Ingrid’s leg high and wide. Ingrid crashed onto her back with a heavy thud, the impact jolting her spine and sending fresh stars exploding across her vision. Brenda instantly lunged onto Ingrid’s torso, her knees pinning Ingrid’s arms to the canvas beside her head.
Ingrid thrashed, her powerful legs kicking uselessly in the air. Brenda leaned down, her face looming over Ingrid’s, smelling of sweat, oil, and blood. "Told ya," she hissed, her voice thick with triumph. One oily hand pressed hard against Ingrid’s throat, fingers digging in, cutting off her air. The other hand, slick and glistening, hovered near Ingrid’s hipbone, fingers poised like talons aimed at the deep wounds on her inner thigh – wounds that were perilously close to vulnerable arteries.
"Remember Violet?" Brenda whispered, her hot breath washing over Ingrid’s face. "This is gonna make that feel like a fuckin' tickle." Her eyes, devoid of any light-heartedness now, promised excruciating ruin. The crowd roared, sensing the kill. Brenda’s oiled fingers began their descent towards the bloody furrows on Ingrid’s thigh, ready to hook, tear, and rip. Ingrid stared up, choking, her vision darkening at the edges, the ghost of Violet’s violation screaming alongside the fresh terror blooming in her chest.
The oily fingers dug deeper into Ingrid’s throat, cutting off her scream before it could escape. Brenda’s triumphant leer filled her darkening vision, the stench of sweat, cheap oil, and stale blood thick in her nostrils. That descending hand, slick and purposeful, aimed for the ragged wounds Violet had carved weeks ago, wounds Brenda had already reopened with her knuckles.
"Gonna rip ya a new one, Maiden," Brenda hissed, spittle flecking Ingrid’s cheek. "Right where the Viper left ya tender." The ghostly agony of Violet’s knuckles tearing through her uterine wall roared back, merging with the fresh, searing threat pressing against her ravaged thigh. Terror, cold and absolute, flooded her veins alongside the choking pressure.
Ingrid’s vision tunneled, the roaring crowd fading to a dull buzz. Survival screamed louder than pain, louder than pride. Her pinned arms strained uselessly against Brenda’s knees. Her legs thrashed in empty air. Only her head could move. Pure, feral instinct bypassed thought.
She lunged upward, not away, but into Brenda’s looming face. Her teeth, bared in a rictus of agony and desperation, sank deep. Not a nip. A savage, jaw-cracking bite into the meaty flesh of Brenda’s left cheek. Skin tore. Muscle yielded. The coppery tang of fresh blood flooded Ingrid’s mouth, thick and hot.
Brenda’s triumphant snarl dissolved into a gargled shriek of pure, unadulterated shock. The pressure on Ingrid’s throat vanished instantly as Brenda recoiled violently, instinctively trying to wrench her face free. Ingrid held on, grinding her teeth deeper, tasting sweat, grime, and the metallic rush of Brenda’s lifeblood. She shook her head like a terrier, tearing flesh.
"AAAAAGH! MY FACE! LET GO, YOU CRAZY BITCH!" Brenda screamed, the sound muffled, wet, and utterly panicked. Her hands flew to Ingrid’s head, oily fingers scrabbling desperately at her temples, her eyes, trying to pry her off. The intended evisceration of Ingrid’s thigh forgotten in the blinding, unexpected agony.
Ingrid released her bite with a wet, sucking sound, spitting out a mouthful of blood and torn skin. Brenda reeled backwards, clutching her ruined cheek. Blood poured freely between her fingers, dripping onto her denim thong and the stained canvas. Her eyes, wide with terror and disbelief, stared at Ingrid. The crowd’s roar hit a stunned, dissonant peak – a mix of horrified gasps and frenzied cheers.
Ingrid didn’t hesitate. She rolled sideways, gasping, the sudden movement sending fresh fire through her core and her torn thighs. She scrambled onto her hands and knees, coughing, blood and saliva dripping from her chin. The taste of Brenda’s flesh was nauseating, a violation she’d committed to survive. She spat again, trying to clear her mouth.
Brenda staggered, swaying near the cage bars, still clutching her face. "You… you fuckin’ animal!" she shrieked, her voice distorted, bubbling with blood. "Look what you did!" She pulled her hand away briefly, revealing a horrific flap of torn cheek muscle and glistening fat. The crowd gasped collectively.
Ingrid pushed herself upright, swaying dangerously. Every muscle screamed. Blood slicked her inner thighs, pooled beneath her bare feet. Her abdomen felt like a sack of broken glass. But Brenda was broken, blinded by pain and shock. The fight wasn't over, but the tide had turned savagely. Ingrid wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, smearing Brenda’s blood. Her steely blue eyes, clouded with pain but burning with cold fury, locked onto the staggering older woman. She took a lurching step forward.
The metallic tang of Brenda's blood coated Ingrid's tongue, thick and nauseating. She spat, a glob of crimson hitting the stained canvas near Brenda's cheap rubber sandal. Every lurching step forward sent fresh bolts of agony radiating from her torn thighs and deep pelvis, echoing the sickening tear Violet had inflicted weeks before. Brenda wobbled near the cage, one hand clamped desperately over the ruin of her cheek, blood seeping through her gnarled fingers.
"Animal!" Brenda shrieked, her voice garbled and wet, like stones rattling in a bucket. "Look what you did, you filthy bitch!" She pulled her hand away for a horrifying second. The crowd gasped as one. A ragged flap of flesh hung loose, revealing glistening muscle and pale streaks of fat beneath the pulsing red. Pure, unadulterated terror warred with fury in her eyes.
Ingrid didn't pause. Survival was a blunt instrument now, driving her forward despite the screaming protests from her body. She remembered Violet’s knuckles inside her, the feeling of being ripped open, and Brenda’s oiled fingers replicating the violation only moments ago. This was payback, raw and visceral. She lowered her shoulder and drove forward, not with technique, but with the raw, desperate force of a wounded animal.
Her head and shoulder slammed into Brenda's oiled midsection. The impact drove the air from Brenda's lungs in a wet whoosh. They crashed backward together, Brenda’s cheap sandals scraping uselessly against the canvas as she fell. Ingrid landed heavily on top, her own wounded core shrieking in protest. Brenda shrieked again, a higher, thinner sound this time, muffled by the hand instinctively flying back to her face.
Ingrid ignored the dizziness threatening to pull her under. She scrambled, using her knees for leverage, driving them into Brenda’s biceps, pinning the older woman’s arms, especially the one slick with oil. Brenda bucked wildly, her spiky grey hair matted with blood and sweat. "Get off me! Get OFF!" she gurgled, her words distorted by the ruin of her cheek and sheer panic.
"Shouldn't... have... touched me," Ingrid rasped, each word an effort. She tasted copper, felt the warm slickness between her thighs. Her vision swam. She needed to end this. Now. Her hands, slick with a mixture of her own blood and Brenda’s, found the older woman's throat. Not a clean choke. Her thumbs dug into the sides of Brenda's neck, seeking the arteries beneath the corded muscle, pressing with every ounce of failing strength she had left. Violet had needed a choke too, but this felt different, more desperate.
Brenda's one visible eye widened in dawning terror, the fury momentarily eclipsed. Her free hand, slick with her own face blood, flew up, clawing at Ingrid’s forearm, scoring deep red lines. "Nnngh...gah..." she choked, her thrashing becoming weaker, more frantic. Her legs kicked, her oiled feet scrabbling for purchase. The crowd’s roar was a distant ocean.
Ingrid leaned her full weight into the choke, driving Brenda’s head back against the canvas. The pressure was immense, brutal. Brenda’s attempts to pry Ingrid’s hands away grew feeble. Her face darkened, purpling. Her eye started to roll back, the fight leaching out of her, replaced by the primal instinct to breathe. Her good hand stopped clawing. It flapped weakly against the canvas beside her head.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three weak, desperate slaps. Unmistakable. Surrender.
Ingrid didn’t release the pressure immediately. She held it for one second longer, two, staring into that terror-filled eye, feeling the frantic pulse hammering against her thumbs. The ghost of Violet’s violation and the fresh agony Brenda had inflicted screamed for this. Justice tasted like blood and exhaustion. Finally, she let go, shoving Brenda’s head to the side as she released her grip.
Brenda gasped, a horrible, wet, sucking rattle as air flooded back into her crushed windpipe. Her body convulsed, racked by coughs that sprayed flecks of blood and spit. She rolled onto her side, curled into a fetal position, whimpering, clutching her ruined face with one hand while the other pressed weakly against her bruised throat. Her cheap sandals lay discarded nearby.
Ingrid tried to push herself up off Brenda’s trembling body. Her arms shook violently. The wave of dizziness crashed over her, black spots dancing at the edge of her vision. The deep, tearing pain in her core pulsed like a second heartbeat. She managed to roll off Brenda, landing hard on her back beside the whimpering woman. The cold canvas felt like ice against her sweat-soaked skin.
She stared up at the blinding arena lights, haloed and swimming. The crowd noise seemed muffled, distorted, like listening from underwater. She could feel warm blood trickling down her inner thighs, pooling beneath her. Her breathing was ragged, each inhale a knife twist low in her belly. Brenda’s choked sobs were close, grating. Ingrid closed her eyes for a second, just trying to find air, trying to push back the encroaching blackness. The taste of Brenda’s cheek lingered, metallic and foul. She spat weakly to the side. Her limbs felt like lead. Just breathe through it. Don't pass out. Not here.
The sterile sting of antiseptic bit deeper than Brenda’s nails ever could. Ingrid hissed through clenched teeth as the medic’s needle pierced the ragged flesh high on her inner thigh, pulling the torn edges together. Another stitch. Another sharp reminder of the oiled fingers that had punched inside her, twisting against scar tissue still tender from Violet’s knuckles weeks before. Blood, dark and sluggish, seeped onto the crisp white paper covering the examination table beneath her bare legs.
"Hold still, Nielsen," grunted the medic, a grizzled man who’d seen too much cage carnage to be fazed by torn muscle or the deeper, hidden damage. He dabbed iodine onto the parallel gouges Brenda’s nails had carved, the sting making Ingrid flinch. "Deep, but clean. Lucky she didn’t nick the artery. That bitch knows where to aim." He gestured vaguely towards her lower abdomen with his forceps. "The internal stuff… Doc Ramirez will scan you later. Looks messy."
Ingrid didn’t reply. She stared at the harsh fluorescent lights overhead, tasting copper and grease at the back of her throat – Brenda’s blood, her own, the cheap oil Brenda slicked herself with. The phantom pressure of those thick fingers grinding inside her made her stomach clench. Not Violet this time. Brenda. Older. Meaner. Just as vicious. She spat weakly into a nearby metal basin, the saliva tinged pink. The door to the cramped medical bay creaked open.
"Jesus, Ingrid." Her boyfriend, Mark, stood frozen in the doorway, his face pale beneath the harsh lights. His eyes scanned the blood-streaked canvas of her thighs, the stark white bandages already blooming red near her hip, the grimace tightening her features. He moved quickly to her side, his hand hovering uncertainly before gently resting on her shoulder, avoiding the fresh stitches. "The feed cut out after… after the bite. They just showed Brenda being stretchered off, face wrapped. What the hell did she do?"
Ingrid turned her head slowly, meeting his worried gaze. The cold fury that had fueled her in the cage hadn’t dissipated; it had settled into a hard, icy knot in her chest. "What Violet did," she rasped, her voice raw from screaming. "Only worse. Rougher. With fucking sandpaper knuckles dipped in axle grease." She shifted slightly, wincing as the movement tugged at the stitches deep in her thigh. "Went right for the weak spot. Knew exactly where Violet tore me up."
Mark’s jaw tightened. "That cheap shot at the start? When she grabbed…?" He couldn’t finish, his eyes dropping to the bloody evidence on the table.
"Wasn't just a grab," Ingrid corrected, her voice low and venomous. She mimed a brutal twisting motion with her own hand. "Knuckles deep. Like she was trying to rip out everything Violet left behind." She spat again, the metallic taste persistent. "Tasted her face, Mark. Bit clean through her goddamn cheek. Felt the muscle tear." A grim satisfaction flickered in her exhausted eyes. "Deserved it. Every fucking shred."
Mark squeezed her shoulder gently. "You won. You survived." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.
"Surviving ain't winning," Ingrid muttered, staring past him at the stained concrete wall. The adrenaline was leaching away, leaving behind a bone-deep ache and a simmering, focused hatred. "Violet… Violet was brutal, yeah. But it was the fight. Pure, ugly violence." She swallowed hard, the memory of Violet’s knuckles breaching her cervix flashing behind her eyes. "Brenda? That was different. Personal. Sadistic." Her knuckles whitened where they gripped the edge of the paper-covered table. "She enjoyed it. Grinning while she twisted her greasy fingers inside me, talking shit about Violet’s handiwork. Like she was admiring a fucking renovation."
Mark stayed silent, letting her vent, his thumb rubbing small circles on her uninjured shoulder blade.
"I hate her," Ingrid stated, the words dropping like stones into the antiseptic-scented air. Simple. Absolute. "Hate her cheap sandals. Hate her stinking oil. Hate the way she looked at me before she shoved her fingers in – like I was already gutted." She took a shaky breath, the effort pulling at the fresh stitches low in her belly. "Violet broke me open. Brenda… she crawled into the wreckage and pissed on it." Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "I want her gone. Out of the circuit. Retired. Broken worse than her fucking face."
The medic finished taping gauze over the thigh stitches. "Easy, tiger. Save the vendetta for when you can walk without wincing." He nodded towards the door. "Ramirez is free. Let's see what the Viper and the Bruiser did to your insides." He offered a rough hand to help her sit up.
Ingrid ignored the hand, pushing herself upright with a grunt, ignoring the fresh flare of agony. She swung her legs slowly over the side of the table, bare feet touching the cold floor. Mark moved instantly, sliding an arm around her waist for support. She leaned into him heavily, the fight’s toll crashing down. But her eyes, when she looked at Mark, held no weakness. Only that cold, hard hatred, a furnace banked but burning fiercely. "Get me to Ramirez," she said, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual steel. "Then find out how long Brenda’s gonna be sipping soup through a straw." She took a tentative step, wincing but determined. "I need a timeline."