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 47: Post-Battle Blood Feud

The shriek that tore from Violet’s throat wasn't human. It was the sound of rusted metal grinding, high and ragged, echoing off the cold steel cabinets and tile floor of the underground medical bay. Her body arched violently against the restraints holding her to the gurney, the thin mattress squealing in protest. Her eyes, bloodshot and wild, locked onto the thick IV needle buried deep in the meat of her left thigh, just above the bandages swathing her ruined feet. Blood, dark and thick, welled around the plastic catheter Ingrid had rammed home.

"YOU SADISTIC WHORE!" Violet spat, foam flecking her cracked lips. Her broken fingers, splinted and taped, twitched uselessly against the gurney rail, a macabre echo of her earlier threat towards Ingrid's stitches. The effort sent fresh waves of agony through her hands, turning her scream into a choked gurgle. Sweat plastered greasy strands of grey hair to her temples.

Ingrid watched, her expression unreadable. She sat upright on her own gurney, the gleaming black leather of her catsuit stark against the bleached white sheets. Sweat sheened her face, but her breathing was steady, controlled. The fresh, neat row of stitches bisecting her sculpted abdomen, just visible where the catsuit zipper dipped low, barely seemed to register. The deep bite mark on her calf, visible above the rim of her high-cut boots, oozed sluggishly onto a fresh dressing. Her own IV line dangled loosely from her wrist, ripped out at the port, a bead of crimson welling where the needle had been. The saline bag above Violet’s gurney swung gently.

"New fingers," Ingrid repeated, her voice low and gravelly. She tilted her head, observing the thick needle protruding from Violet’s thigh as if inspecting a museum piece. "Good start. Might need a whole new leg soon." She flexed her hand, the one that had delivered the needle, testing the movement. Her knuckles were split, crusted with Violet's blood and her own.

The sterile air reeked: sharp antiseptic undercut by the coppery tang of fresh blood and the sour stench of pain-induced sweat. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting the scene in a harsh, shadowless glare. Distant clangs and muffled shouts from the arena filtered down, a dissonant soundtrack to the intimate brutality.

Violet sucked in a shuddering breath, her gaze darting from the needle in her leg to Ingrid’s impassive face. Hatred burned, hotter than the fire consuming her thigh and feet. "Think you're clever?" she rasped, her voice scraped raw. "Pinning me down? Playing nurse?" She tried to shift her leg, to dislodge the needle, but the movement sent white-hot bolts of pain up her spine. She gasped, her eyes squeezing shut. "Tch! Fuck!" When she opened them again, the green was pure venom. "Just bought yourself... worse. When I find you... outside this shithole... I won't just rip ‘em out. I'll make you watch while I chew."

Ingrid didn't flinch. Her steely gaze flicked to the whiteboard on the wall across from them, scribbled with vitals and drug names. A shadow of something – not amusement, not quite – passed over her features. "Still dreaming of my ovaries, Vi? Obsessed." She looked back at Violet, her eyes colder than the steel gurney. "You can't even sit up without screaming. Your feet are pulp. Your fingers matchsticks." She leaned forward slightly, the leather creaking. "What exactly are you gonna chew with?" Her voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. "Your gums?"

Violet snarled, a feral sound. She thrashed her head side to side. "I'll find a way! I always do! I'll use pliers! A rusty fucking spoon! Doesn't matter! You're marked, Nielsen! That bite?" She jerked her chin towards Ingrid's bandaged calf, a vicious gleam in her eye. "That's just the signature. The real artwork... it's coming."

Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside the bay – sharp, rapid clicks. High heels on concrete. Ingrid’s head snapped towards the sound, her body tense, coiled. Violet’s eyes darted to the door, then back to Ingrid, a flicker of calculation cutting through the pain. Opportunity.

The door burst open. A harried-looking nurse in scrubs froze, her eyes widening as she took in the scene: Violet arched and bleeding from the thigh needle, Ingrid upright and watchful with her IV dangling, the tension thick enough to choke on. "Jesus Christ!" the nurse breathed, her hand flying to her chest. "What in the hell happened in here? I leave for five minutes to get suture kits—" She rushed towards Violet. "Hold still! Let me see that!" Her gaze landed on the needle buried deep. "Who did this?!"

Violet seized the moment. "Her!" she shrieked, pointing her splinted, trembling hand at Ingrid, tears of pain and fury now mixing on her cheeks. "The psycho ripped her own IV out and stabbed me! She's trying to finish the job! Look at my feet! Look at what she did!" Her voice cracked with theatrical hysteria, but the malice beneath it was real, sharp as the needle in her leg.

The nurse spun towards Ingrid, her expression shifting from shock to accusation. "Is this true?!"

Ingrid met her gaze levelly. "She threatened to disembowel me. Again." She gestured vaguely towards her abdomen, then her calf. "After she already tried to bite my leg off. I discouraged her." Her tone was matter-of-fact, flat. "Self-defense. Ask security for the cage feed. It's all there."

The nurse stared, disbelief warring with protocol. She looked from Ingrid’s cold certainty to Violet’s writhing, bleeding performance. She made a decision. "Right. Security. Now." She jabbed a finger at Ingrid. "You. Stay put. Don't you dare move." She turned back to Violet, pulling on gloves with a snap. "And you, hold STILL, I need to get this out before you bleed everywhere!" She bent over Violet’s thigh, her back partially to Ingrid as she fumbled for clamps and gauze.

Violet locked eyes with Ingrid over the nurse’s hunched shoulder. The tears vanished. Hatred burned pure and undiluted in her green gaze. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a silent, vicious snarl. Her good hand, the one not mangled, slid slowly, painfully, down the side of her gurney. Towards the nurse’s utility cart parked beside it. Towards a tray of gleaming, sterilized instruments. Her broken fingers brushed cold metal.

Ingrid saw it. The subtle shift. The predatory focus. Violet wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. Ingrid’s own hand, resting on her gurney, tightened into a fist. The sting in her calf flared. The nurse murmured soothing nonsense to Violet, focused entirely on extracting the needle, oblivious to the silent transaction passing over her back. Violet’s fingertips closed, agonizingly slowly, around the cool handle of a stainless steel scalpel.