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 57: Mutually Assured Destruction

The world had narrowed to the cage, the sweat-slick canvas, and the woman whose breath hitched with every futile struggle against Ingrid’s thighs. Violet’s head was locked in a vise of muscle and oiled skin, the pressure building behind her eyes. Ingrid arched her back, a grotesque bow, using every fiber of her core to lift Violet’s upper body from the mat.

It was then that Violet’s beaded flip-flops, flimsy as they seemed, became weapons. The razor-edged straps dug into the soft flesh of Violet’s own chest as Ingrid forced her legs higher. Not a slash from an enemy, but a self-inflicted cruelty orchestrated by Ingrid’s relentless leverage. Crimson lines bloomed on Violet’s skin, a bizarre tapestry of pain. Their screams tangled in the thick air—Ingrid’s a grunt of supreme effort, Violet’s a shrill note of rage and surprise.

But Violet Moreau had been in this business longer than Ingrid had been a household name. Pain was an old acquaintance, not a master. As Ingrid tightened her hold, Violet’s left hand, slick with sweat and blood, shot down. There was no finesse to it, only a brutal, knowing accuracy. Three fingers, hard and gnarled from a lifetime of fighting, plunged past Ingrid’s defenses, past the soreness left by Brenda, and into the freshly torn, vulnerable tissue beneath.

The world didn’t white out this time. It shattered into a million jagged pieces of agony. Ingrid’s scream cut off, strangled into a wet gasp. The magnificent arch of her back collapsed. Her thighs sprang apart, releasing Violet’s head as if it were electrified.

Violet ripped her hand free and scrambled back, wiping her fingers on her tattered kimono with a look of pure contempt. “Still empty,” she spat, her voice ragged. “Brenda said you felt hollow. She was right.”

Ingrid curled onto her side, fetal, pressing her hands against the low, tearing fire in her gut. The crowd was a distant thunder, but Violet’s words were crystal clear, each one a needle finding a nerve. Hollow. It was the word Violet had used in that television interview, claiming she’d taken something from Ingrid that could never be rebuilt.

Gasping, Ingrid pushed herself onto her hands and knees. The canvas swam beneath her. She could feel a hot trickle down her leg. Not just sweat.

“You talk too much, Violet,” Ingrid choked out, the words costing her. “You always have.”

Violet circled her, a predator smelling blood. The beaded flip-flops made soft, slapping sounds on the mat. “I’m just reminding you of the facts, kid. I built this division. I know every inch of it. Including you.” She kicked out, the toe of her sandal connecting sharply with Ingrid’s ribs.

Ingrid absorbed the blow, riding the pain, letting it ground her. Broken parts can still cut you. She remembered her own words to Brenda. This was the source. This was the architect of the haunting.

With a surge that felt like tearing metal, Ingrid launched herself forward. Not at Violet’s body, but at her legs. She tackle