Aria vs. Morocco

One day in May 1980 I received a telephone call from Morocco. She asked if I’d seen that month’s issue of Sports Review Wrestling. I told her that I had. Silence. “It was a mistake,” she told me. “Cynthia caught me on a bad day,” she said. The match had been fought earlier that year. Because of Cynthia’s loss to an aging, but sexy first time grappler she was having difficulty getting matches in the higher echelons of the sport. Nobody wanted a loser. She wanted a rematch to prove that she still had the same fire and that she could still compete at the highest levels of the sport. I told that I’d do what I could. After a few days of research I recalled Aria’s loss to another newcomer, a Scot named Cherish, back in April 1979. Aria had been a celebrated woman in those days, but since Cherish’s victory over her I’d heard nothing from or about her. Let’s face it, when you spend the kind of money that the AHW crowd did on their stables of wrestlers you sometimes need to cut your losses if you want to keep winning and maintain your staus within the inner circle. After checking with Dave, I began searching for Aria. We’d put out the word that it was to a match for redemption, with two hungry, lush grapplers going it with all their energy to return to the select few who graced Moll’s penthouse apartment. It didn’t take too long to track down Aria. After her loss the year before she’d taken time off, not necessarily her choice, and trained like a woman possessed. She was hungry, and she agreed to take on Morocco that summer.

I made the arrangements. It was, like all the other matches, to be a no-holds-barred fight. The winner would claim her due following the match. Because of the high stakes it promised to be a great fight. Moll’s circle of friends was abuzz with excitement when it heard the news.

The evening of the fight each woman was chauffeured to Moll’s penthouse. They came up in separate elevators, but entered together. Conversation stopped. Both women were applauded. The attention restored something of their old self-confidence as well as the kind of haughtiness that champions like these exude. Neither woman acknowledged her opponent. I escorted them to their rooms. Morocco changed into a new bikini that she’d purchased specially for this bout. As she disrobed she carefully hung her clothes in the closet and on the bed. The brunette shook out her thick mane of black hair as she held up the tiny, but sturdy suit for a last examination. It was beautiful and would accent her lush body, her full hips, her ripe breasts, and her sumptuous ass. First Morocco slid one leg and then other into the bikini. It fit low on her hips. She admired its cut and the way it fit and felt so snugly against her pussy. She could see the faint outlines of her labia, and she liked it. Morocco was the kind of woman who wanted the audience’s attention, every bit of it. Made of a turquoise material, it had a liquid metal finish that gathered and reflected the light to her advantage. She tied the strings behind her back and then behind her neck. Morocco’s breasts were like firm melons supplely held back by two thin, cloth triangles. The room temperature was such that her nipples grew long and hard, as if trying to poke their way through their restraints. She was ready.

Aria, as arrogant and careless as ever, threw her clothes in a pile on the bed. Someone else would pick up after her, she thought. Confidently she changed into her bikini. It was the same custom-made, pink satin affair that she’d worn in her savage battle against Cherish. The satin felt good against her shaved cunt. It was snug, and rode low on her hips, with two small pieces of string straining to keep the fabric in place. The top was just above the cleft of her ass and only barely so over her clean-shaven pussy. Like Morocco, Aria’s labia were clearly outlined. Unlike her, Aria didn’t care who admired her. She fought to satisfy her needs for battle, conquest, and domination. She fought to satisfy her lust for power. The tight bikini was part of that process. Its close fit aroused her clit ever so slightly as she fought. The brazen nature of her custom-designed outfit helped intimidate her foes. No one but a self-assured woman, one confident of her superiority would wear a bikini like this. Aria’s breasts truly were like spires, jutting outward and upward, poking their stiff, thick nipples against the fabric that only barely covered her beautiful breasts. She was ready to reclaim her rightful spot in the limelight. Both women were ready for the redemption.

They entered the room. Dave introduced the women; spoke briefly about what was at stake, and reiterated the rules. It was more of a formality than anything else. Everyone knew why Aria and Morocco were here and what was at stake.

Aria and Morocco sized up one another. Both women felt a stirring in their loins. They were tingling with excitement, anticipation, and desire. There was clearly a sexual and competitive tension. They circled slowly, their breathing becoming rapid, and shallow, their widened-with-anticipation eyes narrowing from their combative instincts. Morocco feinted at Aria, quickly lunging forward, flicking her open left hand at Aria’s face forcing the blonde to jerk back. Morocco exploited Aria’s reaction by leaping at the blonde and tackling her to the floor. Aria rolled through it, causing Morocco to roll past her. Both women got to their feet and charged at one another. Morocco lowered her shoulder, meeting Aria’s stomach with enough force to knock the wind out Aria and drive her to the ground. Morocco leapt in the air, hoping to land on Aria’s aching midsection, putting her out of the action early, and winning the match. Although she wasn’t able to get up or move quickly, Aria had enough in her to roll to one side. Morocco landed hard on her right knee. She fell over clutching it, rolling in pain. It was just the opening Aria needed. She got to her feet, stomped Morocco’s wounded knee repeatedly, and then followed it up with a surfboard hold, viciously trying to tear Morocco’s arms out of their sockets. The brunette screamed in anguish. Aria grinned and pulled even harder, all the while digging her heel into small of Morocco’s back. The brassy blonde followed up her surfboard by grabbing a handful of the brunette’s hair, bringing Morocco to her feet. Aria punched her in the stomach, spun her around, and picked up the pained brunette in a bone crushing bear hug. Aria was gleeful.

It was a magnificent sight watching these fabulous females struggle for dominance. Morocco’s tortured body strained to its limits as she tried to break free. She was sweating profusely, glowing in the room’s lights. Her pained looks made her all the more beautiful. If it were possible, her tight bikini hugged her hips even more snugly, still outlining her labia. Despite Aria’s dominance at this point she was tiring. Her arms started quivering, but she refused to quit. She channeled every bit of her energy into the hold, her ass tightened, looking delicious in the pink satin, highlighting the cleft in her tight, hard ass even more visibly, her skin aglow. Finally, Aria’s arms gave out, she let go of Morocco, and staggered backward, dropping the brunette, who crumpled to the floor. The action stopped for a moment, one of member of the audience suggested intervening and halting the fight. She was willing to take both amazons into her stable. Both grapplers shook their heads and said “no.” Aria and Morocco stood, slightly stooped, sweating and breathing heavily, glaring at one another.

As if on cue both women came together, albeit much more slowly than before. They walked toward one another deliberately and embraced. Slick, sweaty, bodies rubbing, grunting, and straining, their arms wrapped around one another, their legs trying to trip each other. Morocco succeeded first. She hooked her right leg behind Aria’s left and kicked it out from under her. The two fell to the ground with Morocco on top, their arms still wrapped around each other and struggling to beat the other. Morocco used her superior position to wrap Aria in a grapevine and then began smothering the blonde between her bounteous breasts. Aria Struggled to pull her head from between Morocco’s glorious globes. She tasted the brunette’s salty sweat and breathed in the smell of Morocco’s new bikini. Aria loosened her grip slightly, and Morocco exploited it. She slid over placing Aria in a crucifix hold, locking Aria’s right arm between her legs, forcing down the left with hands, and smothering Aria between.

Aria struggled frantically. She bucked, kicked, and twisted. Morocco merely tightened her grip and set her face in a look of determination. Morocco took a calculated risk. She slid her right hand down to Aria’s pussy, believing that if she could force Aria to cum she could win because the blonde would be too busy climaxing to fight back effectively. Morocco fingertips began massaging Aria’s highlighted labia, rubbing steadily, and strongly. Rather than panicking Aria took advantage of her and Morocco’s glowing bodies. Despite Morocco’s scissor hold Aria was able to slide her right hand out and up, and began using her fingers to rub and pinch Morocco’s clit. Morocco was on the horns of a dilemma: she could either break the hold and attempt reasserting her dominance or continue and risk being driven to orgasm by Aria. She decided to continue. The sight was grand: two wrestling vixens, soaking with sweat, and driving one another steadily to climax.

Aria’s lower body began shivering. She would cum soon and Morocco would be restored to her former place. Morocco redoubled efforts, but Aria bravely fought off the orgasm. Morocco shifted just slightly and slid her hand under Aria’s snug, pink, satin bikini to administer the coup de grace. Aria had other plans.

Rather than play Morocco’s game Aria put her hand inside Morocco’s liquid metal, turquoise bikini, but instead of driving the brunette to orgasm she pinched, pulled, and twisted Morocco’s clit with her fingernails as hard as she could. Morocco screamed and jumped, giving Aria just enough time to roll out and catch her breath. She moved to the attack quickly. Morocco, curled in a fetal position, was unable to resist Aria’s onslaught. The blonde put Morocco into a standing head scissor and squeezed with every ounce of energy. Morocco clawed at Aria’s thighs, but it was futile. Aria pulled her foe’s head up by the hair and slapped her. She twisted around, slapped Morocco’s shapely ass, and pulled the brunette’s bikini into a thong, splitting the tormented woman’s thighs. It didn’t take long for Morocco to signal her surrender. She stopped clawing at Aria and slumped to the floor, collapsing in a sweaty, sobbing heap. Aria stood up and walked around her defeated foe eyeing her every detail and drinking in the vision of the crushed, but still-beautiful grappler lying at her feet.

Aria slipped Morocco’s tits out of their fabric casings and began teasing them by pinching, twisting, and pulling them. She began sucking and biting the defeated woman’s nipples. Morocco tried resisting, but accomplished nothing except angering Aria, who twisted Morocco’s nipples even harder, causing her to scream. Looking at Morocco’s high, hard nipples, Aria climbed on Morocco, sliding her pink, satin bikini to the side, and inserting Morocco’s left nipple into her moist pussy. Aria began riding rhythmically the brunette’s tit, feeling her breasts with one hand and fingering Morocco with the other. She teased her clit with Morocco’s stiff nipple, and began breathing harder. Aria was near orgasm. She moved up to Morocco’s face and ordered the brunette to tongue fuck her. Aria rode Morocco’s face with a vengeance. Morocco licked, sucked, bit, and jammed her tongue deeply into Aria’s cunt. She pulled the brunette’s head even more deeply into her pussy. The blonde began convulsing; her breathing became shallow and rapid. Grabbing a handful of Morocco’s hair, she arching backward, grabbed the brunette’s wet pussy, and began fingering it. Aria rocked to an earth-shattering orgasm, grinding her juicy twat into Morocco’s face, as the brunette neared her climax. It was at that time that Aria stopped fingering the broken woman, leaving her at frustrated, beaten, sobbing, and at the precipice of an orgasm. Aria dismounted the beaten woman, stretched and stared contemptuously at Morocco. Aria was back. I couldn’t tell you what happened to Morocco.