They always say power is addictive — but they never talk about what happens when you start craving the opposite.
I built myself from the ground up. Literally. As a girl, I was the wiry gymnast with a chip on her shoulder. I trained, I disciplined my body, I watched it change — become strong, sharp, unmistakable. When I walked into a room, people noticed. When I spoke, they listened. That’s the kind of power I learned to thrive on. It became who I was.
The adult industry found me, or maybe I found it. Either way, I didn’t walk in — I stormed in. Not as some submissive plaything, but as a goddess. A dominatrix. A woman who took what she wanted and gave nothing back she didn’t choose to. Men — and women — knelt at my feet. They worshipped my muscles, begged for my approval, feared my wrath. I was in control. Always.
But then came the fights.
I joined the underground erotic fighting circuit on a dare, really. A producer friend said it was “performance meets competition,” that I’d own it. And I did — at first. My body was made for it: powerful, flexible, disciplined. I could lift my opponent over my shoulder and slam her down without breaking a sweat. The crowd loved me. I loved me. For a while.
But then... there was this match. I faced a woman bigger than me — not just in muscle, but in presence. She didn’t flinch when I flexed, didn’t blink when I talked trash. She smiled. And when the bell rang, she wrapped me up like I was nothing. Crushed me. Toyed with me. And when she pinned me — face red, muscles straining, my breath caught between pain and something else — I moaned. Not out loud. Not loud enough for the crowd to hear. But I heard it. And before the night was over, she made sure everyone in attendance did too...
I’ve been chasing that sound ever since.
That was the first time I lost. Not just the match — control. And something inside me cracked. Or maybe it opened. I still dominate. Still win. Still break my fair share of opponents and crush egos like twigs. But there’s a hunger now — a part of me that wants to be overpowered, just to see how far it can go. I’ve started holding back in fights. Letting holds linger longer than they should. Pretending to struggle more than I have to — or maybe I’m not pretending at all.
It's confusing. Terrifying, even. Who am I, if I’m not the one in charge?
I don’t have the answers yet. But I know this: when I'm in the ring, slick with sweat, locked in a struggle that blurs the line between conquest and lust — that’s when I feel most alive. Whether I win or lose. Maybe especially when I lose.
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