The arena roared, a sea of flashing lights and screaming fans, but Torrie’s world had narrowed to the woman beneath her. Trish, the pristine icon, lay dazed on the mat, finally vulnerable after dominating most of the match. Torrie’s blonde hair, slick with sweat, clung to her neck as a predatory grin split her face. She’d tried all night, desperate to grind her naked ass on Trish’s famously prudish lips, only to be thwarted by elbows and reversals. But now, with Trish knocked cold from the faceplant, the path was clear.

Torrie’s fingers, trembling with anticipation, hooked the sides of her tiny spandex bottoms. She peeled them down her thick, muscular thighs, letting the soaked fabric pool at her knees. The hot, humid air of the ring kissed her exposed skin. Her round, fleshy ass cheeks glistened under the spotlights. She could already imagine the heat, the resistance.

“You hate anything sexual, huh?” Torrie hissed to the unconscious form. “Let’s see you hate this.”

She straddled Trish’s torso, lowering herself slowly, savoring the moment. The first contact was electric. The firm, warm swell of her left buttock pressed against Trish’s cheek. Torrie moaned, grinding down, feeling the faint puff of Trish’s breath against her skin. It was a ghost of a sensation, but it sent a jolt straight to her dripping pussy.

“That’s it, breathe it in,” she whispered, shifting her weight.

With deliberate, obscene slowness, Torrie