Cymbaline, Part Three - Australia
# Spectator's Lounge, 1998

Cymbaline felt the power of the other woman's arms under her armpits and at the back of her neck, as her opponent tried with all her strength to bring her fingers together and apply the full nelson. The blonde American champion, lying on her stomach, flexed her own arms down and away, trying to keep the other woman from closing her hands. It became a test of brute strength between the two, something that each had quietly hoped for before they had ever met face to face. After a full minute, the brown haired Australian wrestler seemed to give up on the nelson and tried to roll the blonde over onto her back. Cymbaline rolled, all right, completely over the other girl and to her feet.

Her rival was on her feet at the same time and the two women locked eyes across the mat. They had been wrestling for ten minutes, neither of them able to gain any advantage. There was no measure of speed or flexibility. Instead it had been a long grueling exchange of holds; much of it on the mat as each woman tried to outmuscle the other.

Now, with their eyes locked and each able to see the other for the first time since the match had started, Cymbaline smiled faintly. She held her hands bowed out, fingers spread. The other woman, a beautiful brown haired, blue-eyed woman, returned the smile and reached out with her own hands. The two women moved slowly together closing the distance. There was an increasingly sensual air between them. This Australian crowd had never seen that from their champion before, but now they began to realize that she had never faced a woman quite like Cymbaline. The American was bringing out the best of their own champion.

The sensual intensity increased even further as the two women closed to a point where their upturned breasts were only inches apart. Slowly, with their eyes still locked, and each woman demonstrating supreme confidence in her own power, the fingers interlaced and the two began a long, tough contest of strength to put each other on her knees.

Cymbaline had been in New York for three months since her return from Montreal. She remembered Louise fondly, but knew if the ever met her again, it would be just like last time - two powerful, strong willed women, locked in a duel for supremacy. For sheer power, the brunette had nearly rivaled Nikki herself.

Cymbaline had grown bored during this stay in her city. She had worked out in the gym every day and had garnered plenty of male and female attention. But she was looking for a new female challenge. Her rival Eileen was back in California and had been making frequent entreaties for Cymbaline to visit, but the blonde wanted something new. Something different.

Summer was just getting off to a start when she received a package from one of the men who had promoted her career as an apartment wrestler. He had enclosed a magazine article about a young woman in Australia who was exactly Cymbaline's height and build. His letter went on to say that the sport of apartment wrestling was new in Australia and that the purses were very high. Cymbaline, an American champion, could take the country by storm. He offered to make the overtures necessary to get her into the proper circles.

Cymbaline looked at the photograph of the Australian woman that had been included with the article and wondered which of them was stronger. The other woman was the same height and build, as promised. Her hair was dark brown, and her eyes were as blue as Cymbaline's. She phoned the man and asked him to tell the proper Australian representatives that very question was uppermost in her mind.

Apparently that question was relayed to her would-be opponent, who telephoned her from Perth and told her to come and find out. There was a tense conversation between the two women, which had remained very civil, but the challenge between them dripped across the telephone line like venom from a viper's fang. Cymbaline said she would be delighted to do exactly that, and the match was set.

When they had arrived on the mat together, they had spent a long time sizing each other up and staring each other down, much to the enjoyment of the spectators. When they had leapt at each other, locking up and bulling each other around only to come chest to chest, deadlocked, the gasp from the onlookers was palpable.

It had remained a clean contest, the two opponents evenly matched, it appeared, in speed and skill. They had traded holds effectively, with the occasional choke or stomach claw to weaken an opponent. Cymbaline had once grabbed the Aussie, whose name was Christine, by the pectoral muscles, just underneath the armpits and squeezed. Christine grabbed her in the same place, and a war of attrition ensued. Finally, Christine could no longer bear the pain of the blonde's strong hands, and released Cymbaline, grabbing her rival's hands and pulling her away.

After that, they had shared a brief mutual bearhug, but mostly they had a good technical wrestling match. Until Christine's effort to apply the full nelson.

Now they stood, chest-to-chest once more, fingers interlaced and stretched out to their sides. Dead even, grunting and sweating with effort, neither woman seemingly willing to yield. Muscles stood out everywhere on these women and the observers, even those who preferred greater violence in such contests, found that this was the real reason they came. To see two tawny creatures test themselves against each other. It was the most primal contest imaginable to the onlookers. Two women locked against each other in a time-honored test of nothing but their own brute force.

Finally, Christine began to sink to her knees, stopping the progress of the blonde every so often for a few seconds. Then she was on her knees, crying in her efforts to regain her feet.

Cymbaline was crying in her efforts to keep her rival on her knees. Christine was still fighting and still demonstrating considerable strength. "Now- we know-who's stronger. Submit or- I'll break your fingers- I'll give you- another fall."

Christine nodded in submission and Cymbaline immediately released her pressure. Christine crawled off the mat and rested in a chair off to the side. Cymbaline took a similar seat on the opposite side of the room. There was a low hum of conversation in the room that both women ignored. The noise was a matter of side bets being set up by the spectators. The women didn't hear it because their eyes were locked across the room. Each knew which woman had won their test of strength.

After a five-minute rest, the two women came together again on the mat. Christine's spirit had been broken by her loss to Cymbaline's power. She tried a conventional wrestling match, with more speed and agility than she had previously shown, but Cymbaline had the momentum going entirely her way, and she was not without those attributes herself. In less than three minutes, she had the Australian woman trapped in her body scissors, pressing herself up on her hands for leverage, threatening to cut her rival in half.

To her credit, Christine lasted nearly five minutes in Cymbaline's body scissors. In fact, the blonde's legs were beginning to cramp when the brown haired wrestler surrendered. Cymbaline breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Had Christine not surrendered, Cymbaline would have lost. She was near the end of her strength and her legs would have been useless.

After the match, Cymbaline showered and dressed, made arrangements to have her winnings wired to her Geneva account, exchanged a few kind words with Christine, and returned to her hotel. She had decided to remain in Perth for a week and look at the countryside, then perhaps go to Sydney for a few more days.

She laid out by the pool in the mornings, keeping to herself, getting admiring stares from the men and hateful stares from their wives and girlfriends, though she said and did nothing to encourage either. In the afternoons, she traveled around the city and drove herself out into the countryside. Almost immediately, she came to the conclusion that Australia was indeed a beautiful country.

On her fifth day in Perth, she decided to skip room service and go out for dinner. She dressed in a white minidress and white high heels, and drove to a restaurant, which Christine had recommended to her, not without mirth. When she saw the cuisine, Cymbaline realized why Christine had recommended it so highly. The food was high calorie and high fat. But Cymbaline rarely ate such foods - rarely enough that the occasional diversion from her regular diet was a welcome change. As a result, she had the Chicken Kiev, a baked potato with sour cream and butter, and a chocolate mousse for dessert.

When she returned to her hotel, she opened the door and saw a woman of her height and build, wearing a lime green minidress and black heels, sitting in a chair. The woman had shoulder length auburn hair, worn simply with a headband. Her face was almost square jawed, close to the shape of Cymbaline's face, with deep green eyes and a weathered complexion. The overall effect was what Cymbaline had come to expect - pure beauty. And, although Cymbaline had been expecting such a visitation, after Louise's warnings about Nikki, Cymbaline still found herself staring at the woman's beauty and reminding herself to breathe.

The woman's eyes had locked with Cymbaline's when the blonde came through the door, and there was the usual intensity that Cymbaline had come to expect from these encounters. The redhead rose silently from the chair and stepped forward until her hardened nipples met the blonde's and there was a gasp from both women as the sexual electricity of their contact passed between them. The hands joined underneath their breasts and grips tightened until the hands trembled and their forearms bulged with corded muscle. "I challenge you," the woman said, the Australian accent clear in her light voice. "A one-contest duel-between us. The-Crucifix."

Cymbaline felt her breasts begin to ache as her excitement grew at the thought of this woman, locked against her in this chosen contest. The Crucifix was a wrestling hold, which caused the loser's abdominal muscles to stretch and shriek with agony. Obviously, her new rival felt the nipples hardening further - her own responded as well. "I-accept-your challenge. I am-Cymbaline."

"I-am Dorothy. The details of-our meeting are-on your bed-in the-envelope."

Reluctantly, the two women released their grips on the other's hand. But, differently from previous occasions when a challenge was made and accepted, they continued to stand together, just a few moments longer, as though a silent duel was occurring between their already painfully hardened nipples. Then Dorothy stepped back, smiling cruelly at the blonde, and left without another word.

Cymbaline watched her go, then reached down to retrieve the envelope. She opened the envelope and read the details, and she smiled as well. And just as cruelly as her rival.

The following morning, Cymbaline arose early. She called room service and had coffee and a bagel delivered. When it arrived she ate the bagel, with cream cheese, with her first cup of coffee, which chased the cobweb from her head. She poured a second cup of coffee, walked into the bathroom with it and ran a bath, as hot as she could stand. She bathed luxuriously, shaving her legs very slowly and very carefully. No nicks were allowed. She was going to her duel this afternoon looking perfect.

It seemed that was one of the protocols in this clique of strong women in which she found herself. Each woman was beautifully, even sexily dressed when she made her challenge. But the dress was always short, there were stiletto heels, and the dress was sleeveless. Arm and leg muscles were in full view, even on display. It usually happened that the woman being challenged was dressed in similar style. Although the women never let it show, they always sized each other up, muscle against muscle.

When they met for their duel, they were also dressed to kill. Differently from when the challenge was issued, but always in the same, sexy attire. Minutes after meeting for the second time, two beautifully dresses women would be bathed in their own sweat, each fighting the other, strength against strength, for supremacy. The sexuality, the beauty of the attire was part of their duel.

She thought back to her meeting with Nikki, and the way that the protocols had been observed even then. And so subtly! Out on the floor of the Raven Club, Nikki had entered the challenge position with her, nipple to nipple. Once they were alone, they were nipple to nipple again, and with the gripped hands. Of course, Nikki's challenges were more brutal than anyone else's had been. So far.

In Montreal, Louise had been the same way as Dorothy had been tonight. Dressed to the nines, sensual, sexual, beautiful, and the challenge had been the same, nipple to nipple, not breast to breast, anything to stimulate the sexual aspects even further.

Dorothy, her newest rival, had electrified her as nipples came into contact. The sexuality between the two women was great. That was proven by the extra time they had spent in contact, after the challenge had been issued.

Cymbaline loved it. The ultimate tests of strength between two women, each of great beauty and sexuality, who tested themselves with that as well. Ultimate femininity, ultimate muscle.

As she often did, she reminisced about her duel with Nikki. She relived each moment in their duel of strength in which she had done great damage to her brunette rival. Somewhere in New Orleans, Nikki was preparing for her rematch with Cymbaline. The blonde knew that Nikki was unforgiving, and she was certain their next meeting would be more brutal than their last one had been. Cymbaline was equally certain that one of them was going to die under the strength of the other.

There was a darkness about Nikki, an almost evil seductiveness which had brought her into this clique, made her both unable and unwilling to escape. Now, because Nikki's influence guided all its members, Cymbaline was challenged everywhere that she went - exactly as Louise had warned her that she would be.

Both the bath water and her coffee were cooling off. She stepped out of the tub, walking back into the bedroom, poured herself another cup of coffee and walked over to the mirror at the dresser. She placed her cup down on the dresser and looked at her wet upper body in the mirror. In a couple of hours, she would look the same, only caused by her efforts, rather than her bath. The cooling effect of the air in the room caused her nipples to harden, and she noted that as well.

She let her imagination go into the near future, thinking of her face, contorted with agony, hair matted to her head, the effort of the physical strain showing in her eyes. And she thought of the unseen pain in her rival's face as well, almost able to feel the back of Dorothy's head pressing against the back of her own. Feeling the powerful arms, meeting, matching her own. Feeling the agony of abdominal muscles on fire, forcing her to scream, matched by the sounds of Dorothy's screams as the two fought to the end of their strength.

Cymbaline raised her hands, flexing both arms in a biceps pose. Soon, babies-soon!

She arrived at the beach house at the appointed hour, wearing a white minidress, nude stockings, and white high heels. She went around the outside of the house, as instructed, and walked carefully on the small concrete pads to the back deck. Dorothy was waiting there, dressed in a pink minidress and matching heels.

Cymbaline stepped onto the deck and moved toward the center, stopping to wait for her rival. Dorothy seemed to be in no hurry, and the two women stared at each other across the distance, the intensity building between them. Before the other's eyes, nipples jutted increasingly outward from each woman's dress as the excitement coursed through them.

Dorothy was not seeking any psychological advantage in the upcoming duel. She had heard much about Cymbaline, first from Nikki, whom she detested, and later from Christine, who was another opponent of hers within the clique. She and Christine had something in common - both of them hated Americans. On the phone, Nikki had laughingly told the redhead how Cymbaline had defeated Christine with muscle, making it sound as though the blonde had lauded her abilities over the Australian champion after her defeat.

Christine had told her the opposite, that Cymbaline had been gracious in victory, but Nikki's damage had been done, and Dorothy's anti-American prejudice had been fired up.

Now, as she faced the blonde American, Dorothy felt a curious mix of hatred and attraction. She looked Cymbaline over, wondering if the beauty was as strong as she looked. She does have a beautiful body.

Cymbaline examined the redhead closely, knowing that she was in for a grueling test of strength against the Australian. They could have been twins from the neck down and, as she looked into the deep green eyes of her rival, she saw hatred there, which was something she didn't quite understand, but relished the upcoming duel between them even more for it. She returned the stare with a stony gaze of her own. But she does have a beautiful body.

Their eyes remained locked, like a pair of Old West gunslingers as they crossed the distance between them and they came nipple to nipple. Both expelled their air in a rush as they made physical contact. The hands clasped tightly underneath their aching bosoms. The simply stood there, locked in their agonizing grip, for an eternity, neither willing to release the hand of the other before her rival screamed for mercy, and each knowing that her rival would not. Both were reduced to gasps of effort and moans of pain.

When there was a full sheen of sweat on each of them, Dorothy began. "Are you-read to meet me- in our duel?"

Cymbaline grunted before answering. "Yes-let us-test each-other-now."

The grips were eased and finally released. But the redhead and the blonde continued, nipple to nipple, each feeling the pain as her nipples continued to swell against the other's. Eyes were locked and the intensity between them continued to grow. Finally, the two women, began to move apart, rotating back until Cymbaline's right arm was pressed against Dorothy's left and that was the only contact between them. They continued to roll backwards, along each other's body until they stood back to back.

The backs of their arms pressed together, and each woman moved those arms straight out from her sides. When they were both fully extended, each women slipped her right wrist under her rival's left, and their fingers interlocked.

Slowly, each woman, using only her abdominal muscles, tried to pull her rival over her own back and get her off of her feet. What made this such a brutal test of strength was that each woman would burn out her abdominals in her effort to overpower the other. When one woman was successful, the other woman would not have the abdominal strength to keep her body from being stretched out and in pain.

Five minutes went by, and both women were soaked with sweat. Grunting and cries of effort punctuated the air. Hair was matted to their scalps and to each other's hair. Forearm muscles and triceps were bulging as they continued to duel. Backs of thighs and calves were pressed together, the muscles standing out with diamond hardness.

Cymbaline felt her stomach burning, but she would not permit herself to wonder how her rival felt. She had to stay focused on her own efforts, or lose the duel. But, she noted, the redhead still felt strong in her resistance.

Dorothy was in some discomfort as well. She, too, was concentrating on her efforts. This duel between them had been her choice. She knew that to lose would disgrace her. And she had been here before, never losing this contest, not even to the hated Nikki. But, now against this Cymbaline, her face was a portrait of agony as she continued.

Ten minutes went by. By now the women were crying, sobbing in pain, yet neither would yield. Even their arms were tired, yet they struggled on against each other. After twelve minutes, Dorothy felt herself being pulled back. She tried to fight harder, but her weakened abdominals gave out and she was slowly lifted onto the blonde's back. It was just a matter of seconds after that.

"I submit!" Dorothy screamed. "Please! I give up!"

Cymbaline immediately released the redhead and collapsed to the ground. The two miniskirted women lay on the desk for a full five minutes, finally recovering enough strength to roll from their backs to their hands and knees, facing each other. Eyes locked with a hatred born in hell, and each woman made her way unsteadily to her feet. Slowly, unsteadily on high heeled feet they closed the distance between them, until they were once more nipple to nipple. The intensity between them caused them both to gasp as though receiving and electric shock.

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Then Cymbaline reached underneath their breasts, offering her hand to the redhead. Dorothy realized the redemption being offered her and accepted the hand, the two women tightening their grips against each other.

In seconds, the sweat began to bead again, and the women grunted in new pain as they strained against each other. "I have- never been- beaten in a Crucifix duel," Dorothy said. "You are a- powerful woman to- have shamed me- so." She paused to take a breath, feeling her nipples hardening painfully against Cymbaline's as she did so. "I challenge- you to a duel- of honor."

Pain showed in the blonde's eyes as she answered. "I- accept. You and I- have wanted to- test each other- through this challenge. Your breasts- against mine. Your grip against- mine. Let us see- which of us yields- first."

The grips were tight enough that each woman knew that if she released her grip at all, the pain would be unbearable. Breasts had swollen from the conflict, and their nipples were so engorged and so sensitive that the mere touch of the other was painful. Still the duel continued.

Each woman felt the heat of the other's body, even though there was some distance between everything except their hands and their breasts. After five minutes, each woman's face was a mask of pure agony, yet the eyes stayed locked.

Cymbaline's forearm was on fire. The muscles could not last but a few more seconds, she was sure of that. From the expression on Dorothy's face, it would be close. Her breasts felt bloated, swollen, more enlarged than they had since she had faced Nikki. She felt the attraction beginning to grow between herself and Dorothy. Two strong women, women of will and determination, testing each other as though born to do so.

Dorothy was on the verge of surrender. She felt that she had given the American blonde all that she had, and that her honor was satisfied. She, too, felt an attraction toward the only woman who had ever bested her in her contest. Cymbaline had won a place of honor in her heart. As the attraction grew, the longer they locked eyes and held their grips, Dorothy felt more and more like her breasts would explode.

Tears streamed down their faces as they fought on. There were sobs of pain, more from the breasts than the grip, but neither one was able to quit. Their bodies shook with pain as the last second of their duel wore on. Cymbaline's grip eased and she screamed in agony. Immediately, Dorothy let her hand go and the two sagged together to their knees, breasts pressing tighter and bring a scream from each of them.

It took five minutes for them to regain enough strength to lean back, away from each other. Their eyes locked once more. Dorothy spoke first. "We are equal at one each. Shall we meet in a third?"

Cymbaline shook her head. "I won the contest we originally agreed to. Your honor was restored in our second test. A third would only serve to humiliate."

Dorothy smiled slightly. "Nikki would have wanted a third test. But she loves to humiliate." She cast a look at Cymbaline. "You know that already, though, don't you?"

Cymbaline nodded. "Nikki told you I was here, didn't she?"

Dorothy nodded. "The puppet mistress. She really hates you. What did you do to her?"

Cymbaline shrugged. "Defeated her, put her in the hospital. She needed cosmetic surgery."

Dorothy smiled broadly and reached for Cymbaline's hand. "Would you like a glass of champagne?"