DOMINION_ An Indecent Proposition · Part 1

DOMINION_ An Indecent Proposition · Part 1 (1/2)
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Tom Bradley crouched low, measuring his opponent, and sensed the match was almost over. His adversary, Whip Smith, swayed with exhaustion and glistened with sweat, having suffered several power moves and debilitating holds. At six feet two inches and 244 solid pounds, Bradley's height and conditioning lent him a visible advantage as the match pressed on. The crowd of over fifteen thousand shouted and shifted as the grapplers studied one another. Smith summoned his remaining strength and lunged, but Bradley ducked under his clumsy offensive and moved behind him. Smith rebounded off the ropes, and took a flying dropkick from Bradley, which sent him down.

Moving in on the dazed man, he jerked Smith to his feet, then pulled him into his arms. The mat shuddered as Bradley body slammed him hard to the mat. He lay dazed and incoherent, shifting his arms and legs as Bradley climbed to the top of the turbuckle. With a smile and wave to the crowd, he leaped; his elbow slammed into Smith's sternum, forcing the air from his lungs. The crowd roared its approval as Bradley hooked a leg and covered Smith for the three-count.

"Lookin' good, my man." Tiger Jackson high-fived Tom as he returned to the dressing room. "'Course, Smith ain't exactly a contender, but you put 'im away pretty well." "Yeah, I thought so, too." Bradley took a towel from a nearby stack, and began wiping sweat from his arms. Other wrestlers passed between the lockers and suited up as they prepared for their matches. "Besides, I pinned him two and a half minutes faster than you did." "Hey, I was pacin' myself. All that counts is who took home the winner's share." "True." "You gonna hang around?" Jackson secured the knot on his striped bandana. "I got a match with Crusher King comin' up.

Even a boy wonder like you might learn somethin'." Tom pitched the towel into a hamper, then shook his head. "Nah, I'm gonna shower and go home. I wanna catch my highlights on ESPN." "Whatever. Later, buddy." Jackson waved and left the dressing room. Bradley slipped out of his tights and boots, and wrapped himself in a fresh towel. Though he'd won the match, Smith's initially vigorous performance had left him looking forward to a strong water massage. He was nearly to the showers when a voice behind him called out, "Bradley." He turned, a little annoyed at being stopped short of his destination.

Leonard Harris, match promoter and notoriously poor dresser, shook a handful of contracts at him and said, "You were sharp out there, Tom. You got potential." "I've got more than potential, Harris, and you know it. If you'd set me up with someone important for a change, the rest of the world would know it, too." Harris straightened the lapel on his polyester sportjacket, and walked closer. "Yeah, well, that's what I'm here to talk about," he said, lowering his voice. "See, the fans are warm to you right now, and I know you can pull a good crowd. Most of the singles titleholders are booked up for a while, though–" "Then why are you talking to me?

I'm tired of waiting." He held out his hands in a "keep it down" gesture, then leaned closer. "Let me finish. The singles belts are busy, but I can probably swing a tag team match with the state titlists. If you're interested, that is." "Tag team?" Tom shifted on his feet, a little surprised. "I don't have a partner." "Find one. Unless you'd rather–" "I'll get a partner. And I'll take the shot." Harris gave the kind of smile Bradley associated with used car salesmen, just after they'd locked their jaws on a choice deal. "Great. Just understand that I can't wait around forever.

I need you and your partner to sign the papers by next Tuesday." "No problem." They shook hands; Harris' palms were characteristically damp. "I'll be waiting. You got my card." As steamimg water beat down on his body, Bradley considered his options. Being new to the area, he hadn't acquainted himself with many wrestlers, leaving him with a small pool to choose from. The ones he knew were committed to other partners, or just not good enough to credibly challenge for the title.

The champions, a pair of intimidating masked men called the Marauders, were rampaging through the region like a force of nature, and the chance of generating a successful team strategy with a near-complete stranger was slim. Troubled with these thoughts, he re-dressed and left the arena, to the private parking facility to the rear. He stopped next to a weather-beaten Mazda and fumbled around for his keys. The thought of a title match pleased him for more than just professional reasons; after all, he'd make more money from a championship loss than he would from a win over a lesser-quality singles opponent. He might even be able to buy a newer used car after the bout.

Bradley looked up as a sleek black Lamborghini rolled toward him, its engine purring with restrained power. He passed a lingering glance over the glossy, aerodynamic countours of its body, and hoped he'd one day know the special thrill of owning so elegant–and expensive–a vehicle. It slowed as it neared, then stopped behind his car, blocking him in. He pulled his duffle strap higher onto his shoulder as the car shut off, and the door on the driver's side slid up and open. A strikingly beautiful woman emerged, and turned toward him. Her height struck him at once–she was eye-to-eye with him in her heels–as did her strong, well-toned physique.

The neckline of her skintight miniskirt was cut for a suggestive peek at her ample cleavage. "Mr. Bradley?" He smiled. "That's me. What can I do for you?" She walked to him, the heels of her hip-high boots clacking on the asphalt, and extended a hand. "Hello. My name is Ava Winchester. I've been looking forward to meeting you." Her grip was surprisingly strong. "Thanks. I'm flattered." She looked away briefly, a cool summer breeze playing through her thick brown hair, before meeting his eyes again. "I saw your match tonight, and I'd like to compliment you on the victory. You were impressive." "Thanks again.

I'm happy with it." The more he examined Ava's delicate face, and her strong, supple body, the more he hoped he'd be occupied with something more interesting than SportsCenter that evening. "Nice car." "Thank you." "I don't guess you'd consider a trade." He patted the roof of his Mazda, and said, "With a paint job and a rebuilt engine, this one would get you around." She smiled, her brown eyes sparkling in the glow of the overhead halogen light. "I'll pass." An awkward silence followed, as she fumbled with her hands and exhaled. He considered asking her out for a drink, but decided to wait until she'd made her intentions plain.

He could tell she wasn't a groupie, but he doubted her sole reason for approaching him was to praise his victory. "Mr. Bradley," she said finally, clasping her hands. "You're probably going to laugh at what I'm about to suggest, but I have an offer for you to consider." Tom didn't like the sound of her statement. He'd heard the same thing too often from well-meaning churchgoers trying to herd in the strays. "Offer away." "I'd like to wrestle you at my private facility, and for each pin you win, I'll pay you one million dollars." Tom smiled, slightly dumbstruck. This was more like the indecent proposal he'd been hoping for. "Wrestle me? What do you mean?" "Just what I said.

I have a wrestling ring on my grounds, and I'd like to compete with you. All the moves and rules you're used to would apply." He considered what she'd just said: that she wanted to face him in real wrestling competition, and that she'd pay him seven figures for every pin he won. His dates often used playful Greco-Roman freestyle action as foreplay–matches he enjoyed letting his girlfriends win–but Ava was calmly discussing a head-to-head confrontation of a coldly professional kind. Tom decided that this woman needed to be kept away from safety scissors. "Miss Winchester–" "Please, call me Ava," she said. "Right.

Ava, either you've got an Uncle that thinks he's Napolean, or you've got more money than good sense. I mean, I'll be happy to lose a few on purpose, but for a million bucks a fall…hell, I'd pin my own mother for that much." Ava seemed unfazed. "Mr. Bradley–" "Please, call me Tom." "Fine. You may rest assured of three things, Tom. First, I am not deluded, psychotic, or otherwise mentally impaired. Second, I'm a primary shareholder in Amatech Conglomerated, and have more money in one mutual fund than you could collect in an evening of pins.

Finally, I intend to prevent you from collecting any of the money." He scratched the back of his head, trying to decide whether to roll around with her for the sheer lewd thrill of it, or to be kind and send her elsewhere. Tom's id and superego clashed momentarily, his libido prodding him to leap at the opportunity, and his conscience wagging a finger of still-unresolved Catholic guilt; he sighed as his conscience won the fall. "Ava," he said finally, "You're a beautiful woman. Correction: you're the most stunningly attractive woman I've ever met. And if you'd asked me to dinner or out for coffee, I'd've jumped at the chance. But, I'd feel too much like I was taking advantage of you.

I know some female wrestlers, maybe I could introduce you to them and–" She moved her left hand from behind her–he hadn't noticed, but she'd kept it obscured the whole time–and held out an envelope fat with something square. She dropped it on top of his car with a thud. "That's ten thousand dollars, Tom. Just for showing up." Tom blinked, regarding the envelope cautiously. He figured it wouldn't hurt to count it, and picked it up. The money was there, in hundreds, all the bills crisp from the mint. In his mind, greed nailed conscience from behind with a metal folding chair. She stepped closer, her face deadpan. "I'm serious about this. You're a good wrestler, and I'd like to face you.

You have nothing to lose, and immense wealth to gain." "Well," he said, re-sealing the envelope, "If somebody put you up to this, then they're out ten thousand bucks. I might as well see this through." She smiled, and Tom saw a hint of something dangerous. "Excellent. I'm looking forward to it." She gestured to her car, and said, "I'll be happy to take you there." Tom was thrilled. Not only was he going to grapple with this exquisite woman, but he was also going to ride in her exquisite car as well. Money, a gorgeous woman, wrestling…the whole thing was twisted and oddly exciting. "Can I drive?" "I don't think so."

The drive to Ava's home went without incident, and they passed the time chatting about the weather and the recent fortunes of other wrestlers. She surprised him with astute observations on move strategy, and realized she was more than just a casual fan with a peculiar fetish. They arrived at her estate half an hour later, in a secluded, wooded area that bordered the ocean. She fed a keycard into a slot at the outskirts of her property, and a wrought-iron gate lifted and let them through. The road twisted through the surrounding forest for at least half a mile, before terminating in a circular drive adjacent to her villa.

The three-story mansion was a pillared, ornate fusion of classic architecture and modern streamlining, its intricate detail and proximity to the rolling surf making it impossible for him to guess at it's cost. "Nice digs," he said, closing the Lamborghini's passenger side door. "Didn't I see Robin Leach here once?" "Absolutely not." She aimed her alarm remote at the car, and it chirped obediently. "He eats too much, and I don't like cameras." She gave him a short tour of the home, leading him through room after room of sculpture, priceless paintings, and ornate fixtures that put most galleries to shame. It made him wish she'd painted a yellow line on the floor for visitors to follow.

One false move would send him tumbling into financial ruin. "Relax," she said, and took his arm in hers. "This isn't Sachs. I won't hold you liable if you knock something over." "That's nice to know," he said, his head craning for a better view of a Dali original. They stopped as a maid walked in from an adjacent hallway, heels clacking on the tiled floor. She was a frosted blonde, wearing a short servant girl skirt and black hose. Her fair hair and bright blue eyes were offset by a perfect tan. "You're back," she said, and looked at Tom; he evaluated her delicate features and well-curved physique, and pronounced her Ava's equal.

Looking him up and down with a sly smile, she asked, "Is this the man you were talking about?" "Yes. Tom, this is Anna, my maid. She's the only permanent staff I have here." He took her hand, and gave her fingers a light kiss. "Charmed." Anna giggled. "Will you be going straight to the gymnasium?" "That depends on Mr. Bradley." Ava looked at him, and said, "Are you tired after you match? I can put you up for the evening if you'd like." Tom considered her offer, but decided that the sooner they were rolling around together, the better. And if Anna were to join in…. "Nah, I've had plenty of time to rest. I might need something fresh to wrestle in, though." "Not to worry," said Anna.

"We've fresh togs for you to wear. You're a size twelve boot, aren't you?" "That's right." "Then follow me," said Ava. "I'm anxious to begin."

The boots, kneepads, and tights were a perfect fit. After changing, he was led to the east wing, where he found a two-story complex equipped with free weights, resistance machines, aerobic devices–a private training facility of unsurpassed quality. Behind the weights was a half-court for basketball, and adjacent to that was a wrestling ring. "I don't believe it," he said, as they guided him to the ring. "Somebody must've drugged my coffee or something. I mean, look at all this." "Trust me," said Ava, as he ran a hand down the cold metal cornerpost, and along the ring apron.

"You're perfectly lucid." He noticed her studying him, smiling slightly, leading him to wonder if there weren't hiding an ulterior motive after all. "Look," he said, making a final attempt to reconcile his knowledge that she was unfairly overmatched. "Have you been training with anyone? Or should I show you a few basics?" "Anna and I train every day. We've become quite even in our matchups, so I thought it might be time to try a male opponent." "Just thought I'd ask." "I'm going to change now. Go ahead and get familiar with the ring–it should be what you're used to." He felt compelled to watch her sway from side to side as she walked away.

He spent some minutes testing the flexibility of the ropes, and practicing a few rolls to feel the give of the mat. Satisfied that the ring was regulation, he began limbering up. Anna came to the ring first, dressed in a black high-cut pelvic leotard–thong-backed, to his delight– and a matching half-top. Her thick blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. "Hi," she said, stepping into the ring. "Hi." Anna's beauty was breathtaking, and he had to make an effort to com

DOMINION_ An Indecent Proposition · Part 1 (1/2)
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