Post by Lyon on Jan 20, 2013 21:18:26 GMT -4
ooc: Little rust I know... just glad I got something out. Enjoy! And ya might need a little back story to make sense of this.
“Please mom!? Please!! Just one more story!”
Lying, tucked snug underneath the ruffles of the bunnies and lambs comforter, the young girl yawns. Like wildfire, the involuntary reaction spreads to the nearby young mother.
“Ok. Ok. But, this is the last one.”
Brushing the dust off a shelf of a nearby nightstand, the mother reaches for a book. Picking it up, she flips through a series of pages before making a crease down the book’s binding.
“… Now… Let’s see here… Where did we leave off?”
March 6, 2012
Fuck.
I couldn’t stop then.
I can’t stop now.
My mind…
… compulsively commemorating the occasion, replaying the events of the night.
“Jesus Lyons, you ok?”
Judas Dathan was a tricky fellow to nail down. Personality: Rather erratic. Attitude: Indifferent. Overall: Kind of a goof ball, with enough heartfelt passion for the two of us. Judas rarely led the charge and more times than not: Came out on the short end of the stick. However, that was 10 months ago, and this is now.
If the name sounds familiar, it should. Judas would come from his awkward, unsure and unstable beginnings to become the current ACW Ultimate Champion. But as I said… that is now… and this was then.
“LYONS!”
“Fuck! Judas! Fuck! It’s Lisa ‘Fucking’ LYON! LYON! Goddamnit!”
It wasn’t the first time she had heard it.
It surely wouldn’t be the last.
But… FUCK… who thought it would be the next!?
Post our losing efforts in a 4-man team tournament match, it was solely Judas and I left for the evening in the co-ed locker room. Every other competitor had jumped a bus or plane; whichever was quickest, back home. Staring down at my trembling hand, I hid the contents of what rested inside of it into my black gym bag.
“We’ll get those bastards next time ok?” he calmly tried to reassure me; unsure he had ever seen this tender side of me before.
With no expectation of a reply, Judas collected his items and hobbled his way out of the locker room. As the door swung shut and the silence remained, the ringing in my ears became much more prevalent to me.
“Maybe it’s time to see a doctor?”
Brashly, I swung my black bloodied boots around 180. No one behind me. Flinging my hair across my shoulder, I noticed… no one to the left… no one to the right. The screams of the crowd had obviously fucked with my mentality tonight. Exhaling, I reassured myself by reaching back around towards the black bag. As I placed my hand inside of it… I scoured for the earlier contents of my hand.
“Shit…” I murmured.
It wasn’t there. But I swear, I put it right fucking there. Where was it? Tossing articles of clothing, deodorant and hair clips aside, I rustled through it one more time.
Well, what the fuck.
Drenched in sweat from the panic, I lifted my chin upwards. Through the haze, I glanced at the figure now standing before me. With a white boot positioned against my locker, her blonde curls draped over her sturdy shoulders. With crossed arms, she held a white plastic applicator in between her cursed black fingernails.
“Looking for this?” she teased, parting her lips for the escape of her malignant tongue.
“What do you want from me?”
Twirling the stick around in her fingers, she held it nearly out of my reach.
“Still can’t get rid of me huh?”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh no… That time has long passed my dear.”
“Go to hell.” Yeah, it was a high schooler’s response, but I was shaken and it seemed a feasible comeback at the time.
“Why is it Lisa, that you can never just…
… let…
… go?”
In frustration, I threw my fist against one of the locker doors, busting the lock and bruising my knuckles.
“Leave me alone.”
“You know I can’t do that. You need me.”
“I don’t fucking need you.”
“Oh yes you do. But the real question is… why? Why would you rather be in bed with me right now than your own girlfriend? Why are you fucking this up again? Why can’t you just have a normal fucking relationship? No… you’re too sick for that. Too fucked up in the head. You’re always searching, digging for the next great high. Wrestling? Drugs? Alcohol? Girls? Fuck no… your mind is more focused on finding any loophole back to me. You hold my secrets and I hold yours. Right?”
“Wrong.”
“Sure, some chick is waiting for you at the hotel, ready to cuddle and care for you. Why isn’t that enough? Can’t she provide you with your latest fix? Why do you dream of me? Why do you think of me? Why do you crave me? Why can’t you just fucking focus Lisa?”
“You don’t FUCKING get it. You aren’t real to me anymore.” I stopped, straddling my legs over the red slender bench. Extending my limp limbs, I adjusted my eyes back on her tempting low-cut leather corset.
“Then why am I here?” She grinned back at me, leaning in and drawing her index finger along my jaw line.
I can’t stop envying the scars she made on my body. Upon seeing them, my initial reaction is disgust. But, the longer I stare, the more I become infatuated with them remaining a permanent part of my skin. As she drags her nails across my tender skin, my body falls limp in her arms and for the first time… I feel safe. She’s right… she holds my secrets and I hold hers. Fucking, don’t let me go.
I’M RUINING EVERYTHING!
It’s NEVER going to happen again.
So… why do I want it to?
I want it so fucking bad. Feeling the weakness in her legs as I control her. Fuck. I control her body. I control what she feels. And when. And the intensity behind it.
NO!
Piercing my eyes shut, I centered my focus on the blackness inside my eyelids. Methodically I counted to three and softly replied…
“You’re not.”
The room quieted. The voices… gone… along with the mysterious figure. Recollecting my thoughts, I noticed the white stick sitting on the edge of the bench. Scooting myself closer to it, I made out the plus symbol on left side.
“Positive…”
------------------------------------------
“Positive…?”
“Yes, I’m positive.”
“Lisa, you’re UPW Futurity Champion. You can’t just up and leave the company.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There must be a reason? Is there a better opportunity elsewhere?”
“No.”
“Are you unhappy here?”
“No.”
“Do you need a few weeks off?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I’m just… done.”
“Done?”
“Yes… done with wrestling.”
--------------------------------------------------------
Is anyone ever really “done” with wrestling? “Done” with this addictive lifestyle? “Done” with this passion that leads us to wake up for another routine morning of coffee, ice and aspirin? Is there a point that comes where we are “done” with the chaos and hectic travel schedule? Or the thousands of screaming fans in the airports, malls and arenas? How can one say they are through with the weeks of planning, preparation, envisioning, the turmoil of training, the anxiety before the car-ride there, the sweat before the taped-up limbs, the nerves before the lineup, the breath before the first step through the curtain? How could anyone be over the bumps, bruises, scarred tissue and mental breakdowns? In what world could I imagine myself behind a desk, or flipping burgers? Surely “retirement” would tempt the strongest of souls to cave. But, would that include me?
“Welcome to the Lyon’s Den”
Well fuck… here I am. Back in a place I said I’d never be.
But who honestly believed that shit in the first place?
My name is Lisa Lyon. And in case you are in a home for the mentally inept, hearing impaired or your name is Cid Phoenix (unique spelling by the way. Did your mommy and daddy pick that out so you could be “special.”), let me repeat in magnitude…
Hello my name is… LISA…. LORIANN…. LYON.
And if you can’t get a handle on that now, no need to worry, I’ll put my own personal form of branding on you come Monday evening.
Yes, Monday evening… where we indeed have a date. Say even, a pre-Valentine’s Day affair. And I have a feeling that this little encounter is going to get hot, sticky, gooey and downright entertaining quite quickly.
The formula is rather simple you see. I’ve had locked up aggression, emotion and frustration to relieve for well over 10 months now. And it seems… I’m not alone in this situation. You too have built up an intensity of uncontained resentment and violence. It appears you’ve taken your giant cock out of hiding and you’re ready to fuck through anyone in your way.
Come on then… swing. Take your best shot.
With two thwarting cocks in APW’s presence… I expect it’s bound to all come out during our one nightstand.
A loss is a bitter pill to swallow. I don’t envy your position. And yes I would expect you to be a little angry or upset. However, the tantrum you’re throwing (yes I saw that pathetic excuse for a promo) is what makes me reconsider my return to the ring outright.
It is whiney, stuck-up bitches like you that made my life hell in this business. You can stop crying foul play now Cid, unless you’re planning on becoming the newest member of the Green Bay Packers. In that case… carry on while I Russell Wilson your ass.
SCORE!
So… I tried to follow the game plan you put together for defeating Triple L. But I got lost at some point in between Rena’s breasts and I must ask… what makes you think I haven’t already known and felt brutality in my lifetime? Are you convinced that you, Cid Phoenix, will be the first to beat the hell out of me? Are you convinced that you’ll do it best? Better than any of those that have come before you? Those poor souls who too thought they would put the Lyon down and rape her of her dignity?
You’ve really got to learn to do some digging? Or fuck… even a simple Google search?
… Spose you’d have to get my name right first in order to do that though…
What you have yet to “unearth” about me Cid is that I am not your ordinary lay-down the smackdown female wrestler. I don’t plan on making a name for myself by beating THE CID PHOENIX 2013. Rather, I plan on making a name for you, as being the first victim to get LLL…aid out in my return to wrestling. I don’t plan on “beating the odds,” by beating a man… I plan on reclassifying the definitions of “woman” and “man.” For it is I that will be mounting you by the end of our encounter. Call it feminism, call it PMS… I’d prefer you call it… LISA LYON… the cunt who’s about to cheap shot kick the little that’s left of your ego.
Time to take notes…
“Bring flowers!”
You’re delusional.
“Maybe chocolate covered candies.”
Your career isn’t about to take an upswing.
“Teddy bear would be nice…”
It’s about to hit an all time low.
“... A little wine?”
I’ll save the gory details.
“Rena?”
Courtesy of your date for the evening,
“Should we do it once more? Oh what the hell…”
Lisa Lyon
Lying, tucked snug underneath the ruffles of the bunnies and lambs comforter, the young girl yawns. Like wildfire, the involuntary reaction spreads to the nearby young mother.
“Ok. Ok. But, this is the last one.”
Brushing the dust off a shelf of a nearby nightstand, the mother reaches for a book. Picking it up, she flips through a series of pages before making a crease down the book’s binding.
“… Now… Let’s see here… Where did we leave off?”
March 6, 2012
Fuck.
I couldn’t stop then.
I can’t stop now.
My mind…
… compulsively commemorating the occasion, replaying the events of the night.
“Jesus Lyons, you ok?”
Judas Dathan was a tricky fellow to nail down. Personality: Rather erratic. Attitude: Indifferent. Overall: Kind of a goof ball, with enough heartfelt passion for the two of us. Judas rarely led the charge and more times than not: Came out on the short end of the stick. However, that was 10 months ago, and this is now.
If the name sounds familiar, it should. Judas would come from his awkward, unsure and unstable beginnings to become the current ACW Ultimate Champion. But as I said… that is now… and this was then.
“LYONS!”
“Fuck! Judas! Fuck! It’s Lisa ‘Fucking’ LYON! LYON! Goddamnit!”
It wasn’t the first time she had heard it.
It surely wouldn’t be the last.
But… FUCK… who thought it would be the next!?
Post our losing efforts in a 4-man team tournament match, it was solely Judas and I left for the evening in the co-ed locker room. Every other competitor had jumped a bus or plane; whichever was quickest, back home. Staring down at my trembling hand, I hid the contents of what rested inside of it into my black gym bag.
“We’ll get those bastards next time ok?” he calmly tried to reassure me; unsure he had ever seen this tender side of me before.
With no expectation of a reply, Judas collected his items and hobbled his way out of the locker room. As the door swung shut and the silence remained, the ringing in my ears became much more prevalent to me.
“Maybe it’s time to see a doctor?”
Brashly, I swung my black bloodied boots around 180. No one behind me. Flinging my hair across my shoulder, I noticed… no one to the left… no one to the right. The screams of the crowd had obviously fucked with my mentality tonight. Exhaling, I reassured myself by reaching back around towards the black bag. As I placed my hand inside of it… I scoured for the earlier contents of my hand.
“Shit…” I murmured.
It wasn’t there. But I swear, I put it right fucking there. Where was it? Tossing articles of clothing, deodorant and hair clips aside, I rustled through it one more time.
Well, what the fuck.
Drenched in sweat from the panic, I lifted my chin upwards. Through the haze, I glanced at the figure now standing before me. With a white boot positioned against my locker, her blonde curls draped over her sturdy shoulders. With crossed arms, she held a white plastic applicator in between her cursed black fingernails.
“Looking for this?” she teased, parting her lips for the escape of her malignant tongue.
“What do you want from me?”
Twirling the stick around in her fingers, she held it nearly out of my reach.
“Still can’t get rid of me huh?”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh no… That time has long passed my dear.”
“Go to hell.” Yeah, it was a high schooler’s response, but I was shaken and it seemed a feasible comeback at the time.
“Why is it Lisa, that you can never just…
… let…
… go?”
In frustration, I threw my fist against one of the locker doors, busting the lock and bruising my knuckles.
“Leave me alone.”
“You know I can’t do that. You need me.”
“I don’t fucking need you.”
“Oh yes you do. But the real question is… why? Why would you rather be in bed with me right now than your own girlfriend? Why are you fucking this up again? Why can’t you just have a normal fucking relationship? No… you’re too sick for that. Too fucked up in the head. You’re always searching, digging for the next great high. Wrestling? Drugs? Alcohol? Girls? Fuck no… your mind is more focused on finding any loophole back to me. You hold my secrets and I hold yours. Right?”
“Wrong.”
“Sure, some chick is waiting for you at the hotel, ready to cuddle and care for you. Why isn’t that enough? Can’t she provide you with your latest fix? Why do you dream of me? Why do you think of me? Why do you crave me? Why can’t you just fucking focus Lisa?”
“You don’t FUCKING get it. You aren’t real to me anymore.” I stopped, straddling my legs over the red slender bench. Extending my limp limbs, I adjusted my eyes back on her tempting low-cut leather corset.
“Then why am I here?” She grinned back at me, leaning in and drawing her index finger along my jaw line.
I can’t stop envying the scars she made on my body. Upon seeing them, my initial reaction is disgust. But, the longer I stare, the more I become infatuated with them remaining a permanent part of my skin. As she drags her nails across my tender skin, my body falls limp in her arms and for the first time… I feel safe. She’s right… she holds my secrets and I hold hers. Fucking, don’t let me go.
I’M RUINING EVERYTHING!
It’s NEVER going to happen again.
So… why do I want it to?
I want it so fucking bad. Feeling the weakness in her legs as I control her. Fuck. I control her body. I control what she feels. And when. And the intensity behind it.
NO!
Piercing my eyes shut, I centered my focus on the blackness inside my eyelids. Methodically I counted to three and softly replied…
“You’re not.”
The room quieted. The voices… gone… along with the mysterious figure. Recollecting my thoughts, I noticed the white stick sitting on the edge of the bench. Scooting myself closer to it, I made out the plus symbol on left side.
“Positive…”
------------------------------------------
“Positive…?”
“Yes, I’m positive.”
“Lisa, you’re UPW Futurity Champion. You can’t just up and leave the company.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There must be a reason? Is there a better opportunity elsewhere?”
“No.”
“Are you unhappy here?”
“No.”
“Do you need a few weeks off?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I’m just… done.”
“Done?”
“Yes… done with wrestling.”
--------------------------------------------------------
Is anyone ever really “done” with wrestling? “Done” with this addictive lifestyle? “Done” with this passion that leads us to wake up for another routine morning of coffee, ice and aspirin? Is there a point that comes where we are “done” with the chaos and hectic travel schedule? Or the thousands of screaming fans in the airports, malls and arenas? How can one say they are through with the weeks of planning, preparation, envisioning, the turmoil of training, the anxiety before the car-ride there, the sweat before the taped-up limbs, the nerves before the lineup, the breath before the first step through the curtain? How could anyone be over the bumps, bruises, scarred tissue and mental breakdowns? In what world could I imagine myself behind a desk, or flipping burgers? Surely “retirement” would tempt the strongest of souls to cave. But, would that include me?
“Welcome to the Lyon’s Den”
Well fuck… here I am. Back in a place I said I’d never be.
But who honestly believed that shit in the first place?
My name is Lisa Lyon. And in case you are in a home for the mentally inept, hearing impaired or your name is Cid Phoenix (unique spelling by the way. Did your mommy and daddy pick that out so you could be “special.”), let me repeat in magnitude…
Hello my name is… LISA…. LORIANN…. LYON.
And if you can’t get a handle on that now, no need to worry, I’ll put my own personal form of branding on you come Monday evening.
Yes, Monday evening… where we indeed have a date. Say even, a pre-Valentine’s Day affair. And I have a feeling that this little encounter is going to get hot, sticky, gooey and downright entertaining quite quickly.
The formula is rather simple you see. I’ve had locked up aggression, emotion and frustration to relieve for well over 10 months now. And it seems… I’m not alone in this situation. You too have built up an intensity of uncontained resentment and violence. It appears you’ve taken your giant cock out of hiding and you’re ready to fuck through anyone in your way.
Come on then… swing. Take your best shot.
With two thwarting cocks in APW’s presence… I expect it’s bound to all come out during our one nightstand.
A loss is a bitter pill to swallow. I don’t envy your position. And yes I would expect you to be a little angry or upset. However, the tantrum you’re throwing (yes I saw that pathetic excuse for a promo) is what makes me reconsider my return to the ring outright.
It is whiney, stuck-up bitches like you that made my life hell in this business. You can stop crying foul play now Cid, unless you’re planning on becoming the newest member of the Green Bay Packers. In that case… carry on while I Russell Wilson your ass.
SCORE!
So… I tried to follow the game plan you put together for defeating Triple L. But I got lost at some point in between Rena’s breasts and I must ask… what makes you think I haven’t already known and felt brutality in my lifetime? Are you convinced that you, Cid Phoenix, will be the first to beat the hell out of me? Are you convinced that you’ll do it best? Better than any of those that have come before you? Those poor souls who too thought they would put the Lyon down and rape her of her dignity?
You’ve really got to learn to do some digging? Or fuck… even a simple Google search?
… Spose you’d have to get my name right first in order to do that though…
What you have yet to “unearth” about me Cid is that I am not your ordinary lay-down the smackdown female wrestler. I don’t plan on making a name for myself by beating THE CID PHOENIX 2013. Rather, I plan on making a name for you, as being the first victim to get LLL…aid out in my return to wrestling. I don’t plan on “beating the odds,” by beating a man… I plan on reclassifying the definitions of “woman” and “man.” For it is I that will be mounting you by the end of our encounter. Call it feminism, call it PMS… I’d prefer you call it… LISA LYON… the cunt who’s about to cheap shot kick the little that’s left of your ego.
Time to take notes…
“Bring flowers!”
You’re delusional.
“Maybe chocolate covered candies.”
Your career isn’t about to take an upswing.
“Teddy bear would be nice…”
It’s about to hit an all time low.
“... A little wine?”
I’ll save the gory details.
“Rena?”
Courtesy of your date for the evening,
“Should we do it once more? Oh what the hell…”
Lisa Lyon
