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Mask of a Hero, Face of a Champion
By
B22

Mask of a Hero, Face of a Champion

She's a modern-day Rocky. Only she's a lesbian who likes feet.

Luckily, tonight's match will only be in front of a small crowd. I'm standing before the locker room's floor-length mirror, making sure every blade of my cropped, fire-red hair is gelled into place, tightening my wrist and ankle wraps so that Rhea won't have a chance to snap my joints while we're rolling around the ring. The concrete floor is cool against my feet, and I hop on my toes a few times to keep the blood flowing.

My girlfriend, Kai, walks in with a handful of masquerade masks. I have to decide who I'll be tonight: the alluring badass in the Arlecchino, or the underdog in the Columbina. Kai cycles through them, placing the Columbina over my eyes.

“I'm not feeling this one,” she says. “People know you too well already. The self-deprecation won't work.”

I joined Women's Masquerade, an all-girls' submission wrestling league, a year ago, and have been on an unprecedented winning streak. Rhea is the only woman in the league I haven't forced to tap out, and I'm looking forward to my Grand Slam Championship tonight, but since Kai will be missing it for her mom's birthday dinner – or rather, I'll be missing an important family moment in order to achieve my wrestling dreams – she's insisting that everything be perfect in her absence. The keystone element of Masquerade is the characters we play: my persona has always shifted from bout to bout, illustrated by the colorful masks I wear. Sometimes, I wonder whether my in-ring personas have bled into my relationship with Kai, but we just moved in together and haven't fought about it yet, so maybe I'm just being neurotic.

While the personas are fabricated, though, the wrestling is real.

“There,” Kai says, strapping a scarlet Muta around my head. “Silent strength. That's you.”

Her fingers flutter over my stomach, and I think back to this morning when they were inside me, her tongue flicking my neck. I growled my orgasm into a pillow. There was so much I wanted to say to her afterward, so many parts of me she hasn't gotten to know yet, so much I've shielded from her. There'll be a time, though. Soon, I tell myself.

“Thanks,” I say. “Wish me luck out there.”

“You don't need it,” she says, gathering her bag and heading out the back door. On the way, she catches me glancing at her open-toe stilettos. “Hey. Don't get distracted.”

She knows I like feet, but it's yet another thing we've never really talked about. It's something I've been ashamed of since my teen years, and nowadays it feels like a corked bottle that'll never be opened.

“Yes, ma'am.” I mock-salute her.

She shakes her head, and she's gone.

 

My entrance music rattles the small building as I make my way to the ring. A few fans slap my shoulders in support. Rhea is waiting – shorter than me, sinewy arms, rock solid build, bare feet with kickpads.

I need to watch out for those feet. Every time she pummels an opponent into submission, she lays them on their backs, and steps on their faces in triumph. Not to hurt them, mind you, just to let them know who's in charge of that ring.

That ends tonight, Rhea.

We touch hands as a show of respect, then get ready to battle. I slip the mask off to wrestle, but it's still not the real me; here, I fully inhabit my character, not Ursula, my real self, who has been playing second fiddle to my wrestling character lately.

I tackle Rhea straight away, putting her on her back, getting ready to lock her in my trademark armbar. She slips away, though, snatching my ankle and twisting me into a pretzel. We go back and forth like this for a minute or two, neither quite able to get a submission hold locked in.

The fans are holding their breath. Everyone came here to see me destroy her, and as I loop my arm around Rhea's neck and flip her over, I know I'm about to give them what they want.

But Rhea reverses the move. She's studied my techniques, knows my regular finishers, and isn't going to give up easily. She pushes my face into the mat, then sits on my back and hooks my shoulder under her elbow, laying on the pressure.

Rhea, that bland underdog with no personality, is about to make me tap out.

The pain becomes excruciating, and I wiggle beneath her, trying to create an opening. She moves with me, settling herself into a crouching position, so that her bare foot is right under my face. Her feet are sweaty with the work she's done to get me down here, and I can smell it on her.

“Should have spent more time training instead of picking costumes,” she says. I want to smash her face now, make her pay for that.

But her armbar is too strong. She shifts her weight for even more leverage, and I slap the canvas over and over, submitting to her.

My streak is over. I'm just glad Kai isn't here to see it.

The bell rings, signifying Rhea's victory, and I go to roll out of the ring to let her celebrate.

“Don't move,” she says. I stop rolling and stay on my back. I know what's coming, and the fans are clamoring for it to happen.

Rhea sets her warm foot on my face, her soft sole pressing against my cheek. The smell is more potent this time. Humiliation burns in me. Two hundred people are watching this.

“There's your Grand Slam Champion!” Rhea shouts. She looks down at me with a grin spread across her face, like she's been waiting for this moment forever.

Every other girl she's defeated has had to endure the indignity of having Rhea's foot on their face, having her mark left on them, now including me. But apparently I'm special, because she's got even more in mind.

She removes her foot from my cheek, then slides her toes between my lips.

“Suck,” she says. “You fucking loser.”

I obey, gently sucking her toes, tonguing the bottoms of them. The crowd jeers; some of them hoot and holler. When I finally get the guts to look up at Rhea's face, she's wearing a look of curious satisfaction. I don't think she expected me to do it.

 

Social media explodes with news of my loss and subsequent embarrassment, and I tell Kai about my new reputation as a toe-sucker. A flash of something like jealousy passes across her face, just for a second. I've never done anything with her feet, could never bring myself to see if she'd let me.

“Great,” she says, annoyed. “I thought I was the future wife of a champion.”

Wife?

“I'll make it up to you,” I say. “I have a rematch clause, if I want it. Rhea will probably agree to face me again.”

“Yeah, so she can humiliate you even more, in front of more people.”

Kai's got her arms folded, looking away from me.

“Hey,” I say, turning her toward me. “I'm not a stranger.”

But she's not having it. “My girlfriend can't be a loser,” she says. “I want a winner. Or at least someone who's honest with me. All you do is act like this big-shot champ. This alpha-wolf woman. Now you're sucking another girl's toes in front of hundreds of people? Who are you?”

I kiss her, hoping for the best. I know she was ready to make love anyway, expecting to celebrate my big win, so she's already in the mood. Piece by piece, we shed each other's clothing, toss shirt after bra after hairband onto the floor, then get lost in each other. I slide my tongue up and down her inner thighs, then slowly dive into her pussy. She rubs her nipples, guides my hands up to them, presses down on the back of my head as I service her. When she cums, she covers her mouth with her arm and moans “Oh god” into the crease of her elbow.

She turns her attention to me, bending me over and tongue-fucking my ass while rubbing my clit, and I orgasm within a minute. I had no idea I was so close already. As I erupt and moan my joy, I picture Rhea's feet in front of my face, imagine the sweet, coppery taste of them.

“I love you,” Kai says, kissing me.

I say it back. “I love you, Kai.” I know I've got to make this girl proud.

 

Rhea hears about my desire for a rematch, and posts an online video that gets a few thousand hits within an hour.

The vid involves Rhea sitting in her apartment, bare feet perched on a chair, taunting me. I see what she's doing. Mind games.

“Sure,” she says, “the toe-sucking loser can have her rematch. But this time, nothing gets hidden. Ursula, it's going to be you and me, and when I make you submit again, I'm going to fuck the shit out of you in front of everyone.”

Well, Women's Masquerade was never what you'd call “family friendly,” but this is taking it to a new level.

Kai, snuggling me on the couch, asks if I'm going to do it. I almost ask if she's okay with it, but I can hear in her voice that she wants me to do whatever it takes to prove myself to her, even this.

 

Over the next week, I train with Kai outdoors. We do push-ups, pull-ups, weight and balance exercises. She holds a heavy bag and I rock it with my fists until they're bleeding. We make our way down to the nearby creek, and I climb the rocks with my bare hands and feet, working on my grip, ready to show the world who I am, what I can do.

I'm coming for you, Rhea.

While Kai is at work one day, I take a break from training and wander to the nearby jewelry store.

“Hello,” the woman behind the counter says. “Can I help you?” She's about my height, dark skin, hair straightened into a perfect bob, not a strand out of place. I feel like a bit of a pariah here.

“Just kinda browsing,” I say.

Then I see it: the ring with Kai's birthstone on it. I think of all we've done together: the late-night drive-in trips, lovemaking on the grass, meeting each other's parents and realizing that everything just clicked, even when we feared the worst. Then I picture the future: midnight kisses, dinner parties at our home, traveling to every place we ever talked about – Alaska, Bali, the Blue Mountains of Jamaica.

“Actually, I want that,” I say, pointing to the ring. The woman looks at me as though I'm joking. But once I bury Rhea in our rematch, the prize money will pay this thing off, no problem.

As the woman packages the ring for me, I think about marriage, about whether I'm doing this because I want to or because it's what I think I'm supposed to do. Whether the real me, the real Ursula, is the kind of person who would propose. Whether I even deserve to be with Kai.

 

Every night this week, when Kai makes me cum, I think of Rhea's feet. I can still taste her toes, see the look on her face as I sucked them, see my fans' expressions as I walked past them to the locker room. She posts a new video every day, taunting me. She's barefoot in every one, wiggling her toes as she promises to defeat me again. What is she doing to me?

Out in the field, the day before the rematch, Kai brings a new mask to me: it's got an open mouth bearing vicious teeth, horns jutting above the eyes.

“The Hannya,” Kai says. “The woman-demon. This is what you have to become now. Rhea will never know what hit her.”

I behold the mask, see myself walking out to the ring with it, feeling its power flow into me, giving me the strength to beat Rhea. Without that added oomph, I don't know if I can do it.

I kneel, pluck the ring from my pocket.

“Kai,” I say. “We've been through so much together. I want to go through it all with you.”

Her eyes widen a little, but she's been expecting this.

“Babe,” she says, “how are we going to – ”

I cut her off. “Don't worry. I've got this.”

We kiss. She says yes.

 

In the locker room, I look at the Hannya mask as I strip down to nothing and get ready to don my fighting gear. The Women's Masquerade arena is filled to the brim, and my nerves are vibrating in my chest. A little while ago, I peeked through the curtain to get a sense of the crowd's mood, and I saw at least a few fans holding up signs that read Toe-sucking loser. I guess Rhea's videos did their job.

Rhea enters just as the last of my clothing hits the floor. She's sinewy and strong, a natural fighter. I was dumb to think I could ever beat her. Who am I kidding?

“Hey,” she says. “Ready?”

I cover my chest with my arms. “Rhea, do you mind?”

“Not at all.” She sits on a bench and crosses her legs in front of her. She's barefoot. My eyes travel downward. Hard to believe I'm so close to her feet again. Hard to look away.

“Get used to that view,” she says.

This is so frustrating. “Why are you torturing me like this?” I say.

Her brow furrows. She looks serious. “Because you're pretending,” she says. “Everything about you is pretend, and I can't stand it.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Forget about me. It's going to hurt other people in the end, not to mention yourself. 'Grand Slam Champion' is an identity you invented. If it's not who you really are, what the hell are you pushing so hard for?”

I don't know what this is. Another mind game? Or the truth?

I lower my arms and rush across the room to the bench. Rhea briefly seizes up until she realizes that I'm not going to attack her. Before she knows it, I'm on my knees with my mouth wrapped around her big toe.

She exhales. And there's the taste of her again, exactly the same as before.

I bob my head up and down like a whore sucking a cock.

“You've been thinking about this a lot, haven't you?” she says.

I answer by dragging my tongue along the sole of her foot, from heel to toe.

“Fuck,” she moans, watching me. I take every toe in my mouth, then give her other foot the same treatment. Minutes go by.

She finally grabs the back of my head, lies down on her back, and guides my backside over her, like we're about to sixty-nine. My ass is in the air, pussy hovering over her face.

I take her gorgeous toes in my mouth again, and she begins to finger me. She keeps her thumb in my pussy and shoves her middle finger into my asshole, pumping them in and out.

I don't want to groan with pleasure, but I do.

“It's okay,” she whispers, prodding my holes. “It's okay.”

There's a mechanical feeling to the whole thing, like she's doing this for me, not for her.

Soon, it's too much to take, and I give up. “Rhea,” I say, my face still pressed into her foot, “I'm gonna cum.”

She removes her fingers from me. “No.”

Her body slides out from under me, leaving me panting on all fours. She makes sure to stand right in front of me so that her toes, wet with my saliva, are right under my face again.

“You don't get to cum now,” she says. “Not until you're true to yourself when it counts. Then I'll give you what I promised.”

I'll fuck the shit out of you in front of everyone. That was her promise.

 

I march out to the ring in my fight gear, Hannya mask in place, my music rocking the house. Rhea stands in the ring, hopping up and down like she's ready to battle, as if we weren't just bonking in the locker room.

She's got a brown shoulder-bag in her corner of the ring, and she's holding a microphone.

We face off.

“Anything the loser wants to say before we begin?”

I remove my mask and shake my head no. I lick my lips, which still taste like Rhea's sweat, and my blunted orgasm still rests inside me like a brick. I don't know what I'm going to be able to do.

One last time, we tangle. Locked in a grapple, we tumble to the mat, rolling into hold after hold, and the fans lose their minds. Eventually, it's me on top, and I see Kai's face in the front row, nodding vigorously.

I lock Rhea in an armbar. Her face is right next to my foot.

“Looks like it's your turn to go down on a set of girl toes,” I say.

But then I realize she's not resisting. She's offering to let me win.

I imagine myself as Grand Slam Champion, walking out of here with a sack of money and a happy bride-to-be. It will be great in the moment, feel good when the interviewers bombard me with praise, but internally, I'll never live it down. I'll be failing myself, failing Kai. Pretending forever.

Nope. No way. This is the real test.

I loosen my grip, and Rhea understands. She wastes no time, and soon, she's on top of me, ripping at my shoulder with the same armbar as before. Without looking at Kai, I tap out.

Rhea has conquered me.

But it isn't over.

“Suck my fucking toes,” she says. I do as I'm told, and the booing commences. People begin to file out, but most of them stay.

Rhea goes to her shoulder-bag and pulls out a strap-on cock, which she fastens around her waist. She tears my gear off until I'm completely naked, and I willingly get up on all fours, in the middle of the ring. I look up at the lights, into the crowd, and I'm suddenly aware of how many eyes are on me. I look at Kai's seat, which is now empty.

Rhea spits on my asshole, then pushes her strap-on inside. I throw my head back and moan, and soon she's balls-deep, gently moving in and out, fucking my ass like the champ she is.

Various fans, mostly women, pass by the ring on their way out, giving me disapproving looks as they do. One woman, maybe nineteen, gets in the ring and yells at me. “I looked up to you,” she says. “You were supposed to be our champion.”

“She's not,” Rhea says, speaking for me. “What are you, Ursula?”

“A toe-sucking loser.”

The woman, disgusted, kicks off one shoe and shoves her foot into my mouth.

“There!” she says. “You like that?”

She tastes like cotton and sweat.

“Mmhmm.”

She shakes her head, wipes her toes on my cheek, and leaves. The process is repeated several times, and I suck the toes of dozens of women as Rhea pounds my ass from behind. A middle-aged woman spits on my face.

I see my Hannya mask sitting on the side of the ring, a symbol of what almost happened, of what I nearly pretended I was.

After what seems like hours, Rhea reaches around and rubs my clit as her cock plunges into the depths of my hole. “Time to cum,” she says.

I let myself go, and oh, what an orgasm it is. She leans into my neck as I finish.

After, she pushes me down, my face in front of her foot, my breath coming out in bursts. She gathers her bag, composes herself, and heads back to the locker room, leaving me a sweating mess.

 

I soon follow, naked and defeated. I collect my things from my locker, taking in the silence, wondering what the next step will be.

“Hey.”

It's Rhea again, wearing normal street clothes now, like nothing ever happened.

“Do you want me to suck your toes again, Mistress?”

“What?”

“Let's not play around anymore, Rhea. You won. Your mind games worked. I can't resist your feet. So just tell me what to do, and I'll do it.”

She looks genuinely shocked and concerned.

“Ursula...” she comes closer. “You think that's what this was about? You've been playing a character for so long that you're letting it spill into every part of you. When was the last time you and Kai talked about anything other than your championship dreams?”

I look down at her boots, close-toed. “But what about – ”

“My feet? It's not me you can't resist, Ursula. You're submissive. You like feet. Big deal. It's who you are. It's going to be that way no matter who you're with. Why do you think you have to be all dominant with Kai? Play the 'husband' role? It's bullshit, and it's going to poison your relationship. I've been seeing it play out back here for the past year, and I'm just sick of it. She deserves an equal, and so do you.”

“Rhea – ”

“It's okay,” she says. “I'll see you around.”

Finally understanding everything, I loop my arms around her shoulders. She hugs back, softly. Then she drops a small bag at my feet, and heads to the door.

“What's this?”

“Your reward for passing the test.”

As the door closes behind her, I pick up the bag. It's the prize money.

 

I catch up to Kai just as she's getting in a taxi. She looks pleased to see me, not a crease on her face, not the look of disdain I thought I might get. It's like she's seeing an entirely new person.

We rush to each other. I'm wearing the dress I brought for my championship celebration, now ready for something else altogether. The engagement ring gleams on her finger.

“Hey,” I say. “It's me.”

We kiss, jump in the car, and we're off, hands clasped. I wonder if I forgot anything back at the arena. Just the masks, probably, but I'm never going back for them.

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