Karma RX (with Payton Preslee) vs. Natasha Nice in a Smother Sexfight
The locker room air was thick with the scent of expensive vanilla perfume and cheap antiseptic. A single bulb buzzed overhead, casting long, dancing shadows across the concrete floor. Payton Preslee sat on the wooden bench, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat blooming across her skin. Karma RX knelt before her, her ink seeming to writhe in the dim light. Calloused fingers, gentle in their exploration, traced the intricate lines of the tattoo that decorated Payton’s shoulder.
“Still my favourite masterpiece,” Karma murmured, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through Payton’s ribs. She leaned in, her breath hot against Payton’s collarbone, and placed a soft, deliberate kiss on the dragon’s eye.
Payton let out a contented sigh, her hands coming up to tangle in Karma’s blonde hair. “You just say that cause you were there when I got it.” Her words were teasing, but her tone was soft, laced with affection. She pulled Karma closer, their bodies pressing together, the familiar weight and warmth a comforting anchor.
“Maybe,” Karma conceded, a smirk playing on her lips as she looked up. “Or maybe it’s the way it looks when you’re on top of me.” Her hands slid from the tattoo down to Payton’s waist, gripping her firmly. She nipped at the sensitive skin of Payton’s neck, a sharp, possessive gesture that made Payton gasp.
Payton’s grip tightened in Karma’s hair, a silent command that Karma answered by deepening the kiss. This wasn’t the tender prelude Payton had been expecting; this was a claiming, a reminder. Karma’s tongue swept into her mouth, a dominant, searching presence that left no room for argument. Payton met the challenge, her own tongue pushing back, the playful fight a familiar dance. The buzzing of the light faded, replaced by the sound of their breathing, the soft rustle of clothing, the frantic beat of their hearts.
“Easy now,” Payton breathed when they finally broke apart, her chest heaving. “Save some of that for the French girl.”
Karma’s smirk widened, a predatory gleam in her dark eyes. “Oh, I plan to. But a warm-up never hurt anyone.” She stood, pulling Payton up with her. They were a study in contrasts—Payton’s dark hair and porcelain skin against Karma’s sun-kissed flesh and vibrant ink. Karma backed Payton against the cold metal lockers, the impact a dull clang that echoed in the small room. “Remember the plan,” she said, her lips brushing against Payton’s ear. “Let me soften her up.”
Payton rolled her eyes, a gesture of mock annoyance that couldn’t quite hide the fondness there. “As if I could stop you.” She ran a thumb over Karma’s lower lip. “Just don’t have all the fun without me.”
“Never,” Karma promised, sealing it with a bruising kiss.
The walk from the locker room to the private gym was a short one, down a dimly lit corridor lined with more closed doors. The main space was dominated by a large, black mat in the centre of the floor, surrounded by weight racks and other equipment. The air smelled of rubber and sweat. In the centre of the mat, waiting with an unnerving stillness, stood Natasha Nice. She was similar in size, with an elegant, almost busty frame, but there was a coiled energy about her, a sexual patience. Her hair hung loose, and she wore lingerie that barely contained her voluptuous frame. She watched them approach, her gaze appraising, dismissive.
“So,” Natasha said, her voice laced with a slight French accent as Karma and Payton stepped onto the mat. “The American and her… pet.” Her eyes flicked between them, landing on Karma with a look of cool amusement.
Karma laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you and your ego.” She didn’t even glance at Payton. “Rules are simple. Submission by smother. First to tap or pass out loses.”
“Of course,” Natasha said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You Americans and your simple rules.” She took a step forward, her movements graceful. “Let us begin.”
Payton gave Karma’s arm a final squeeze before stepping back to the edge of the mat, her arms crossed over her chest. She watched as Karma and Natasha began to circle each other, a slow, deliberate dance. The tension was a palpable thing, a current running through the air. Natasha was the first to strike, a quick, feinting lunge that Karma sidestepped easily. They came together in a clash of bodies, a grunt of effort from both women as they grappled for position.
Natasha was surprisingly strong, her technique precise and economical. She used Karma’s momentum against her, twisting and trying to trip her, to get her onto the mat. Karma fought back, her strength raw and explosive, a stark contrast to Natasha’s calculated grace. For a few minutes, it was a stalemate, a frustrating, grunting battle of wills. Then, Karma saw her opening. Natasha overextended, and Karma drove her shoulder into the French woman’s midsection, lifting her off her feet and slamming her down onto the mat.
The impact knocked the wind out of Natasha, and Karma didn’t waste the opportunity. She scrambled to straddle her chest, pinning Natasha’s arms with her knees. She leaned forward, her heavy breasts hovering just above Natasha’s face. This was the first attempt, the opening salvo.
“Ready to say ‘merci’?” Karma taunted.
Natasha’s response was a muffled curse and a violent buck of her hips. It was enough to throw Karma off balance for a second, but it was all Natasha needed. With a powerful twist of her torso, she managed to free an arm and wrap it around Karma’s neck, using her other hand to push at Karma’s face. The tables turned in a heartbeat. Karma found herself on her back, with Natasha now straddling her, the French woman’s thighs clamping down on her head, pushing her face into the warm, damp fabric of her thong.
The world narrowed to the sensation of pressure, the smell of Natasha’s skin, the muffled sound of her own frantic heartbeat. Panic flared in Karma’s chest, hot and sharp. She struggled, her hands pushing against Natasha’s legs, her body writhing beneath the weight. It was no use. Natasha’s hold was too strong, too perfect. Black spots danced in Karma’s vision. Her lungs burned for air.
From the sidelines, Payton’s casual demeanour had vanished. Her hands were clenched into fists, her body rigid with tension. This wasn’t part of the plan. Karma was supposed to be in control, to be the one dishing out the punishment. She watched Karma’s struggles weaken, her movements becoming sluggish. This was it. The end.
Just as Karma’s vision was about to fade completely, she saw her. A flash of dark hair, a furious, beautiful face. Payton. She had launched herself onto the mat, moving with a speed that seemed impossible. Before Natasha could even register the new threat, Payton was on her, tackling her off of Karma and sending them both sprawling.
Karma gasped, dragging in a ragged, painful breath. The world rushed back in a dizzying flood of sensation. She rolled onto her side, coughing, her throat raw. She looked up to see Payton and Natasha a tangled mass of limbs on the other side of the mat. The fight had changed. It was no longer a one-on-one match.
“The deal was one on one!” Natasha spat, her face flushed with anger as she tried to fend off Payton’s furious assault.
“The deal was whatever I say it is,” Payton shot back, her voice tight with rage. She had Natasha in a headlock, her bicep pressing against the French woman’s throat. “And I say it’s my turn.”
Payton’s arm was a band of steel around Natasha’s throat, her other hand hooking into the delicate strap of Natasha’s lingerie. The fabric, already strained from the initial struggle, offered no resistance. With a sharp, angry tug, Payton ripped it away.
The lace tore with a sound like tearing paper, a raw, violent noise that cut through the grunts of their struggle. The flimsy black garment gave way, exposing Natasha’s pale, unblemished skin to the cool, sweat-damp air of the gym. Natasha gasped, a choked sound of outrage and surprise, her hands flying up not to fight, but to cover herself in a belated, futile gesture of modesty.
“Modesty?” Payton sneered, her voice a low growl in Natasha’s ear. She tightened her grip on the headlock, forcing Natasha’s head back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat. “That’s a little late, don’t you think?” She shoved her knee into the small of Natasha’s back, arching her body in a painful bow. “You wanted a fight, chérie? You got one.”
Natasha struggled, her movements becoming more desperate, less graceful. She clawed at Payton’s arm, her nails scraping against Payton’s skin, leaving faint red lines.
The sight of Natasha, exposed and writhing, seemed to flip a switch in Karma. The burning in her lungs was forgotten, replaced by a different kind of heat. She pushed herself up from the mat, watching sexy girlfriend; Payton woman handle the French woman with a newfound, predatory focus. A slow, wicked smile spread across Karma’s face. With deliberate, unhurried movements, Karma reached behind her back and unhooked her own bra, letting it fall to the mat. Her inked skin gleamed under the single buzzing light. She shimmied out of her thong, kicking the scrap of fabric aside. Now she was as bare as Natasha, a canvas of art and muscle and intent. She didn’t look at Payton; her gaze was locked on Natasha’s struggling form, on the pale flesh now bared and vulnerable.
“My turn,” Karma breathed, more to herself than to anyone else.
She moved forward, a sleek, powerful predator closing in on wounded prey. Payton saw her coming and, with a final, punishing shove, released Natasha from the headlock. Natasha collapsed onto the mat, coughing and spluttering, her hands still trying to preserve a shred of dignity. But there was no dignity left to be had.
Karma was on her in an instant. She didn’t bother with pins or holds. She simply grabbed Natasha’s ankles and dragged her into the centre of the mat, spreading her legs with a rough, decisive motion. Natasha’s eyes widened in a mixture of fear and disbelief. This wasn’t a fight anymore; it was a violation.
“No,” Natasha gasped, trying to kick free. “Don’t you dare.”
Karma laughed, a dark, rich sound. She knelt between Natasha’s splayed thighs, her own body humming with a savage energy. “You wanted to smother me with this?” she taunted, running a possessive hand over Natasha’s hip. “Now I’m going to smother you with something else.”
She shifted her hips, positioning herself. Karma pressed her body down, her slick heat meeting Natasha’s. The contact was electric, a jolt that made Natasha’s entire body go rigid. She cried out, a sharp, panicked sound that was half protest, half something else entirely.
“Look at me,” Karma commanded, her voice rough with desire. She grabbed Natasha’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. “You wanted to see what an American could do? Now you’re going to feel it.”
She began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that was utterly relentless. It wasn’t about pleasure; it was about power, about claiming every inch of Natasha’s body with her own. Each thrust was a statement, a reminder of who was in control. Natasha’s resistance crumbled, her protests dissolving into ragged, unwilling moans. Her hands, which had been pushing against Karma’s shoulders, now clenched into fists, her nails digging into her own palms.
From the sidelines, Payton watched, her chest heaving. She had expected this, wanted this, but seeing it, feeling the raw, brutal energy radiating from Karma, was something else entirely. She took a step closer, her eyes dark, her own body responding to the visceral display of dominance. The fight was over. This was the victory lap.
Payton watched from the edge of the mat, her own breath catching in her throat as Karma established her brutal rhythm. The sight of Natasha’s pale body arching beneath Karma’s darker, inked frame was a tableau of raw power. But watching wasn’t enough. The plan was for a shared victory, and her part was waiting. With a fluid motion, Payton pulled her own bra over her head, her full breasts spilling free. She hooked her thumbs into her shorts and slid them down, along with her thong, kicking them away to join the growing pile of discarded clothing. Now she too was naked, her tattooed skin a stark canvas in the dim light. She was ready.
Karma felt the shift in the room, the added presence of her lover, and it fuelled her. She drove her hips forward harder, faster, her movements becoming a punishing, relentless grind. The slick, obscene sounds of their bodies joining filled the small gym, punctuated by Natasha’s choked sobs and Karma’s ragged grunts. She was fucking her, claiming her, breaking her down piece by piece. She wanted Natasha pliant, exhausted, her body a limp, overwhelmed vessel for their triumph.
Natasha’s struggles had devolved into involuntary twitches, her body no longer her own. Her mind was a haze of sensation, a maelstrom of pain and a forced, shattering pleasure that ripped through her resistance. She felt herself being pushed, relentlessly, toward an edge she didn’t want to fall from. With one final, powerful thrust of Karma’s hips, the last of her strength gave out. Her body went limp, and she flopped onto her back, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed and unfocused.
That was the signal. Like a panther, Payton moved. She crossed the remaining distance in three long strides, her movements silent and deliberate. She saw Natasha’s face, turned to the side, her lips parted as she gasped for air. It was an invitation.
Payton swung a leg over Natasha’s head, straddling her face in a single, smooth motion. She lowered herself slowly, deliberately, giving Natasha a final, terrifying moment of anticipation before she made contact. She settled her weight, her warm, slick flesh pressing against Natasha’s mouth and nose.
“Time for the main event,” Payton murmured, her voice a low, possessive hum.
Natasha’s body jolted, a surge of renewed, desperate panic. Her hands flew up, pushing weakly against Payton’s thighs, but it was like shoving against stone.
Natasha’s struggles were no longer a fight, but a series of desperate, convulsive shudders. Her world had collapsed to the suffocating press of Payton’s flesh, the taste of her slickness, the absolute denial of air. Her hands, which had been pushing, now simply rested against Payton’s thighs, her fingers twitching with the last vestiges of her will. She was a canvas for their victory, a breathing, suffering trophy.
And above her, her conquerors celebrated.
Karma, still lodged between Natasha’s limp legs, looked up. Her gaze met Payton’s, and a current of pure, unadulterated lust passed between them, hotter and more immediate than the hate they’d channelled into the fight. This was their real prize—not Natasha’s submission, but this shared, absolute dominion.
Payton leaned forward, her body a long, arched line over Natasha’s torso. Her breasts flushed and heavy, grazed Karma’s as she descended. The kiss was not gentle. It was a collision. A wet, hungry clash of lips and teeth, a messy devouring that spoke of possession and shared triumph. Payton’s tongue thrust past Karma’s lips, claiming her mouth with the same authority Karma was claiming Natasha’s body. Karma met it with her own ferocity, sucking hard, a low groan vibrating in her chest. They were not two separate women anymore, but a single, writhing entity of victory, using Natasha’s body as their altar.
They didn’t stop kissing. It was a constant, sloppy, open-mouthed union as their bodies began to move in a new, unified rhythm. Karma ground her hips down, her slick heat sliding against Natasha’s now-unresisting flesh. Payton, in turn, rolled her own hips, smearing herself over Natasha’s face, the movement guided by the powerful rhythm Karma was setting below. Their bodies moved in tandem, a perfect, perverse synchronicity. Each grinding thrust from Karma was echoed by a rocking press from Payton. Their hands roamed, no longer fighting an opponent, but exploring each other. Karma’s fingers dug into the flesh of Payton’s ass, pulling her tighter down, while Payton tangled one hand in Karma’s sweat-damp blonde hair, holding her in the kiss.
The sounds in the gym changed. The grunts of effort and pained gasps were gone, replaced by the wet, slick sounds of their kiss, the rhythmic slap of skin on sweat-slicked skin, and their muffled, hungry moans of pleasure. They were rutting, lost in their shared power, grinding against the body of the woman they had just systematically dismantled. Natasha was no longer a person to them; she was a thing, a warm, living platform for their celebration, her last choked breaths fanning against Payton’s skin, her limp body rocking beneath the onslaught of their shared ecstasy. The sloppy, dirty kiss was a seal on their victory, a promise of more to come.
The kiss broke with a wet, audible gasp. A thin, glistening strand of saliva connected their lower lips for a moment before snapping. They were breathing hard, their chests heaving in unison, eyes locked and burning with a shared, primal fire. Payton’s body was a live wire, every nerve ending humming from the dual sensations of Karma’s grinding hips and the desperate, fluttering struggles of the woman trapped beneath her.
“Feel that?” Karma rasped, her voice a husky growl. She punctuated her words with a slow, deliberate circle of her hips, pressing down hard on Natasha’s pelvis. “She’s still trying to fight.”
A faint, muffled whimper vibrated through Payton’s core. She looked down past her own body, past the rise and fall of her breasts, to see Natasha’s hands, which had slipped from her thighs and were now pawing weakly at the mat. Her fingernails scraped uselessly against the rubber surface.
“Let her,” Payton breathed, her own voice thick with lust. She rolled her hips again, a slow, torturous grind that smeared her arousal over Natasha’s face. “It’s better when they struggle.”
Karma chuckled, a low, dirty sound. She shifted her weight, moving one of her hands from Payton’s hip to trail her fingers down Natasha’s stomach, through the sweat and slickness that coated her skin. “She’s so wet,” Karma murmured, her eyes fixed on Payton’s face. “You think she’s enjoying it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Payton shot back, a fierce, triumphant grin spreading across her lips. “We are.”
And with that, she leaned in for another kiss. This one was different. Slower. More deliberate. A deep, languid exploration that was just as filthy, just as possessive, but held the promise of a longer night. Their tongues danced, a slow, sensual duel, as their bodies continued their rhythmic, punishing grind. They were no longer just fucking a woman; they were fucking the very concept of victory, using her body as their instrument. The French girl was just the vessel.
The second kiss was a slow, deep-drown. It wasn’t the frantic clash of triumph anymore, but a leisurely, languid act of tasting what they had won. Payton’s hands were in Karma’s hair, not pulling, just holding, her fingers laced through the sweat-damp strands as if she never wanted to let go. Karma’s hands roamed over Payton’s back, her palms tracing the familiar landscape of muscle and ink, claiming every inch.
Their bodies found a new, more insidious rhythm. It was no longer the punishing grind of a fight, but a slow, hypnotic roll. Karma would press down, her body a heavy, undeniable weight against Natasha’s pelvis, and Payton would answer with a languid rock of her hips, a wave of heat and pressure that sealed Natasha’s airways completely. They were a single, writhing beast of four limbs and two cores of fire, with Natasha as their foundation, their unwilling altar.
Then, Payton felt it. A faint, desperate vibration against her clit, a muffled, pathetic sound of pure survival instinct. It was a flutter. A gag. A final, convulsive plea from a body that was reaching its absolute limit.
“Wait,” Karma murmured against her lips, feeling the subtle change through their connected bodies. She broke the kiss, looking down. Natasha’s body, which had been limp, was now rigid, her back arching in a silent, terrible spasm. Her hands, which had been limp, were now clenched into tight fists, her knuckles white. Her legs, pinned under Karma’s weight, kicked out once, a final, fruitless rebellion.
“Shit,” Payton breathed, a thrill shooting through her. This was it. The moment of total capitulation.
“Don’t stop,” Karma commanded, her voice a dark, urgent whisper. “Not yet.”
She leaned in, not to Payton, but down, towards Natasha’s ear, her lips brushing against the shell. “You wanted to see what an American could do?” she breathed, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. “Now you know.”
As if on cue, Natasha’s body went limp. All tension vanished. Her fists unclenched. Her arched back collapsed onto the mat with a soft thud. The frantic fluttering against Payton stopped. She was gone.
They both felt it. The sudden, absolute stillness of the body beneath them. It was the most profound victory.
Payton didn’t lift off immediately. She held her position for another long, possessive moment, grinding down one last, slow time, ensuring her scent, her taste, her essence was the last thing Natasha would register before oblivion. Then, with a deep, shuddering sigh of satisfaction, she slowly dismounted.
Karma followed suit, carefully sliding her leg from between Natasha’s now-limp ones. She stood up, her body glistening with sweat, and looked down at their handiwork. Natasha lay sprawled on the mat, unconscious, her body a pale, beautiful ruin. Her face was slick and flushed, her lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling with the shallow, steady breath of the truly defeated.
Payton was at her side in an instant, her arm wrapping around Karma’s waist from behind. She pressed her naked body against Karma’s back, her chin resting on her shoulder. They stood there for a long moment, two statuesque, inked goddesses admiring their creation.
“She’s beautiful like this, isn’t she?” Payton murmured, her voice soft, almost reverent.
Karma nodded, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips. “Peaceful,” she agreed. She turned in Payton’s embrace, her hands coming up to cup Payton’s face. “Now,” she said, her eyes burning with a fire that the fight had only stoked, not extinguished. “Let’s go get cleaned up. And then… I want to take you home and fuck you silly.”