The Chamber

The Chamber was the special creation of Mr. Anton Davi.
Mr. Davi had many possessions. The Romanian émigré was married to one of the most beautiful and desirable women in Los Angeles. He was the president of a major film studio, and one of the wealthiest men in the City of Angels. His home, the Villa Minerva, sat on fifty secluded acres in the Hollywood Hills. The parties at the Villa were renowned throughout Hollywood. His power and influence reached throughout the entertainment industry, as well as California political circles.
Beyond all of these things, the Chamber was Mr. Davi’s passion.
Mr. Davi had personally designed the Chamber. He had spent months locked away in his study creating piles of discarded sketches, until his fantasy was realized on paper. The final drawings were given to one of the most esteemed architects in Los Angeles, who converted them into blueprints. The blueprints were given to a Japanese engineering firm known for confidentiality. Work on the Chamber was done in absolute secrecy. The Chief Engineer was told that, if the work at the Villa Minerva ever became publicly known, he would regret his indiscretion.
Only Mrs. Davi knew of the Chamber’s purpose. She shared all of her husband’s passions. Her anticipation of the project’s completion was as great as his own.
After a year of construction, the couple stepped off of an elevator and entered their special creation. They stood in the center of the room, and looked around in stunned silence. It is shocking when the dream of a lifetime comes to life. That night, they made love on the floor of the Chamber.
To some, the Chamber might appear to be a giant padded cell. On the blueprints, the main room was labeled “the Combat Area”. The floor was made of oak planking covered with thick, scratchproof polish. The ceiling was composed of smooth-, mirrored glass. The effect on a first-time visitor was unnerving. Three of the walls were padded. The Royal Blue padding was thick enough to prevent serious physical injury. The room was exactly eight feet by eight feet, and the walls were eight feet high. The lighting consisted of recessed halogen lights mounted in an “x” formation criss-crossing the ceiling. Two padded doors were set into one wall. Behind each door was a simple dressing room. There was a closet, a dressing table, a wall mirror and a shower. Each dressing room had a separate elevator entrance. The elevators ran directly from the ground floor to the Chamber. Over the doors were recessed lights.
The fourth wall was composed of a large two-way mirror. Behind this was the Seating Area. In this six by five by eight room, a line of comfortable chairs faced the glass. The center chair was a seventeenth century French throne. The right arm contained buttons that controlled all of the Chamber’s electronics. Beside the throne was a smaller chair, supposed to have once belonged to Marie Antoinette. At one end of the Seating Area was an elevator, which linked the ground floor to the Chamber. From his throne, Mr. Davi could control the temperature in the Combat Area. The couple thought that glistening sweat was a truly beautiful sight; like diamonds bathed in oil.

Heather Thomas received her telegram on the set of “The Fall Guy”. She had just finished filming yet another scene in which she was required to prance around in a bikini; glorified window dressing for the popular television show. She had entered her trailer and collapsed onto the sofa, when she spotted the envelope on the dressing table. She lifted herself from the cushions, sat down at the table and slit open the envelope. Inside was a thin sheet of paper. The writing was spidery, but elegant. Her hands trembled, as she read the letter:
“Your interest in our competition is greatly appreciated. We are honored by your desire to participate, and are very pleased to accept your request. Please arrive at the Villa Minerva no later than eight o’clock on Friday night, a week from today. Present this letter upon arrival. If you are successful in your venture, you will receive a five-year studio contract, with the guarantee of star billing. Good luck. Sincerely, Mr. Anton Davi.”
Heather dropped the letter. Her heart pounded. The sweat on her skin cooled. She sat motionless for a moment, trying to bring her emotions under control. The opportunity for which she had waited over a year had finally arrived.
Heather had learned of Mr. Davi’s competition from a stuntwoman on the set. Mona had told her that it was one of the deepest secrets in Hollywood. No one was allowed to discuss what happened in the special room at the Villa Minerva. Mona had learned of it from an unnamed celebrity she had trained for the event.
“What kind of competition is it,” Heather had asked.
Mona had leaned close to Heather. “Can you fight?”
It had been years since the blonde had been in a physical confrontation, but she would not admit the fact. “Of course, I can. I do perform most of my own stunts.”
“These fights aren’t stunts. If you get in, you’ll have to fight another woman. Can you handle that?”
“What does the winner get?”
The answer had been all Heather had needed to hear. Finally, she would be famous for something other than her body. She would be able to prove herself as an actress.
Heather relaxed on the couch, not bothering to change out of her bikini. Her next scene would be in a few minutes, and she would have to be on display again. She was not ashamed of her body. She worked hard to keep herself in shape. She pushed away thoughts of physical combat. How hard could it possibly be? No matter how powerful Mr. Davi was, he wouldn’t risk serious injury to a celebrity in his home.
As Heather let her muscles loosen, she planned out the coming week. She would spend every spare moment in the gym. She usually worked out three times a week, but this would require some extra effort. As far as actual fight training, she didn’t think it would be necessary. Some of her stunts required her to simulate fight scenes. Heather was confident she could handle herself in any situation. The reward for victory was worth any discomfort she might have to suffer.

Joan Collins relaxed by an enormous marble pool. She lay on a lounge chair, clad in a leopard skin-patterned swimsuit. Polarized sunglasses shielded her eyes from the noon sun. She was at the home of George Hamilton, whom she was currently seeing. George was away, filming an episode of “Matlock”.
Joan was experiencing a drought in her film career. Once the British bombshell of the sixties, she was now relegated to the successful nighttime soap opera, “Dynasty”. She had invested her money wisely over the years, and so was able to live comfortably. Still, she missed the nights when she would walk the red carpet at a lavish studio premier, on the arm of some handsome, wealthy and preferably dense celebrity. Joan was in her forties, but was still a ravishing beauty. She exercised regularly, and her body was still as supple and tone as a woman half her age.
Joan’s reverie was disturbed when the butler approached, carrying an envelope.
“Miss Collins, there is a telegram for you.”
Joan silently held out her hand. The butler gave her the envelope, and then withdrew into the mansion.
Joan rested her sunglasses on top of her head. With one perfectly manicured forefinger, she slit open the envelope and removed the telegram. It was written in the same elegant hand as Heather’s message, and the words were identical.
Joan read it twice, then tossed it aside and lowered her sunglasses. Her skin tingled with excitement.
It had not been difficult for Joan to learn of Mr. Davi’s competition. Despite the Romanian’s power, there was one thing he could not control in Los Angeles: gossip.
Renewal of her film career was not Joan’s only desire. She was a woman who enjoyed varied passions, within the limits of Hollywood gossip. She had experienced virtually everything within her power. Physical combat, though, was something entirely different.
Joan had been married several times. On occasion she had been forced to defend herself against violent men. In most of these altercations, she had come out on the losing end. One of her deepest desires was to enjoy the feeling of having total physical control over another person. She wanted the power to inflict pain or pleasure, as she chose.
Joan sauntered into the mansion, sat down at the study table, and wrote out her reply. Of course, she would accept the invitation. Perhaps her opponent would be someone who fancied herself stronger. That would add to the thrill, and her enjoyment.

On Friday night, the Villa Minerva was ablaze with lights. The guests’ cars, an assortment of Rolls Royce’s, Ferrari’s, Bentley’s and other royal transportation, were parked in a neat line in the crushed marble parking lot beside the mansion.
Heather Thomas arrived first. She drove her custom-restored, fire engine red 1969 Ford Mustang convertible. The top was down and her golden blonde hair whipped behind her, flowing over the back of her seat. She parked at the bottom of the front steps, got out, and looked up at the imposing dwelling. She was dressed in skin-tight jeans, cowboy boots and a red tank top. She had no idea how she would have to dress for the fight, and had decided on footwear that might give her an advantage.
An immaculately dressed Butler descended the steps. “Miss Thomas?”
“That’s me.”
He held out his hand. “Your invitation, please?”
Heather took the envelope from her back pocket, and handed it to the Butler. He read the note closely, and then nodded.
“If you will follow me, Miss Thomas, I will show you to your dressing room.”
Heather followed the Butler up the immense marble stairs. She could not help but stare in awe at the mansion, with all its’ reminders of ancient Rome. Massive marble columns supported the portico. Large bronze pillars held blazing candles, whose flames fluttered in the night breeze. The sounds of laughter and tinkling glasses drifted out to meet her.
The foyer was as large as Heather’s home. Across the room, she saw groups of tuxedoed men and women in revealing night dresses in the ballroom. Light classical music flowed from the open doorway.
With some regret, Heather followed the Butler down a high-ceilinged passageway to the right of the foyer. The walls were paneled in a dark mahogany that seemed to glow from the light of discrete lamps. Paintings by Goya, Rembrandt and Pollock were hung on the walls. There were two elevator doors at the end of the hall. One was open.
“Please step in, Miss Thomas. This will take you to your dressing room.” The Butler turned to leave.
“Wait a minute. Who am I fighting? When do we start? What am I supposed to wear?”
“All of your questions will be answered in your dressing room, Miss Thomas.”
The Butler retreated down the hall. Heather’s nerves were singing. What the hell have I gotten myself into, she thought. I can’t back out now. I’ve got to see this through, one way or another.
Heather stepped into the elevator. Before she could look for a button to push, the doors closed and the elevator rose to the Villa’s top floor.

Minutes after Heather’s arrival, a Cadillac limousine rolled up the gravel drive, and gently halted at the bottom of the steps. The driver got out, rushed around the long vehicle and opened one of the rear doors. Joan Collins uncoiled from the car, and looked up at the Villa Minerva. She wore a floor-length mink coat, and her raven hair was bound in a tight bun. The coat was slightly open, revealing a gold sequined dress.
The Butler came to her. “Miss Collins, it is always a pleasure to see you.”
Joan smiled demurely. “Thank you, Preston. I believe I am to be part of the evening’s main attraction.” She had been to the Villa before, on social occasions.
The Butler held out his hand. “Your invitation, please, Miss Collins?”
Joan withdrew the envelope from the folds of her fur coat. The Butler read the contents.
“Follow me, Miss Collins.”
Joan flowed up the stairs, her coat slipping across the marble steps. They paused in the foyer, and Joan looked across into the ballroom.
“I recognize most of them, Preston. Won’t they be surprised, when they see me!”
“This way, Miss Collins.”
Joan followed the Butler down the same hall Heather had walked not five minutes before. At the end of the hall, the second elevator door was open.
“If you will enter, Miss Collins, you will be taken to your dressing room.”
“I assume there will be instructions concerning my role in the evening’s entertainment?”
“Yes, Miss Collins.”
“Thank you, Preston. You might ask Mr. Davi if you can watch. It should be fun.” With a sly smile, Joan entered the elevator and was lifted to the top floor.

Heather was not sure what to expect, when the elevator door opened. She thought there might be something close to a gym locker room, with a bench, locker and stacks of towels. She was startled to see an elegant dressing room similar to those on the better television shows. She stepped into the room. The elevator door closed behind her.
The floor was carpeted in thick red shag. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany. A painting hung on one wall, depicting gladiatorial combat in a Roman arena. A door was set into the wall opposite the elevator, with a recessed light over the door. Against the far wall was a dressing table and mirror. Next to the elevator were sliding closet doors and an open doorway leading to a small shower. An envelope lay on the table.
An icy ball formed in the pit of Heather’s stomach. She sat down at the dressing table, opened the envelope and removed a thin sheet of paper. The elegant handwriting was the same as that on her invitation. Heather read the lines, and a sudden wave of nausea swept through her.
“My dear Miss Thomas, I thank you for accepting my invitation to compete in the evening’s challenge. This will be a contest of physical strength and will. There are no rules. You and your opponent may make of this battle whatever you wish; wrestling, fist fight or catfight.”
Heather stopped reading. No rules. How could that be possible? She hadn’t been asked to sign a waiver of liability. What would happen if she were injured?
“Your opponent will be Joan Collins.”
Heather’s heart froze. She took a deep breath. My God, I’m going to fight Joan Collins! The thought was staggering. Collins was an international celebrity, star of “Dynasty”. She had to be in her forties. Heather couldn’t imagine striking her, let alone trying to beat her in a fight. She swallowed hard.
“You are required to wear a two-piece swimsuit. There is a fine selection in the closet. You will not be allowed to wear footwear of any kind. There is make-up on the dressing table, if you wish to use it. There is no time limit to this fight. Combat will end under than one of two circumstances. In the first, either you or Miss Collins will no longer be able to continue, in which case the woman still standing will be declared the victor. In the second case, either you or Miss Collins will verbally submit, declaring that you no longer wish to continue. In this case, the woman forcing the submission will be declared the victor. If you are victorious, you will be presented with an exclusive five-year contract with the film studio, with star billing in all features. When the red light over the dressing room door comes on, you will step through into the Combat Area. Good luck, Miss Thomas.”
Heather dropped the paper on the table, and sat back. She was breathing faster, and her heart rate had accelerated. She was sweating. She stood and opened the closet doors. At least a dozen different bikinis hung inside. They were of every shade and style. Heather was stunned. I’ve got to fight Joan Collins in a bikini? I should leave this madhouse, she thought.
The possibility of a five-picture film deal, and the chance to show that she was not just a voluptuous body with blonde hair, was irresistible. Besides, she thought, Collins is twice my age. How tough can she be?

Joan entered her dressing room, removed her fur coat and casually tossed it onto the chair. She opened the envelope, and read the message. Heather Thomas? Her name was familiar. She might be on one of those action TV shows. The identity of her opponent was irrelevant to her.
Joan opened the closet door, and scanned the assortment of bikinis. Her heart beat faster. She was alive with anticipation. Physical combat in a bikini! Nearly every portion of her, and her opponent’s, body would be exposed to punishment. With no rules, the brunette would have the pleasure of doing to Miss Thomas whatever she wanted. She could torture a particular area, or simply attack her entire body, reducing her ability to resist.
Equally exciting to Joan was the inevitability that she would receive pain. The brunette was a bit of a masochist. She received an inexplicable sexual pleasure from the sting of pain on her bare flesh. Joan had visited some of the more risqué nightclubs in Los Angeles, and had searched out such places in Europe and Asia.
Joan ran her fingers over the bikini material, carefully examining each one. She finally selected one made of tan suede. It was the smallest in the closet. She smiled. Her gorgeous body would be on full display to Mr. Davi and his guests. It would also expose the greatest amount of her flesh. She could almost feel the touch of skin against skin, slick with sweat, muscles bulging; the sting of slaps and fingernails. She felt a strong tingling between her legs. Joan stripped off her dress. She stood naked in the middle of the dressing room, wondering if Mr. Davi might have hidden cameras. She applied a bit of eye shadow and lipstick, before putting on the bikini.

Heather stood in front of the dressing mirror, checking the fit of her swimsuit. She had chosen an orange bikini with black straps. It was the only color she had not yet worn on television, or in pin-ups. It was small and tight, but comfortable.
As she looked at her body, she thought of what it would feel like to be struck with force. Surely, someone like Joan Collins wouldn’t resort to punches and kicks. This will probably be a catfight, she thought: lots of hair pulling and slapping. Heather shivered, and looked at the elevator door. The idea of leaving quickly came and went. She was determined to either defeat Joan, or be carried out.
She was stretching her legs and twisting her torso, when the red light came on over the door. The ball of ice in the pit of Heather’s stomach exploded, sending icy tendrils through her body. With shaking hands, she opened the door and stepped out of the dressing room.

Joan was admiring her figure in the mirror, when the red light came on. She was glad she had chosen the suede bikini. The material felt good against her skin. Her nipples were as hard as pebbles, and pressed against the suede. She thought of what she would do to Heather. She had already decided to concentrate on her stomach. It would be her most exposed area and, once her wind was gone, she would be helpless. The brunette had no intention of simply defeating Thomas. She wanted to make her beg for mercy. The moment of pleading might be a greater reward than all of the film contracts in Hollywood.
Joan stretched her fingers, shook her arms, and left the dressing room.

Mr. And Mrs. Davi, and their guests, filed into the Seating Area. Mr. Davi took his place on the throne, with Mrs. Davi beside him. His guests all held drinks. Since completion of the Chamber, they had witnessed fifteen fights. Each one was different. The longest had lasted nearly an hour. When it was over, both victor and vanquished had been carried from the room. In the shortest bout, one of the ladies had become so terrified by her surroundings that she had submitted to her opponent after only a few blows. This was part of the excitement of combat. The audience never knew what they were going to witness.

Heather Thomas and Joan Collins entered the Combat Area almost at the same moment. Heather immediately backed away from Joan, and assumed a defensive posture. Joan sauntered to the middle of the room, placed her hands on her hips and waited, smiling slightly. Heather stood near the wall, bent over, arms extended. The oak floor was warm against the soles of her feet. Their eyes locked. Each examined the other, looking for strengths and weaknesses.
Heather saw a woman who was in remarkably good condition for her age. The suede bikini was of such a light shade of tan that the brunette almost looked nude. There was no obvious muscle tone. Her skin was lightly tanned. Her curly black hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Her abdomen was smooth and concave, with a hint of love handles. The bikini top barely contained her ample breasts. She wore black eye shadow, giving her a penetrating gaze. She did not appear afraid or nervous.
Joan saw a young, voluptuous blonde who was clearly in excellent physical condition. Her breasts were smaller than Joan’s. Her stomach was flat, with the hint of a washboard. I wonder how many times I’ll have to strike her belly before she softens up, Joan wondered. Her biceps, triceps and thigh muscles were toned. Her tan was deeper than Joan’s. Her eyes were a piercing blue. There’s no intensity there, Joan thought. She could see her fear. The brunette knew that she would win, but she didn’t know how long it would take, or how much pain she would have to endure. Heather’s long blonde hair was loose, and flowed over her shoulders. The sweat of fear was already forming on her sleek body.
There was an audible click in the room. Joan and Heather looked up at the criss-cross of bright ceiling lights. It was a hidden loudspeaker.
“Miss Thomas, Miss Collins.” It was the sonorous voice of Mr. Davi. “You may begin.”
Heather whirled around, her body stiff, her muscles as tight as coiled springs. Hands still on her hips, Joan turned to Heather. She was still smiling.
“This isn’t a wrestling match, you silly bitch,” Joan purred in her elegant English accent.
Heather began circling Joan, her arms extended and her hands open. Her eyes were locked on Joan, waiting for her slightest movement.
“You won’t last long, Collins. You’re too old for this.”
Joan was motionless. After circling her twice, Heather stopped. She lowered her arms slightly, and stood straighter.
“What are you waiting for,” Heather asked, in her husky voice.
“The right moment,” Joan answered. Imperceptibly, she inched closer to Heather. The blonde didn’t notice.
Heather chuckled, her confidence building. The Englishwoman must be going senile, she thought. This will be easier than I thought. “When is the right moment, Joan?”
Joan stopped smiling. “I think, now.” Her right arm shot out with surprising speed, and she slapped Heather across the face. The sound was like a gunshot in the confined space.
Heather’s head snapped to the side, and she staggered back. She put a hand to her reddening cheek. The sting was already dulling, but there was a slight ringing in her ears. The sudden blow stunned her, and she was unable to react.
Joan didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Heather by the hair, digging in her fingernails and gouging the blonde’s scalp.
“Owww,” Heather squealed, as Joan pulled her to the center of the room. She began yanking Heather back and forth by the hair. Thomas’ head was jerked from side to side, and her body twisted. She felt like a thousand needles were being stabbed into her scalp.
With a final tug, Joan released her. She slammed against the padded wall face first, and dropped to her knees. The padding did not lessen the pain of hard impact.
Heather rested on her knees, holding her head. Joan grabbed her by the hair again, and pulled. The pain in her scalp forced Heather reluctantly to her feet.
Joan pushed her against the wall. Before she could raise her hands, Joan drove three quick, powerful punches into the blonde’s belly. Her knuckles struck Thomas directly on the navel. Joan even extended the knuckle of her middle finger, making sure to dig it in deep.
Heather grunted with each blow, the breath forced from her lungs. After the last punch, she slid to the floor and sat against the wall, her legs spread. She covered her stomach, and tried to cope with the new and fierce churning in her abdomen.
Joan kicked out, and struck the defenseless blonde between the legs.
“Ahhhh!” Heather’s scream tore through the room. She rolled over and curled into a tight ball. Her crotch exploded with agony, mixing with the throbbing in her mid-section.
Unrelenting, Joan bent down, grabbed one of Heather’s legs and dragged her to the center of the room. Thomas yelped, as the friction of sliding across polished oak burned her back.
Joan released her ankle, and stomped down on her heaving stomach.
“Ouff,” Heather grunted, as she was slammed against the floor.
The vicious brunette stomped on Heather’s stomach three more times, before backing away. The blonde rolled on to her side, her arms wrapped around her torso. The pain was worse than anything she had ever experienced. It spread out from her belly and crotch, touching every nerve in her body. She coughed violently, desperately trying to fill her empty lungs.
Joan felt the tingling between her legs increase, as she watched Heather writhe on the floor. The fight was only a few minutes old, and she had already reduced her younger opponent to a quivering mass. The blonde was at her mercy.
Out of the corner of her tear-clouded eyes Heather saw Joan advancing on her again. She panicked and scrambled backwards, trying to escape her merciless attacker. The padded wall stopped her. Joan dropped to her knees beside her, and slapped her hand across the bare and reddening skin of Heather’s belly. She flexed her fingers, and squeezed Heather’s flesh. The stomach claw brought immediate, and excruciating, agony. She felt like her abdominal muscles were being ripped out. Joan squeezed harder. The blonde screamed, and thrashed her head from side to side.
Joan smiled with malicious delight, as she squeezed the flesh of Heather’s belly. Every piercing scream increased the tingling between her legs. She was afraid she might have an orgasm before the fight ended.
Heather was approaching unconsciousness. The pain in her stomach was more than she could bear. In a reflex action she swung her right arm around and, by chance, struck Joan on the side of the head.
The blow stunned Joan, and was enough to make her release the claw hold and fall back.
Heather crawled away, covering her mangled stomach with one hand. Joan’s fingerprints surrounded her navel in a red ring.
Joan quickly recovered from the surprise blow. She stood, and stalked after her opponent.
Heather saw her coming. In the small part of her brain not drowning in pain she realized that if she didn’t try to fight back soon, Joan would destroy her. She now knew the brunette didn’t want to simply defeat her. She sensed that Collins was enjoying the suffering she was inflicting.
The sudden realization energized Heather’s will to fight. She had learned a little karate on the set of “The Fall Guy”. She was no martial artist, but it might give her some advantage.
As Joan advanced, Thomas spotted her opening. The brunette did not even bother to defend herself. Her arms hung loose at her side. She was almost strutting.
Heather was on her back, one hand still covering her throbbing stomach. When Joan was within a few feet, the blonde lashed out with her right leg. Her foot struck Joan’s left leg behind the thigh.
Joan screamed, and crumpled to the floor. She grabbed at the back of her leg, and kneaded the burning thigh muscle.
Heather lurched to her knees, crawled to her wounded opponent, and fell on her. She was like a caged animal loosed from bondage. She tore into Joan, her hands flying, striking Collins at every vulnerable spot. She dragged her fingernails across the brunette’s chest, bringing up red welts. She slapped Joan, knocking her head from side to side. Joan grunted with each blow, unable to control her wild foe. Heather fired punch after punch into Joan’s soft mid-section, trying to inflict the same pain she was enduring.
Heather’s furious attack lasted for only a few minutes. When she was finally exhausted, she crawled away. She rested on her legs and caught her breath, then looked over at her enemy.
Joan was on her side, moaning. Her hands went from her chest to her stomach to her head. All three regions pulsated. Her thoughts were scrambled, and her plans were in a shambles.
Heather crawled to the wall, and used it to pull herself up. Her stomach was throbbing, but she was able to ignore it. She had finally been able to even the fight.
Joan got to her hands and knees. She slowly shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Heather charged away from the wall, and leveled a kick that caught her under the chin.
“Unghhh!” Joan’s head snapped back, and she fell over onto her back.
Heather dropped to her knees at her head. She dug her fingers into the raven locks, and jerked her head back and forth as hard as she could. Joan shouted. She felt like her head was being pulled from her neck.
Heather ended her attack by punching her in the face. The blow struck her on the right cheek, just below the eye.
“Uhhh!” Joan’s head struck the floor. She was stunned, and lay motionless on her back.
Heather was gasping. The fight had only been going on for about ten minutes, but for her it felt like ten hours. The pain in her abdomen was like a living organism, occasionally sending out feelers to her wounded groin.
Joan had still not moved. There was a persistent ringing in her ears. Her scalp was hypersensitive, and her face and stomach throbbed. I’ve underestimated her, she thought, as she slowly recovered.

Mr. Davi took a sip of wine, and pressed a button on the arm of his throne. The temperature in the Combat Area began to rise, until it reached eighty-five degrees.

Both women felt the increase in temperature. Sweat sprang out on their skin, and ran in rivulets down their bodies.
Heather backed up until she bumped into the padded wall. She crouched and held out her arms, ready to defend herself.
Joan slowly rose to her feet. She stood for a moment on unsteady legs, and then backed away from Heather until she reached a wall.
“So, the little blonde bitch has a little fight in her,” Joan purred.
“I’ve got more waiting for you, cow! Come and get it!”
Joan strolled away from the wall. Heather stepped out to meet her. The brunette stalked around the room, stopping in front of the two-way mirror. Smiling seductively at the audience she knew was on the other side of the glass, she adjusted her bikini top. She continued circling the room, until she was within a few feet of Heather. The blonde stepped toward her. Joan walked to the middle of the room and faced Heather, hands on hips.
“I’d like to see what you’re really made of, Miss Thomas,” Joan said, the words sliding off her tongue like slick poison.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re young and strong, Miss Thomas. Despite my already clear example, I’m sure you still believe I’m an aging star whom you will eventually defeat.”
Heather nodded grimly. “You’re damn right, honey.”
“How about a little test of strength?” She spread her legs, and raised her open hands over her head.
Heather rubbed her hand across her throbbing stomach, unsure of what to do.
“Of course, you could admit that a woman twice your age is stronger than you,” Joan purred.
Heather slowly approached Joan. Her determination grew with each second. This was the chance she had waited for, and the arrogant brunette was handing it to her. Once she got Collins on her knees, she would not let up until Collins submitted.
“You’re on,” Heather said. She rubbed her hands together, then raised her arms and slapped her palms against Joan’s. Their fingers interlocked, and the contest began.
Heather’s biceps flexed. Her stomach muscles tightened, causing immediate pain. Her teeth clenched. Beads of sweat ran down her face. Every muscle in her body corded as tight as thickly braided rope.
Joan knew she was no match for Heather. She only wanted to draw the game out long enough to convince the blonde she had the advantage. She gritted her teeth, and squeezed her eyes shut. Her smaller biceps swelled. She applied a small amount of strength, then allowed herself to be bent backwards.
Heather glared down at her opponent, as she pressed her backwards. She felt exhilarated, as Collins was slowly forced to the floor. For the first time in the fight, she was in control. She began planning what she would do, once Joan was on her knees.
Joan suddenly straightened up. Heather was startled, and froze. By the time she realized what was about to happen, it was too late to defend herself.
Joan’s right leg shot out with blinding speed. Her foot connected squarely with Thomas’ groin. Joan sacrificed power for accuracy. She pointed her toes, and drove her foot up between the blonde’s legs.
“Owwwww!” Heather’s scream of pain echoed around the room. There was an explosion of agony between her legs. She dropped to her knees. Joan launched another violent kick at her crotch, this time with all of her strength.
Heather made a squeaking sound. Her face went pale, and drew tight in a mask of anguish. Her muscles went slack. Only Joan’s grip on her hands prevented her from crumpling to the floor.
Joan chuckled. “You stupid little bitch! We’re going to have a lot of fun, before I make you submit.”
Heather whimpered like a child, as Joan pulled her up. When she was on rubbery legs, Joan released her hands, and immediately grabbed her by the hair. She charged toward the nearest wall, pulling Heather with her. At the last second she pushed Thomas’ head forward, and slammed her face-first into the padded wall.
“Unghhh!” Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she started to fall. Joan kept her grip on Heather’s hair, and forced her back up. She was barely conscious, and didn’t resist as Joan charged back across the room and smashed her head into the opposite wall. This time she let go, and Thomas slid to the floor. She landed on her butt, and then tipped over onto her side.
Joan nestled her foot under Heather’s waist, and turned her onto her back. The brunette stomped the heel of her foot over and over onto Heather’s devastated belly. She grunted weakly, and her back slammed against the floor with each blow. Joan’s last stomp was directly between Heather’s legs. Thomas let out a weak whine, and then lay still.
Joan stepped back to catch her breath. Heather’s eyelids fluttered, and she let out a low, agonized moan. One hand covered her tortured belly, and the other went to her destroyed crotch. She closed her legs. The blonde was utterly defenseless.
Joan bent down, grabbed Heather’s hands, and dragged her across the floor to the two-way mirror. She sobbed, as the oak floor burned her skin.
Collins turned Heather over, and untied her bikini top. She tossed it aside, and then pulled Thomas up by the hair. Her muscles flexed, as she lifted the semi-conscious blonde. Her glistening breasts hung loose. She held Heather on her feet, in front of the reflective wall.
Joan looked at their reflection. The contrast was startling. The Englishwoman was lightly marked with a few bruises and a blackening eye. Heather’s stomach was covered with bruises. There were red marks on her face. Her hair was a sweat-soaked, tangled mess. It took all of Joan’s strength to keep Thomas standing.
Joan pinched one of her nipples. She let out a small moan. The brunette squeezed Heather’s breast. The blonde slowly shook her head. “No…no…” The words were a hoarse whisper. Joan led her back to the middle of the room.
Heather suddenly rammed her elbow into Joan’s mid-section.
“Oufff!” The blow caused her to release her grip on Heather. She staggered back a few steps, and covered her stomach.
It had been a weak blow, but it was all Heather could muster. She was recovering from moment to moment, and the pain in her stomach and crotch was growing. Unaware that she was now topless, she charged at Joan, growling with a mixture of anger and agony.
Before she could raise her arms in defense, Joan caught a swinging blow to the jaw. “Unghhh!” Joan’s head whipped to the side.
Heather pushed her against the wall. Pressing her forearm against Joan’s chest, she drove three powerful punches into her lower stomach. Collins grunted with each blow, as her lungs were emptied.
“How does it feel,” Heather snarled, as she lifted her knee up into Joan’s crotch.
The brunette let out a tortured cry, and dropped to her knees. Her crotch was in flames, and her belly throbbed.
Heather grabbed a handful of curly black hair, and lifted Joan’s head. She looked up with glazed eyes. Thomas brought her knee up again, this time connecting with the point of Joan’s chin.
Her head snapped back, and slammed into the padded wall. She tumbled over onto her side, and groaned.
Heather finally realized she was missing her bikini top. She knelt down, and tore away Joan’s top. The brunette’s soft, pendulous breasts bounced free, nipples hard as stones. Heather grabbed one breast in each hand, and squeezed as hard as she could.
“Owwwww!” Joan sat up, as pain exploded in her chest. She clenched her hands at her sides, and threw her head back. Her back arched, as agony coursed through her body. The pain sapped her strength, and her will to resist. She wanted to scream her submission, but refused to speak the words.
With a final vicious squeeze, Heather released her grip. Joan fell onto her back, bumping her head against the floor. There were red handprints on each of her breasts. She wept, and slowly her head.
Heather crawled away from her opponent. She shook her hands, to work out the stiffness. After a few seconds, she returned to Joan. She cocked her fist to fire a punch at her face. The brunette’s hand shot out, and she raked her nails across Heather’s eyes.
“Owww!” Heather scrambled backwards, and rubbed frantically at her eyes. The pain was intense, but the sudden blindness was worse. She could only see blurry, unrecognizable images.
Joan crawled toward Thomas. Approaching her from the rear, she raked her fingernails down the blonde’s bare back, digging in her nails as deeply as she could.
“Ahhhh!” Heather arched her back. Joan left five long red streaks down her back. Before she could recover, Joan drove a punch into her back, over the kidney. Heather grunted, and fell onto her side. Her back pulsated as though she had been stabbed. She reached back, trying to rub the spot.
Joan grabbed her arm as it came back, and fired a punch at the blonde’s bicep. Heather screamed and rolled onto her back, holding her limp right arm.
Joan laid her open palm over Thomas’ crotch. With a snarl, she squeezed.
“Ahhhhh!” The agony of the crotch claw overwhelmed Heather. It was paralyzing. She couldn’t move. She felt like the brunette was holding a blowtorch to her groin.
Joan released her grip after a few seconds and pressed down on Thomas, using the blonde’s body to stand. She strutted down to Heather’s head, and kicked her in the temple.
“Unghhhh!” Heather’s head slammed against the oak floor. Joan knelt beside her, and dragged her fingernails down her chest, starting at her neck and stopping at her navel. She left deep scratches across Thomas’ breasts.
Heather screamed, and sat up. Almost by reflex, she swung her fist and struck Joan on the side of the head.
Joan grunted, and fell onto her back. Heather crawled away from her, unaware that she was moving toward the two-way mirror. When she reached it, she slowly pulled herself onto her feet. She leaned against the glass with one hand, gasping for breath. She looked down at her torso, and saw small droplets of blood outlining the path of Collins’ fingernails.

The guests sat in rapt attention, staring at the battle-ravaged but still-gorgeous woman on the other side of the glass. Mr. Davi took a sip of his wine. The ice tinkled in the glass. Mrs. Davi shifted her position slightly, and crossed her legs.

There was a pause in the battle. Both women had suffered greatly to this point. The battle had lasted almost thirty minutes, and the combatants showed the effects of every minute.
Joan lay on her back. Her chest rose and fell. Her eyes were closed. One hand lay across her full breasts. Her right eye had blackened, and was swelling. She bore red scratches on her breasts and abdomen.
Heather was in far worse condition. Her body was covered with red splotches, scratches and bruises. Her hair was soaked, and hung heavily down her back. Her battered body shone with sweat. Her free hand covered her tortured belly. Every breath she took sent pangs of agony knifing through her body. Her hand moved from her stomach to her crotch, and then quickly withdrew. She could not touch this mangled area without causing an immediate stab of pain.
Heather was the first to regain her strength enough to resume the battle. She crossed the room. Joan had not moved. She grabbed her by the ankle, and dragged her to the middle of the room. She raised Joan’s leg, and stomped her heel into her thigh.
“Owwww!” The pain was excruciating. She tried to free her leg, but Heather kept a firm grip. She kicked Joan again, in the same spot. The brunette let out an ear-splitting scream. The blonde bent down, and raked her fingernails across Joan’s thigh. This time the searing pain was too much, and Joan jerked her leg free. She clutched her thigh. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I’m not done yet,” Heather growled. She reached down, and pulled up Joan’s wounded leg.
The brunette looked up at her, and shook her head. “Please, no more!”
“Are you giving up?”
Joan swallowed the words before they could escape her lips. She snarled, “If I get my hands on you again, I’ll tear you apart!”
Heather stomped her foot down on Joan’s wounded thigh muscle four more times. Joan screamed with each blow. When the blonde finally stopped, she threw the leg down, slamming it against the oak floor. Joan writhed on the floor, trying to move her leg into some position that didn’t hurt.
Heather looked down at the battered Englishwoman, and relished her agony. She nudged Joan onto her back, and then knelt down beside her. She scraped her nails across her chest, digging into the brunette’s soft breasts. Joan howled, and tried to turn away. Heather slammed her hand down on her crotch, applied a claw hold. She squeezed her fingers as hard as she could, trying to penetrate the suede bikini bottom with her nails.
“Ahhhhh!” Joan sat up and grabbed at Heather’s hands, trying to pull them away. Heather continued to squeeze until her fingers began to go numb. She finally released the hold, then clenched her fist and smashed it into Joan’s devastated crotch. The brunette convulsed, and she rolled away from her tormentor.
Heather spotted her orange bikini top on the floor near Joan’s writhing body. She strode toward it, confident that the battle was near the end. When she was finished, the top would be wrapped around Joan’s neck and the brunette would be unconscious at her feet.
Through tear-stained eyes, Joan saw Heather approaching. She waited until the blonde was beside her, and then fired a punch that connected with the blonde’s leg behind the knee.
It was not a damaging blow, but a reflex caused Heather’s leg to crumple under her. She dropped awkwardly, slamming her knee against the floor. Lightning lanced up her leg. She immediately realized her leg was seriously injured. She tried to stand, but the pain instantly knifed into her knee and she dropped down again.
Joan punched her hard in the side of the head.
“Unghhhh!” Heather toppled onto her side. There was a terrible ringing in her ears. She felt dizzy, and was afraid to move. It had been Joan’s most vicious blow of the evening.
With her opponent momentarily incapacitated, Joan gathered her strength and tried to stand. The pain that lanced through her wounded leg fueled her fury. She looked down at the dazed blonde, then put her hands on her heaving torso and pressed down as hard as she could. Heather gagged, as her breath was cut off. Joan used the blonde’s body to force herself to her feet. She kicked Heather in the side of the head. Thomas grunted. Her eyes rolled back, and she lapsed into semi-consciousness.
Joan limped past Heather, to the orange bikini top. With a grimace, she bent down and snagged it. Tucking it in her bikini bottom, she returned to Heather. The next part would be more difficult.
Joan reach down, and grabbed a handful of Heather’s matted hair. Clenching her teeth, she slowly dragged the senseless blonde to the nearest wall. She released her, and the blonde fell back against the padding.
Joan kicked out with her uninjured leg, her foot smashing into Heather’s tortured crotch. The blonde awakened with a scream. She tried to scramble away, but Joan blocked her path. Panicked, and in agony, Heather reached back and used the padding to pull herself up. She had to get away from her tormentor.
Heather was startled to see Joan smile. The brunette suddenly ducked forward, and slammed her forehead into Heather’s. The sound of two skulls impacting was audible in the room. Heather made no sound. Her eyes went wide for a moment, and then closed slightly. She started to slide down to the floor.
Joan fought to regain her senses. She grabbed hold of Heather’s hair and kept her on her feet. They stood motionless for a moment, the blonde barely conscious and the brunette fighting hard to maintain her balance. After several seconds Joan shook her head, and was steady enough to continue.
She put Heather’s bikini top in her mouth, and gently turned her to face the wall. She tied Heather’s hands tightly behind her back with the top, and then turned her back around.
Joan limped back a step, and examined her victim. Heather was absolutely helpless. Her sweat-slick body showed the ravages of combat. There were few parts of her skin not marked by scratches and bruises. Her damp, tangled hair hung over her face. Her chest slowly rose and fell.
Joan moved to within inches of Heather. She gently brushed the hair from her face. Thomas’ eyelids fluttered, and she groaned. Joan lightly tapped her on the cheek. She moaned again, louder this time. Joan slapped her. Heather’s eyes slowly opened. As her sight slowly cleared, she recognized Joan standing in front of her. She tried to bring her arms up, and realized that they were tied behind her back. Her eyes widened in fear. Joan smiled.
“Wakey, wakey, honey,” she purred. She lightly ran her hand down Heather’s torso, pausing on her breasts. She cupped them, then bent forward and kissed each one. She could taste the salt of sweat on her tongue. The flesh quivered. Joan’s exploring hand continued down her body. Her finger toyed with Heather’s navel, then came to rest on her lower belly just above the waistband of her bikini bottom.
“Under ordinary circumstances we might be able to enjoy each other, Miss Thomas.” Joan put her hand behind her back, and clenched it into a tight fist. “Unfortunately I have to win this match, and the only way I can do that is to crush you. Sorry, bitch.”
Joan swung her fist, driving a right hook up into Heather’s stomach.
“Oufffff!” The air in Heather’s lungs exploded from her mouth. A blast of pain ignited in her mangled belly. Her upper body jerked forward, and she started to fall. Joan grabbed her by the hair, and forced her up.
She swung another devastating uppercut, smashing into Heather’s soft, curved lower belly.
“Unghhhhh!” This blow was worse than the first. The torment radiated out from her stomach, reaching down into her throbbing groin.
Joan slapped her open hand against Heather’s right breast. The blonde screamed. The Englishwoman viciously slapped the sides of her breasts, which shook like punching bags. When Joan finally relented, Heather’s breasts were beet-red and she was sobbing uncontrollably.
Joan drove three more punches into her stomach, in the middle of her belly over her navel. After each blow Joan left her fist buried in Heather’s destroyed mid-section for a second, grinding her knuckles into the blonde’s flesh.
Heather was beyond pain. The only thing she could think of was ending the torture. If she had possessed any air in her lungs, she would have screamed her submission loudly enough to shatter the two-way mirror. Tears streamed down her face, and dropped onto her breasts.
Joan knew the fight was over. Heather could not recover from this beating. For good measure, she grabbed Thomas by the waist and rammed her knee up into her belly twice. She grunted weakly with each blow. To finish her off, Joan brought the point of her knee up between Heather’s legs.
The blonde’s eyes went wide. She squeaked, almost like a mouse. Her eyes closed, as the agony overwhelmed her. Joan took her hand from Heather’s shoulder. The blonde slid to the floor, and fell over. She was unconscious.
Joan bent down, and grabbed Heather by her tangled hair. Clenching her teeth, trying to fight back the searing pain in her damaged leg, she dragged Thomas to the center of the Combat Area. She released her grip, and Heather’s head thumped against the floor.
“I believe this makes me the winner,” she announced in a hoarse, gasping voice.
Joan staggered back to her dressing room, closed the door behind her and collapsed to the floor.
Heather remained on her back, in the center of the Combat Area. Her legs were spread wide. One arm was at her side, and the other rested across her body. She was motionless, except for the shuddering rise and fall of her reddened breasts.

Joan recovered quickly. Mr. Davi employed a physician on these nights. The Doctor had signed an extreme confidentiality agreement. He wrapped her leg, diagnosing a bruised thigh muscle, and applied ointments to the numerous cuts and bruises on her head and body. After bathing and dressing, she limped into the elevator.
Joan was dressed as immaculately as when she arrived. Her mink coat brushed against the marble foyer floor. Her hair was once again lustrous. A bit of carefully applied make-up hid most of the battle scars.
Mr. Davi met her at the front door, carrying a brief case. He opened it, and removed a thick stack of papers. Smiling, he handed them to her.
“This evening’s competition was truly spectacular, Miss Collins.” Mr. Davi’s Romanian accent was thick, and somehow intriguing. “We were spellbound by your physical prowess.”
Joan’s body throbbed like a sore tooth, but she maintained a regal bearing. “I hope I didn’t injure Miss Thomas too seriously,” she said with thinly-disguised sarcasm.
Mr. Davi shrugged. “Miss Thomas should have known the risks of participating in our contest. She is being attended to by my physician.”
Joan looked at the papers in Mr. Davi’s well-manicured hand. “Those are my contract papers?”
He handed them to her. “Indeed. Please sign them, and return them to my office at the studio on Monday morning. The remaining details will be arranged between your agent and my attorneys. Is that a suitable arrangement?”
Joan nodded, folded the papers without looking at them, and slipped them beneath her mink coat.
“Good evening, Miss Collins.” Mr. Davi kissed her hand.
“Thank you for the experience, Mr. Davi.” The Butler escorted Joan down the front stairs to her waiting limousine. The long, black automobile disappeared into the night.

The Doctor carried Heather back to her dressing room. A table had already been set up. He examined her battered, nearly naked body. Despite the beating she had sustained, her only serious injuries were bruised ribs. The Doctor tightly wrapped her torso, gave her an injection to relieve the pain, and then withdrew.
Heather regained consciousness an hour later. Her first sensation was almost unbearable pain. She began to weep, as she tried to get off the table. Every movement sent lightning bolts of agony shooting through her body. She limped to the dressing table, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her heart nearly stopped, when she saw her ragged body. Her breasts were bright red. Every inch of her belly was bruised. Her blonde hair was a wet, tangled mass. Both of her eyes were blackened. She gently touched her groin, and was instantly greeted with a stab of pain. Still sobbing, Heather started to dress. It took her half an hour to put on her clothes. She found a rubber band in the drawer of the dressing table, and tied her hair back in a loose ponytail. As she rode the elevator down she could only think of soaking in a hot bath for the rest of the night, and then sleeping for twelve hours. She didn’t know what she would tell the producers of “The Fall Guy”. She was supposed to be back on the set Monday, but it was obvious she would not be able to perform by then. As she walked stiffly down the hall to the foyer, she anticipated needing at least a week to recover.
Mr. Davi met Heather in the foyer. He looked at her gravely.
“How are you feeling, Miss Thomas,” he asked, his voice dripping with concern.
Heather stared at him through red eyes. “Like shit, but I’ll live.”
“I’m sorry for your defeat, Miss Thomas. You were an outstanding challenger. There were several moments when I thought you’d gotten the better of Miss Collins.”
Heather did not reply. Waves of anguish washed over her belly and groin.
“Good evening, Miss Thomas.” Mr. Davi briefly kissed her hand, and then withdrew into the Villa. Heather watched him go, and for the first time realized that she would receive nothing. She had been beaten to within an inch of her life, and would be out of work for a week. The reward for her suffering was a kiss on the hand. Heather fought back tears, as the Butler escorted her outside. He offered no assistance, as she struggled down the marble stairs. Her sports car was waiting.
Heather got behind the wheel, and looked up at the Villa Minerva. It seemed to loom over her, as though the structure would finish what Joan Collins had begun.
She drove off into the night, heading home at an excruciatingly slow speed. Every movement was like another blow to her ravaged body.

It was midnight. All of the guests had departed. Mr. And Mrs. Davi entered the Combat Area.
It was Mr. Davi’s standing order that the room never be cleaned until the day after a fight. Mr. And Mrs. Davi walked slowly across the room, inhaling the pungent smell of sweat. Mrs. Davi went to one of the padded walls, and lightly touched the padding. Her fingertips were stained red. Spattered on the walls and floor were tiny drops of blood.
“Are you satisfied, my dear,” Mr. Davi asked.
Mrs. Davi put her arms around her husband, and kissed him deeply. “It was an extraordinary battle,” she answered, her voice deep and breathy.
“And who should we invite for the next event?”
“We can discuss that later,” she replied. She took his hand, and led him to the center of the Combat Area. In moments, they were naked. Mr. And Mrs. Davi made love until dawn. The Villa Minerva, and the City of Angels, peacefully slumbered around them.

The End