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Match 6 Build-up

 
           Natalie Alyn Lind  32C              vs.             Madisyn Shipman 32B



Early Las Vegas Odds:

Natalie Alyn Lind: -285 Favorite
Madisyn Shipman: +215 Underdog

Fighter Breakdown:
 
Natalie Alyn Lind – “The Blonde Bombshell”

Age: 25
Stable: Wicked Queens
Bust Size: 32C
Strengths: Raw upper-body strength, ruthless smothers, a steely veteran of breast battles
Weaknesses: Can be overly aggressive, vulnerable to quick reversals

The curvy blonde from the Gotham and The Gifted universes is known for her unapologetically dominant energy. Natalie brings a full-contact approach to bust-off battles—she doesn't dance around her opponent, she bulldozes through them. Her 32C chest may not look over-sized compared to past Wicked Queens, but it’s weaponized with muscle, control, and a sharp killer instinct.

Natalie’s been grinding hard with Caylee Cowan and Ariel Winter, honing close-range smother techniques and power-based nipple pins. Don’t let the sweet Wicked Queen face fool you—she’s relentless when she sees an opening and has no issue making it personal.

Training Focus: “Anchor-and-crush” holds, underhook pressure control, breath-cutoff clamps

Signature Move: The Lind Lock—a double-underhook bearhug into a breast press pin

Quote from Training Camp:

“I’ve flattened bigger girls and humiliated cockier ones. Madisyn’s not ready for a real woman’s chest war. It's going to be like target practice.”



(Captioned under a video of Natalie in a revealing bikini showing off hr impressive assets.)

Madisyn Shipman – “The Pocket Rocket”

Age: 22
Stable: Wannabees
Bust Size: 32B
Strengths: Quick feet, deceptive flexibility, incredibly strong, and is bigger in person)
Weaknesses: Smaller frame, lacks experience

Known from Game Shakers, Madisyn is no stranger to being underestimated. But behind the bubbly energy and tiny frame is a vicious competitor. Her 32B chest might not have the weight of Natalie’s, but she’s built for sudden shifts—sharp spins, surprise transitions, and sneaky pokes and rakes from unorthodox angles.

She’s spent weeks sparring with Peyton List and Jenna Ortega, working on speed-based bust control and high-pressure resistance. Her ability to spring back from dominant positions and trap opponents in reverse mounts has shocked even veteran trainers.

Training Focus: “Slip-and-press” drills, surprise reversals, airborne nipple rakes

Signature Move: Ship em' in – Ship em' out  — starts with an upward, uplifting smack that jolts her opponent’s breasts skyward—followed by a savage downward slam that flattens them hard against her chest.

Quote from Training Camp:

"Natalie’s supposed to be a 32C, but when we line up in the ring, mine are every bit as big as hers. In fact, if you look closely, I think I may be bigger. You be the judge. I’ll crush the fight right out of her after I rake them raw—you’ll see." 



(Captioned under a trending TikTok of Madisyn proudly displaying her impressive cleavage.)

The Trash Talk Gets Nasty

Natalie, wearing a tight crop top, reportedly chest-bumped Madisyn at the weigh-ins and whispered, “Soft. Like a tween pillow fight.”

Madisyn didn’t say a word at the time—but later posted a Reel of her chest-training routine with the caption: “She thinks I’m soft? Let’s see how she feels when she’s under me for 5 humiliating minutes straight.”

Natalie fired back on Threads with a selfie in a sports bra, flexing hard. “32C isn’t about size. It’s about force. And mine’s gonna feel like a truck.”

The exchange hit peak tension when Madisyn posted a TikTok in slow-mo, launching herself chest-first into a dummy rig, followed by footage of her flipping off a mat with a smirk. Text overlay: “I don’t run. I ricochet. See you in the crush zone bimbo.”

Natalie leaned into the camera, smirking as she iced her cleavage. “Enter at your own risk, sweetheart. I don’t pull punches—especially not when it comes to smashing pancake t!tties like yours.”

Backstage Buzz
Caylee Cowan (Wicked Queens): “Madisyn’s gonna learn the hard way—fast and flirty doesn’t beat thick and meaty.”

Peyton List (Hellfire Girls Club): “Natalie’s tough, but trust me, Madisyn’s wild. She’s hard to pin down and impossible to break. I'll be shocked if  his makes it to the 3^rd round.”

Jenna Ortega (Wannabees): “If Nat gets overconfident, Madisyn will flip her flat. Don’t blink.”</blockquote>

Demi Rose (Wicked Queens): “We’ve built Natalie for war. She’s a beast now. Shipman’s going to drown in blonde.”

Dove Cameron (Disney Princesses): “I've fought Natalie before and she is one of  the toughest competitor's period. 2-0 Shut out, Natalie!”

Vegas Adjusts the Odds
 The line started close, but after Madisyn posted her trending TikTok the money starteed trending to the Wannabee and by the introductions it was almost even odds.

Updated Vegas Odds:

Natalie Alyn Lind: -115
Madisyn Shipman: +120

Prop Bets:
 

• First smother attempt: Natalie (-150)
• First reversal attempt: Madisyn (-120)
• Wardrobe malfunction: Even (-110)
• First submission attempt: Natalie (-125)
• Victory via full breast smother: Yes (-105)
• Post-match mount pose: Madisyn (+125)

Final Thoughts Before the Bell
It’s a clash between steel and speed. Natalie’s hardened approach and Wicked Queens training make her a very slight favorite to control the pace and press Madisyn into submission. But Madisyn’s slipperiness, cardio, and sneaky creativity could turn the tide if Natalie underestimates her even once.

The only thing guaranteed?

One of these 32 warriors is going to walk out with her pride intact.

The other’s going to be left breathless . . . flattened and crying under the weight of a superior pair.

Words from the Locker Room

Madisyn sat tall on the bench, her shoulders being loosened up by Anna Cathcart, while Mackenzie Ziegler gently pressed ice cold packs against her swelling nipples aftesr a liberal coating of peppermint oil.

“You’ve got this, Mads,” Jayden Bartels said with a smirk, standing confidently nearby. “She’s soft—and you’re just as stacked as she is.”

Madisyn gave a steady nod, her eyes locked forward with laser focus.

“Rake her raw, just like we drilled. Once you do, she’s gonna crumble—and we walk out with the win.”

Jayden stepped closer, casually removing one of the ice packs. She placed her fingertips on Madisyn’s stiffened nipples and smiled. “Natalie won’t even see it coming.”

Pre-Fight Rituals: Natalie’s Prep

Natalie finished her ice-down routine, then clasped her hands behind her back and stretched, her breasts rising high and proud.

“Want to rub on some peppermint oil?” Demi Rose asked, holding out a small bottle. “It’ll make your nipples harder and numb the sting.”

Natalie scoffed. “Why would I need that? I’m gonna crush that poser flat.”

“They won those five nipple battles because of the peppermint trick,” Demi reminded her.

“Madisyn won’t be saved by oil or luck. I’m tearing those tiny nubs right off her chest.”

“I hope so,” Demi said, eyes narrowing. “The Wannabees are a hell of a lot tougher than anyone expected and in case you forgot, they're leading right now.”

Natalie gave her a confident nod. “I’ve got this. And once Sydney finishes her fight, we’ll shut those little tit b!tches up up for good.”


Round 1:

The bell for Round 1 echoed through the MGM Grande as Natalie Alyn Lind and Madisyn Shipman stepped into the spotlight—bare-chested and glistening from pre-fight oil and ice rubdowns. Their toned, petite frames shimmered under the arena lights, their matching 32 breasts jutting proudly. This was no ordinary fight. This was Round 1: Nipple Combat and it had become personal.

Natalie, known for her raw, physical style, moved with feline grace. Her nipples were already stiffened into hard, cruel points, thanks to an aggressive pre-fight ice application. Madisyn, more petite but no less intense, had taken a similar approach, her own nipples jutting like sharpened blades off firm, youthful breasts, the smell of peppermint radiating in the ring.

They circled, eyes locked, breaths slow and measured. No feints, no theatrics—just pure, deliberate positioning. Then, with an audible gasp from the front row, the ref yelled fight and they made contact. Breasts flattened with a brutal snap, the sharp nipples spearing into one another as both women leaned in with vicious intent.

There was no hesitation. No warming up. No feeling each other out. From the instant their bodies touched, it was war.

Breasts slammed together with a heavy, fleshy smack, flattening and spilling outward, the strain immediate, electric. Bare feet planted like anchors in the mat, they leaned in harder, every muscle taut, every nerve screaming. No circling. No feints. No space between them. Just heat, sweat, skin—grinding, pushing, daring the other to break.

Their faces hovered inches apart, breath mixing, hearts hammering so loud it seemed to fill the whole arena. Their eyes locked, burning with pride, hate, and something darker. Neither blinked. Neither dared to show pain. They searched each other’s faces like hunters—watching for a tremble of the lip, a flicker in the gaze, the slightest catch in the throat. One tiny crack, and the momentum would shift.

Their chests strained, sliding, grinding against each other, sternums aching, breasts pancaking flat, yet still fighting to swell, to dominate. Sweat beaded between them, running in thin rivulets down flushed skin. The strain was unbearable, every second an eternity.

And then — The crack came.

Natalie’s breath hitched. It was almost nothing. Barely a falter. But it was enough. With a low grunt of frustration, she shifted back, just a fraction of an inch—but enough for the world to see.

Madisyn’s smile curled slow and lethal. She didn’t need to gloat. Her body spoke for her—breasts proud, defiant, refusing to yield, standing tall while Natalie gathered herself, teeth gritted in silent rage. The message was clear.

Natalie’s stern gaze sharpened, burning with the promise that this was far from over—but the message was clear: Madisyn’s breasts had just drawn first blood.

Natalie retaliated delivering a wicked Nipple Rake, dragging her hardened left point diagonally across Madisyn’s areola. Madisyn hissed but retaliated instantly with a downward stab, aiming her nipple directly into Natalie’s left bud. The sound was like skin smacking leather—a dull pop of pain and pressure.

“Unghh!” Natalie grunted, her forehead resting briefly on Madisyn’s shoulder before she pushed back with equal fury.

For the next three minutes, the battle was relentless. Rakes turned into stabs, stabs into crushing chest presses. At one point, Natalie trapped Madisyn against the ropes and executed a cruel inversion press, slowly flattening Madisyn’s right nipple inward with the force of her own full breast behind it. But Madisyn twisted free with a last-second roll and drove her chest upward in a violent Nipple Uppercut, stunning Natalie and causing her to stumble back.

But then—everything stopped. The crowd, the judges, even the fighters seemed to hold their breath.

In a moment born of madness or mutual challenge, the two women stood still and pressed directly breast-to-breast, aligning their nipples precisely. The points kissed. Then they upped it another notch.

Back and forth.

Up and down.

Their stiffened nipples rubbed together, scraping, raking, stabbing with every shift. Each motion drew new whimpers and choked moans. Their faces were masks of agony—mouths agape, brows furrowed, eyes shut tight as their breasts pulsed with pain.

Their arms dangled uselessly at their sides. This wasn’t about leverage anymore. This was pure primal woman on woman focused endurance.

Back and forth.

Up and down.

Side to side.

They swayed together like tortured dancers, each motion more desperate, more punishing. Their nipples looked raw—flattened, red, trembling. The air was thick with the sound of their ragged breathing and the faint, sticky slap of their tortured tips grinding together.

Then, suddenly—one woman  wavered. Her knees bent. Her lips quivered. And with a soft drawn out moan, it was Madisyn who stepped back. Natalie’s eyes lit up with cruel recognition. She had seen it before. She had her.

Natalie’s eyes gleamed with bloodthirsty satisfaction as Madisyn stumbled back her weight resting on her back foot, grimacing and letting out a stifled whimper. Her left nipple twitched, visibly trembling, reddened to the point of bruising. Natalie advanced slowly, almost theatrically, her chest still heaving, her nipples still firm. The crowd erupted—cheers from the Wicked Queen loyalists, groans of concern from the Wannabee faithful.

Madisyn bent slightly at the waist, arms dangling again, trying to gather herself. Her firm B-Cups rose and fell in ragged heaves. But as Natalie closed in, smirking confidently and lifting her chest to line up for the final press…

WHAM!

Madisyn launched herself like a viper. She didn’t use her hands, didn’t scream, didn’t flinch. She simply thrust—slamming her chest upward into Natalie’s, her right nipple catching Natalie’s at a brutal upward angle. The sudden contact made a sickening squelch, flesh smashing against flesh with pinpoint intensity. Natalie gasped not once but  twice, her back arching in shock.

“AGH—what the fu—”

Before Natalie could even process the look of wild-eyed determination flashing across Madisyn’s face, the brunette was all over her.

Nipple jab. Nipple rake. Nipple stab. One after another after another—relentless, vicious, cruel.

Madisyn’s toned body was suddenly a piston of motion, her firm breasts slamming forward with violent rhythm. Her hardened tips drove into Natalie’s tender, swollen flesh with sadistic precision. She lashed her upper body like a whip, launching a devastating barrage of nipple-on-nipple attacks that stole the breath from the crowd and staggered the blonde.

Natalie cried out, the pain hitting her like waves. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, unable to defend against the brutal, chest-level onslaught. Madisyn’s attacks were fast and fluid, her hardened buds scything across Natalie’s reddened breasts, carving angry lines with every perfectly timed rake.

Then Madisyn lowered her shoulders, her breathing wild and furious, and surged upward in a tight, arching motion.

WHAP!

Madisyn’s left nipple speared upward from below, driving hard into Natalie’s right, the tip sinking deep and lifting with brutal force. Natalie’s breast jolted violently—the entire mound rising, her nipple twisting and stretching at a grotesque upward angle as Madisyn powered through with a surge from her muscular legs.

“AAAHHHH NOOOO!” Natalie screamed, her eyes bulging in stunned agony, her back arching as the pain rocketed through her chest. The force of the impact lifted her clean off the mat until she was teetering on her tiptoes, every muscle in her body clenched in shock.

Then, suddenly—POP.

The pressure released with a sickening snap, and Natalie’s nipple remained bent, half-inverted, twitching in a tortured crescent. Her whole body shook, her breath leaving her in shocked gasps as she staggered backward, both arms wrapping around her throbbing chest.

“WARNING LIND! US OF HANDS! FIRST WARNING!”

Natalie’s arms dropped, trembling useless at her sides—caught between pride and agony, but too slow to react. Madisyn licked her lips and lunged like a missile, eyes blazing.

“Oh no you don’t, you little cheat,” she snarled through gritted teeth. “You don’t get to touch them again… not until I’m done with them.”

Natalie reeled from the assault, her breathing ragged, her eyes clouded with pain. She had been in her fair share of duels and wasn't used to being on the losing side, especially not so early, not so decisively. Her right nipple was a complete wreck—reddened, inflamed, trembling with each shallow breath. Madisyn stood across from her, chest heaving, sweat glistening on her skin as she prepared for another volley.

But Natalie didn’t go down. She never went down. She had been here before and knew it would take a lot more than a few volleys to put her away. A shudder ran through her body, and then—resolve as the throbbing slowly subsided. Through the haze of agony, Natalie straightened up and prepared for another clash. She didn’t say a word. She just stepped forward. Madisyn blinked, caught off guard. Her attack had been brutal, flawless, and yet Natalie was somehow still standing… advancing.

Another step.

Natalie’s nipples, battered as they were, seemed to ignite with purpose—throbbing, jutting, burning with raw determination. And then—poke. A precise, spear-like thrust from Natalie’s damaged right nipple drove into Madisyn’s sternum. The younger fighter yelped, stumbling back a half step.

Poke.

Poke.

Left-right. Left-right. Natalie was relentless, marching forward like a machine, her nipples stabbing into Madisyn’s tender chest like twin daggers. Each hit made Madisyn squeal, her confidence slipping away with every inch she lost. One step. Then another. Then another. Madisyn’s back hit the ropes.

Trapped.

Her eyes widened in panic. Natalie didn’t slow. She pressed in, breasts to breasts, their slick, sweat-slicked skin sliding for a moment—before Natalie aligned. With veteran precision and impossible poise, Natalie dipped her knees slightly, then twisted her shoulders inward. Her nipples dug into Madisyn’s like twin blades stabbing under soft armor—slipping up under the younger girl’s tortured buds.

Then—she lifted.

Madisyn’s scream tore through the arena like a siren. Her nipples were being hoisted, the sensitive flesh stretched upward as Natalie forced the press forward lifting higher and higher..

“GAHHHHHHH!!”

The crowd gasped, half in awe, half in horror. Natalie’s technique was flawless. Her nipples pressed cruelly up and in, folding Madisyn’s tender tips against the upper curve of her own breasts. Madisyn’s arms flailed helplessly at her sides, her legs trembling as the pain blanketed her chest in a firestorm of agony. Madisyn’s arms flailed upward, desperation overriding instinct, and she shoved Natalie’s shoulders with trembling hands.

“Get the f$ck away from me you b!tch!”

“FOUL! USE OF HANDS—SHIPMAN, FIRST WARNING!” the referee barked, her voice slicing through the humid silence like a whip.

But Natalie didn't budge. Didn’t blink. Didn’t care. She leaned in harder, her powerful frame pressing forward with brutal purpose. Her iron-stiff nipples were perfectly angled, spearing upward and hooking beneath Madisyn’s own tender buds. Then—with cruel grace—Natalie lifted higher and higher.

Madisyn’s back arched as her nipples were dragged upward, stretched painfully the weight of her own solid breasts working against her as gravity pulled them down while Natalie forced them skyward. In a cool calculated move, Natalie pierced underneath and pinned them against her chest. The agony was immediate and raw, Madisyn’s mouth falling open in a silent scream.

Natalie’s body closed in, smothering any hope of escape. Her breasts flattened into Madisyn’s, burying her opponent’s nipples while still keeping the lift. It was expert. Surgical. Sadistic. A move few veterans could even pull off. The referee stepped in, eyes narrowed, methodically counting slowly as the crowd held their breath.

“One!”

Madisyn trembled, her knees bending slightly under the pressure, her arms frozen in mid-air—unsure whether to fight back or collapse.

“Two!”

Natalie adjusted subtly, her hips shifting forward to maintain full contact, her nipples grinding deeper into the underside of Madisyn’snubs. The brunette whimpered now, high-pitched and ragged.

“Three!”

Tears formed in the corners of Madisyn’s clenched eyes. Her legs shook as the pain escalated—her pinned nipples visibly distorting under Natalie’s twin spears, bulging and flattened like bruised buttons.
“Four!”

Natalie’s face was a mask of focused cruelty. She pressed her forehead against Madisyn’s and whispered something no one could hear. Madisyn’s lips quivered in response, her arms finally falling limply to her sides.

“Five!”

The ref stepped back, hand raised. “PIN CONFIRMED!”

The bell **** through the arena, sharp and unforgiving, ending Round 1. Natalie finally stepped back, peeling herself away with deliberate slowness, letting Madisyn’s battered breasts sag against her chest before slumping back against the ropes.

Madisyn’s body heaved with ragged, desperate breaths, her shoulders drooping as she tried to steady herself. Her nipples—red, raw, and trembling—twitched involuntarily from the punishing barrage they’d endured. She clenched the ropes behind her, teeth gritted, trying to mask the pain burning across her chest.
The first round had left its mark—and both women knew it. And Natalie? She stood tall, chest rising and falling, lips curled into a cold “I told you so” smirk—knowing she had just put on a masterclass in nipple combat.

Round 1: Natalie Alyn Lind—Winner by Duel Nipple Pin.

Round 2: The Build-Up:
Madisyn Shipman sat hunched over on her stool, her face flushed and glistening with sweat, her breathing ragged. The pain in her chest still throbbed—fierce and fresh. Natalie had lined her up like a sniper in Round 1, isolating her nipples with precision, locking them in with veteran technique, and helplessly pinning her to the ropes with a brutal, drawn-out five-count that left her crying out and helpless. It was the kind of dominance that made the crowd gasp—and Madisyn reel, emotionally and physically.

She had her moments early, lots of them. Her quickness, that youthful edge, it showed. She’d caught Natalie with a few stingers—clean, jolting shots that had the blonde rocking back hurt, eyes narrowing. But all of that evaporated once Natalie’s experience kicked in. Call it inexperience. Call it nerves. Call it simply getting outclassed. Whatever it was, Natalie hadn’t come to play. She had come to humiliate.

Jayden Bartels stormed over between rounds, crouching in front of Madisyn with fire in her eyes. Her tone was sharp but full of loyalty. She wasn’t going to let her teammate spiral.

“Come on, Maddy,” she snapped, grabbing Madisyn’s chin and locking eyes with her. “You had her. Don’t let that last move mess with your head. She got lucky—lined you up, yeah, but you were beating her to the punch before that. You just lost track for one second, and she milked it.”

Madisyn shook her head slowly, still nursing the pain in her chest. Her nipples were raw, stretched, and aching and still deflated. She couldn’t stop reliving the moment—Natalie’s body crashing into hers, her own helpless scream echoing in her ears.

Jayden leaned in closer, whispering now, voice dripping with confidence and venom. “Look at me. You’re firmer than her. Everyone can see that. That **** is all soft now—floppy and tired. I want you to go out there and prove it. Show the world who has the better jugs.”

Before Madisyn could answer, Jayden slipped a hand under each of Madisyn’s breasts, lifting them gently, testing their weight. They rose easily and settled with only one bounce, perky and tight against her chest. Jayden smirked and tilted her head toward Natalie, who was across the ring, seated on her stool, calmly sipping water.

“She’s mush. You’ve got steel. Go out there and flatten that smug b!tch. Make that over-inflated Wicked Queen feel what youth and firmness really mean.” Her voice turned into a near growl. “We’re not leading 3-2 because of luck. We’re leading because we have the better t!ts.”

Madisyn’s eyes snapped wide with renewed fire. She stood before the bell, her posture proud, her chest pushing forward like a banner of war. Her firm 34B breasts hugged her chest, barely jiggling as she bounced from one foot to the other. The pain was still there—but it was fading behind the adrenaline. Behind the peppermint oil.  Behind the fury.

Across the ring, Natalie Alyn Lind remained composed, almost regal. Her breathing was steady, her expression cool. She looked every bit the veteran—the tactician who had just closed out a dominating first round. She knew Madisyn would come back swinging in Round 2. They always did after humiliation.

But when she looked up and saw Madisyn standing already—saw the scowl twisting the younger girl’s face, saw the fierce flex in her legs and arms, her ripped abs, saw her breasts barely move as she bounced in place—Natalie’s confidence flickered, just for a second. She exhaled through her nose. This round was going to be work.

The arena buzzed with anticipation. Round 2 wasn’t like the first. It was chaos. It was carnage. It was blunt force trauma delivered tit-to-tit. The crowd knew it. The fighters knew it. Everything slowed as the ten-second warning buzzed through the air.

The referee stood back as both fighters stepped forward, their eyes locked. They moved in slow, controlled strides—Madisyn radiating aggression and pent-up fury, Natalie calculating, ready to shift from calm to cold-blooded.

They came to a stop less than a foot apart, their chests nearly brushing, so close the heat radiated between them. Breasts full, nipples stiff with a mix of adrenaline and anticipation, neither woman flinched, the air around them crackling like the moment before a lightning strike. Madisyn spoke first, her voice low, steady, and dangerous.

“You think you’re walking out of Round 2 upright?” Madisyn hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. “You’ll be lucky to crawl out with those saggy udders dragging on the ground.” Natalie smirked, tilting her head just slightly, her eyes gleaming. “If your strikes are as empty as your words, this will be over fast,” she shot back. “Don’t mistake firmness for power, sweetie. I’ve broken a hundred little girls like you.”

Madisyn took a half-step closer, her breasts brushing Natalie’s with just enough contact to cause a shared intake of breath. “Yeah?” she spat. “Let’s see what happens when I don’t let you line me up. Let’s see how long you can take it when I start hammering your chest like a drum.”

Natalie didn’t flinch. “Careful, rook. This round’s not about looking pretty. It’s about taking pain. And I promise—you’re not built for what’s coming.”

The referee wedged between them, arms outstretched, struggling to hold them back as the crowd rose in a deafening roar, sensing the explosion about to ignite. Their breasts were fully pressed now, nipples grazing, the heat between them almost unbearable—two forces straining against restraint, itching to tear into each other the second the bell unleashed them.

Jayden was screaming from the Wannabees’ corner. “MAUL HER, MADDY!”

Kylie Jenner, leading the Badass Barbies, just grinned. “Break her in half, Nat.”

The bell hadn’t rung yet—but when it did, all hell would break loose, and both fighters knew it. No hesitation. No retreat. They were locked in a silent, seething promise: neither would give an inch, and only one would be left standing when the storm finally hit.

No more testing, no more teasing. They met in the center of the ring with full momentum, breasts crashing together in a wet, echoing SMACK that sent shockwaves through the audience. Natalie Alyn Lind and Madisyn Shipman leaned into one another, sweat-slick chests mashed together, both grunting as they twisted and drove their bodies into one another without mercy.

Madisyn wasted no time. She twisted her hips and started using her slightly smaller but firmer and dangerous chest like a jackhammer—snapping her torso left and right, punching her breasts into Natalie’s over and over, the wet smacks getting louder with each connection. One breast slammed high into Natalie’s, then low, then diagonally from the side—she was using technique, angles, leverage.

But Natalie didn’t give an inch. Her heavier, fuller breasts weren’t made to dart and snap—they were wrecking balls. She took Madisyn’s attacks head-on, grinding forward, chest pressed tight, and then began pounding back—shoulders flexing, chest swinging violently from side to side, battering Madisyn’s 34Bs with her slightly larger 34 C's in a slow, punishing methodical rhythm.

WHAM. WHAP. WHUMP.

They reeled, slammed back together, and collided again—five seconds, ten, fifteen—bodies twisting, breasts whipping, shoulders jerking in brutal rhythm, every motion a calculated strike. No hands, no punches—just a violent, sweaty ballet of flesh and fury, the ring descending into beautiful chaos.

The crowd couldn’t sit still. Chants of “LET’S GO MADISYN!” clashed with “NATALIE! NATALIE!” in a storm of noise.

Madisyn bent her knees, dipped under Natalie’s heavier chest, and exploded upward—her breasts crashing from below into the undersides of Natalie’s, jacking them skyward and forcing a grunt from the blonde’s lips.

Natalie used her size, muscling in close and body-rolling her left breast in a brutal, arcing swing that smashed across Madisyn’s right, jolting a gasp from the younger fighter as she staggered two steps sideways before catching herself. Without a pause, they reset, chests heaving, gathering quick breaths before slamming back together, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the arena. Two minutes in, and the crowd was on its feet, howling in pure, feral excitement.

Natalie took control next, throwing her weight forward and landing full-body chest bumps—lifting her breasts with a shoulder pump, then smashing them into Madisyn’s again and again. Each time, Madisyn’s frame rocked backward. Her eyes watered, her lips curled in pain, but she refused to fall.

She pivoted sharply to the left, unleashing both breasts in a powerful, synchronized arc—smack!—a wet crack echoed as they collided full-force with Natalie’s chest.

“Ahhh—damn it!” Natalie yelped, stumbling back.

“Aww, did that sting, sugar nips?” Madisyn taunted, grinning wickedly.

Natalie’s eyes flared, staggered for a moment—then swung her right shoulder back, wound up, and smashed a single, brutal breast slam into Madisyn’s left forcing it to slam into her right. The brunette barely stayed upright as she pirouetted around.

Both women stumbled apart, gasping for breath. Their chests were glowing—red, raw, slick with sweat. Each breath sent their nipples bouncing slightly, hardening against the slick, oily skin. Neither could stop now. They were beyond the point of no return. With a primal growl, they lunged again, their bodies slamming together with a crushing force. This time, it was all inside—their bodies locked in a desperate, intimate struggle, both refusing to yield.

Close-range body contact, torsos grinding together, shoulders rolling as they tried to grind the other down. Natalie lifted, pressed, shoved her breasts upward and into Madisyn’s chest—bullying the younger girl toward the ropes. Madisyn fought back with ducking twists and subtle pops from below, her chest rising to catch Natalie’s and drive her backward.

They swayed, struggling, each woman pushing her limits in a battle of sheer willpower. Four minutes in, their bodies drenched in sweat, the tension was suffocating. Madisyn seized the moment, launching into a furious rally. Her chest slapped against Natalie’s with lightning speed, each strike a sharp, snapping impact. She pivoted like a dancer, relentless, slinging her breasts across Natalie’s one after the other—fighting with every ounce of fury.

SMACK! WHAP! SLAP!

The crowd lost it. Natalie staggered but stayed upright, bracing her legs and driving forward, chest lowered just enough to ram upward and smash into Madisyn’s breasts with a brutal, spine-arching crush. Madisyn hit the ropes hard, mouth open in a silent scream—just as Natalie powered in again, relentless.

She rolled her left shoulder, sent her breast in like a hammer, then followed with the right. One. Two. Again.

WHUMP—WHUMP—WHUMP.

Madisyn twisted, trying to break free, but Natalie stayed glued to her, chest grinding chest with punishing weight and rhythm. Another crushing slam and Madisyn almost crumpled—until she suddenly ducked low, sending the crowd into a frenzy. Arching her back, hips sinking, Madisyn then rocketed upward, unleashing a devastating breast uppercut from below.

BOOM.

Her right breast struck upward beneath Natalie’s massive pair, lifting them violently and sending them slamming into Natalie’s own face. The blonde’s head jolted back, her mouth open, eyes suddenly glassy.

The arena erupted.

Natalie stumbled backward, her body loose, feet dragging like she was falling in slow motion. She spun and crashed chest-first into the ropes, arms dangling—barely catching herself.


Her entire body was trembling from the impact. Her nipples pulsing. Her legs shaking. Her head spinning

She pulled herself up and when she turned back toward the center of the ring—

Madisyn was already there.

With the poise of a killer, the brunette unleashed a savage sequence of breast blows. Left shoulder swung forward—SLAM—her breast smashing into Natalie’s battered right breast. Right shoulder—WHACK—snapped into the side of Natalie’s chest.

Then another from the left—THWAP!

Natalie’s legs buckled, her butt collapsing onto the middle rope as she sat dazed and glassy-eyed. Madisyn swung her body side to side, her breasts hammering Natalie’s battered chest like giant, punishing ping pong balls. Natalie was wrecked—broken, beaten, and fully at Madisyn’s mercy. Then, helplessly, her body tipped forward, stumbling into the slaughter.

But instead of hitting the mat—she reached out and clinched.

Her arms wrapped around Madisyn’s back, locking tight, using her grip to stay upright. Her sweaty breasts mashed desperately into Madisyn’s, no longer attacking—just clinging.

The crowd exploded in boos and gasps.

“CLINCH! THAT’S A CLINCH!”

Madisyn twisted, trying to shrug Natalie off—but Natalie wouldn’t let go. She was desperate and her grip was iron.

The ref dove between them.

“SECOND WARNING, LIND—CLINCHING! ONE WARNING LEFT!”

The ref slipped her arm between the two warriors fighting to distance them and after 15 seconds she managed to shove the battered blonde back.

“BREAK WHEN I SAY BREAK!”

Natalie looked beat, her knees wobbling, chest still heaving violently. Her eyes were dazed, her skin slick with sweat. She staggered to the neutral corner, breasts visibly swollen from the abuse.

Madisyn stood at center ring, body twitching, chest heaving like an engine in overdrive. Her 34Bs, flushed and firm, bounced with each breath—pure weapons now. Natalie, across from her, looked like she was hanging by a single thread as the ref stretched out both arms, holding them apart for one last moment.

“Hold position!” she snapped, voice cutting through the chaos. The crowd was deafening, losing their minds as two soaked, bruised, chest-wrecked women stared each other down—one swaying on her feet, the other seething with intent. And when the ref’s arms dropped… they were going to explode into each other all over again.

Madisyn surged forward like a predator.

She didn’t care about the clinch. She didn’t care about the warning. She wanted Natalie finished—now. Her toned, glistening body stalked across the ring with lethal intent, hips shifting, chest bouncing in rhythm, eyes locked on her target.

Natalie had just peeled herself off the ropes, chest heaving, sweat running in streaks down her sides, but when she saw Madisyn charging, she didn’t flinch. She’d been here before. No panic, no retreat—just a steady, low stance as she braced herself, eyes locked. And the moment Madisyn stepped into range—Natalie struck.

THOOM.

Natalie dropped her weight, rotated her hips, and brought her right shoulder up in a crushing, upward breast swing that collided flush with Madisyn’s sternum. The crowd gasped as the brunette’s chest jolted back violently.

WHUMP.

Before Madisyn could reset, Natalie pivoted and brought the left breast crashing in from the side, slamming into the upper curve of Madisyn’s right breast with a fleshy echo.

BOOM.

With a final, forward-driving full-body thrust, Natalie rammed both breasts into Madisyn’s with brutal force, pushing with all her might, lifting slightly at the finish for maximum whip. Madisyn staggered back two steps, her feet slipping as the impact reverberated through her chest. The crowd erupted in a frenzy, roaring for what had just unfolded—a triple combo of big, booming, full-bodied blows, perfect technique, and raw power. Anyone else would’ve collapsed under that force. But Madisyn didn’t. She stood tall, breath ragged, her chest heaving, refusing to fall, refusing to be broken.

She stumbled, caught her balance, and blinked—but she didn’t buckle. Her 34B's were still up, still centered, still firm. Her jaw clenched. She took a breath. And she stepped forward again.
Natalie frowned at the sight of Madisyn's still firm chest.

She’d felt those shots land. She’d felt the recoil. She knew what kind of damage they should’ve done. But Madisyn’s breasts didn’t sag. They didn’t droop. They didn’t tremble.

And Natalie realized it—Madisyn was built for war. Faster. Firmer. Cardio through the roof. She’d come into this fight in peak condition, and it was evident in every strike. But Natalie wasn’t shaken. The challenge only fueled her determination, sharpening her focus. She knew she had the stamina, the strength, and the will to keep fighting. This wasn’t over—not yet.

She adjusted her stance, shoulders back, chest forward. She knew she couldn’t outpace Madisyn. She couldn’t match her energy. But she didn’t have to. She had the size. The mass. The muscle memory from dozens of battles.

And she knew how to take a storm and turn it.

Madisyn lunged hard with a sharp diagonal whip of her left breast, but Natalie absorbed it with a grunt, rolled with it, and answered fast—her right breast sweeping high and clipping Madisyn’s chest with a loud SMACK. As Madisyn twisted to reset, hips cocking for another swing, Natalie dipped low, rolled her shoulder, and launched upward—THWUMP—her breast smashing into Madisyn’s right with a deep, jarring thud that sent the brunette jolting sideways. That one hurt.

Natalie felt it—that tiny hesitation, the slightest lag in Madisyn’s right breast as it rebounded, slower than before. It was barely there, but enough. Her grin said it all as she stepped in tighter, crowding Madisyn's space, and without a word, launched a brutal left-to-right breast swing—SLAM.

Madisyn absorbed the blow and pivoted to counter, but Natalie stepped in with a precise, upward bump—controlled, deliberate. She was grinding Madisyn down now, not with reckless power but with relentless rhythm: one swing, one press, one bump, one crushing drop—again and again, breaking her down piece by piece.

Madisyn was still faster. Still snapping her hips, still delivering clean, sharp breast strikes with military precision. But Natalie was walking through them, absorbing the shots with her heavier frame, stepping into every exchange, and landing the cleaner, heavier blows.

Madisyn came at her again—high right swing. Natalie planted her feet and took the heavy giving Madisyn a freebie. Madisyn growled then took a wild swing but Natalie ducked her shoulder and caught her in the midline, breasts slamming hard into Madisyn’s center mass and stopping her cold. It was like Madisyn hit a brick wall.

Then came a rising whip from Natalie’s left breast—smashing Madisyn’s right breast up and over in a jiggling arc. Another second. Another breath. And again—Natalie stepped forward, driving her chest into Madisyn’s with a crushing body bump. This time, Madisyn grimaced. Just for a second. A flicker of pain in her eyes. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. And Natalie saw it. Everyone saw it.

Her breast—still firm, still up—took an extra second to rebound. Natalie surged forward, chest swinging like a pendulum, ready to break her down completely. But Madisyn twisted off the ropes and spun away, just in time. They reset. Breasts heaving. Bodies shining. And for the first time since the round began—they were dead even. The crowd knew it. Every fan on their feet, screaming, chanting, shaking the barricades. This was a war.

Madisyn bounced lightly on her feet, circling, her lips pressed tight, sweat dripping from her jawline. Her chest was still upright, still dangerous—but now marked, now slightly winded.

Natalie stood her ground, rolling her shoulders, setting her rhythm. Her chest ached. Her lungs burned. But her eyes were locked on Madisyn, and her confidence was rising. They stepped toward each other again. No posturing. No games. No taunts. Just another brutal collision waiting to happen. And the fight was far from over. Madisyn Shipman dug deep. She’d felt the tide turn. She’d seen Natalie start to smile. And she hated it. She **** hated it. No way. Not yet. Not like this. Not against a marshmallow like her. She wasn’t done.

From the second they squared off again, Madisyn exploded forward with every ounce of speed left in her body. Her legs moved like pistons, hips snapping, her sweat-slicked frame firing on instinct as her chest started to whip.

POP. POP. POP.

Jab. Jab. Cross.

Her right breast snapped forward like a piston—crack against Natalie’s sternum. Then a quick sidestep and a brutal body bump into the ribs. A second later, her left breast dipped low and uppercut into Natalie’s lower chest, driving the blonde’s rack momentarily skyward.

WHUMP.

She spun off, quick on her feet, and slammed both breasts into Natalie’s chest with a double jab, retreating before the counter could land. Natalie grunted.

Her chest was on fire. Each blow stung more than the last—Madisyn’s strikes were lightning fast, coming from every angle, no rhythm, no pattern. Just pure chaos. Every shot from those **** firm unrelenting breasts felt like it chipped a little more out of her.

But Natalie didn’t break. She stood her ground. She took it all. Like a veteran. Like a woman who’d been through wars. Every hit, every swing, every breath was met with pure determination. Her chest heaved, muscles strained, but she wasn’t backing down. Madisyn’s fury only fueled her resolve. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Madisyn’s uppercuts connected. Her crosses hit. Her side-swings slapped and shook Natalie’s impressive breasts in all directions. But the blonde refused to step back.

Her heels never moved. And slowly—inevitably—Madisyn’s steam started to thin. It showed in her chest first: her breathing grew labored, her swings lost a touch of their snap. Her footwork faltered—just barely—but it was enough for the trained eye to notice. Natalie saw it. She smiled.

She’s tiring.

Madisyn backed away, her chest heaving, sweat streaming down her jaw and between her trembling breasts. She gasped for air, hoping it might save her. But Natalie’s blue eyes were fixed on her, unwavering. She stepped forward—deliberate, steady, like a predator closing in for the kill.

Predator mode.

Madisyn tried to circle, but Natalie kept her cut off. Another step. Then another. A sudden chest bump drove Madisyn backward. Then another. Each step came with a press—Natalie shoving her chest into Madisyn’s, bullying her, wearing her down.

The brunette’s legs began to wobble, her feet scrambling as she tried to escape—trying to survive. But there was nowhere to go. Natalie walked her down, relentless, until Madisyn’s back slammed against the corner turnbuckles with a soft thud. And then it happened.

Natalie Lind unleashed hell.

She exploded.

Chest swinging like twin wrecking balls, Natalie went all in. Left to right. Right to left. Overhand arcs. Upward cuts. Thudding body bumps. Over and over, in rapid fire, each blow meant to break whatever was left of Madisyn’s resistance.

BOOM. BOOM. WHACK.

The walls shook with every collision as Madisyn ducked low, Natalie’s right breast whiffing past. She weaved left, dodging the counter too, the crowd gasping as the near-misses crackled through the air.

Madisyn was still moving, head bobbing, chest swaying, instincts barely keeping her alive, but the damage was mounting fast. Her back hit the turnbuckles again—no bounce this time—her head dipping lower, upper body twitching with exhaustion, her defenses crumbling, counters gone, legs rubber. Natalie kept firing without mercy, battering her. Then it happened—Madisyn ducked under a massive left breast swing, her torso dipping low, hair whipping, and as she rose, her head tilted up—timing one desperate move.

WHAM.

Natalie’s right breast came roaring through the air in a wide, looping cross, missing Madisyn’s chest by inches—barely—a humid rush of air brushing her sweaty skin instead.

IT HIT HER FACE.

Madisyn’s head snapped to the side.

The crowd let out a collective gasp as her body froze mid-motion.

Her arms fell limp at her sides.

Her eyes rolled upward, fluttering white.

And for one chilling moment, Madisyn just stood there—still, frozen—before her left leg buckled, her knee twisting inward, and her right shoulder dipped in collapse.

And like a tree falling in slow motion, Madisyn spiraled to the mat—arms flailing, legs splayed awkwardly, hair flying in all directions. Her body crashed down in a twisted heap at the foot of the turnbuckles.

Face down.

Motionless.

OUT COLD.

The referee dove in immediately, waving both arms frantically above her head.

“THAT’S IT! SHE’S OUT! IT’S OVER!”

KO.

KO.

WINNER BY KNOCKOUT—NATALIE ALYN LIND!!!

The crowd exploded. The building shook as cheers thundered from every section. The ring announcer could barely be heard over the chaos. Natalie stood over her fallen rival, her chest heaving, arms spread wide as she turned slowly to soak in the roar of the crowd.

She’d done it.

She’d survived the storm.

She’d outlasted the younger, firmer, faster opponent.

She’d landed the kill shot.

And yet—something wasn’t right.


Challenging the Call:

From the edge of the ring—Jayden Bartels and Darci Lynne Farmer stormed in like thunder, followed closely by the rest of the Wannabees, their faces twisted with fury. They weren’t checking on Madisyn. They weren’t calling for medics. They were in the referee’s face, pointing fingers, yelling over the roar of the crowd.

Jayden’s voice cut through first:

“SHE HIT HER IN THE FACE! THAT WAS ILLEGAL! THAT’S NOT A WIN—THIRDSTRIKE! THAT’S A **** DQ!”

The crowd’s energy shifted—booing, confusion, a few stunned gasps—while amidst the arguing, Madisyn remained motionless. Darci pointed a finger at the replay screen, already flashing the slow-mo footage of the final blow. “Look at it!” she screamed. “That’s not a breast shot! That’s a right cross to the head! You have to reverse this!” Security swarmed ringside.

More refs poured in, the official who’d called the KO now backed into a corner, holding her hands up defensively as the furious stables shouted over each other. Kylie Jenner climbed into the ring next to Natalie, both of them suddenly tense, confused, uncertain.

Natalie raised her hands again—but this time, not in victory. She was trying to explain.

“I was aiming for her chest,” she said, breathless. “She ducked at the last second. I brushed her breast and it's legal. That’s not a foul!”

Kylie leaned in close, whispering rapidly to her Natalie, glancing back toward the chaos growing near the opposite corner. The ring was descending into madness. Medics finally reached Madisyn, who still hadn’t moved beyond a soft groan; she was conscious now, barely, eyes fluttering, but completely disoriented. The KO was real—and it was brutal. But was it legal?

The crowd didn’t know what to think. Half were cheering, half were booing, the noise crashing together in a chaotic roar as the announcer’s voice echoed again, strained and cracking, desperately trying to keep order:

“We have a knockout by Natalie Alyn Lind… however, an official protest has been filed by the Wannabees stable. The result is now under review.”

Natalie stared out at the crowd, her chest still rising and falling, her face flushed deep red from exhaustion and adrenaline. Jayden stood on the far side, seething, arms rigid at her sides, while Darci crossed her arms tightly, her eyes bouncing between the medics tending to Madisyn and the referees, pure venom dripping from her glare. No one was celebrating now. No one even moved. The whole arena seemed to be holding its breath. Confusion, anger, fear—it was thick in the air. And yet one thing was clear—this wasn’t over. Not even close.

This fight was over or was it?

Not yet. The ring was in turmoil, buzzing with chaos and confusion. Natalie Alyn Lind stood with her arms still slightly raised, sweat streaming down her face, her chest rising and falling with exhaustion. Kylie Jenner hovered just behind her, tense and alert, her expression hard as steel, eyes scanning the frantic scene unfolding around them.

Across the ring, Jayden Bartels was fuming, her face flushed with anger. The Wannabees were in a frenzy—Darci Lynne pacing and shouting, Jenna Ortega throwing her hands up in disbelief, and a pair of officials struggling to keep them from charging at Kylie and Natalie. "That was a head shot!" Jayden yelled again, pointing at the big screen replay looping above the ring.

The shot was brutal. In real time, it was hard to tell exactly where Natalie’s right breast landed. The motion was so fast, so brutal, and the impact so vicious that Madisyn crumpled instantly.

Kylie, ever the composed queen of chaos, stepped toward the officials with a hand raised.

“It’s right there, frame by frame!” she snapped, pointing at the screen now paused. “Look at her right boob—look how it ripples! Natalie’s breast clearly hits Madisyn’s first. It brushed her chest before it grazed her chin. That’s a legal knockout!”

She jabbed a manicured finger at the frozen image, zoomed in to show Madisyn’s right breast—slightly displaced in a ripple effect—as Natalie’s swing passed.

“See?!” Kylie barked. “She touched her. Chest to chest. That’s all that matters.”

Jayden shoved her back with both hands. “Get the wh0re outta here, you cheaters!”

Security surged in as Kylie stumbled backward, hands up, and Natalie stepped forward, squaring up instinctively, eyes blazing. But the officials quickly intervened, stepping between them. Jayden stormed past everyone, marching straight to the nearest referee, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt and dragging him toward the big screen.

“She missed. And you know it. She missed the chest and went for the face.”

She hit play again—slow motion.

Natalie’s breast swung through the air like a wrecking ball, just missing Madisyn’s chest, grazing past her—barely making contact. Or… not? The replay looped again, the crowd murmuring, confusion rising. It was almost impossible to tell, the fine line between a brush and a blow blurring in the replay’s slow-motion dance.

“That’s not a strike. That’s a desperate cheap shot. She was gassed, and she was losing. So she cheated. You have to reverse it. Three strikes and you’re out—right? That’s the rule. Madisyn wins by DQ.”

The referee and officials huddled, watching the same footage again, then again, shifting angles to view it from the opposite side of the ring. From one perspective, it looked like Natalie’s breast missed completely—swooping clean past Madisyn’s sternum and blasting her square on the jaw—but from another camera, high and to the left, Madisyn’s breast visibly moved, a soft ripple, just a touch. They played it back again, and again, and again, still arguing, still split.

One ref shook his head. “It’s like… one of those NBA plays where a fingernail grazes the ball as it flies out of bounds.”

“Or a toe tap on the sideline,” another muttered. “A single frame deciding everything.”

Jayden could barely contain herself. “You’re telling me this decides a KO? That’s what we’re doing now?! A damn breeze brushing her tit and now it counts?!”

Darci shouted behind her, “THIS IS BULLSHIT! YOU GUYS ARE COWARDS!”

The ring was nearing a breaking point, and then—it happened. A commotion broke out in the front row as a girl, maybe nineteen, with dyed pink hair and a cropped Karate Divas hoodie, started shoving her way through the crowd. She ducked under the guardrail, pushed past a stunned security guard, and climbed onto the apron before anyone could stop her, screaming at the top of her lungs, “WAIT!” while holding up her phone.

“I GOT IT. I GOT IT IN SLO-MO. LOOK. JUST LOOK.”

Everyone froze as the nearest referee jumped down from the ring, and the girl, her hands trembling from adrenaline, handed over her phone. Onscreen, her footage began playing in perfect slow motion—a low angle, like she’d been filming from the floor through the ropes. Natalie’s breast swung past Madisyn’s chest—

And clearly brushed it—a split second before the impact to Madisyn’s face. The contact wasn’t hard, but it was undeniable, enough to make Madisyn’s right breast shift visibly, enough to satisfy the rulebook, enough to make the knockout legal. The referee climbed back into the ring, the tension thick as every eye locked onto her, the whole arena holding its breath. She walked to the center of the ring and raised his microphone.

Her voice echoed over the sound system:

“Upon official review of all camera angles, including new footage submitted by a third-party spectator…”

A pause.

Everyone held their breath.

“The final blow is confirmed to have made legal contact to the opponent’s chest prior to head impact.”

She turned to Natalie.

“Winner by knockout… NATALIE ALYN LIND!”

The place exploded—cheers, boos, horns, and screams all crashing together in a deafening wave. But the Wannabees were losing it; Jayden lunged forward again, only for two security guards to grab her and hold her back, while Darci fought to tear free from another guard and Jenna stood at the ropes, screaming furiously into the nearest camera.

“YOU STOLE THIS! YOU ROBBED US! THIS WHOLE THING IS FIXED!”

Natalie stood tall, stunned for just a second, before the weight of the victory sank in. Her mouth opened in disbelief—then curled into a victorious grin. Kylie was the first to raise her hand high, beaming, shouting something the cameras didn’t catch.

The referee grabbed Natalie’s wrist and raised it high. It was official now. The fight was sealed, locked in the books. The record would show:

KO win for Natalie Alyn Lind.

Madisyn Shipman was still being helped to her feet by trainers as the victors exited the ring, flanked by security and swallowed by a roar of mixed cheers and boos from the crowd. The Wannabees slowly pulled themselves together near the steps, Jayden gathering her squad around her—Madisyn half-conscious but upright now, slumped against the lowest turnbuckle, breathing hard.

Jayden ripped the mic out of the ref's hands and stood in front of them all, her head shaking slowly, fire blazing in her eyes. She didn’t shout. She didn’t scream. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, steady—and burning.

“They stole it from us,” she said. “You all saw it. They knew she was done. They knew she couldn’t hang. And they found a loophole. They robbed Madisyn. They f$cking ROBBED her!”

Half the crowd exploded in noise as Jayden’s team defiantly threw their fists in the air, rallying around her burning stare.

“She fought her damn heart out. She took everything that floppy over-rated **** had and kept coming. She was winning. And they knew it. Everyone here knew it! So they had found a way out. Had to find a way to cheat there way into a win! This sucks. It sucks A$$.”

Darci took the mic and chimed in, her voice **** but fierce. “Maddy was never outclassed. Just out-cheated.”

Jayden crouched down and took Madisyn’s hand in hers. “You kept your head up and your breasts flying. You had her.”

Madisyn groaned, barely able to nod. Jayden stood up again and looked around at her team—fire burning in every face. “This . . . this isn’t the end,” she said. “This is the beginning.”

The girls leaned in closer. “Every stunt they pull. Every shortcut. Every lie. We’ll be there. Watching. Waiting. And when the time comes…”

She glanced at the camera, her glare icy cold. “We have the Barbie Killer still to come…and when Sydney fake t!ts Sweeney meets them close up, Fran will crush them.”
The team put their fists together in the center.

“Wannabees on three.”

“One…”
“Two…”
“THREE"

"WANNABEES!”

Jayden Incites a Riot:

The air was electric. The crowd was still roaring over the controversial decision. The fight was over—Natalie Alyn Lind’s arm had been raised, her victory recorded, her name etched into the scorecards as the winner by knockout.

But the war was far from done. Jayden Bartels was a storm of fury, her fists clenched, her jaw set, her pulse pounding in her ears as her eyes locked on the smug, smirking face of Kylie Jenner and the triumphant blonde who stood beside her. Jayden didn’t care about decorum anymore. She didn’t care about being fined, suspended, or banned. She cared about justice. She cared about vengeance. And with a furious scream ripping from her throat, Jayden surged forward.

She shoved past two officials and ripped the microphone from the announcer’s hand mid-sentence, her voice cutting into the sound system with a blast of feedback that made the crowd wince.

“NO!” she screamed, her voice shaking with fury. “We’re not going to sit here and let these billionaire plastic pieces of **** buy their way to another stolen win!”

The crowd gasped. Kylie’s face twisted into a glare. Natalie turned to see what was happening. “You all saw it!” Jayden continued, pacing in a tight circle in the center of the ring. “They couldn’t win fair. Natalie was done! Madisyn had her! But they had the refs. They had the money. They had the judges!”

The noise in the arena began to shift, growing louder, faster, more frenzied by the second as Jayden lifted her free hand and pointed directly at the luxury skybox above the ring—where UCC brass and billionaires sat watching in stunned silence, their faces tight with tension as the storm below gathered force.

“THAT’S who’s calling the shots! Some rich **** with a checkbook, not the fighters in the ring!”

The crowd erupted in mixed cheers and boos. Tensions were fraying like rope soaked in gasoline.
“Are we going to TAKE this?” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Are we going to LET them BUY THEIR WINS?! Madisyn should b out there fighting round 3! Natalie is a puzzy and was getting her t!ts handed to her and cheated. 3 STRIKES! That was the 3^rd strike and floppy knew she was on her way out and CHEATED!”

The crowd was getting worked up, and the answer came not in words—but in action as CHAOS ERUPTED; first a punch, then a slap, and then all hell broke loose as a man in the front row wearing a pink “Team Barbie” shirt hurled a beer can at a group of Wannabee fans, hitting a teenage girl square in the back , prompting her brother to lunge at the man as they went down swinging, fists flying.

It quickly escalated when a woman grabbed another by the hair and threw her over the barricade, the two tumbling into the aisle shrieking and clawing, mini skirts hiked up, legs kicking and twisting as they rolled through spilled popcorn and beer; and all around the arena, fans began fighting—not just Barbie fans versus Wannabee fans, but everyone, a complete pandemonium exploding in every direction. 

A group of women near the entrance tunnel were locked in a vicious free-for-all—tops ripped, bras exposed, breasts slapped and mauled as the crowd screamed in horror and awe. Security tried to pull them apart, but they were outnumbered and overwhelmed.

Men were pounding fists into each other’s faces, blood spraying onto the seats as one man tackled another into the metal guard rail, both flipping over into the front row; another woman grabbed a chair and swung it at a group of screaming fans, only for it to be snatched mid-air, turning into a wild struggle that ended with both of them tumbling down the concrete steps; and all the while, Jayden stood in the ring, shouting into the mic like a revolutionary, her voice cutting through the chaos. 

“COME ON! Show these officials they can’t be bought! Show them who we are!”

Fans surged toward the barricades, pushing security back as the storm spread to the backstage area. Fighters, trainers, and staff spilled out from the locker rooms, trying to break things up—only to get dragged into brawls of their own. The arena had become a warzone.

Fists flew. Screams echoed. Hair was pulled in massive tufts, chunks of extensions and real strands alike torn from scalps. Girls were crying, laughing, bleeding. One had her bikini top ripped right off and was yanked into a headlock, her attacker mauling her breasts while taunting her in full view of a crowd of onlookers capturing everything on their phones.

In the ring, security had finally swarmed Jayden—but it was too late. But she had won the war of the crowd. As security dragged her toward the ropes, handcuffs glinting in the overhead lights, Jayden lifted the mic one last time. Her voice was hoarse, raw, but powerful.

“WANNA. BEES. WANNA. BEES.”

The crowd—especially her loyal faction—picked it up.

“WANNA-BEES! WANNA-BEES!”

She was halfway down the steps when she raised her fist and screamed one final rallying cry.

“BARBIE. KILLER!”

The words exploded from Jayden’s lips like a war cry—and the crowd ignited. Within seconds, it roared through the arena like a tidal wave.

“BARBIE KILLER! BARBIE KILLER!”

All eyes turned to Francesca Capaldi, the flame-haired fury standing defiant, chest heaving with anticipation, ready to bring down the Barbies; across from her waited Sydney Sweeney, the golden jewel of Kylie’s empire, poised for war. The storm was coming.

As security dragged Jayden Bartels down the aisle, cuffed and still seething, she managed a wild grin—she didn’t care that she’d been hauled off, or that she was banned from ringside for the final match, or that the officials thought they’d silenced her. She had lit the spark. She had turned a fight into a revolution.

It took fifteen brutal minutes for security to regain control, but by then, the arena looked like a battlefield—dozens of fans treated for cuts, bruises, and concussions, others being hauled out in cuffs, trash and clothing and hair scattered everywhere, blood smeared across the rails, and even the jumbotron **** from the chaos.

And still, the chants rose, defiant and wild, echoing through the rafters: "WANNABEES! WANNABEES!" and, more distant but sharp as a knife: "BARBIE KILLER! BARBIE KILLER!"

Backstage, Kylie Jenner stormed up and down like a caged tiger while Natalie, still shaken, sat wrapped in towels, wincing as medics gently examined her bruised breasts. “I’m owed my five minutes,” Natalie snapped. “I wrecked that b!tch—almost beat her t!ts off her chest!”

“She’ll get hers,” Kylie growled. “After Sydney crushes that snotty little redhead, I’m demanding it.”

A sly grin curled on Natalie’s lips. "By the time I’m done, Madisyn’s going to wish she never grew a pair."

When the officials finally made their way to the locker room, Kylie was still livid. She demanded arrests, demanded fines, and pledged that she would make sure that Jayden Bartels would be banned for life. But deep down, even she knew it would all come down to the final match.

Jayden had made her mark and while the brash Wannabee Leader wouldn’t be in Francesca Capaldi’s corner for the final match—but her spirit would be. And the war between the Wannabees and the Badass Barbies? It had just reached a boiling point. 

Natalie Alyn Lind wins by Knock Out 11 minutes 15 seconds in Round Two



Written by the Badass Barbies.

Ashley, I’m honestly thrilled you finally agreed to the rematch I’ve been demanding—and a blindfold match? Even better.

This is exactly what I wanted. No dirty tricks. No sand in the eyes, no low blows, no shady glances at the ref. Just pure, raw woman-to-woman action. In the dark, it’s just us. No distractions, no shortcuts. And without your usual bag of cheap tricks, I’m going to kick your ass.

You’ve beaten me three times, and sure, your little sidekick Lauren Donzis got lucky once too. But that was then. This time, you won’t know where I am until I’m on you—hitting harder, faster, and with one goal: to break you down piece by piece.

Kylie Jenner already approved it as the opening match for Sin City Slugfest VI, and I couldn’t be more ready. You should be nervous, Ashley. Because this time, I’m not just coming for a win—I’m coming to humiliate you.

No more shortcuts. No more mercy. And no more cheeating. How about we make this even more interesting and say that the winner gets to smother the loser until she is out.

—Madison Beer

Match 05  Build-Up

               Madelaine Petsch 32B                  vs.                Jayden Bartels  28C



Madelaine Petsch  (Badass Barbies)  vs.  Jayden Bartels (The Wannabes)

Early Las Vegas Odds:

Madelaine Petsch: -160 Favorite
Jayden Bartels: +130 Underdog

Fighter Breakdown:

Madelaine Petsch – “The Scarlet Smotherer”

• Age: 30
• Stable: Badass Barbies
• Bust Size: 32B
• Strengths: Upper-body endurance, iron core, psychological warfare
• Weaknesses: Overly controlled tempo, slow starter

She may only clock in at 32B on paper, but don't let the numbers fool you—Madelaine brings volume, roundness, and bounce that makes people double-check the tape. Many in the UCC community swear she looks fuller than opponents with larger cup sizes, and the internet agrees. A quick search for “Madelaine Petsch bikini” delivers enough bust evidence to raise eyebrows and expectations. Her breasts aren’t just aesthetic—they’re tools of suffocation, trained through breath-hold drills and resistance-based press work.

A veteran of the Badass Barbies, Madelaine’s spent the last two months locked in with her former Riverdale cast mates Lily Reinhart and Camila Mendes working on some of her classic moves like "The Chest Tank" fine tuning her patented slow-squeeze smother. She’s calm, calculating, and utterly cruel when the moment’s right.

Training Focus: "Long slow pressure holds," stamina drills, chest positioning

Signature Move: Cherry Lockdown — A vice-grip breast clutch that pins and compresses from the outsides, draining air and confidence with every crushing second.

Quote from Training Camp:

“Jayden’s chest may have a C on paper, but mine commands the room. She’s going to get lost under real curves.”

(Captioned under a slow-motion video of a busty Madelaine slowly shaking her head in disgust.)

Jayden Bartels – “The Redhead Rack Wrecker”

• Age: 20
• Stable: The Wannabees
• Bust Size: 28C
• Strengths: Speedy transitions, unorthodox offense, taunt-powered aggression
• Weaknesses: Light frame, defensive gaps under pressure

Jayden knows she’s the underdog. She’s younger, leaner, and giving up experience and composure—but she’s not backing down. Her 28C chest might not look imposing next to Madelaine’s lush B-cups, but Jayden doesn’t give a damn. Side by side her breasts are every bit as large as Madelaine's. She’s turned to TikTok, Threads, and Insta Reels to drag Madelaine’s “visual volume” through the mud.

Her new training montage, filmed in high-def slo-mo, shows her launching short-range smothers on Kylie Jenner training dummies, her tight chest smashing into place with impact and intent. She's not trying to win the size game—she's betting on intensity, chaos a sharp tongue. Jayden's also been training with Bebe Rexha and Millie Bobby Brown, focusing on speed transitions, body pops, and fake-outs.

Training Focus: “Explosive impact,” low-center lunges, bounce-and-pin attacks

Signature Move: Bartels Blitz — A savage circular nipple grind, carving invisible circles around her opponent’s areolas like branding her as “verified... defeated.”

Quote from Training Camp:

“Madelaine's got soft-looking soap bubbles. Let’s see how they hold up when she faces off against a real woman.”



(Captioned under video of Jayden confidently detailing her strategy to take apart the redhead’s chest, point by painful point.)

Madelaine, nver one to back down, responed by saying. 28C's? I highly doubt it but if Jayden wants to bee dilusional then I'll just have to show hr  what a "Real Pair" feel like up close.



(Captioned under video of JMadelaine shaking her head in disgus.)

The Trash Talk Gets Nuclear:
 
It started with one tweet. Jayden, clearly irritated by online chatter comparing their chest sizes, posted a selfie in a skintight sports bra with the caption:

“Reminder: Cup size ain’t mass. I may be 28C, but Madelaine’s boobs are just air with filters.”

Madelaine fired back instantly with a poolside pic in a barely-there bikini, cleavage deep enough to stir Twitter wars:

“If mine are ‘just air’… what’s it say that yours still look smaller pressed flat in a training bra?”

Jayden escalated with a brutal TikTok. She stitched footage of Madelaine from Riverdale—in a deep-cut top—and edited in a honking sound whenever Madelaine's chest bounced. Text overlay:

“Inflatable vibes. Hope they don’t pop when I slam into 'em.”

Madelaine, never one to lose the last word, took to Threads:

“Jayden better bring her chest in a carry-on. They won’t take up much space under mine.”

She followed up with a slow-mo training clip of herself smothering a dummy that had “JAYDEN” scrawled across it in lipstick, ending with a cold smirk and the phrase:

“I don’t play with princesses—I flatten them.”

Jayden’s comeback? A video of her bouncing rope shirtless under a sheer mesh top, captioned:

“Built for pressure. Built for bounce. Built to break Barbie’s chest wide open.”

Backstage Buzz:

Dove Cameron (Disney Princesses):

“Jayden’s just loud. When Mads gets her breasts all over Jayden, all that TikTok energy’s gonna turn into big sad crocodile tears.”

Sabrina Carpenter (Strikeforce):

“Madelaine’s all slow-mo seduction. Jayden’s a flashbang. Blink and you’re t!ts are flattened and on your back.”

Sydney Sweeney (Badass Barbies):

“Jayden thinks being a influencer wins chest fights? Not against a woman who trains for ten-minute smothers.”

Hayden Panettiere (Haydens Powergirls):

“Mads looks bigger, sure. But pressure doesn’t always mean power. Jayden hits fast and hits hard.”

Vegas Adjusts the Odds
 
Opening lines put Madelaine firmly in control, but after Jayden’s online firestorm and leaked training footage, the money started flowing in on the upset. Jayden’s sheer confidence and volatility have made bettors nervous—can Madelaine stay composed under chaos?

Updated Vegas Odds:

Madelaine Petsch: Even
Jayden Bartels: Even

Prop Bets:

• First to initiate smother: Jayden (-110)
• First to attempt pin: Madelaine (-135)
• Wardrobe malfunction: Yes (-115)
• [Post-match breast pose: Madelaine (-125)
• Tears on camera: Jayden (+140)

Final Thoughts Before the Bell
Madelaine has the body, the experience, and the sheer “look” of a true chest queen. But Jayden brings wild energy, disrespectful speed, and the kind of sharp-mouthed rage that throws veterans off their game. It’s grace vs. grit. Volume vs. velocity. A controlled redhead juggernaut vs. a rebellious brunette influencer.

Only one woman’s chest is walking out proud.

The other? She’ll be smothered, flattened—and likely trending for all the wrong reasons.


Round 1:

The mat was soft beneath their feet, a padded checkerboard of pale pink and baby blue. But the air? Charged—thick with tension, thick with heat.


Jayden Bartels moved in a loose arc, barefoot, wearing nothing but skimpy shimmering purple fight shorts. Her chest, bare and glistening with a light coat of oil, rose and fell with steady breaths. Her dark hair was tied tight, eyes locked and burning with focused aggression.

Across from her stood Madelaine Petsch—frozen still, a pillar of cold, calculated confidence. Her red hair was tightly braided down her back, her pale breasts bare and proud, nipples stiff from anticipation or adrenaline. Her red shorts hugged her hips low, sleek and ready pulled tight between her round butt cheeks.

The referee, dressed in black shorts and a crop top, stepped between them and raised a hand.

"This is a nipple combat bout," she said, voice sharp and clear. "No punches. No closed fists. Jabs, rakes, pokes, pins, and slashes are all legal. Victory is by a full five-count pin—on the chest, a nipple inversion, or a verbal or physical submission."

Both fighters nodded, never breaking eye contact.

The bell rang with a soft echoing ding, but the silence that followed was thicker than war drums. No taunts. No words. Just two half-naked fighters with weaponized nipples and a singular mission.

Madelaine stepped in first—elegant, cold, her eyes locked on Jayden like a lioness preparing to pounce. Jayden moved faster, bounding forward with raw, electric aggression. But she didn’t crash—she swerved, twisted mid-step, and snapped her upper body into Madelaine’s like a whip.

Their breasts collided with a slap of damp skin, hardened nipples smacking together with audible snicks. The contact jolted both women—but neither backed down.

Jayden landed the first telling shot. A quick, upward body snap—a nipple uppercut—launched her stiff peaks into the underside of Madelaine’s breasts. The redhead gasped, caught off-guard as pain rippled through her chest. Before she could adjust, Jayden twisted again and raked her nipples diagonally across Madelaine’s areolas—left to right, then back again—like dragging glass across silk.

Madelaine gritted her teeth, staggered—but her counter was vicious. She dipped one shoulder, leaned in, and drove both nipples directly into Jayden’s with full force—a twin nipple poke, point to point. Jayden’s breath hitched. The sensation wasn’t sharp—it was blinding. A quick twist from Madelaine turned the poke into a grinding press, and Jayden reeled back a step, stunned.

“You like the taste of that?” Madelaine hissed low.

But Jayden didn’t answer with words—she answered with velocity.

She stepped in tight, twisting her torso hard left and right, raking her nipples across Madelaine’s again—fast, brutal, burning. Madelaine gasped, staggered back, but Jayden stayed close, now moving in a controlled pattern: stab, rake, press, rake, then uppercut again beneath the bustline.

Each nipple strike was deliberate. Each poke was a surgical needle seeking out the most sensitive nerves. Madelaine’s chest flushed deep pink as Jayden’s tactics began to wear her down.

The redhead tried to reset the distance, but Jayden surged forward in perfect rhythm, hips low, shoulders fluid, nipples stabbing upward in rapid-fire bursts—nipples-to-nipples, again and again.

“Ughhh—AHHH!” Madelaine cried out as Jayden shifted angles, pressing her nipples straight against Madelaine’s, pushing down with rhythmic pulses.

The ref’s eyes were locked on their torsos.

“PIN ATTEMPT!” she called. “One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Four . . . Fi .”

Madelaine, caught off guard by the onslaught, twisted violently, managing to knock their breasts apart just before the final count.

But Jayden wasn’t done.

She dropped her hips slightly and lunged again—chest snapping forward like a piston. Her nipples slammed into the redhead’s with such force it was like a double jab to the heart. Madelaine’s back arched, her mouth opening in a silent scream as both nipples compressed and began to sink inward under Jayden’s focused, merciless pressure.

“INVERSION ATTEMPT!” the ref barked.

Jayden's lips curled into a deadly grin.

“One… Two…”

She rotated her body subtly, using her core to keep the pressure evenly spread across Madelaine’s breasts.

“Three…”

Madelaine’s knees buckled—her nipples visibly folding in under the unbearable press.

“Four—”

With a guttural cry, Madelaine threw her chest forward with everything she had, shoulder rotating hard to one side, barely disrupting the symmetry of Jayden’s assault. Just enough to break the connection.

The ref threw her arm out. “NO INVERSION! FIGHT CONTINUES!”

Jayden stumbled back, panting, sweat slicking her chest. She almost had the redhead. So damn close.

Madelaine stood shakily, her breasts trembling, nipples a deep red and swollen. But her eyes—those emerald eyes—were on fire now. Enough was enough.

Jayden advanced again, but Madelaine was ready.

She sidestepped with snake-like grace, then spun into a half turn—a cross-body nipple rake, slicing diagonally across Jayden’s chest. Jayden cried out, doubling slightly, but Madelaine was already pivoting back in.

This time it was Madelaine who uppercutted—nipples thrusting up from below into the sensitive base of Jayden’s silky undersides. Then she leaned forward and stabbed both nipples directly into Jayden’s—fast, brutal repeated jabs her chest poking out with every step forward. One, two, three. Jayden reeled back, stunned, her body jerking reflexively.

The fight had turned. Madelaine drove forward again, twisting her hips to rake and poke in rapid alternation—nipples dragging like serrated steel, then snapping back for a cruel stab. Jayden cried out, reeling backwards—but Madelaine closed the gap with one final step.

Their nipples met again—pressing, locking, grinding. The redhead rolled her shoulders, slowly, deliberately, dragging her hardened peaks over Jayden’s in tight circles, over and over.

Jayden’s face contorted in pain, eyes shut tight. Had the Wannabees faltered? Was their nipple dominance about to come to an end?

“PIN!” the ref called. “One… Two… Three…Four …”

Jayden let out a primal scream and twisted her upper body with everything she had. The contact broken she slipped her nipples free from the tight compressed pin attempt.
 
Both fighters staggered apart, breathing heavily. Chests heaving, nipples raw, trembling with exhaustion and pain.

But Jayden—despite the near-inversion escape—still looked defiant.

Madelaine’s voice was hoarse but steady. “That was four seconds from hell. Next time… I finish it and I finish YOU.”

Jayden wiped sweat from her lip with her shoulder, never breaking eye contact. “Then I’ll drag you there with me.”

Jayden shook out her arms, chest rising and falling as she stared across the mat. Her breathing was tight, fast. Her nipples were bright red, puffed and furious—but so were Madelaine’s.

Both women were slick with sweat. Their chests glistened, their movements slowed just enough to betray the toll this brutal, focused combat was taking. The crowd leaned in, breath held, waiting for one of them to collapse. But neither had fallen. Not yet.

Jayden’s fingers flexed.

Madelaine’s fists clenched.

And then they charged.

The collision this time was thunderous. Breasts slammed together, skin slapping wet and loud, as their nipples crushed point-to-point once more—neither woman flinching. Madelaine growled, a low, feral sound from deep in her throat, and she suddenly shifted right—a vicious nipple rake, from top left of Jayden’s chest to the bottom right.

Jayden’s back arched from the sheer heat of it, but she retaliated instantly—a double upward stab, both nipples driving up under Madelaine’s like dual battering rams. The redhead cried out and staggered, her hands clutching at Jayden’s hips, trying to maintain the contact without toppling.

“NO HANDS, Officially warning for Petsch.”

Madelaine scampered to safety but Jayden surged again.

She dropped her hips, then rose like a phoenix—nipples uppercutting with terrifying precision, over and over into Madelaine’s tender, battered peaks. The sound of it—wet slaps, soft grunts, strained breathing—was almost obscene. She started grinding again, locking her nipples against Madelaine’s and turning, twisting, rotating. Dragging them in circles, X and Z patterns and diagonal rakes. 

Madelaine screamed. Her breasts were being rubbed raw and her nipples were retreating.

Jayden saw it—the unraveling—and leaned in harder, pressing chest to chest, their breasts flattened together with nothing between them but fire and hatred. She whispered into Madelaine’s ear, voice like velvet and venom.

“You felt that Red. You were one second from losing. You know I’m stronger here.”

Madelaine's hands trembled and her hands involuntarily shot up and pushed at Jayden's shoulders.

“Get away from me!”

“USE OF HANDS! WARNING #2, PETSCH!”

Jayden took one step forward—just one—and lifted her chest upward then placed them down on the top of Madelaine's buds, using every bit of torque to force Madelaine’s nipples backward and inward.

“ONE!” the ref shouted.

Madelaine’s knees buckled.

“TWO!”

Jayden’s grin widened. She rotated her hips again and spun her shoulders, dragging her nipples in tight, circular motions that drilled into Madelaine’s sensitive flesh.

“THREE!”

Madelaine whimpered—whimpered. Her lips quivered.

“Oh Gawd! Please make her stop!”

“FO—!”

CRACK!

A desperate, wild rake from Madelaine—a full-body twist that caught Jayden’s nipples with just enough bite to break the pin. Jayden hissed and staggered back.

But Madelaine didn’t follow her chest numb. She was breathing like she’d run a marathon, her chest heaving violently. Her nipples were dark red now, swollen and flickering with tremors. Her hands covered them reflexively, briefly, before she forced them back to her sides.

Jayden saw it. The faint shimmer in Madelaine’s eyes wasn’t just sweat—it was the first glint of surrender. The redhead was faltering, and Jayden could feel it in her bones. The tide had turned.

Madelaine came in again, but the fire was gone from her charge. It was slower this time. Sloppy. Desperate, Flat Footed. Jayden braced herself, pivoted slightly, and angled her body just so. As Madelaine drew in close, Jayden dipped her shoulder, then surged upward with precision—her shoulder smashing under Madelaine’s right breast, folding it cruelly against her chest.

Gasps echoed. Kylie and Natalie screamed from ringside, howling foul. But the ref didn’t flinch. No whistle. No mercy.

Madelaine froze mid-step, crumpled slightly forward, her chest flattened and defenseless. Jayden didn’t hesitate, didn't care.

With a dancer’s grace and a predator’s intent, she swung her upper body in a sharp arc—both hardened nipples dragging across Madelaine’s from right to left in a vicious rake. Madelaine whimpered.

Then came the strikes.

One brutal stab.

Then another.

And another—each jab crueler than the last, her sharp tips spearing into the already tender peaks of Madelaine’s breasts.

The redhead gasped, her body recoiling in pain. She staggered sideways, one hand twitching like she wanted to reach for the damage, but knew she couldn’t. Not in front of this crowd. Not now.

Jayden saw her opening—and pounced.

She caught her from the side, driving one nipple into Madelaine’s left, then the other into her right, alternating like jabs from a boxer, snapping side to side. Each impact made Madelaine yelp, her legs crossing slightly as if her body instinctively wanted to fold inward.

“Finish her!” someone screamed from the crowd.

Jayden didn’t wait.

She pressed forward again, chest to chest, but this time instead of circling—she slammed their nipples together, held them, and then poked directly down and in—both stiff, unrelenting peaks targeting Madelaine’s battered areolas like twin spikes.

Madelaine screamed. A high, choking sound.

Jayden pressed harder. Ground in. Her upper body was shaking from the force of it.

“INEVRSION!” the ref shouted.

Madelaine’s eyes were glassy. She blinked wildly, trying to shake free, but her hands didn’t even rise. Her body just stood there, locked and trembling.

“ONE!”

Jayden leaned into her. Their foreheads touched. “Say it. Or I’ll push them into your spine.”

“TWO!”

Madelaine let out a choked sob.

“THREE!”

Her head drooped as she felt her nipples collapsing into her chest.

“Owwwww! No no no!

“FOUR!”

Madelaine’s legs gave out.

“FIVE!”

She fell into Jayden, who let the woozy redhead slide down the front of her sweaty body then gave her with a victorious shove. The redhead crumpled landing on her round butt, hands finally flying up to cover her swollen, brutalized chest. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks now. Her breath came in short, sobbing gasps.

The ref turned to Jayden and raised her arm.


“WINNER BY NIPPLE SUBMISSION – JAYDEN BARTELS!!”

The crowd erupted.

Jayden didn’t celebrate right away. She stood over Madelaine, her chest rising, sweat dripping from the tips of her now-dominant nipples. Her body bore the marks of war—raw, scraped, trembling—but she stood tall.

Finally, she crouched beside the broken redhead and whispered, not cruelly, but like a queen speaking to a fallen rival.

“Nice try, Ginger. But you're not like me. Not where it counts.”

Madelaine collapsed fully to her side, curled up, hands still cradling her breasts as the sobs racked her body.

Jayden stood, arms raised, nipples erect in victory.

One round. One woman broken.

And Jayden Bartels reigned supreme.

Round 2:

The moment the bell sounds for Round 2, Madelaine Petsch explodes out of her corner like a cannon shot. Her eyes blaze with fury, the humiliation of Jayden's dominating win in Round 1 clearly boiling in her chest. The redhead is done playing slow and strategic. She's wild now, unchained, and every swing of her firm, freckled B-cups tells the crowd that revenge is priority number one  and the cocky Wannabee leader is her number on target.

Jayden Bartels, meanwhile, looks unbothered—even smug. Her tight 28C chest gleams with sweat, every slight bounce mocking Madelaine. She sees her opponent's fury and grins, dancing sideways on light feet, evading Madelaine's initial charge with a grace born from youth and agility and years of dancing on TikTok.

"Aww, you mad, Barbie?" Jayden taunts, her hands behind her back as she dips just out of reach. "That your precious nipples got bent like rubber?"

“Just shut the f$ck up and fight!” screams a flustered Maddy.

Madelaine swings again—a brutal breast smash meant to cave Jayden's chest in. Jayden leans back, pivots, and counters with a sudden uppercut breast strike that clips the underside of Madelaine's right boob, making her wince.

The crowd roars as the round's pace goes from zero to chaos.

Madelaine regains balance and lets fly a massive side-to-side swing, her breasts slamming from left to right. The impact is partially absorbed by Jayden's shoulder as she turns in the strikes, but the force still rocks the younger fighter backward.

"I hate you!" Madelaine snarls, driving forward.

She fakes a jab and then lets loose with a savage double-breast drop, launching her chest forward and slamming her weight down. Jayden stumbles into Madelaine her shoulder bumping into Madelaine's/ She grits her teeth, clearly feeling the punishment.

But Jayden responds fast. Like a threatened mother robin, she feints a stumble, then leaps forward with a rising double-breast uppercut, her 28Cs crushing into Madelaine's ribs and lifting her breasts painfully upward. Madelaine gasps and staggers, one hand covering her chest instinctively.

“NO HANDS!, Warning Petsch!” Bellows the ref.

"That gotcha right in the Barbie bits," Jayden cackles.

“Screw you, Bartels! Just stop talking and fight!” Scolds Madelaine.

Jayden chuckles. “I am fighting and you . . . it sure looks like . . . losing.”

Madelaine's temper gets the best of her and now they're trading. Leaning in, smash for smash. Slap for slap. Chest crashes into chest with brutal, echoing thuds. Madelaine's technique shines through despite her anger—she spins into a spinning back breast smash that flattens Jayden's left boob, driving her sideways into the ropes. But Jayden recovers with a quick spring and delivers a breast jab right to the side that makes Madelaine fall sideways into the ropes.

“You swing heavy, Mads,” Jayden nods, her voice soaked in mockery as she rolls her shoulders, **** bouncing defiantly. “But I bounce harder, ****.”

Madelaine snarls, her chest rising and falling like a piston, rage boiling in her eyes. “Keep flapping that stupid brat mouth. When I’m done pounding your pathetic mosquito bites into paste, we’ll see who’s still got rhythm.”

Jayden doesn’t hesitate—she lunges in, shoulder rolling into a vicious series of side-swings, her breasts like twin hammers whipping into Madelaine’s upper chest with brutal, echoing slaps. Flesh slaps flesh, sweat sprays, and Madelaine’s body jerks with each hit.

But she grits her teeth and takes it—then twists, letting out a guttural grunt, and drives forward with a savage, all-in breast smash that slams into Jayden like a freight train. It lands dead center, bone-jarring, flesh-flattening.

Jayden’s mouth twists in agony, her chest visibly caving under the brutal impact. She crashes down, one knee barely bouncing off the mat as she gasps for air.

The crowd erupts—half in shock, half in triumph.

“That's a KNOCKDOWN!” Kylie Jenner shrieks from ringside, slamming her hand on the apron. Natalie Alyn Lind is already on her feet, pointing furiously at the ref.

But Jayden snarls through the pain, teeth bared as she shoves herself upright, spitting on the mat as she rises.

“Not today, Barbie,” she growls, standing tall again.

The ref spins around, voice sharp. “NO KNOCKDOWN! CONTINUE!”

Kylie throws her hands up. “Her damn knee hit the mat!”

Natalie is fuming, barking at the officials—but the ref ignores them, laser-focused on the fighters.

Jayden’s eyes narrow. She fakes a left swing, baiting Madelaine, then spins into a blistering combo—breast jab, breast jab, and then a savage breast uppercut that detonates beneath Madelaine’s chest, lifting her clear off the mat.

The redhead crashes into the ropes, gasping and clutching at her breasts—both of them turning a deep, angry red, visibly swelling from the relentless punishment.

The ref jumps between them, throwing a hand out.

“WARNING NUMBER TWO, NO HANDS, PETSCH!”

Madelaine glares, snarling, chest heaving with labored breath as the ref turns to the officials, confirming the warning. She doesn’t even pretend to hide the hatred in her eyes when the ref steps back to her.

“One more, and you lose the round.”

Madelaine doesn’t say a word. She just locks eyes with Jayden—like a predator promising pain.
But Jayden isn’t backing down. In fact, she doubles down.

She cups her own breasts, hoisting them up with both hands, smirking with venom as she bounces them tauntingly, eyes locked on Madelaine. “These **** just sent you flying, ****. Better start praying I don’t flip both your nips inside out before the bell.”

Madelaine lunges like a feral animal, but the ref steps in, blocking her path with a firm arm.
For a heartbeat, everything hangs in the air.

The tension? Nuclear.

The hate? Toxic. Volcanic. Uncontainable.

Neither one’s walking out of this round without blood, broken skin, and shredded pride.

Madelaine snarls like she’s ready to kill, then charges again with no hesitation, this time playing it smart. She fakes a brutal double swing—her breasts rising like wrecking balls—then ducks Jayden’s twitch-counter, a trap perfectly laid. In one sickening move, she plows her entire upper body into Jayden’s chest, ramming through like a missile.

Jayden’s feet leave the mat, her back slamming into the ropes with a hard THWACK.

But the momentum throws her back in motion, and she rebounds with fury—only to run straight into Madelaine’s trap.

Mads sidesteps like a matador, snarling, and sweeps a leg out with perfect timing.

Jayden trips hard, hitting the mat back-first, sliding across the canvas, her breasts bouncing wildly from the sheer violence of the fall. It’s a visceral, humiliating moment—flesh shaking, hair in her face, mouth open in shock.

Darci screams from the corner. “That's a trip! 3^rd strike! 3^rd strike!”

The ref ignores the alleged foul. “FIGHT ON!”

But the ref hesitates, caught between indecision and the stunned gasps from the crowd. The arena is a cauldron of chaos.

Jayden grits her teeth, snarling as she rolls onto her side, planting a hand and shoving herself to her feet with a growl.

"Cheap f*in’ shot, Mads,**" Jayden spits, chest heaving, voice raw. "But I’m still standing."

Madelaine’s grin is pure evil. Her body glistens with sweat, her nipples stiff from the adrenaline and abuse. “Not for long, ****. I’m just getting warmed up.”

Then everything explodes.

Jayden lets out a primal scream and charges like a demon, flinging herself forward with zero hesitation—a full-body, all-in breast smash that could level a wall.

Madelaine sees it coming—and she steps in with it, neither woman backing off. They collide mid-ring, tit-to-tit, chest-to-chest, like two freight trains slamming together. The sound is wet, thick, brutal—a slap that echoes in bones.

Both stagger back, dazed, sweat flying from their bodies.

Madelaine shakes it off first and snarls like a beast. She lunges, driving her leg forward, her knee punching into Jayden’s upper inner thigh like a spear, digging deep into toned flesh.

Jayden doubles over, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent gasp, all the air ripped from her lungs. She stumbles, clutching her groin.

Madelaine doesn’t wait.

She sees her shot—and takes it.

"You’re gonna regret those cheap shots, wh0re!" Jayden hissed.

“Cheat, me?”  Now it Madelaine cackles who shoulders Jayden onto the corner and sends her chest forward with a brutal breast smash.

Jayden grunted as the impact hit her like a bus. She bounced off the ropes then spun, trying to use her speed to circle, but Madelaine was on her, smashing into her again and again, breast-to-breast, SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! The thud of each impact echoing in the packed arena.

"Run now! You can’t cheat your way through this!"

Another crushing smash landed flush. Jayden gasped and stumbled. Her back brushed the ropes, her footing slipping—any further and she’d hit the mat. Her eyes widened in panic.

Madelaine wound up for a big one. A side-to-side swing followed by a breast uppercut that crashed into Jayden’s sternum with a sickening sound. Jayden doubled over slightly, chest quivering from the assault, her face twisted in pain.

The Barbies and Wicked Queens were screaming at the edge of the ring, stomping the floor, yelling for the ref to watch Madelaine finish it. Jayden was seconds from going down.

"Drop, cheater! Let everyone see you break!" Madelaine taunted, pulling back for one final breast drop.

Jayden saw it coming. Desperation flickered across her face, but she dropped into a squat, letting Madelaine's heavy drop swing harmlessly over. Before Madelaine could recover, Jayden launched a savage counter—a snapping breast jab that smacked into Madelaine's left orb and flattened it against her ribcage.

Madelaine grunted and recoiled—a mistake. Jayden surged up, landing a brutal uppercut that caught both of Madelaine’s breasts, lifting them upward into her own face. The redhead reeled back, stunned. Jayden pressed in, swinging wildly now.

"Still think I need to cheat to beat your soft t!ts?!"

Smash. Smash. Breast swings from both sides. Madelaine fired back. Their chests collided in chaos. Echoes of flesh hitting flesh roared across the ring as both women grunted, moaned, and screamed, their breasts turning redder with every slap, impact, and grind.

Jayden managed a full twist and slammed her chest into Madelaine’s with a wild spinning breast smash. Madelaine flew backward, catching herself on the ropes. Her arms dropped slightly.

Jayden surged again. Another heavy breast uppercut sent Madelaine bouncing off the ropes. This time, Jayden didn’t let up. She pivoted and slammed into her again, again, her smaller, faster chest pounding into Madelaine’s larger one with surgical precision.

Madelaine groaned, sagging slightly. Jayden smelled blood.

"Your **** are done, Barbie! One more hit!"

Jayden crouched, breathing heavy, her chest bruised and swelling as Madelaine teetered back and forth her legs barely holding her weight. Jayden sprang up, launching a final breast uppercut that connected perfectly. Madelaine’s chest jolted upward smacking into her face, her body arching back—then her heel slipped.

Her shoulder hit the mat. The crowd exploded.

The ref dove in, arms waving. "KNOCKDOWN! KO! KO! THE ROUND AND THE FIGHT IS OVER!"

Jayden stumbled back, panting, chest heaving, sweat and pain written across her flushed face. She raised her arms, a crooked grin spreading across her lips.

Madelaine, on her back, fists clenched in fury, kicked at the mat throwing a tantrum.

The Barbies were shouting, furious.

"She got lucky! That was a fluke!"

"Ref, you need glasses! Madelaine had her and you let it go!"

The Wicked Queens weren’t much quieter, yelling about bias and illegal moves—but the rules were clear. Any part of the body hits the mat, and the round ends. Jayden had survived the storm, fought back from the brink, and scored a clean, rule-bound knockdown.

Jayden leaned over the ropes, sneering down at the crowd.

"That’s two rounds for me and ZERO for the cheater, huh?"

She blew a mocking kiss toward Madelaine, who sat up slowly, red hair stuck to her face with sweat, her raw exposed chest pulsing with every breath—and eyes full of hate. She fought hard giving it everything she had and despite some unsavory moves was not able to beat the Wannabe leader.

Post Fight:

The moment the final bell rang, Jayden Bartels stood tall in the center of the ring, chest heaving, arms raised in exhausted triumph. The crowd roared—not entirely in support, but in awe of the stunning back-and-forth battle that had just ended with Madelaine Petsch flat on her back, one leg awkwardly curled, lips parted in shock, her red hair splayed across the mat.

She had fought her heart out but she had lost and put her team in a precarious hole having to win the next two fights or face the embarrassment of losing a breast battle to the clearly smaller Wannabees.

And now Jayden—bruised, battered, yet undeniably victorious—had five uninterrupted minutes to make a statement.

The referee stepped aside, making no move to stop what came next. The crowd began to chant, a mix of encouragement and eager anticipation. Jayden’s eyes locked on Madelaine, who groaned and tried to sit up, dazed and blinking.

Jayden knelt beside her rival. "You still with us, flame-top?" she asked, brushing sweaty hair from Madelaine’s face with mock tenderness. "Guess what? You’re not done but you will be soon enough."

With a sharp tug, she yanked Madelaine up by the waistband of her panties, dragging her halfway upright. The redhead winced, biting her lip in pain and embarrassment.

“On your knees.”

Madelaine hesitated—her pride, even broken and battered, still clinging to the last threads of defiance.

Jayden didn’t wait. A cruel smirk curling on her lips, she stepped forward and shoved Madelaine with her foot. The redhead collapsed to her knees with a heavy thud, eyes brimming with rage and shame. Her body was flushed, bruised, and her chest was heaving with pain—not from exertion anymore, but humiliation.

The crowd watched in rapt silence. Phones were out. Livestreams were buzzing. The moment was going viral in real time.

Jayden began circling her defeated foe, hands on her hips, cocky and confident as ever. “Tell everyone whose chest owns yours.”

Madelaine turned her head away.

Wrong move.

Jayden grabbed a fistful of Madelaine’s fiery red hair and yanked her head back hard, forcing her to look up. “Say it, or I’ll make you wish you had.”

The defiance in Madelaine’s eyes flickered—then ****.

“…Yours,” she muttered.

Jayden arched a brow. “Louder.”

Madelaine swallowed, lips trembling. “Your chest… owns mine.”

A wicked smile bloomed across Jayden’s face. She dropped to one knee in front of the redhead, her breath hot and smug. “And what are you?”

Madelaine could barely meet her gaze now. “A… humiliated loser.”

Jayden leaned in close and whispered just loud enough for the front row to hear. “Good girl.”

She stood up and yanked Madelaine to her feet, only to spin her around and crack her across the ass with a sharp, open-handed slap that echoed through the arena. The crowd erupted—some jeering, others cheering, but everyone watching.

“Every inch of you,” Jayden purred, fingers trailing down Madelaine’s spine, “belongs to me for the next few minutes. Let’s make them unforgettable.”

Jayden didn’t wait. She grabbed Madelaine by the waistband of her shorts and yanked them down in one swift motion, exposing the pale curve of the redhead’s ass to the entire arena. The crowd howled. Madelaine whimpered, her hands instinctively trying to cover herself—Jayden slapped them away.

“No hiding,” she barked. “You lost. You show everyone exactly what defeat looks like.”

Jayden knelt, balled up Madelaine’s panties, and shoved them deep into her mouth.

“There,” she cooed. “Now you can’t even talk back. Just kneel there and take it like a woman.”

She dragged Madelaine across the canvas by her hair again, forcing the redhead to crawl with her panties stuffed between her lips, stripped, beaten, and gagged. The cameras followed, zooming in on the trail of sweat and tears.

Jayden sat against the ropes and pulled Madelaine in by the hair again—this time into a brutal breast smother. She yanked Madelaine’s face straight into her sore, sweat-slicked cleavage and locked her arms tight around her skull.

“You’re gonna breathe my victory,” Jayden hissed in her ear. “And smell your defeat.”

Madelaine’s legs twitched. Her fingers clawed at Jayden’s arms weakly. Her body sagged further as oxygen disappeared from her world.

Jayden let her gasp for air only briefly—long enough to yank her upright and slap her breasts twice, hard, laughing as the redhead squealed into her gag.

“Whose rack wins? Say it!”

Madelaine, eyes glassy, mumbled something unintelligible through the panties. Jayden grabbed a microphone.

“Everyone listen up!” she shouted, voice echoing off the walls. “The Wannabees now lead you big-tit Barbie **** and Wicked Queen has-beens 3 to 2! That’s right—we’re kicking your proud, silicone-filled asses with our firm, natural, young racks!”

She pointed down at Madelaine. “THIS is what happens when your fake boobs meet the real thing. You break. You kneel. You submit.”

Cheers erupted from the Wannabees section, while the Barbies and Wicked Queens fumed from their corner, shouting at the officials. But the rules were clear—Jayden earned this.

She wasn’t done.

Jayden pulled Madelaine upright and dragged her to the center of the ring. She yanked the panties from her mouth and held them high before tucking them into her bra. Trophy number one.

Next came the ultimate degradation.

Jayden forced Madelaine down flat on her back, then straddled her face in a dominant, punishing face sit. The crowd gasped, then roared. Jayden adjusted herself until Madelaine’s nose disappeared beneath her crotch and her lips pressed against Jayden’s sweaty skin.

“Shhh,” Jayden cooed mockingly. “Just go to sleep. It’s the only way this ends for a humiliated loser.”

Madelaine squirmed—but there was no strength left in her body. Her muffled gasps slowed. Her arms dropped. Her legs twitched once more—and then went still.

Jayden stood tall, her chest heaving, skin slick with sweat and victory. She raised her arms high as the crowd roared.

Jayden drove her foot down between Madelaine’s shoulder blades, pinning her in place like the conquered prey she was. Her gaze cut through the arena until it locked with Kylie Jenner’s seething stare across the ring.

Jayden smirked, venom curling her lips.

“Three-two,” she spat. “And we’re just getting warmed up.”

She leaned forward, voice laced with cruel sarcasm.

“Maybe Vegas should fire their odds-makers. Underdogs in every fight... and we’re about to win five out of seven. Hope you Barbies and Wicked Queens enjoy the view—'cause this is what real dominance looks like.”

Jayden raised the mic, letting the noise settle just enough. Her eyes scanned the stunned audience—half gasping in awe, half wide-eyed in disbelief. She took a moment to soak it in.

“Did you see that?” she said, her voice amplified through the arena. “Did everyone just witness what the hell happened here tonight?”

She kicked at Madelaine’s still form gently, rolling her over with her foot. “This right here?” Jayden gestured down at the broken, red-faced, half-conscious Barbie curled up on the mat. “This is what happens when you come at a Wannabee thinking your big plastic **** mean something.”

The crowd popped, laughter, gasps, and scattered cheers beginning to surge.

“Madelaine Petsch strutted into this ring with her pale, freckled, phony queen energy. Thought she’d put us in our place. Thought I’d bow down to these,” Jayden said, nudging Madelaine’s exposed chest with her toes, “like the rest of Hollywood does. But guess what?”

She leaned into the camera now, grinning.

“I made her **** tap out. Twice!”

The crowd exploded.

“And now?” Jayden’s eyes lit with fire. “Now the score is three-two. That’s right. The Wannabees are leading the Barbies and Wicked Queens. Not just leading—humiliating them.”

The Wannabees' section began to rise. Chanting. Clapping. “Wanna-BEES! Wanna-BEES!”

Jayden’s smile widened. “Y’all hear that? That’s momentum. That’s dominance. That’s reality slapping you silicone-hardened **** right across the chest!”

She pointed toward the Barbie section. Kylie Jenner, arms folded, lips curled. Madison Beer, seething. Sydney Sweeney, stone-faced. Natalie Alyn Lind, fuming.

“Let’s talk about why this is happening,” Jayden continued. “It’s not luck. It’s not cheap shots. And it’s not because we’re dirty. It’s because we’re better. Better trained. Better conditioned. And yeah…” She gave the camera a wink, “…our breasts are smaller, firmer, and real. These chest-to-chest showdowns? We dominate. We crush. We own.”

Another pop from the crowd. The Wannabee chant grew louder, rolling through the arena like a thunderstorm.

“I want everyone to look at what just happened to Madelaine,” Jayden continued, walking the ring slowly like a queen addressing her subjects. “Because I didn’t just beat her. I stripped her. Smothered her. Slapped her. Broke her. Owned her. And she couldn’t do a **** thing about it.”

She held up Madelaine’s panties and bra, swinging them like victory flags. “Two trophies. One Barbie. All mine.”

Jayden paused at the ropes, pointing to Natalie and Sydney.

“And now? Let’s talk about the next two lambs lined up for slaughter.”

Jayden climbed the middle rope like a conquering queen, towering above the wreckage of Madelaine. Her lip curled into a sneer as she turned her glare toward the Barbies’ side of the arena.

“Natalie Alyn Lind,” she spat the name like poison. “America’s blonde bombshell, huh? Please. Let’s call it what it really is—Hollywood’s most overhyped pair of ****. You've built an entire career off your chest—no talent, no grit, just ****. You've been riding those silicone-coated airbags since you were sixteen, using them like backstage passes to roles you were never good enough to earn.”

She raised an eyebrow, mocking her prey with icy precision.

“Let's be real, you're only 25 and your **** sage more than Lindsay Lohan. Just being real here, Nat's. But guess what, sweetheart? Your little milkmaid fantasy ends the second you step into the ring with Madisyn Shipman. We’ve been saving her. Keeping her sharp. Letting the rest of you tire yourselves out before we unleash the real pain.”

Jayden’s voice dropped, cruel and cold.

“Madisyn is built like a damn weapon. She’s tighter, tougher, and ten times meaner than you could ever hope to be. And those soft, sagging distractions you call boobs? Madisyn will rip through them like paper. Her **** are pure steel. Her nipples? Weapons-grade. You’ll be choking on them before you even know what hit you.”

The crowd was roaring now, eating up every brutal word, the “Wanna-BEES!” chant swelling with renewed fury.

Jayden turned slowly now, facing the camera, her face lit with malice.

“And as for Sydney Sweeney…” She practically purred the name, dripping with contempt. “If you think those cartoonish beach balls strapped to your chest are gonna save you, think again. That Barbie fantasy you’ve been selling? It ends in the ring. You’re not the ‘It Girl’ anymore, Sydney. You’re just next.”

Jayden walked to the corner, pointing directly at Francesca Capaldi in the crowd, her red hair blazing like fire, her breasts standing tall defying gravity.

“Meet your executioner: Francesca Capaldi. You might’ve heard the nickname—The Barbie Killer. She’s not just coming for your crown, Sydney… she’s coming to erase you. You won’t just lose. You’ll get flattened, humiliated, and forgotten. You’re not walking away from this fight. You're crawling—if you're lucky and if Fran has her way you'll be leaving t!ts up on a stretcher.”

Jayden stepped down from the ropes, taking one last slow look at the camera.

“So go ahead, Sydney. Post your cute selfies. Put on your best push up bra and put your **** on display while you still can. Because after Capaldi's done with you? You’ll need to post a damn obituary for your career. This may be the last time anyone sees you post another annoying pic of your over-rated cleavage.”

And with that, Jayden dropped the mic, arms spread wide, as the thunderous chant echoed from every corner of the arena.

“WANNA-BEES! WANNA-BEES!”

The Barbies were shook. The crowd was converted. And the war had officially turned.

The slaughter had only just begun.

The Wannabees 3 – Th Badass Barbies - Wicked Queens 2

Written by the Badass Barbies

Match 3 Build-Up

              Emily Ratajkowski 32D           vs.              Madison Pettis 34C



Emily Ratajkowski - Badass Barbies vs. Madison Pettis - The Wannabees

Early Las Vegas Odds:

Emily Ratajkowski: -180 Favorite
Madison Pettis: +140 Underdog

The Heat Behind the Headlines By now, it’s clear—this isn’t just about busts. It’s about pride. Power. Bragging rights. And for Emily Ratajkowski and Madison Pettis, this fight has been simmering ever since their last chaotic encounter left fans demanding a rematch.

With the series tied 1-1—Ariel Winter crushing Cree Cicchino, then Genevieve Hannelius leveling the score by breaking Madison Beer—the pressure was dialed up for Match 3. Enter the Barbies’ queen of curves: Emily Ratajkowski.

When people talk about the best boobs in Hollywood, Emily’s name always comes up—right alongside icons like Kate Upton, Salma Hayek, Pamela Anderson, Sydney Sweeney, and Alexandra Daddario. She’s not just a pretty face or a famous figure—Emily is a bust legend. And when it comes to bare-chested combat, challengers have come… and they’ve been crushed. Emily has ruled the ring for nearly a decade.

But don’t count out Madison Pettis.

Despite holding one of the worst official records in UCC history, Madison has carved out a reputation in specialty bouts—where she’s gone 8-2 against some fierce competition. She thrives in close-quarters combat, where firm flesh meets firm flesh. And while she may be smaller than Emily, Madison’s tight, toned chest and youthful resilience might just give her the edge where it counts most.

This isn’t just a tiebreaker.

It’s a statement match—two top less titans stepping into the ring, each determined to prove that when it comes to bust-to-bust domination…

Only one can come out on top.

The build up to this match has gone viral on several occasions.

At a Wannabee afterparty livestream, Madison clapped back, raising a champagne glass to the camera.

“Emily thinks she’s some lingerie model assassin. I’m not intimidated by some runway rack. I’ve been in real fights, not perfume commercials.”

A week later, Emily posted a no-caption photo: topl$ss, arms crossed under her chest, nipples blurred—only the caption read:

“Built to break b!tchees.”

The line was drawn. Both stables fanned the flames—Jayden Bartels fired shots online, Kylie Jenner called Madison “a blown-up brat with no finish,” and the fans? They were foaming for Match 3.
 
Fighter Breakdown Emily Ratajkowski – “The High-Fashion Hitwoman”

Age: 33

Stable: Badass Barbies

Bust Size: 32C

Height: 5’7”

Strengths: Reach, poise under pressure, psychological warfare

Weaknesses: Doesn’t like close combat, can be too composed

Emily walks like she owns the room—and fights like it too. With a catwalk-trained body and a dangerously calm demeanor, she lulls opponents into underestimating her. But don’t let the elegance fool you—she’s been working with the Barbies’ top trainers at The Dollhouse, focusing on upper body control, grip strength, and smother techniques using nothing but pure, natural power.

She’s known for humiliating finishes—smirking down at crushed opponents like they were unworthy of her time. Her specialty? The “Rata-Rack Wrap”—a choke-and-smother combo that’s ended many matches in tears.

Emily on Threads:

“Madison’s cute for sure. But this ring doesn’t care about cute. It rewards breast dominance. And I excel at that.”



(Captioned under a video of Emily in the surf covering her breasts with onee arm.)

Madison Pettis – “The Pouting Punisher”

Age: 26

Stable: Wannabees

Bust Size: 34C

Height: 5’5”

Strengths: Power, tenacity, grudge-fueled energy

Weaknesses: Can be emotional, burns hot and fast

Madison fights like she has something to prove—because she does. With her reputation as an MMA fighter tarnished and her roster spot on the Wannabes in jeopardy, Madison has nothing to lose and dethroning an iconic set of breast like Emily's will go a long way on hr comeback trail.

Her thick, toned frame gives her an edge in body-to-body combat. She’s been hitting the resistance cage and working under pressure with sparring partners Caylee Collins, Paige Spiranac, Isla Fisher, and Kiki  Passo finee tuning her breasts into lethat weapons. Madison’s pain tolerance is through the roof—and her revenge drive even higher.

Madison on TikTok:

“Emily’s about to find out that those perfect little model titties of hers are good for one thing: getting steamrolled by mine.”



(Captioned under a video Madison in a silver dress showing off her cleavage)

Mind Games & Memes

In the week leading up to the fight, fans were treated to nonstop chaos.

Emily posted a photo lounging in silk lingerie with the caption:

 “How do you prepare to fight someone like Madison? Easy. You don’t. You just pose for the victory photo in advance.”

Madison fired back with a clip of her punching a speed bag with Emily’s face taped on it.

“Hope you got insurance for those nipples, sweetie. They’re going to be sore when I’m done twisting them like bottle caps.”

Kylie reposted the clip with a snarky reply:

“Aww, someone’s mad she peaked in 2016.”

Jayden didn’t hold back either, tweeting:

“Can’t wait to watch Emily try to smother someone with her aging floppy cups. That’s like getting hit with soft pillows. Adorable.”</blockquote> Vegas Betting Breakdown
 
Updated Vegas Odds:
Emily Ratajkowski -180
Madison Pettis +140

Prop Bets:

• First tit-twist: Madison (-150)
• First breast smother: Emily (-120)
• Verbal submission: Madison over 6:00 (+110)
• Wardrobe malfunction: Yes (-130)
  

The Final Buzz Before the Bell

This isn’t just a bounce-back fight for Madison—it’s personal. And for Emily, this is about proving her brand of cool, calculated dominance works even under fire.

They’re both C-cups. They’re both proud. But there’s only room for one winner when these two top less titans collide in the ring.

And when the dust settles…

Only one will walk out with her chest raised high—
While the other will be left gasping, stripped, and smothered beneath it.


Round 1: Nipple Combat

The arena lights dimmed to a deep crimson as the announcement boomed across the venue.

The crowd roared with feverish anticipation, knowing this would be the most intimate and technical round of the night. The objective was not brute force, but discipline, precision, and nerve. Only the nipples were allowed as weapons. No grabbing. No slapping. No body strikes. Just the raw duel of hardened tips and iron will.

Emily Ratajkowski emerged first, gliding barefoot onto the soft, mat-covered ring, her black sports bra now replaced by a minimalist, taut crop top that barely covered her full 32Ds. The chill in the arena had already done its job—her nipples jutted outward, proud and sharp like arrowheads, frozen into gleaming weapons by pre-fight ice treatments. She exuded confidence, her breathing slow, her smirk dangerous. She knew what her body was capable of.

Then came Madison Pettis. At 5’3”, she looked compact but powerful, her 34C chest perfectly framed in a tight crimson top cut low to expose as much upper curve as possible. Her nipples were equally hardened, smaller than Emily’s but no less deadly—dark, tight, and protruding like bullets. Madison walked with fire in her eyes, arms loose, shoulders back, not intimidated by Emily’s taller frame or the towering reputation that came with her D-cups.

A single official entered the ring between them, instructed then to take off their tops and toss them in their corners. She raised a hand as they stepped forward each taking in long slow breaths then signaled.

"Begin."

The bell echoed.

Both women approached with solemn precision, their bare feet brushing the mat in perfect silence. No trash talk now. Only focus. Their breasts rose and fell steadily as they closed the gap, squaring off inches apart. Without warning, they leaned in—nipples meeting nipples in the center of the ring.

The first contact was a test.

A press. Gentle.

Then firmer.

Then a sudden jab—Emily’s left nipple snapped forward with a whip-like poke, catching Madison on the side of her areola. Madison winced but responded instantly, shifting her chest to rake her nipples across Emily’s, dragging them side to side like serrated blades.

"Nnngh..." Emily’s soft moan betrayed the burn.

Madison grinned, leaning forward again. Her shorter height worked to her advantage as she angled upward, jabbing her tips under Emily’s and flicking them up with pinpoint stabs. Emily bit her lip. Her own nipples, though longer, were more exposed—and Madison was targeting them mercilessly.

But Emily didn’t get famous for being soft.

She countered with a forward drive, mashing her breasts downward, trying to pin Madison’s nipples flat. Madison stumbled back half a step, and Emily chased, her chest swinging into position as she aimed for a pin.

Their nipples clashed like swords.

Emily’s longer, colder nipples dug in, driving toward Madison’s chest wall, hunting for an inversion. Madison squealed softly, her back arching as she tried to deflect with angled pushes. She pivoted, turned her torso just enough, and struck with a full-body twist—raking both hardened nipples across Emily’s in a scissoring motion.

"Ahhh—f$ck!" Emily gasped, staggering slightly as the twin burn lines ignited across her skin.

Madison closed in.

She executed a double rake followed by a quick poke-poke combo, her smaller but denser breasts giving her balance and maneuverability. She ducked low, angling her left nipple up and under Emily’s right, then pushed.

Emily’s nipple bent up, higher and higher as she held her breath.

Not inverted—but dangerously close.

The crowd gasped collectively, watching the high-stakes, near-silent dance of pressure and pain.

Emily shook it off, let out a low growl, and surged.

She stepped in full force, chest first, smashing both her D-cups into Madison’s Cs. The impact echoed with a wet thud. Madison stumbled back, her nipples flattening under the momentum. Emily seized the moment, shoving again, her longer nipples digging for a pin.

The ref crouched closer, watching.

Madison was already buckling.

Emily’s tips pressed Madison’s nipples flat—1... 2... 3 seconds...

But Madison twisted her torso violently, breaking the pin at 4.

The crowd roared.

"You felt that right?" Emily hissed, voice low, sweat forming at her temple.

Madison panted, her nipples already a dark red, glistening with pressure sweat. “I felt how soft yours are getting.”

The taunt lit a fire.

They collided again, nipple to nipple, breast to breast, locking into a grinding grapple. Their arms stayed behind their backs, posture perfect—this was all about chest technique. Emily’s taller frame gave her downward leverage. Madison’s firm, compact base gave her push back strength.

The burn was unbearable.

Emily’s nipples trembled under constant abuse. Madison’s were darker now, almost purple from repeated strikes. But both fighters were still standing, neither willing to give in.

Then Emily dropped her center of gravity, tilted her chest upward, and lunged—her nipples stabbed upward like spears.

Madison cried out.

Emily’s right nipple drove straight into the soft base of Madison’s left, pressing hard enough to dimple it. Madison tried to retreat, but Emily followed, pushed, pressed, leaned...

The ref leaned closer.

Madison’s left nipple flattened... then began to fold inward.

"Inversion approaching!" the ref shouted.

Madison screamed and twisted with all her might, breaking free. Her nipple popped back out with a painful recoil, but it was dangerously close.

“Lucky little b!tch,” Emily hissed.

Madison’s eyes narrowed.

And then she went savage.

A flurry of short, stabbing nipple strikes rained down on Emily’s breasts. Madison spun on her toes, twisting and slamming her nipples like daggers from every angle. Emily was rocked, unable to block. Her taller height now made her exposed. Nipples met nipples in rapid strikes—poke, rake, poke, stab.

Emily grunted in pain, now fighting off her back foot.

Madison cornered her.

And then—trap.

With one hard shove, Madison mashed her 34Cs directly into Emily’s chest, pushing both their nipples deep. Emily’s back hit the padded corner.

"PIN ATTEMPT!" the ref shouted.

Madison’s arms shot behind her, forcing every ounce of pressure from her sternum down into Emily’s tender peaks.

1...

2...

Emily’s eyes widened. How could this be happening?!

3...

4...

She twisted—but Madison twisted with her, hips following her every move, both sets of breasts shifting with deadly precision. Then the sound nobody saw coming.


5!

"PIN CONFIRMED!" the ref called.

The bell rang.

Madison stepped back, chest heaving, nipples burning, but victorious.

Emily clutched her chest, eyes wide in disbelief. Her proud D-cups had been bested—not by size, but by strategy, technique, and relentless pressure. Madison’s compact 34Cs had proven more stable under duress, her lower center of gravity keeping her grounded where Emily was forced to adjust.

The crowd erupted.

Winner of Round 1: Madison Pettis — via 5-second nipple pin.

Madison raised her arms high, her nipples red but upright, still holding their proud shape.

Emily seethed quietly, her face taut with frustration, one hand subtly massaging a still-aching nipples.

Madison leaned in as the ref escorted her toward her corner.

"One down," she whispered. “And I’m just getting started.”

Emily’s response was a venomous glare—and the knowledge that Round 2 would require a comeback.

The battle was far from over.

But in the opening act of this war of pride, poise, and precision—Madison Pettis had drawn first blood.

A dejected Emily slumped on her stool, breathing hard, eyes vacant. She couldn’t believe what had just happened. Kylie pressed an ice pack gently against her flushed, tender breasts, wincing in sympathy. Beside her, Natalie leaned in close, offering quiet encouragement.

“Don’t stress, Em. You’ve still got this,” she whispered. “You had her. She just got lucky.”

Emily gave a slow, reluctant nod, still dazed. “Her nipples… they were like needles. I swear I had her after that breast drop. I don’t know many women who could’ve stood back up from that.”

Kylie glanced around, clearly rattled. “We’re 0-3 in nipple battles. Something’s off. They’re doing something. Until we figure it out, we just have to fight through it.”

Just then, Strikeforce Featherweight and former Badass Barbie, Cara Delevingne, stepped up on the apron, drawing Kylie’s attention with a subtle wave.

“You know what’s going on, right?” Cara said, eyes sharp.

“Cheating. Like always,” Kylie snapped.

Cara shook her head. “Maybe not cheating… but something. When Genevieve walked past me earlier, she reeked of peppermint.”

Kylie raised an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“They’re rubbing Peppermint Oil on their breasts,” Cara explained. “It dulls the pain. And it tightens the nipples—makes them sharper, harder to beat in a tip-to-tip battle.”

Kylie’s eyes widened. “Those little f$cks!”

Emily blinked, stunned. “Wait… that’s why she smelled like Altoids? I thought she just chewed like ten of them!”

Cara leaned in through the ropes, grabbed Emily by the shoulders, and inhaled deeply, her nose grazing Emily’s chest.

“Yeah,” she said with a smirk. “And now you smell minty too.”

Emily’s cheeks flushed deep red as realization set in. She jolted off the stool, eyes blazing.

“Oh, it’s on now.”


Round 2: Full Breast Striking


Emily Ratajkowski stood in her corner, her chest heaving  and she leaned form side to side—not from exhaustion, just itching to get back at Madison. She wasn’t just beaten. She was humiliated. By Madison Pettis of all people. A woman mocked throughout the UCC as a paper tiger, all attitude and no bite. Losing to her wasn’t just a loss—it was a collapse. And for someone whose bust had been spoken of in the same breath as Upton, Daddario, and Hayek… it was the kind of fall that could stain a legacy forever..

If she didn’t turn this around, Emily wasn’t just going to lose a match.

She was going to lose everything.

Across the ring, Madison Pettis stood tall, chin up, her bare chest rising and falling with confidence. Just moments ago, she had done the unthinkable—she didn’t just beat Emily. She exposed her. Bent her back. Snapped her legendary nipples like twigs until Emily’s proud, iconic breasts were pinned helplessly beneath Madison’s youthful, bullet-firm chest.

It wasn’t luck. It was domination.

And Madison knew it—and unfortunately for Emily, she knew it too.

Every time their eyes met across the ring, Madison’s smirk only deepened, a silent reminder of whose chest had ruled in Round 1. Emily could still feel it—Madison’s nipples grinding into hers, bending her backward, stripping away every ounce of confidence with each humiliating second.

The crowd may have been roaring, but inside Emily’s head, there was only one voice. One brutal truth.

She was losing.

And Madison? She was just getting started.

The arena shifted with a sudden pulse—red and white lights strobing over a crowd now starved for more. When the bell for Round 2 rang, it didn’t sound like a start—it sounded like a summons. Gone was the air of technicality or precision. This was no longer a chess match of positioning or technique.

This was war.

Bare-chested. Barefoot. No pads. No mercy. Nothing between them now but skin, sweat, and fury.

Emily’s pride was on the line. Madison’s rise had already begun.

And as they stalked forward, breasts bouncing with every step, eyes locked, fists curled at their sides—it was clear:

Only one pair was leaving this ring unbroken.

Both women stood in the center of the mat, stripped to the waist, their glistening, bare torsos reflecting the arena lights. Emily’s flawless 32Ds, already red and sore from the brutal nipple combat of Round 1, looked less perky than usual. The model’s posture was tense, her eyes darkened with frustration and wounded pride. For once, Emily Ratajkowski wasn’t the picture of effortless dominance. She was on the back foot—and she knew it.

Madison Pettis, on the other hand, looked like a woman reborn. Her compact 34Cs were firm, high, and glistening with a sheen of sweat and the sweet smell of peppermint. She was breathing hard, but she wore a wolfish grin as she circled Emily with light, confident steps, hips swaying with predatory intent.

“You’re looking a little soft up top, Em,” Madison taunted, shaking her chest with deliberate rhythm.

“Those D-cups deflated faster than a beach ball in a cactus patch.”

Emily scowled, drawing a deep breath that caused her tender chest to rise and swell. “Keep talking, Pettis. You can cheat and all the peppermint oil in the world won’t stop what’s coming.”

Madison grinned. “We're not cheating, Sweetie, We're dominating.”

Madison laughed and launched the first strike—a wide side-to-side swing, her left breast crashing hard into Emily’s right. The thwack echoed like a gunshot, and Emily staggered sideways, stunned.

Madison wasted no time. She surged forward, delivering a crushing breast smash, slamming both 34Cs into Emily’s battered 32Ds. Emily stumbled but stayed upright almost going to the mat, gritting her teeth through the impact.

“C’mon, runway queen! Where’s that world-famous balance?” Madison teased, backing off to deliver a rapid breast jab that jolted Emily’s left tit backward.

Emily groaned, chest heaving. “You really think you’re winning this? You’re just waking the beast.”

“Beast?” Madison grinned. “You look more like a wounded fawn caught in the headlights.”

Emily suddenly stepped forward and spun, using her model’s pivot grace to whip her torso around—her breasts swung like twin wrecking balls, catching Madison with a double side-to-side smash. The impact made Madison grunt, her grin faltering.

“I warned you,” Emily hissed. “I’ve got more in me than looks.”

She followed up with an uppercut—a brutal swing from beneath that slammed her chest into Madison’s with surprising force, lifting Madison slightly off balance and making her stumble back.

“Still feel like the favorite now?” Emily spat, closing in.

Madison narrowed her eyes. “You’re gonna regret that.”

The two collided again in the center, torsos clashing with raw flesh and sweat. Their chests slapped together with relentless rhythm—smashes, jabs, and swings traded like punches. Neither woman was backing down.

Emily slammed forward with another breast smash, both of her D-cups flattening into Madison’s C-cups against her sternum. Madison winced but twisted her shoulders to whip her breasts into Emily’s side, landing a clean side-swing that made Emily grunt.

Their bodies stayed close—chests pressed, then whipped apart, only to slam back together. The crowd was roaring, deafening in their bloodthirsty enthusiasm.

Madison broke the rhythm with a hard upward arc—a sharp breast uppercut that nailed Emily beneath her chest. The pain shot through Emily’s torso, making her falter for a second.

“You look like you’re ready to cry, Em,” Madison growled, chest heaving. “I thought you were tougher than this.”

Emily didn’t answer. Instead, she lunged with a powerful breast drop—lifting both t!ts high and letting them crash down on Madison’s chest like twin hammers. The blow almost drove Madison to a knee—but only for a second. Her knee came inches from touching but she popped back up before the ref could count it as a knockdown.

“NO KNOCKDOWN! NO KNOCKDOWN!” the referee called. “Fight on!”

The audience gasped. Madison shook her head to clear it, breathing hard, her breasts clearly reddened now.

Emily smirked. “Almost had you. Almost.”

“Not even close, honey” Madison grunted. “I just wanted to feel what your **** taste like from below.”

The next few moments turned chaotic—sweaty, red-chested collisions as the two battered each other in a relentless breast-to-breast slugfest. The echo of every impact reverberated through the arena.

Emily landed a straight poke. Madison responded with a breast swing crushing Emily's left breast into hr right. Emily countered with a forward smash. Madison leapt into a double breast drop that forced Emily backward, almost into the ropes.

“Give it up,” Madison panted. “You’re already toast.”

Emily was hurting, chest flushed deep red and aching, but her eyes were focused. She suddenly lunged forward and locked chests with Madison, breast-to-breast, muscle to muscle. The crowd held its breath as they both leaned in, hands behind their backs, their glutes surging their upper bodies into each other with brute force.

Madison leaned in harder forcing Madison back but the curly haired brunette planted hr back foot and held her ground. “This is where I end your over-rated, over-hyped career.”

Emily hissed through clenched teeth. “You talk too damn much.”

Then she twisted.

With a sudden surge of energy, Emily executed a move no one had seen before—later dubbed the Spiral Drop. She spun into Madison with a full-body pivot, her breasts whipping in a diagonal motion before launching into a crushing breast drop that came at a spiraled angle—an awkward, brutal collision that slammed directly into Madison’s upper chest and shoulders, driving her down.

Madison gasped, stumbling backward in shock. She tried to recover—but her knees buckled and she stumbled left, then right, then left again then finally she collapsed backward onto the mat, her chest heaving, lips parted in disbelief.

“KNOCKDOWN! LEGAL  KNOCKDOWN!” the referee shouted. “Emily wins Round 2!”

The crowd exploded.

Emily dropped to her knees, arms raised, breathing hard. Her chest was bruised, red, and throbbing—but she had pulled off a stunning comeback.

Madison lay on the mat, groaning, one arm draped over her chest.

“You—b!tch,” she gasped. “You… spun?”

Emily crawled over, leaned down, and whispered with a smirk, “Didn’t see that one coming, did you?”

The ref stepped between them and sent Emily back to her corner as the Wannabees rushed to check on Madison. The arena buzzed with stunned chatter.


After an intense, evenly matched round that tested every limit of pride, pain tolerance, and strategy, it was Emily—sore, bruised, but brilliant—who stole the victory at the last second.

And the fans? They were already screaming for Round 3.


Round 3:

Both women understood exactly what was on the line. Victory here meant momentum, control, and forcing the opposing team into a desperate scramble—needing to win 3 of the final 4 fights walk away with the trophy.

The corners buzzed with urgency. Ice packs pressed firmly against sore breasts, whispered strategies passed between trainers, adrenaline and tension thick in the air.

Neither woman waited for the bell. Emily was up first, eager to build on her earlier knockdown and reclaim her shattered pride. But Madison wasn’t far behind—her eyes lit with renewed fire, fueled by a fierce, no-nonsense pep talk from Jayden Bartels that seemed to flip a switch inside her.

The next round wasn’t just another chapter—it was a war for control of the entire battlefield.

The crowd was electric, rising to their feet as the referee raised her hand and shouted,

"FINAL ROUND—BEGIN!"

Emily Ratajkowski and Madison Pettis stood just a foot apart, each of them drenched in sweat, faces flushed, bodies trembling—but not from fear. From adrenaline. From pride. From rage. Their bruised, red chests heaved with every breath. The arena had never seen two fighters so evenly matched, and yet so intent on destroying each other.

They lunged forward.

The referee motioned both fighters to the middle of the ring.

“OK, winner of the final round wins the match.  Lock up and the first woman  to let go, tap out, or black out is the loser. I'll be watching for illegal moves so keep it clean.

They edged closer, chests rising and falling with each breath, their eyes locked in steely defiance. Their breasts jostled and bumped, each woman trying to line up the perfect angle—like two arm wrestlers adjusting their grip before the decisive pull. Sweat already gleamed on their skin as they maneuvered for dominance, each subtle shift charged with intensity.

Once aligned, the referee stepped in, motioning for them to intertwine their arms. Fingers laced behind each other’s backs, the tension snapped taut.

The ref raised her hand high, then dropped it with a shout.

“FIGHT!”

In an instant, their bodies slammed together. Arms constricted like steel cables, crushing torsos into one another. Their bearhugs locked tight, neither woman giving an inch. Foreheads mashed together, teeth bared, they snarled and spat insults through clenched jaws.

“Thought you could take me, ****?” Emily growled, wrenching Madison in tighter. Her powerful D-cups flattened mercilessly into Madison’s chest, muscle and pride fueling every grind.

Madison hissed through her teeth, hips jerking sharply to angle her ribs and crash her breasts back into Emily’s with savage force. “I am taking you,” she snapped, voice low and venomous. “Feel that, Em? That’s the sound of your pride crumbling between my ****.”

Their breasts ground together, the skin already tender from previous rounds. Now, every motion sent jabs of lightning pain through their nerves. But neither backed down.

"You’re breaking," Emily said with a vicious smile. "I can feel it."

Madison bared her teeth. "What you’ve feeling is my **** dominating yours. Admit it, you've been feeling me dominate you since round one. Let’s finish it."

She dipped her hips, hoisting Emily off the floor for a moment, adding pressure to the hug. Emily screamed out—but it wasn’t surrender. She retaliated, dropping back down, digging her chin into Madison’s shoulder as her arms cinched even tighter.

"You’re shaking, Maddie," Emily whispered venomously. "I’m going to crush the breath out of you."

"Then do it," Madison spat. "Let’s see who folds first."

The crowd’s roar dimmed under the sound of two women growling, straining, sweating, and crushing each other’s chests in the ultimate test of power. It wasn’t just physical—it was personal. Every ounce of pain inflicted was a message.

Their legs tangled, trying to trip the other, each stomp forward or slide sideways driving their tender breasts to mash harder and deeper. Emily tried shifting her grip to Madison’s lower back to control her center of gravity.

Madison caught it instantly.

"Trying something slick?" she sneered. "Not gonna save you."

She yanked upward, pushing Emily’s chest higher against her own. Their nipples scraped and flattened, sending bolts of pain through them both. Emily gasped.

"That all you got?" Madison hissed. "Cheap little tricks? You’re desperate, b!tch."

Emily barked a laugh, even as her ribs trembled. "You’re calling me desperate? You’re holding on for dear life. You’re one inch from breaking."

Madison loosened her grip pulling back then slammed her chest in again. "I’m one inch from beating you."

They twisted, grunted, ground, sweat flying off their locked bodies. The crowd was hypnotized—this wasn’t a contest anymore. It was a war.

Emily shifted her legs, trying to pivot Madison into an off-balance position. Madison stumbled but regained her balance.

"Nice try," she snapped. "You're trembling, Em. Are those saggy utters about to pop! You're weak, Em. Weak."

"Power’s nothing when you don’t know how to use it," Emily shot back. "Keep trying to brute force this. You’ll crack first."

Suddenly, Madison surged forward, using all her weight to force Emily back. Emily’s heels slid, but she planted them again.

"I can feel your ribs caving," Madison purred. "One more squeeze—"

"Then squeeze!" Emily roared. "Let’s see what breaks first—your arms or your ego."

With a defiant scream, Emily tightened her grip beyond anything she had before. Madison’s breath hitched—Emily felt it. A tiny moment of doubt. Of pain.

"There it is," Emily gasped. "That gasp. That’s the sound of you losing."

"I’m not—" Madison began, but Emily didn’t let her finish.

She twisted sharply, driving her right breast directly into Madison’s sternum, grinding down with every ounce of fury and strength.

Madison cried out.

"You were saying?" Emily hissed.

Madison’s legs buckled slightly, but she snarled and fought back, leaning forward, smashing both breasts into Emily’s in a jarring counterattack that drove  the air from her lungs.

"You hit like a dancer," Madison panted. "All rhythm, no pain."

"Then how come you’re the one groaning?" Emily barked.

Another squeeze. Another twist. More pain. They were both gasping now, muscles on fire, arms quaking. Their bodies slicked in sweat. Neither would let go.

"Look at you," Madison muttered through gritted teeth. "Your legs are jelly. You’re dying in my arms."

"You wish," Emily replied, drawing spit between her teeth as she bit back a scream. "You’re trembling. You . . you . . you’ve never been pushed this hard."

Madison suddenly loosened her grip giving her aching biceps some reprieve. Then with her back to the ref she sliced her nails down Emily's back.

Kylie and Natalie screamed foul as Emily yelped.

Madison re-wrapped her arms and tightened the bearhug again.

Emily gasped. "Cheap shot."


"Smart shot," Madison corrected. "The kind that winners make."

"You’re not winning this," Emily snarled, and in one swift move, hooked Madison’s leg and twisted her body. They stumbled, nearly going down—Madison cried out as her foot slid and her weight shifted.

Emily pounced, tightening the bearhug but with a higher grip this time. Her breasts forced Madison’s upward into a brutal crush. Madison arched her back, her scream muffled against Emily’s shoulder.
"GIVE UP!" Emily roared.

"NO! NEVER!" Madison howled back.

They froze like statues, every muscle locked. Their chests flattened and bulged against each other in grotesque symmetry. Faces twisted with pain and rage. Their arms shook. Legs buckled. Breasts mushroomed out.

Then—

Madison’s grip faltered.

It was slight. Barely noticeable. But the veteran Emily felt it instantly. Like blood in the water.

“Oh my, what’s that?” Emily growled into Madison’s ear, her voice low and venomous. “Giving out on me are ya?”

With a savage twist of her hips, Emily surged forward, her arms constricting like steel cables. Their sweaty, bruised chests smashed together again, Madison’s breasts folding under the relentless pressure.

“Unhh—NO!” Madison screamed, trying to dig in, her nails raking weakly across Emily’s back. But her strength was bleeding out fast.

“You’re finished, Pettis,” Emily sneered, her voice low and vicious against Madison’s ear. “Say it. SAY IT, you overrated little tease.”

“I—I’M—” Madison choked out, but the words broke apart as Emily’s crushing embrace drove the air from her lungs. Her head slumped forward onto Emily’s slick, dominant shoulder, her strength bleeding away like spilled blood. Her limbs twitched uselessly—every nerve screaming, every breath a shallow gasp of desperation.

Emily’s bearhug was relentless, merciless. Her arms coiled like iron bands around Madison’s back, ribs grinding together under pressure that felt inhuman. But worse than that was the humiliation—her breasts, swollen and brutalized, were being flattened, molded, owned by Emily’s rock-hard rack. There was no fight left in them. No pride. Only pain.

“You’re nothing,” Emily hissed, lips curling in cruel delight. She rolled her shoulders forward with slow, deliberate precision, grinding deeper into Madison’s chest. Each cruel rotation of her hips twisted the bearhug tighter, and Madison’s body buckled.

The pain was exquisite. Her ribs felt like they were caving in. Her breasts—numb, swollen, dominated—quivered under the assault.

Madison’s eyes fluttered. Her mouth fell open in a silent whimper. Her head lolled to the left, her face ghost-pale, and her body sagged in Emily’s arms like a ragdoll.

“Look at you,” Emily whispered. “Beaten. Broken. Mine.”

Madison teetered on the bring of consciousness.


“DON’T YOU DARE FAINT ON ME!” Emily barked, jerking Madison upright. “You say it! Or I’ll leave your t!ts in the dirt! PERMANENTLY!”

“NEVER!” Madison spat through clenched teeth, her body jerking as she tried to resist. “You ****—no!”

Emily's voice was a roar now. “THEN SUFFER B!TCH!”

She leaned back, arched her spine, and squeezed with everything she had left. Their bodies convulsed in the hold—skin slippery, breasts crushed tighter than ever before. Madison screamed—a deep, broken sound of total anguish—as the pain lit up her chest like wildfire.

"NO! OH—OH GOD NO!" she sobbed, her voice raw. “MY CHEST—!”


“SAY IT OR I BREAK YOU!” Emily’s face twisted with fury as she jerked Madison upward again. The pressure peaked—then…


Pop.

A soft, sickening sound. Then another.

Almost silent—but they both felt it. A final collapse. The once firm flesh reaching their limits then giving way.


Madison’s breasts, one after the other, deflated beneath Emily’s.

“—I… I…” Madison whimpered. Her knees buckled. Her body slumped in Emily’s arms.

Emily held her there, trembling from effort but still standing, towering. The crowd held its breath.

Then—silence.

Agonizing, electric silence.


Until finally… a whisper. Barely audible. Frayed, trembling, broken:


“…I submit.”

The referee dove in instantly.

Both women collapsed at once, folding to their knees, arms still loosely entangled, bodies swaying together in exhausted ruin. Their foreheads smacked—sweat-slick, trembling—sharing one last breathless moment of hatred and surrender.

Emily couldn’t even lift her arms in triumph. Her body screamed with pain, her breasts throbbed, her ribs ache. D, her biceps completely drained. But the savage grin that **** through her lips said it all.

She’d won.

Madison dropped backward, collapsing into a heap, her flattened breasts spilling pathetically to the sides—deflated, bruised, broken. Her eyes fluttered closed, her body unmoving. Shattered. Defeated.

The arena erupted.

"EM-I-LY! EM-I-LY!"

The chant shook the walls as Emily stayed on her knees, back bowed, arms hanging limp at her sides. Every breath hurt. Every inch of her ached.

But through the pain, through the bruises and torn pride, a single triumphant smile crept across her face.

She’d crushed Madison Pettis—and everyone in the world knew it, especially Madison and the Wannabees.

Winner: Emily Ratajkowski – Verbal Submission


Post-Fight:

The bell had sounded, the match officially over. Madison had whispered the words no fighter ever wants to utter—words that choke in the throat, heavy with defeat: “I submit.”

But Emily wasn’t done. Not even close.

What Ariel Winter had started, Genevieve Hannelius had taken to the next level. Now, all eyes were on Emily to decide where this post-fight humiliation would go next.

She stood over her broken opponent, chest heaving, pulse pounding. The moment teetered on a knife’s edge. Emily could keep things relatively civil—with a classic stripping and a breast smother that left no doubts about dominance. Or… she could take it darker, nastier, and utterly unforgivable.

The choice was hers.

And everyone knew—Emily never backed down from a chance to leave a mark.

There was a storm still raging inside her, a hunger that hadn’t been fed. The victory was hers, but the humiliation? That was just beginning.

Still on her knees, her chest heaving, her face bruised but glowing with vindication, Emily glanced sideways at the referee.

"Time," she panted, licking her parted lips. "How long do I get?"

"Five minutes," the ref said with a nod, stepping back as the crowd rose to their feet, understanding what was about to unfold.

The arena shifted. The fight was over—but the spectacle was just beginning.

Emily’s grin curled wider as she closed the remaining space, leaning in with measured control. Her forehead grazed Madison’s in a slow, deliberate gesture—intimate, invasive, unmistakably dominant. Then, with a quick flick of her head, Emily whipped her damp, dark hair across Madison’s face.

It wasn’t just a taunt. It was a message.

The kind only women truly understand.

“You’re mine now,” Emily whispered with venom-laced softness, her voice both maternal and mocking. “And everyone’s going to watch.”

She stood—slow, commanding—while Madison stayed on her knees, swaying slightly, barely able to keep herself upright.

Emily ran a hand through her tangled hair and circled Madison, like a predator eyeing her wounded prey. She reached down, hooked her fingers into Madison’s waistband, and yanked her bottoms up with one swift motion. The crowd roared as Madison let out a gasp, instinctively reaching down to release the building pressure—only for Emily to grab a handful of her curls and yank her back upright by her hair.

The cameras zoomed in. Fans in the front row snapped pictures as Emily stood behind Madison, holding her by the hair with one hand, the waistband of her own panties with the other—giving her a humiliating wedgie as she dragged the disoriented brunette in a humiliating circle for the arena.

The crowd chanted:

“EM-I-LY! EM-I-LY!”

“No no, sweetheart,” Emily purred, walking Madison forward by her scalp like a prize lamb. “You’re gonna show everyone how it feels to lose to the better woman.”

With one firm tug Madison's panties ripped apart. Emily held the panties up high in her free hand like a trophy, then jammed them into Madison’s mouth with the other.


“Chew on your shame,” she hissed.


Some cheered. Some looked away. A few covered their mouths in stunned disbelief.


Emily stopped at the center of the ring and shoved Madison to her knees again. She sat on the edge of her own heel, raising her palm slowly… then SLAPPED Madison hard across the face. Once.

Then again.

Then again.

Madison’s head whipped side to side with each strike, her muffled cries behind the panties barely audible.

“You thought you had a better rack than me?” Emily barked. “You thought those pathetic puppies were gonna win?”

She yanked Madison’s face up by the chin, nose-to-nose now.

“Go on. Say it.”

Madison whimpered.

Emily reached down and slapped both of Madison’s sore, flattened breasts, causing Madison to cry out through the gag.

“SAY. IT.”

Finally, a garbled, trembling moan behind the cloth:

“Y-your rack… i-it’s better…”

Emily leaned in, eyes gleaming.

“Say it like a humiliated loser.”

“I’m… I’m a h-humiliated loser…” Madison choked.

The crowd exploded. Half were on their feet. The other half were frozen, jaws dropped, unable to believe what they were witnessing.

Emily wasn’t done.

She bent down, wrapped her arms around Madison’s head, and pulled her face straight into her sweaty, victorious cleavage.

The kneeling breast smother. A move Emily had used too many time to count. She had perfected it to a point where no woman had yet to survive. The ultimate seal. The goddess press.

Madison’s arms flailed weakly. Her legs kicked against the mat. Emily’s back arched as she leaned into it, pressing harder, burying the woman beneath her into warm, sweaty, suffocating defeat.

“Let them see what beat you,” Emily hissed down at her captive, pressing her breasts even deeper.

“You talked about my rack like it was just for show? You’re going to pass out inside it.”

The crowd counted in thunderous unison, each second ringing out like a drumbeat of doom.

“ONE! TWO! THREE!”

Madison’s arms had stopped thrashing. Her legs, once kicking in desperation, now hung limp. Emily loosened her hold just enough for the curly haired brunette to gasp—a sharp, pitiful inhale like a drowning swimmer breaching the surface for a moment of air.

But it wasn’t mercy.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Emily flipped Madison onto her back and slid forward, planting herself firmly on her chest. Her long legs spread wide into a powerful, dominating straddle, her breasts looming above Madison’s stunned face like an impending eclipse.

Emily leaned down, her lips brushing Madison’s ear.

“You don’t get to breathe until I say so.”

She lowered her chest with calculated cruelty, smothering Madison beneath the weight and heat of her infamous curves. A few seconds passed. Madison squirmed. Emily pulled back—just enough to let the girl wheeze in a lungful of air—then plunged down again, harder this time, her sweaty breasts sealing over Madison’s nose and mouth like velvet shackles.

The crowd was on fire, watching the twisted rhythm play out: smother, release, smother again. Madison’s hands pawed weakly at Emily’s sides, but the strength was gone. Her resistance was little more than a reflex now.

Emily giggled darkly, taking her time, playing with her prey. “You wanted a third round, Maddie. So breathe it in… this is what defeat smells like.”

Again and again, she let her up for a sliver of air only to bury her back down. Until, finally, the game grew tiresome. Emily’s expression flattened—no more teasing.

She bore down with everything she had, grinding her chest into Madison’s face until the the Wannabee stopped moving entirely. Arms spread, eyes fluttering, Madison slipped into unconsciousness beneath the weight of Emily’s victory.

Only then did Emily rise, chest heaving in satisfaction, standing tall over her fallen rival like a queen reclaiming her throne.

Madison was out.

Copletely naked and fully KO’d beneath the victorious weight of Emily’s world class breasts.

Emily rose slowly, glistening with sweat, victorious in every sense. The crowd went nuclear.

The ref lifted her hand in victory as she placed Madison’s panties in the air like a sacred trophies. Her foot came down on Madison’s chest—one final pose.

Winner: Emily Ratajkowski. By Submission. And KO.

The fans would be talking about this moment for years.

The rack that ruled.

The woman who conquered.

The humiliated loser lying at her feet.

Emily had reigned supreme



Badass Barbies – Wicked Queens 2 -  The Wannabees 1

Written  by the Badass Barbies.

Match 1 Build-Up:

                   Ariel Winter 34C                   vs.              Cree Cicchino 34B



Ariel Winter (Wicked Queens) vs. Cree Cicchino (Wannabees)
Early Lass Vegas Odds:

• Ariel Winter: -350 Favorite
• Cree Cicchino: +275 Underdog

The Spark That Lit the Fire

It all started with Cree Cicchino’s big mouth. The pint-sized but loud-mouthed starlet from the Wannabees stable wasn’t just talking trash—she was launching a full-on offensive against the older, bustier Barbies. During a livestream with her fellow Wannabees, Cree made a sarcastic remark that set everything in motion:

"Yeah, we get it. They’re older, they’re bigger, and they think that means they’re better. But real fighters don’t need flotation devices to win. I’ve got just enough up top to whip every one of them—especially Ariel Winter. Big boobs and absolutely no bite left in heer saggy sacks."</blockquote></blockquote> What she didn’t know was that the Badass Barbies were mid-interview at their locker room in Calabassas, sipping champagne and flaunting their cleavage for a fashion shoot. The moment Kylie Jenner heard Cree’s name, she laughed and said:

"Cree who? That little B-cup brat? She’s lucky I’m not in this thing. If she steps into the ring with Ariel, she’ll get squashed by a pair of real woman’s breasts." The camera crew laughed, but the feed accidentally went live to the Barbies’ Instagram, and within minutes, the clip went viral. Hashtags exploded:

#BigBoobEnergy
#BitterBitties
#SmotherTheWannabees
#BiggerisAlwaysBetter
The internet was split—those siding with the feisty Wannabees for their underdog spirit, and others rooting for the busty Barbies/Wicked Queens and their elite, curvy roster.

Fighter Breakdown Ariel Winter – "The Chest Queen"

• Age: 27
• Stable: Wicked Queens
• Bust Size: 34D
• Height: 5'1”
• Strengths: Massive chest, experience, raw crushing power
• Weaknesses: Slightly slower reflexes and slow recovery

Ariel isn’t just known for her curves—she’s got the goods. Always underestimated for her height, she’s built a career off proving people wrong over and over again. And when it comes to this fight, Ariel is not holding back. Her chest is powerful, heavy, and her nipples—according to sparring partners—"hit like darts."

Ariel also has the backing of Natalie Alyn Lind and Kylie Jenner, which gives her access to the best training facility in the UCC: the Barbies' private gym known as "The Dollhouse."

She’s been training with weighted nipple clamps, ice resistance rounds, and specialized uppercut drills utilizing her strong pectoral muscles.—every part of her chest has been battle-hardened for this exact match. She’s even cut her diet and tightened up her chest and shoulder muscles, giving her breasts added firmness and bounce.

Ariel on IG: "You started this, little girl. I’m gonna finish it. I’m not here to talk—I’m here to crush."

Cree Cicchino – "The Mighty Mouth"

• Age: 22
• Stable: Wannabees
• Bust Size: 34B
• Height: 5'2”
• Strengths: Speed, tenacity, trash talk, unwavering confidence
• Weaknesses: Smaller breasts, inexperience

Cree might be the smallest-chested competitor in the entire tournament, but her mouth? That’s heavyweight level. From the moment the fight was announced, Cree was already spitting fire on TikTok, Instagram, and Threads. She claims Ariel is "saggy, slow, soft, and all saline," and that she plans to "poke holes through those fake melons like a knitting needle."

Her confidence borders on delusion—or genius marketing. Either way, she’s captured the hearts of the anti-Barbie movement.

Cree on TikTok:

"You really think some saggy D-cup’s gonna beat me? B is for Bruiser, baby. Ariel’s never had anyone fight back with speed. She’s gonna get stabbed, poked, raked, and dropped. I’m gonna invert those crusty old nipples and flatten those milk jugs like pancakes."Cree's been training by smacking punching bags with padded cups strapped to her chest and practicing rapid-fire "nip stabs" against pressure pads. She’s fast, agile, and uses her smaller frame to her advantage—less surface area means less to target, and harder to pin down.

The Psychological Warfare

In the days leading up to the fight, both women took to social media with a flood of memes, training footage, and trash talk.

Cree posted a challenge video:

A slow-mo walk toward the camera in a white sports bra, smirking:

"I’m walking into that ring in a B-cup... and walking out with a D-cup’s pride in my back pocket."
Ariel clapped back with a video of her putting on gloves over her breasts, dipping them into ice water, then flexing her chest muscles:

"These aren’t pillows, sweetheart. These are **** wrecking balls. And I’m gonna bury you under them."
 Kylie Jenner even chimed in with a cheeky tweet:

"We are so glad to have Ariel on our side. Watching her prepare has been wild. Let’s just say Cree should enjoy breathing now—'cause she won’t be doing much of it when Ariel’s done with her. #SmotherSeason

Vegas Takes Notice:

The betting lines opened and were quickly flooded. Most gamblers saw Ariel as the heavy favorite due to size and experience, but Cree’s mouth drew attention, especially from younger bettors on social media who saw her as a confident dark horse.

Updated Vegas Odds:
Ariel Winter -150 (Bet $150 to win $100)
Cree Cicchino +110 (Bet $100 to win $110)</blockquote> <blockquote>Prop Bets:</blockquote>

• First nipple pin: Ariel (-180
• First knockdown: Ariel (-250
• Verbal submission time: Cree under 4:00 (+100)
• Post-fight face sit: Yes (-110

Final Thoughts Before the Bell

The hype is massive. The arena is sold out. Social media is ablaze. And these two women are ready to strip off their tops and go chest-to-chest in a battle that’s more personal than anyone could’ve expected.

Cree has the speed and the mouth. Ariel has the mass and the muscle. This won’t just be the first match—it will set the tone for the entire tournament.

One thing’s for sure: when these two lock nipples in the center of the ring

Only one rack will reign supreme.

Ariel vs. Cree Round 1  Nipple Battle
The crowd was electric as the spotlight shifted to the first official match of the Breast-Only Combat Tournament. The energy inside the private arena was thick with anticipation. Fans, fighters, and team leaders from the Badass Barbies, the Wicked Queens, and the Wannabees surrounded the raised fighting riing, each ready to witness the opening clash of what was expected to be the most brutal and intimate combat sport ever conceived.

At center stage stood Ariel Winter, representing the Wicked Queens. She was calm, confident, and composed. Her expression was serene, even smug, as she reached back and slowly unhooked her black lace bra, letting her full D-cups swing free with a gentle but firm bounce. Gasps and cheers erupted as the spotlight hit her bare chest. Her large, soft breasts glistened under the lights, her nipples already stiff with anticipation, tinged pink with pride.

Ariel gave a small, cocky smirk. She looked across the ring at her opponent, Cree Cicchino of the Wannabees. The younger, leaner fighter was bouncing on her toes, jawing non-stop, her trash talk sharp and cutting.

"Hope those big udders are ready to get flattened, you over-hyped cow," Cree sneered.

The crowd let out a mixture of laughter and oooohs.

Ariel didn’t respond, just smiled. She was above it. Or so she thought.

Cree’s toned, petite frame looked deceptively non-threatening, but her nipples were a different story. Hard as diamonds and jetting out like daggers, the result of a brutal ice treatment that had her team rubbing her down for nearly ten minutes before the bell. Her nipples were smaller than Ariel’s, but packed with tension and menace. She strutted forward ****, grinning wide and wicked.

The ref, standing between them, checked both women, then gave the signal.

"Step up."

The fighters closed the gap until their nipples were mere inches apart. The heat between them was electric.

Cree leaned in, eyes narrowed, and hissed, "Let’s see if those fat **** of yours can even survive five minutes. I doubt it."

Ariel didn’t flinch, but her nipples tensed as she pulled her shoulders back and tensed her pectoral muscles. She was ready.

"FIGHT!"

The bell rang.

Round 1 had begun.

The two fighters advanced, breasts forward, shoulders back, torsos held taut. Their stiffened nipples connected with a soft but audible tap. Both women flinched instinctively—no matter how prepared, the first contact always sent a shock through the nerves.

They began circling slowly, locking eyes, torsos undulating slightly as each woman sought a dominant angle. The first exchanges were sharp and mutual. Ariel jabbed her left breast forward, catching Cree on the right nipple. Cree hissed, then snapped back with a diagonal rake that scraped across Ariel’s areola. Ariel winced but recovered fast, rotating her shoulders and landing a thudding jab with her right.

The crowd roared as the fighters began exchanging rapid nipple rakes and stabs. The contact was fast, brutal, and rhythmic—like a sadistic dance. Neither gave ground initially.

But soon, things began to shift.

Cree’s ice-hardened nipples maintained their full, terrifying stiffness. Ariel’s, under the intense friction and pain, were starting to lose firmness. She knew it. Cree knew it.

"What’s wrong? Your not getting soft on me already?" Cree taunted.

She rolled her shoulders and suddenly lunged forward, delivering a brutal rake across both of Ariel’s nipples. Ariel gasped and stumbled back.

Cree grinned wide. "That’s right. Run, b!tch. You feel that burn? That’s me owning your t!ts."

Ariel backed up again, chest heaving, nipples tender and pink from repeated strikes. Cree advanced, relentless, precise.

She drove forward, shoulders rotating, nipples lashing out like tiny whips. Ariel tried to respond but couldn’t get her rhythm. Her confidence was cracking. She grimaced through clenched teeth as Cree’s right nipple poked deep into her left areola, leaving a red mark.

Another rake. Then another.

But Cree wasn’t done. She leaned back for a moment, cocking her shoulders like a predator, then lunged forward with a wicked twist—dragging her rock-hard nipples across Ariel’s chest in a crisscross pattern, forming a vicious "X" of pain across Ariel’s already battered breasts.

Ariel screamed, staggering to the side, arms flailing.

"OMG!" Ariel screamed in agony, the sharp sting of Cree’s ice-tipped nipples leaving a searing trail of fire across her skin.

"Let me draw it for you," Cree hissed, her voice low and cruel. She pressed back in and etched a slow, deliberate “Z” across Ariel’s cleavage with three savage diagonal rakes—first downward right, then back up to the left, then down again, forming a blazing Zorro slash of red welts that crossed over Ariel’s tender mounds.

Ariel’s legs buckled, and she almost dropped to one knee, her breath caught in short, panicked gasps.

Cree towered over her, eyes blazing. "You feel that, princess? That’s me branding you."

Ariel looked up, eyes glassy, mouth open in pain. Her red, welted breasts throbbed with each heartbeat, sweat rolling down her heaving cleavage.

Cree surged forward and slammed chest-to-chest. Ariel tried to hold ground, but Cree angled her shoulders perfectly and pinned Ariel’s right nipple flat against her chest, twisting it cruelly with her hardened point.

Ariel whimpered, too stunned to cry out again. Cree leaned in, her lips brushing Ariel’s ear.

"This isn’t a fight anymore," she whispered. "It’s a lesson."

"There it is," Cree growled, pressing harder. "Feel that? Right there. That’s your nipple losing."

Ariel whimpered, trying to twist out, but Cree rotated again and flattened both of Ariel’s nipples in a cruel double press.

Ariel’s eyes widened. She sucked in a sharp breath as she was pushed until her back was pressed against the ropes.

The pain was immense. Her tender nipples were being crushed. Her strength was failing.

Cree didn’t let up.

"Come on, you chubby crybaby. I want you to remember what it felt like when your little princess nips got pinnned."

The ref leaned in. The pin was solid.

"ONE!"

Ariel shook her head, teeth clenched, trying to fight through.

"TWO!"

Tears welled in her eyes. She gasped again. Cree leaned forward using her weight to pin Ariel's nipples tight. So tight that they slowly started to invert.

"STOP! STOP!"

The ref instantly waved it off.

"SUBMISSION! ROUND ONE GOES TO CREE CICCHINO!"

The crowd erupted. Cree stepped back, raising her arms in victory, her nipples still diamond-hard and triumphant.

Ariel collapsed to her knees, holding her chest, tears running down her flushed cheeks while her breasts were streaked with red welts. Kylie Jenner and Natalie Alyn Lind rushed to her side from the Wicked Queens’ corner, helping her up and shielding her from the cheering crowd.

Cree turned to the crowd, arms wide, laughing.

"That’s right! One down! Big boobs, little heart! Way too easy!"

The Wannabees were on their feet, chanting her name.

Ariel Winter slumped on her stool, shaking. Her face was buried on Natalie Alyn Lind’s shoulder, tears slipping silently down her cheeks as she tried to steady her breathing. The pain radiating through her chest was impossible to ignore—her breasts were a mess. Red, scratched, stinging. Her nipples throbbed, raw and swollen from Cree’s ruthless raking.

She hadn’t seen it coming. Not like this.

Natalie crouched beside her, gripping her arms tightly, eyes wide with disbelief.

“What the hell was that?” Natalie demanded, scanning Ariel’s battered chest with a mix of fury and concern.

Ariel turned away, her cheeks burning with shame. She couldn’t meet Natalie’s gaze.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “They’re doing something... I don’t know what it is.” She paused, choking on the words as her lips trembled. “Her nipples… it was like they were ice picks. I couldn’t breathe. They just—cut right through me. Like razors.”

Natalie’s brows furrowed, her grip on Ariel tightening. “Obviously they iced her down. You think they tried something else?”

Ariel gave a small nod, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know what they did, but it wasn’t normal. That pain... it felt like cheating.”

Natalie took a breath, calming herself. “Look at me,” she said, lifting Ariel’s chin gently. “None of that matters now. She caught you off guard. That’s not happening again.”

Ariel’s breath hitched. Then steadied.

Natalie leaned in, voice sharp with confidence. “Now get out there and flatten that big-mouthed little b!tch.”

Ariel clenched her jaw, her eyes darkening. She nodded slowly, her pain now forged into something harder. Fiercer.

“She’s mine,” she growled.

And as the bell neared, Ariel stood—hurt, but far from done.

Cree Cicchino strutted back to her corner, hips swaying, chest thrust out proudly as the crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and gasps. She turned, blew a mocking kiss toward the stunned audience, then smirked back over her shoulder.

“I hope the next round’s quicker,” she taunted, loud enough for Ariel to hear. “These nipples don’t play around.”

Jayden Bartels leaned in from ringside, her grin stretching ear to ear. “You got her now,” she purred. “She’s rattled. You own those big air bags.”

Cree grabbed a towel, casually dabbing at the light sheen of sweat between her breasts. “She’s mine,” she said coolly, eyes still locked on Ariel’s broken posture. “But I’m not done yet.”

Jayden raised a brow. “You going for the kill?”

Cree chuckled, her voice low and wicked. “Oh no. Not yet. I want her to feel it. To know it’s coming. I’m gonna use her as an example for the rest of the plastics.”

She leaned back in her corner, arms resting on the ropes, her tone dripping venom.

“I want to break her first. Really break her. Then I’ll put Ariel down for good… and out of her misery.”

A flash of cruel delight sparked in her eyes. Cree wasn’t just going to win.

She was going to make Ariel suffer.


Round 2 -  Breast Striking
Ariel sat hunched forward on her stool, taking in gulps of air as the adrenaline faded and the throbbing pain in her chest returned with a vengeance. Only three minutes to recover between rounds wasn’t enough. Natalie was already at her side, pressing a fresh pack of ice to Ariel's aching breasts. Ariel winced and pushed her away.

"You need this, Ariel," Natalie said firmly. "It'll numb the pain."

"I said I'm fine," Ariel muttered through clenched teeth.

Kylie leaned in, her voice low and urgent. "You’re bigger than her. Use it. Smash her flat. She can't handle your weight. Your mass. Use it."

Ariel gave a slow nod. She'd been in a lot of brutal fights before. She knew how fast things could change. Losing the first round didn’t mean defeat. But winning the second? That could shift everything

She rose from her stool with determination, her pink breasts swaying with each step. The D-cups were still red from Cree's raking attacks, but Ariel's eyes were locked on the smaller girl across the ring.

Cree, on the other hand, was all energy and ego. She strutted in place, practically bouncing on her toes. Her pert B-cups barely moved as she warmed up, light and ready.

Jayden was in her ear, trying to keep her grounded. "Don’t get cocky, Cree. That was a great round, but she’s still got the size. Ariel’s going to come hard this round."

Darci joined in, quick and tactical. "Stay away from her. Jab, poke, and back off. Make her work. She's slow. She’s sore. You're faster, lighter. Use it."

Cree nodded with a grin. "I got this."

She glanced across the ring and mimed wiping away tears. Ariel gave her nothing back, just slow, measured breaths. The bruises were still fresh, the pain radiating, but she was focused. All business.

"Ready, Elsie?" Cree teased. "Are you done crying now? Get ready to get flattened?"

Ariel didn't respond.

Cree stepped closer looking directly at the damage she caused, her lips curling into a smirk. "Oh my! I didn’t realize how badly your boobs got owned. I'll go easy on you—at first."

Ariel’s nostrils flared as she stared her down unable to take another taunt. "This isn’t over, little girl. Time to show you what a real woman feels like."

Cree laughed. "So Miss Piggy has a tongue."

Both girls planted their hands on their hips and stepped into each other. Cree's firm B-cups pressed into Ariel's larger D-cups. Ariel felt her breasts yield slightly under the pressure.

Cree smirked again.

The ref yelled, "FIGHT!"

Cree sprang into motion, light on her feet and brimming with energy. She darted in, poking quick jabs and short crosses, landing precise strikes on Ariel's chest. Ariel tried to counter with heavy swings, but Cree was too fast, leaning back and dancing out of range.

Ariel grunted with frustration. Cree was landing more shots, but they weren’t hard. They were surgical. They stung. And they were scoring.

Cree circled with unending motion, her feet never still. Ariel was heavier, more stationary, her body working hard just to pivot and turn. Her back foot was slipping with each deep breath as she tried to keep up with Cree's torrid pace.

Three minutes into the round, Ariel had yet to land anything meaningful and she could feel the round slipping away.

"Come on, you little b!tch! Quit running and fight me!" Ariel snarled.

The ref motioned at Cree. "Engage."

Ariel steadied herself.

Cree danced forward.

BAM!

Ariel unleashed a looping arching right that caught Cree’s breasts full on. The smaller girl staggered back, shocked by the sudden force.

Ariel seized the moment. As soon as Cree planted her back foot to regain balance, Ariel came under with a thunderous uppercut.

Cree reeled from the crushing blow. Her smirk was gone, replaced by clenched teeth.

Cree responded with two quick shots that found Ariel's ribs and breast, but Ariel barely flinched. With a roar, she unleashed another swiping side swing that sent Cree stumbling.

Momentum shifted.

Cree tried to bob in, jab, then dart away, but Ariel had her timing now.

Then Cree stepped too close and Ariel dropped the hammer.

Her massive D-cups smashed down from above, catching the top of Cree's breasts. The impact flattened them downward with brutal force. Cree gasped, her chest convulsing in pain, eyes wide with shock.
But Ariel wasn’t done.

She stepped in, planting her feet like a prizefighter and launched into a savage breast barrage. Her left breast shot forward—SMACK!—catching Cree square on the sternum. Before Cree could even stumble back, Ariel followed up with a brutal right—WHAP!—that sent Cree backpedaling.

"Let’s see how you like it now, wh0re!" Ariel snarled, driving forward, throwing stiff, piston-like breast shots—left, right, left again—each one thudding into Cree’s chest like a sledgehammer.

Cree’s body jerked with every impact, arms instinctively trying to cover, but Ariel was too fast, too furious. Her technique was tight, crisp—straight lungees with her breasts, each strike landing with maximum torque and precision.

Another left rocked Cree’s right breast. A follow-up right slammed into her left, crushing the soft mound inward and making her grunt.

Cree was staggering, legs trembling, completely on the defensive.

Ariel stayed on her, relentless, driving her back step by step until Cree’s back hit the ropes with a jolt.

"You’re on the ropes now, big shot," Ariel hissed through gritted teeth, chest glistening, breathing hard but steady. "Time to finish what you started."

Then, with a fierce twist of her hips, Ariel unleashed devastation—her right D-cup arcing forward like a cannonball fired point-blank.

CRACK!

The massive breast slammed into Cree’s chest with bone-jarring force, the sound echoing like a gunshot. The shockwave lifted Cree clean off the mat—airborne for a heartbeat—before gravity yanked her back down.

She crashed to the canvas in a violent sprawl, arms flung wide, legs twisted, her eyes fluttering in stunned disbelief as her body skidded to a stop.

Cree wasn’t just down. She was wrecked.

The crowd erupted.

The bell rang.

Cree tried to rise, not realizing the round was over. She stumbled forward then tripped over her own feet and collapsed face-first, arms and legs sprawled still dazed.

Ariel raised her hands in triumph.

Natalie rushed in and hugged her tight.

Across the ring, Jayden and Darci scrambled to help Cree up and back to her stool. The younger fighter blinked, glassy-eyed.

Jayden looked her over. "You okay, Cree?"

Cree gave a weak nod, lips parted as she tried to catch her breath.


“They're like bags of wet sand.

Round Two had ended—but everything had changed.

The score was even.

But the balance of power had flipped.

Ariel stood tall in the center of the ring, titst rising and falling with calm, controlled breaths. Her back was straight, chin high, eyes locked on her opponent. The pain she’d taken? Forgotten. Replaced by fire.

Across from her, Cree looked like a storm-hit wreck. Her body was hunched over, arms limp at her sides, her chest glowing red and throbbing with every breath. Her legs wobbled beneath her. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused, as if she were still trying to figure out what had just hit her—and how hard.

The round was over… but the fight was nowhere near finished.

And now, it was a different war—one Ariel intended to win on her terms.

The hunter and the hunted had switched places.

And Cree knew it.


Round 3:

Momentum may have shifted to Ariel at the end of Round 2, but Cree Cicchino wasn’t backing down—not yet. As Jayden and Darci worked quickly in her corner, Cree winced and clutched her aching chest. Her pert B-cups throbbed, still stinging from the crushing end of the last round. Yet her eyes were laser focused.

"You OK, Cree?" Jayden asked, crouched in close.

Cree nodded weakly. "Yeah. They're throbbing right now but I just need a minute."

Darci leaned in next. "Ariel is bigger and stronger, but you're firmer. She’s going to try and flatten you again, but you’ve got strength where it counts. Lock your hands behind her back and dig in with your thumbs, low, in the small of her back. Trust me—her back will seize up. You just need to outlast her."

Cree nodded again. She had cardio on her side, and if she could just keep the pressure on Ariel’s weaknesses, she had a shot. She wasn’t ready to lose.

Across the ring, Ariel Winter was still gulping air, her chest rising and falling heavily. Natalie Alyn Lind knelt beside her, rubbing ice along the sides of her breasts.

Ariel swatted her away. "I don’t need it. I’ll flatten that little twerp."

Natalie grinned. "Then go crush her."

The bell rang. Both corners erupted.

The two fighters met dead center in the ring, locking hands like magnets pulled by fury. Ariel’s arms swept behind Cree’s back, wrists locking tight. But Cree responded instantly—going low, her arms wrapping around the small of Ariel’s back, thumbs pressing with pinpoint precision into right above  the tail bone

"Nghhh," Ariel grunted, muscles tensing.
They squeezed into one another, torsos mashed tight, shoulders rotating violently. Ariel’s larger D-cup breasts encompassed Cree’s pert rack completely, pressing the smaller girl into her orbit, but Cree held her ground, groaning under the weight, yet pushing back. They were cheek to cheek, arms trembling.

Cree leaned in and hissed in Ariel’s ear.

"Feel that? That’s your big saggy breasts breaking down."

Ariel winced, her eyes fluttering as Cree pushed upward with surprising strength. Despite Ariel’s clear size advantage, Cree’s tighter frame and low leverage were taking a toll, driving hard beneath her with relentless pressure.

Ariel gasped, the pressure under her chest relentless, her body trembling from the strain. Cree’s positioning was brutal—strategic and unyielding as her nipples poked holes into Ariel's soft flesh.

"What’s the matter, big girl?" Cree taunted, her breath hot with adrenaline. "You can always give up. Just say the word and your nightmare will be over."

But Ariel had had enough. She bent her knees, summoned her core strength, and lifted. Cree’s feet left the mat entirely, legs dangling as Ariel hoisted her like a ragdoll.

Cree gasped, then yelped as Ariel shook her wildly, causing her body to whip side to side. The crowd erupted. But even mid-air, Cree stayed with the plan. Her thumbs drilled deeper into Ariel’s back, finding the nerve cluster Darci had told her about.

Pain lanced through Ariel. Her spine arched, and her knees trembled.

"Gahh—dammit!"

Ariel had to let her down.

The second Cree touched the mat, she swept her leg behind Ariel’s calf and drove forward. Ariel stumbled, off-balance—and then they crashed to the canvas in a heap.

Cree’s slender frame landed squarely atop Ariel’s torso. The impact slammed the breath from Ariel’s lungs while her breasts took the brunt of the impact almost sliding up into her face as Cree's body slid forward.

The ref rushed in and separated them. Cree staggered back to her corner, arms up, breathing hard. Ariel remained curled on her side, gasping like a fish out of water.

The count began.

1…

2…

3…

Natalie was screaming from the ropes. "Get up, Ariel! Get the **** up!"

4…

5…

Ariel’s chest heaved.

6…

7…

She grabbed the ropes.

8…

She pulled herself up. Just barely.

The ref signaled them back in. Cree came charging in, locking up again. Her thumbs immediately dug low again—but this time, Ariel had a plan.

She surged forward, arms wrapping tight around Cree’s ribs. She squeezed.

Cree screamed.

Ariel was using her size now—turning the tide again. Her arms dug in, crushing ribs and flattening Cree’s sides. Cree’s grip loosened. Ariel leaned back, adjusted her position.

And then gravity did the rest.

Ariel’s massive breasts settled on top of Cree’s smaller chest. The difference in mass was devastating. Cree's B-cups were squashed beneath the weight, pressed painfully flat against her ribs.

"How’s that feel, little girl?" Ariel hissed. "Tap out, and maybe you’ll wear a bra again someday."

Cree was defiant. Through clenched teeth: "N… Never."

But her face was contorting in pain.

Ariel lifted her slightly, giving her a cruel moment of hope—then slammed her back down, letting her heavy chest drop onto Cree's once again. Cree shrieked, her feet kicking uselessly behind her.

The repeated compression was brutal. Ariel was in full control, her confidence back. With every drop, Cree’s resistance wilted a bit more.

"You’re breaking," Ariel whispered.

Cree whimpered. Her arms weakening by the second.

Natalie screamed from ringside. "End it, Ariel! Flatten her out!"

Ariel grinned, eyes locked on her rival’s tear-streaked face. She hoisted Cree one more time… then launched forward.

Both fighters flew into the air.

The slam was catastrophic.

134 pounds of Ariel Winter came crashing down atop Cree with all the momentum of a finishing move.

The canvas shook.

The crowd gasped.

And Cree didn’t move.

She lay motionless, limbs splayed, breasts flattened, eyes glazed over.

The ref didn’t even count. He waved it off.

The fight was over.

Ariel rolled off, gasping but triumphant. Natalie rushed in and hugged her.

"Way to smash that little big mouth," Natalie grinned. "She deserved it."

Ariel was too winded to speak. She knelt there, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, breasts reddened, scratched, and sore—but victorious.

Jayden and Darci were at Cree’s side now, fanning her, wiping the sweat from hr face. She was slowly waking up, blinking through the haze but unable to get up on her own.

Ariel glanced over.

"Just wait until she wakes up," she muttered. "She’ll never forget what real power feels like."

The medics helped Cree to a seated position. She was conscious but couldn’t stand. Her eyes were puffy, her lips parted in disbelief. Her once firm breasts were hanging low on her chest and were covered in bruises and welts.

Darci wrapped a towel around her.

"You fought hard, Cree. But she was just too much."

Too much weight. Too much power. Too much Ariel.

Cree nodded slowly. "f$ck her!"

Round 3—and the fight—belonged to Ariel Winter.

 
Post-Fight: The Humiliation of Cree Cicchino

Ariel sat on her knees, chest still rising and falling from the exhausting war she just survived. Her arms hung heavy, but the triumphant fire in her eyes was unmistakable
.
Cree began to stir. The medics had just backed off, confirming she wasn’t seriously injured—at least not physically. Jayden Bartels tried to protect her young brash fighter, but Ariel pushed in, giving her a firm shove.
"Back off," Ariel said flatly, her tone making Jayden pause mid-step. "Unless you want to take her place."

Jayden looked torn, but she knew better than to provoke Ariel now. This wasn’t a fight anymore—this was something else. Something personal. Something earned

Ariel knelt beside Cree and gave her a few light slaps to the cheek. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to bring her back. "Wake up, princess," Ariel cooed mockingly. "Your curtain call’s not over yet."

Cree’s eyes fluttered open, confusion written across her face—until she saw Ariel looming over her. Her face twisted in frustration and realization, then shame.

"Wha… what are you—?" Cree muttered, dazed and weak.

Ariel grabbed her by the wrist and hair, dragging her up to her knees. "You had so much to say before the fight. All those jokes. All that trash talk. Now what?" she growled, bending down until they were eye to eye.

Cree didn’t respond. She was breathing heavily, her mouth open as if trying to form a comeback. But the words weren’t there. She was beaten—badly—and she knew it.

Ariel reached out and flicked one of Cree’s damp bangs from her face. "I’ve been on the losing end before," she whispered. "I know how it feels. But see, I’ve mostly own girls like you. And I never forget a loudmouth."

With calm, deliberate confidence, Ariel stepped forward and grabbed Cree by her damp hair. She hauled her up just enough, then slipped a leg in and guided the defeated brunette over her knee—not violently, but with the commanding authority of someone who had earned every right to do it. The audience gasped as Cree gave a startled cry, her body folding over Ariel’s thigh in an almost symbolic act of surrender.

“You talked big,” Ariel said low enough for only Cree—and the front row—to hear, “but in the end, your little bittie titties couldn’t back it up.”

Cree tried to wriggle free, but Ariel calmly pressed a palm to her back, holding her down with firm, measured control. The audience watched in stunned silence, unsure of what was coming next.

Then, with a smirk, Ariel reached down and tugged at the waistband of Cree’s thong, twisting the fabric tight. The sharp motion pulled a yelp from Cree as she squirmed, humiliated, the discomfort of the wedgie clear on her face. Ariel gave the garment one last tug before the tension finally snapped it with a dramatic rip. She held the ruined piece of fabric high above her head, twirled it like a trophy, then launched it toward Jayden, who caught it with a stunned look.

The arena roared.

Ariel wasn’t done.

She raised her right hand slowly, fingers spread, letting the tension build. The crowd quieted, holding its collective breath.

Then—

SMACK.

The sound of Ariel's palm landing on Cree's tight butt cheek echoed through the venue like a gunshot. Cree jolted.

“ONE!” the crowd shouted.

SMACK.

“TWO!”

Each crisp slap of Ariel’s palm was met with an even louder count from the fans. Ariel remained stone-faced, each spank a punctuation mark in her total dominance.

“THREE!”

“FOUR!”
“FIVE!”

By the time the crowd reached “TEN!”, Cree’s cheeks were flushed bright red with a few clearly defined hand prints etched on her round cheeks. Cree's pride was bruised as was her body. Ariel let her hand rest for a beat gently tracing the contours of Cree's warm cheeks, then gently slid the brunette off her knee, letting her slump to the canvas in a heap.

The arena exploded in cheers as Ariel stood tall, towering over her fallen foe, chest heaving and jaw set in victory.

If Cree Cicchino—or any of the cocky Wannabee fans—thought the worst was over, they were dead wrong.

Ariel Winter wasn’t done. Not even close.
Victory alone wasn’t enough. Not after the trash talk. Not after the smug smirks. Not after Cree’s endless needling.

Ariel wanted more than a win—she wanted finality.

She wanted Cree to remember exactly who broke her.

The woman who beat her down.

The woman whose breasts had conquered hers.

And reigned without mercy.

Without a word, Ariel used her boot to gently roll the groaning brunette onto her back. Cree barely stirred, arms sprawled, her chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. Ariel stood tall over her, her shadow casting a long, ominous silhouette.

Then, with the precision of a fighter and the flair of a performer, Ariel bent her knees and dropped—landing with full weight of her booty across Cree’s stomach. The impact drove the air from Cree’s lungs with a loud, pitiful gasp, her legs jolting up as her torso jackknifed beneath the crushing force.

The crowd winced at the brutality. Ariel didn’t move.

Instead, she bounced once.

Then again.

Each time, Cree let out a choked wheeze, too weak to fight back.

Ariel finally reached forward, grabbing Cree’s wrists and pinning them above her head, locking her down completely. The visual was stunning—one woman utterly dominant, the other broken beneath her.

Ariel leaned in, her massive breasts pressing forward, shadows shifting as her toned frame lowered closer and closer to Cree’s panicked, wide-eyed face.

“Still feeling tough?” Ariel whispered. “Still think you can talk your way out of this?”

Cree shook her head, defiant but trembling. She clenched her jaw, trying to find courage, but her strength was spent.

Ariel smirked. Then, in a taunting rhythm, she rolled her shoulders side to side, letting the motion sway her D-cups over her rival—slow, methodical, and merciless. The motion became deliberate, theatrical, each movement building tension in the air.

Then—

SLAP.
SLAP.

The sound of impact echoed through the arena—not fists, but the sheer audacity of the humiliating dominance of one woman's breasts slapping the remaining fight from another. Cree’s head snapped side to side from the contact, her body twitching beneath Ariel’s weight.

SLAP.
SLAP.

By the tenth strike, Cree’s eyes were fluttering, rolling back as the breast slaps simply overwhelmed her. Her arms were pinned, her body trapped, and her will to resist shattered.

Ariel leaned down, face inches from her foe, and said just loud enough for the front row to hear:

“You’ve officially tasted defeat, sweetheart.”

The crowd roared, some cheering, others stunned into silence by the ruthless display of one woman stealing the fighting spirit from another.

Ariel Winter had toyed with Cree long enough. The crowd knew it. So did Cree.

Now it was time to make a statement.

Cree lay beneath her, dazed and breathless, her body quivering from the punishing barrage. Ariel looked down at the once-defiant "Wannabee" and narrowed her eyes. She was done playing. She was here to finish it.

With deliberate confidence, Ariel leaned forward—and dropped the hammer.

Cree’s eyes widened as Ariel’s powerful chest descended, blotting out the bright overhead lights. It was the last thing she saw before her world went dark. Ariel’s curves enveloped Cree’s face, smothering any remaining fight. There was no room to squirm, no way to breathe. It wasn’t flashy—it was final.

Ariel didn’t need tricks or theatrics. She didn’t need to tighten the hold or bring her elbows in tight. She had more than enough up top to finish this on her terms.

Seconds passed. Cree’s legs gave a weak twitch, her toes ever so faintly wiggled but her arms didn’t rise. Her resistance faded quickly, smothered beneath Ariel’s overwhelming dominance. Her body spasmed then went still, her breath no longer escaping hr lips.

The referee stepped in and gave Ariel a firm tap on the shoulder.

“Time's up, Ariel. Gt off of her.”

Ariel slowly lifted herself, standing tall and composed, victorious in every sense of the word. She looked down at the motionless body of Cree Cicchino, utterly silenced, utterly broken.

The crowd roared.

Ariel Winter hadn’t just won.

She ruled.

Natalie Alyn Lind stepped between the ropes, clapping slowly, her face beaming with approval.

“That,” she said, placing a hand on Ariel’s shoulder, “is how you silence a loudmouth.”

Ariel didn’t reply right away. She looked down at Cree, who was lying there motionless, humiliated, and broken in front of thousands.

“Let this be a reminder,” Ariel said at last, her voice loud and clear for the whole arena to hear. “Little big mouths write checks their bodies can’t cash.”

Ariel looked over at the Wannabee's and flipped them off.

Jayden had to be held back by her teammates, fury burning in her eyes.
“You crossed the line, Winters! You think this is over? When we come back, it’s hitting you ten times harder.”

Ariel and Natalie just laughed, tossing a smug glance over their shoulders as they strolled out of the ring without a care in the world.

Ariel Winter wins by 3^rd round breast slam takedown

Team Badass Barbies-Wicked Queens 1  - The Wannabees 0

Witten by the Badass Barbies