SQUIRMISH by Stefanie Elrick

“Who’s your friend?” A mountain of leather and muscle grunts from under the archway.

“My date. It’s her first time.”

The doorman chuckles, low-bellied booms like subterranean detonations, then lollops to the side just enough to let the two girls squeeze past.

Inside it’s clammy-hot; air so thick you could bite off chunks and chew it barely circulating between hot and unwashed bodies and four windowless brick walls. There’s a sparsely stocked bar, complete with bored looking barmaid with a green Mohican and giant bullring through her septum, but no-one seems to be buying any drinks. At the centre of the room; a make-shift cage strung up around an improvised boxing ring, a square of grubby matts streaked with dubious stains and some strip lights, all flanked by mesh fences that slant precariously to the left.

The smaller of the two, the girl with jellyfish and octopi tattooed all over her anaemic looking skin, slips through the crowd like a minnow swimming upstream. Her guest, a bigger girl with dark skin the colour of fertile earth, gets tangled in the throng.

Vivica - or _FlyFishDish_ on her Freak4U profile - finds them seats close to the ropes, as close as can be without competing with the hyper-territorial regulars. These patrons, with their dough-white midriffs spilling out over elasticated sweatpants like melting candles, take up two or three ringside seats a-piece.

“So, you come here a lot?” Suneera asks as they finally sit down, flicking purple-green braids over her shoulder and draping her neon green puffa-jacket over the plastic seat.

“Sure, it’s the only place nearby with all female contenders.” Vivica smiles, tracing a grey-scale Japanese wave over her collarbones.


“Uhm. Not too sketchy is it?” The question’s borne lightly, but hides a thinly veiled provocation.

Suneera smiles, revealing two chips of diamante bling adorning her canines, and tries to summon some quip about the filthier places she’s been and/or seen. Before she does, somebody lumbers into her from behind and lands a sharp elbow into the back of her neck. Normally she’d stand up, drop a few ground-levelling word bombs and take the sucker down, but after weighing up the club’s clientele she decides - just this one time - to pretend she hasn’t noticed.

“What kind of fighting is it anyway? Mui Thai? Ju-Jitsu?” Suneera’s dated a few wannabe UFC fighters. She’s eager to prove she knows the lingo.

“A bit of everything.” Vivica grins. “Girl-on-girl gets pretty wild.”

And that’s when the penny drops. Suneera’s skim read some badly written E-zines all about this ‘entertainment’, and now the whole vibe of the Click-Clack Club makes sense. Still, for all her down-right tacky choice of first dates, weird little Vivica is definitely worth sticking around for.

A bell clangs and the lights cut out. An elliptical pool of dingy yellow appears in the centre of the ring. A huffing man in an oversized tux appears, clutching the mic to his chest like it’s the last bottle of Jack Daniels left in the world.

“Ladies and not-so-Gentle-men, welcome to the Click-Clack Club. Prepare to see sights your Momma said would make you blind, that they’ve outlawed in sixteen different countries and that have been officially denounced by the Vatican! Watch our girls tough it out to become tonight’s Deep One Queen and don’t forget what day it is…Roulette Wednesday!! Which means open mat for all you punters!”

Vivica hollers loudly along with the rest of the crowd, slapping her cheek like an Indian Squaw and climbing up in her seat like an excitable child. She’s only an outline in the shadows now, small as a prepubescent teenager, but Suneera feels the pheromones throb off her like gamma rays.

The hubbub grows quiet, signalling the first contender; there’s no flamboyant high-fiving, no puffed-up entourage, not even any cocky entrance music, just an oddly reverent hush as a lone woman with pale lilac corn-rows walks unhurriedly towards the ring. Her skin’s bone-pale, muscles well-sculpted, and her deltoids alone look like ribbed shoulder pads from the eighties. A noise begins. Suckling: compressed air forced in and out through many different sets of lips. Suneera shuffles uncomfortably in her seat and notices that Vivica is doing it too. The words spill out before she can check herself, “What the hell?”

Vivica giggles, bending down to shout in her ear, “She’s called The Sucker.”

A second fighter walks out, a short but pumped-up brunette with a low centre of gravity and quads the size of boulders. The noise changes, morphing into something more like the orf-ing of seals but minus the clapping.

“Let me guess,” Suneera’s snorts, “she balances shit on her nose?”

“That’s The Skinner.”

The ladies begin to stalk counterclockwise, flawlessly equidistant in a taught and glistening dance. The pale one towers like some Norwegian giantess whilst The Skinner’s ass can’t be more than a foot off the floor. They circle, slow and purposefully, to the middle before squaring up jaw to jaw. Both wear too-tight cut-off jeans and ludicrously skimpy bikinis.

“Ok Ladies.” The man in the tux yells whilst triple bolting the only cage door from the outside. Turning to the crowd, he lifts his arms, goading them into a well-practised call-and-response. “You know the rules… THERE ARE NO RULES! FIIIIIIIIIIGHT!”

As the bell clangs, Suneera glances reflexively back the way they came in. Someone tall must be stood right in front of the exit sign, either that or it’s been switched off because now, like every other inch of this shitty little club, except for the light that’s spotting the ring, there’s nothing to see but darkness.

The fighters have resumed their predatory loop with wide, deliberate side-steps like mating crabs. The giantess hunches over, leaning forward, huge fingers opening and closing whilst the dark one shimmies and hops backwards and forwards, hissing and spitting indecipherable cusses on the floor. Both throw the odd leg kick or barely landing love tap, but there’s no real intent or lethal force. Neither seemed to think it necessary to wrap their knuckles or wear gloves.

Abruptly the big one lunges, grabbing her opponent by her belt straps and lifting her clean off the ground. The smaller girl starts thrashing madly, screaming like a banshee in heat, and this is all in reaction to what Suneera can only interpret as the world’s most excruciating wedgie. She sighs to herself; this isn’t hot in the slightest, just painfully, predictably cheap.

The blonde starts turning, spinning the smaller airborne woman like a rag doll until (surprise, surprise!) her pants split, sending The Skinner hurtling against the fence. The hulk doesn’t waste time for her rival to retaliate, instead she charges like a bull, slamming her forehead full-force into her sternum. Then, it appears as if she’s motor-boating her—viciously ripping off The Skinner’s bikini top with gold-grilled teeth.

Suneera unsuccessfully stifles a mocking groan. “Seriously?”

Sliding a casual hand between her thighs, Vivica leans in and whispers in her ear, “Just wait.”

The Skinner’s started to fight back and has locked stocky legs around Albino-China’s six-pack. She’s also managed to somehow wriggle herself around to her back, and now clamps an arm around her neck in a pretty convincing looking choke hold. The blonde stands, lifting them both off the floor, as Latino-Queen screams like a pre-menstrual harpy, and of course, somehow in the tussle, her bikini’s also come undone, unleashing two more silicone mammeries into the fray. Next, The Skinner arches and flips under, curling like an eel between the giantess’ legs.

Suneera’s less impressed by their gymnastic choreography than the inquisitive fingertips brazenly grazing her panties in the dark. From that moment on her attention’s severely divided, and she’s only vaguely aware when the crowd begins cheering ‘cos The Skinner’s shorts are torn off in revenge.

A rush of heat as Suneera closes her eyes, grunting delicately, glad to lean into nuzzle Vivica’s shadowy neck. A series of ooh’s and aaah’s are all she hears as she buries her face into her soon-to-be lover’s skin. Vivica’s neck is lean, pungent, and Suneera nips her playfully with her teeth.

There’s a blood-curdling war-cry before the crowd resumes their baritone orfs. Startled, Suneera glances back to the ring, squinting through the murk at the scene in front of her. The tall blonde is now suddenly completely bald and the crowd is screeching and roaring. Straddling the bigger girl from behind now, The Skinner’s twisted her elbow into an excruciating arm lock. She keeps on the pressure whilst brandishing a corn-row wig in the air above the women pinned flat on her belly. The thing she holds is wet and its dripping. The Sucker’s scalp glistens fresh wound raw red.

“Did you just…?”

Vivica grabs Suneera’s chin and kisses her full on the mouth, forefingers pushing roughly inside. Prosthetics, surely? It’s all choreographed anyways, isn’t it? An expert tongue introduces itself to her tonsils.

Suneera can’t dwell as Vivica devours her tongue and her lips sloppily before dramatically pulling away. Then, jerking Suneera’s head roughly back towards the ring, Vivica’s voice is rasping yet firm, “You don’t want to miss this, Babe. Trust me.”

The Skinner’s started to rip pale strips of skin off the other woman’s back and blood splatters everywhere like a Jackson Pollock. The woman being peeled is buckling and moaning, caught between pain and pertinacious stimulation. There’s a crack as her shoulder pops loose from its socket then twists at some horrifically irregular angle. Her blood’s made everything slippery-smooth, so now the Skinner’s lost her main advantage. But her broken arm is somehow reconfiguring itself, wasting no time in softening into something boneless and inhumanly limber. With a SLAPthis new appendage wraps itself around the other woman’s neck, then tightens like a whip around her throat.

“That can’t be real!” Suneera gasps, lapped by synchronous waves of arousal and confusion. Vivica responds by sticking a wet tongue in her ear.

Suneera’s as dumbstruck as she is dripping-wet, and the scene before her is only getting weirder. The Skinner, apparently unfazed by asphyxiation, is digging her fingers inside the one-pack of her own stomach. With a jerk and a rip, she exposes the red-black muscles of her abdomen, taut and wetly crimson for all to see. Then, oblivious to pain and the threat of mortality, she yanks at those muscles ‘til all that’s left is a cat-flap sized opening in her gut.

Compliantly, some quivering mass squeezes through and flops out, leaving The Skinner’s human form completely flaccid. The crowd has gone wild, barking and stomping their support, whilst Vivica fingers increase the rhythm of their friction.

“This isn’t…. I don’t….” Suneera manages to blurt out, yet somehow is still unable to pull her eyes away. The jelly-thing shimmy-slides out from the walls of its human shell — now a liberated mound of shape-shifting goo. The giantess stands up, and with her human arm, methodically snaps her own neck before lapping a circuit of the cage, head swinging left to right like a hypnotist’s pendulum. Out of her mouth, new limbs are wriggling free, thrashing lengths squirming out from the too-small hollow of her throat. They’re suckered, dripping, writhing things that could extend to twelve or maybe even twenty feet at full length. Then, her human body is shucked off completely and abandoned in a crumpled pile on the canvas.

Now, two lumps of gambolling un-flesh frolic with careless abandon inside the fence which seems too full of holes to hold either inside. The Sucker’s a jumble of cephalopod trails. The Skinner’s a mound of sentient slime.

Suneera gasps, speechless and panting, as Vivica pumps her swelling folds. Her insides are tightening and retracting at whim. Her pelvic floor clenched as tightly as her jaw.

The contenders—now irreversibly mutated—seem no less keen to compete. They charge, or rather spill, towards each other in a rush of liquid enthusiasm. The crowd has switched gears and are manically howling their support with sounds no human vocal cords could ever create: it sounds like the glugging of plugholes or a mad congregation choking on their tongues.

The room’s stink has trebled into something like stagnant pond water and unseen horrors slap and slither in its corners. Something like panic rises from the pit of Suneera’s stomach; a bubble of pressure ascending through her oesophagus, desperate to birth itself as a scream. With it something more ancient and cogent; a marrow-deep instinct to unstiffen and mutate. She doesn’t have to look to know that Vivica has already obeyed it, and that the hand between her legs no longer has bones.

The next thing she hears is Vivica murmuring with a voice like the breaking of tides gasping, breathless, “So how’s about it, Babe. You wanna try?”

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