Salma Hayek vs. Beverly Mitchell (Bear Hugs Only) by simguy

Salma groans, tries to roll to her left, gets the right arm up and over but that's as far as she can go with a blonde locked in and lying atop her torso. Bev Mitchell's all cinched in, lips tight, eyes bright: her rounded arms snug around Hayek's ribs, her right cheek resting happily against Salma's heaving breast. Hayek gets up on her left elbow, rides the right arm across Beverly's slick upperback - Latina's breathing hard through pursed lips, eyes narrowed with fatigue, disbelief. Bev Mitchell. Who the hell is Bev Mitchell?

"Cinch that leg Bev, that's the way!" Jessica Biel shouts from nearby, bare toes curling and uncurling nervously in the sand. Overhead, hot California sun does its thing, baking away on observers and observed without discrimination. Mitchell responds, her legs already scissored up around Salma's right leg, helping to immobilise her. Bev relocks her ankles, feeling the tight flesh of Hayek's python-thick quad between her legs. It's a good hold, a real good hold. Bev's starting to think she can win this thing.

Didn't start out that way - that confidence - Mitchell's mouth had gone dry when the Hayek opportunity had come up. "It's good money and a great name," her agent had shrugged. Beverly had seen everything there was to see in his eyes: his greed for the 10% pop; his doubt in his own client's ability to win.

"I know," Bev had admitted, "but it's Salma Hayek. She's tough. She's REALLY tough. Are you sure I'm...I this the right time for a step like this?"

The man shrugged again, blinked his left eye in speculation. "She can get anyone she wants, Bevvie - you take a deep breath and she's gone. It's bearhugs only - how bad could it get? Get in shape, give her your best. I think it's a risk worth taking."

How bad could it get? Beverly had smirked at that. What risk would he be taking, exactly?

Salma gasps, lays back down, hands out to either side, eyes squinting up into that cloudless blue sky, that blistering white sun. She raises her left knee, pushes at the sand with her foot, trying to roll Beverly over, but it's no go. In the distance, Salma hears the surf rolling in; gulls crying over head; the clink of glasses and excited chatter all around them. She's been taking it hard from Mitchell all day, she's never seen a kid this fired up. This chick was supposed to fold up, supposed to crap at the sight of Salma strutting onto the beach in her crimson bikini. Beverly was most definitely NOT supposed to get on top and stay on top, grinding away on Hayek's torso like a pit bull on a length of rope. With a grunt, Salma lurches up, propping herself on her elbows, tucking her chin in to look down her chest, seeing what might be done.

Beverly's right hand grips her left wrist at the base of Hayek's spine; she bites her lower lip and coaxes just a bit more squeeze into Salma. Hayek's head tilts back - the sweat shining white on her dark brow and cheeks - her mouth winces open and she groans again, tired and throaty. Beverly's so wet with her own perspiration, that black bikini looks painted onto her buttocks. She feels the sun hot on her back, feels Salma's body hot against her belly and cinches up just a bit more. Hayek's weakening, softening. Beverly feels quit trembling across Salma's flesh and pours it on.

Salma drops back down with a pathetic little whine: now she's grabbing for Beverly's soft blonde hair again. Hayek's fists grip tight to the hairline above Bev's ears, pulling the head back up off her chest. The hair is damp, cool to the touch, soft. Mitchell grits her teeth and ignores the pain, and sure enough, Hayek releases her grip. Now Salma's beating at Beverly's back again - arms straight, lefts and rights flapping weakly against the back with wet little hammer-taps. Salma's fists slowly open: she's just slapping at backflesh now, then stops, just resting her palms on Bev's shoulders and pushing down - anything to relieve the pressure. Mitchell feels a shudder pass through Hayek's body - a sob. Beverly can't help but smile, knows she's got a little breathing room here. She releases her grip, sits up on her haunches - Salma's right leg still beneath her.

Bev takes a moment to appreciate the sight. Hayek's arms outstretched, palms up, face tight with pain and shame - she's trying desperately to rally, find some kind of reserve. Bev licks at salty lips, smooths straight blonde hair behind her ears, rests her hands on her thighs. "Atta-girl"s and "Way to go, Bev!"s chatter around her, but she pays no attention. She's got to keep giving it to Salma, got to keep grinding. Can't let up for one second on a girl like this.

Hayek rolls to her right with a grunt, pulling her left knee in and pushing Beverly away with the foot. Bev allows herself to be shoved off, stands, bats sand off her thighs and brushes her hands together. Salma's crawling away, looking parched. Mitchell takes a deep breath and stalks her prey, lowering herself to Salma's back and taking her in a beefy gut wrench.

Hayek sobs in outrage - the pouting protest of a Castillian princess, generations of haughty Latina supremacy inflecting the breathy gasp. Bev rests her right cheek on sweaty back, remembering her training: "Crowd her close, always be on her - don't just squeeze, make her take weight." Salma wobbles, then folds into the sand, propping herself up on her forearms and breathing hard. Black hair obscures her eyes, dark lashes fluttering. Bev's legs blindly seek out Salma's left leg, wrapping around it, trapping it, restraining it. She'd learned to do that the hard way: not doing it had let Kreuk, Mack and Combs all beat her - all hard lessons. But she'd learned: "Tie up her whole body: you need to be quicksand for that other girl".

The sun beats down.

The surf crashes.

Beverly loses track of time. All she knows is Salma's wriggling gut against her gripping hands; Salma's plush body beneath hers. Remembering more training tidbits, Bev occasionally digs her dimpled chin into Salma's vertebrae, just to torment and tire. Exhausted, miserable, Hayek tries to crawl forward, her right knee pushing in futility against the sand.

The burning in Beverly's shoulders turns to agony: she has to ease up. Relaxing, she just lays atop Salma, making her feel weight. Hayek's lips tighten and she reaches back, looping the left arm around Beverly's head and twisting her - slowly, tortuously getting Mitchell's shoulder into the sand, then her back. It's bearhugs only - Salma knows she can't work a headlock, but she makes sure her legs are clear before she rolls away.

And it all starts to go terribly, tragically wrong for Beverly Mitchell.

She's reckless, wanting to take Salma down again, but she rushes in and gets wrapped up belly to belly as the girls stand, stomp around in the sand for balance. Salma's smart - a few pulsing flexes, then she heaves Beverly to the sand, circling, pushing dark locks out of her eyes as Mitchell gets slowly to her feet.

A series of engagements: Salma winning position and hugging up chest to chest, content to work standing up, then tossing Mitchell to the turf, making Beverly spend the energy to stand. Hayek's eyes glaring mean in the hot sun - she's getting a second wind, her arms relatively fresh. Beverly starting to labour as hug after hug adds up on her curvy torso. When they're apart, Beverly wipes her lips and circles warily: it's Salma closing now, Salma forcing the fight on Mitchell.

Mitchell falls to turf, Salma riding her down from behind. Hayek rolls to her right, pulling Beverly up and over, tossing her roughly. Mitchell's backside spoons into Hayek's lap as the girls lay on their left sides and Salma's legs scissor up Mitchell's right leg. Bev's turn to suffer helplessly in the grasp: she can feel Salma's vindictive arms in above her hips, Latina grip pumping at her tummy.

They struggle on their knees: Salma taking Beverly from the side, from behind.

Hayek loves to trap either of Beverly's arms in against the straining torsos, leaving Mitchell to probe and push one-handed against shining Latina shoulder or grinding Latina grip.

Crowd's quiet - they've seen this scene before. Salma rolling up on a girl; carefully, systematically crushing out the resistance. Jessica Biel sips her marguerita with a sombre expression, brow furrowed. Tough to watch a friend take a sinuous beating like this.

Beverly's agent: on his cellphone, talking with Alison Mack. Talking too loudly: Bev can HEAR him say, "Salma's, it's just about over...yeah, well I'll see what I can do babe, you know me..."

Beverly on her back, used up, broken. Was Salma really on the verge of defeat, or had she just been drawing out Mitchell's reserves? You never really knew in a bearhug bout, not with women as crafty and skilled as Hayek. She'd trusted her body early and won this fight even as Beverly wasted her strength against Salma's sturdy ribs. Another hard lesson learned too late.

Salma smiling, lying atop Mitchell's torso, cheek wet against Beverly's chest, Salma's legs scissored up tight around Bev's right leg. Bev shuddering, pounding mindlessly, weakly with straight-armed blows against Hayek's back. It can't last - that pounding - it takes too much out of Bev. Tears now, Bev's lips snivelling - she pushes down on Salma's shoulders, as though that can do any good. Grinning, Salma digs her chin into Beverly's breastbone, grinding it in.

"I give," Beverly whimpers - her voice a moist breath in the sultry air. She taps wetly against Salma's back with her small right hand.

Hayek rises supreme, sitting back on her haunches, mopping her brow with a forearm, resplendent in hard-won victory. Mitchell's chest heaves with blubbering sobs of quit, hands up around her head as she breaks down. Slowly, she places her hands upon her face, lying flat out, weeping piteously.