Paris and Jessica had one another locked in what could most easily be described as the ‘69 position’, the indescribably powerful thighs of each locked tight around the head of the other, both beauties pouring all of their strength into their steel band-like vise holds.

The struggle stipped each of their pretensions of civilization. Hilton was no longer the haughty heiress, and Simpson no longer the virtuous girl next door; they had both been reduced to alley cats, clawing and howling in their war for supremacy.

The agony was staggering as they crushed one another, their pained gasps turning to moans, then cries, and finally to wails as tears streaked their reddened faces and their lungs sucked in precious air through slack jawed mouths.

They couldn’t humanly continue this punishing duel for long...and it was only a matter of minutes before one beauty’s body could no longer obey her mind’s commands. The only question up until the final moment was, who would surrender first?

Then, with a sobbing howl that mixes anguish with submission, Jessica’s body goes slack, all power drained. Her sculpted legs lifelessly fall away from Hilton, releasing the blond. After several moments of continuing to apply her own scissors, Paris willingly releases Simpson. But if the songstress believed her surrender meant the end of her torment, then she was about to be cruelly taught otherwise.

Pulling Jessica up to a sitting position, Paris settles down on the floor behind her and snakes her long legs around her rival’s waist.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Simpson groggily asks. Then, realizing what is in store, she cries out, “NO! I give up! Please… don’t!”

But her pleas fell upon deaf ears. Hilton, who moments before had been on the verge of physical collapse, now seemed to have raw power incarnate coursing through her body, as if she now drew strength from her foe’s weakness. She channeled that power into her limbs, and Jessica let out a banshee’s howl of pain as the scissors crushed her ribs.

“So,” the heiress sneers. “You were going to `shut me up’? Kick my ass even? You’re as pathetic as all the others.”

Simpson’s only reply was a mewl of agony. The singer’s head began to sway as unconsciousness started to claim her. Looking out at the crowd of spectators with glassy eyes, she spots one face in particularly. Reaching out with her hand to him, she says desperately, “Nicky...somebody…help me…please!”

But like all of the others gathered to witness this struggle, her husband, Nick Lachey, was transfixed by the spectacle of Paris destroying Jessica. He could not...would not...intervene.

Coldly, Hilton tells her victim, “You’re nothing but poor white trash, my little bitch. Aren’t you?”

Jessica gulps in oxygen as she cries so strongly, her body shudders. “Yes! I...I’m white trash!” she whines.

Paris smiles cruelly, replying, “Very good, my little bitch. Now, tell everyone who your superior is.”

“You are...you’re better than me,” Simpson sobs. “Please...let me go!”

But of course, the heiress does no such thing. Instead, she continues her python’s crush of her victim until Simpson succumbs to the blackness with a final agonized groan.

Then, rising up on legs that have no right to be able to support her after a brutal battle such as this, Paris plants her foot upon the heaving chest of her defeated rival. Raising her arms in the air, she bellows, “I am unbeatable. Do you hear me? I AM INVINCIBLE!”

And at this moment, as much as many might wish otherwise, there are none who can dispute her.

The first fall went to Paris, who after nearly fifteen minutes of wild back- and-forth battling between the two, managed to lock Jessica into a Hammerlock/Chokehold combination that forced the singer to tap out or risk being KO’d and losing the entire match.

The second round saw the blondes engage in a duel of kicks, each using her sculpted legs to lash out and punish the other. This contest ultimately ended in stalemate, but Simpson managed to seize the advantage by shifting tactics and snaring her rival in a Boston Crab, leaning backward to the point that it seemed as if Hilton’s spine would break! Paris held out far longer than most, but ultimately she had to submit the fall.

For the third and deciding round, neither battler could afford any mistakes. They tore into one another with furious abandon, each intent on destroying the other. Paris aimed much of her attack on her foe’s breasts... slapping, punching, squeezing and twisting them. Jessica focused on Hilton’s taut abdomen with punches, knee lifts and claw holds, trying to break the billionaire’s spirit through the pain to her belly.

Ultimately...perhaps inevitably...however, the end came down to a test of leg power. Paris had managed to clamp her thighs around Jessica’s head, but Simpson had retaliated by locking her legs around Hilton’s waist. And thus their bizarre struggle was waged, with the two blondes looking like a single beast trying to destroy itself.

Minute after minute, each beauty poured every last vestige of power into her legs, desperate to crush the other into defeat. Slowly, it seemed as if the tide was turning in Hilton’s favor, as Jessica’s sobbing cries grew more distressed. Through gritted teeth, the heiress hissed, “You’re finished, bitch! You WILL worship me...call me mistress!” Then, part command; part plea, Paris shouts, “GIVE UP, DAMMIT!”

There was no sound from either woman for several heartbeats...but then, one blonde gives forth a great groan of resignation. The strain of the duel had simply proven to be too much for Hilton, her threats proving now to have been little more than empty bravado. Legs going limp, she involuntarily releases Jessica from her headscissors. And although Simpson looks as if she can barely remain conscious following the pain she has just endured, a look of new hope sparks in her eyes. Tightening her bodyvice even more, she brings forth a wail of anguish from Paris...who then slaps her hand at the floor to signal her submission.

“NO!” Jessica snaps. “SAY it!”

“I...I give up,” Hilton gasps between sobs.

“What else?” the singer snarls. “Whose legs rule?”

“Ooooooooohhhhh,” moans the heiress. “Go...go to hell, you w- worthless...peon! Uuuhhhhhhhhhhh!”

The victorious blond would like nothing better than to keep her scissors locked on for hours more, until she forces the arrogant debutante to beg her for mercy, but now her legs begin to tremble, and against her will, they lose all strength and fall limp. She had managed to outlast her rival by mere moments...and had she not, Paris might well have been able to regain command and win the battle.

Jessica wants badly to rise up and plant her foot triumphantly upon her beater foe, but her body rebels. Instead, the victor is gently carried from the field of battle, as is the loser. And as they depart, both warriors know that this match settled nothing...that there must be a final reckoning between them someday, and soon.

Jessica had reasons of her own for the match: although she’d beaten Paris in their last encounter, the heiress had stubbornly refused to verbally acknowledge Jessica’s superiority, as the singer had been made to do in their first fight, in which Hilton had conquered her. Plus, it would also allow her to debut her new red-haired look...a change in image which she hoped would gain her a more “serious” image.

Unfortunately for Jessica, a change in hair color offered her little in the way of an edge against her opponent...particularly as Paris came into this fight with a definite strategy.

Both beauties are renowned for their magnificently lethal legs. Thus, the heiress reasoned, the key to destroying Simpson was to eliminate her best weapons. Hilton focused her attack on her foe’s long stems, relentlessly twisting, tanking, bending and mauling them, until Jessica’s battered limbs could do little more than tremble involuntarily. Unable to stand on her legs, much less use them offensively, the redhead seemed destined for oblivion.

Or so she would be, if in fact her legs were her only weapon. And as Paris haughtily stood over her fallen rival, Jessica’s hands suddenly flashed out and grabbed the blond by her ankles. One jerk later, Hilton hit the floor with a heavy thud, and her adversary was swarming all over her.

Before the heiress knew what was happening, she found herself snared in a Cross-Face Crippler, a searing pain running from her head all the way down to her feet as her body was bent painfully at the knees and neck.

Hilton squealed and squirmed, desperate to escape. But with a maniacal glint in her eye, Simpson kept the hold locked on. Had Hilton ever developed skills which went beyond her legs, she might have known how to escape; but she hadn’t, and she couldn’t.

“You’re...breaking my back!” Paris wailed.

“Give!” Jessica commanded with a guttural roar.

After several long heartbeats, Hilton finally whines, “OK! I give! Let me go!”

But instead of releasing her hold, the redhead kept it firmly in place. Then she hissed, “What am I?”

“F…fuck you, bitch!” the beleaguered blond groaned. She was rewarded for her insolence with a quick jerk of her neck, which brought a new wave of pain. Simpson didn’t have to ask again...Hilton knew what she had to say, or risk being crippled. “You...you are my superior! You’re better than me! Now...LET ME GOOOOOOO!”

Paying her rival no further attention, Jessica releases her hold, then gets to her hands and knees, struggling to rise on legs that still throb in agony. But turning her back on the viper that is Paris Hilton was a serious lapse in judgment!

Without warning, Paris hurls herself at the victor and slams a blow to the back of Jessica’s head, stunning her. The heiress then wraps the steel bands that are her legs around her foe’s head, crushing it between her powerful thighs.

“YOU’RE NOTHING!” Hilton snarled in rage. “YOU’RE NOTHING COMPARED TO ME!”

Simpson’s hands slapped and tugged desperately...futilely...at her tormentor’s legs. Then, her arms fell limp to the floor, and the redhead ceased struggling. Still, Paris would not release her vise. It finally took four women from the crowd... catfighters... to pry the limbs apart, even as a fifth wrapped Hilton’s head in a Sleeper hold to weaken her. So great was the blonde’s fury, even this effort took more than a full minute to succeed.

Jessica had her victory, but at a frightful cost! One thing was sure: these two would battle again some day!

She also knew she looked as bad as she felt, with her hair a tangled mop, and her skin mottled by bruises and marred by bloody furrows carved by her opponent’s expensively manicured nails. There was no doubt in Simpson’s mind that she would need a long time to fully recover from this night’s battle.

But she took all of that pain and transformed it into power, and then she channeled that power into her long, lithe legs, which were locked tight around the waist of Paris. The haughty heiress gasped and sobbed as she felt her ribs on the verge of cracking, her fingers desperately clawing and gouging at her tormentor’s flesh. But Jessica was beyond caring about her pain now...all she cared about was destroying her rival.

She would have preferred to have Hilton submit and beg for mercy, but to her credit, the heiress refused, and instead held on until her own agony drove her into unconsciousness. With some strain, Simpson ceased pouring her strength into her scissor hold and released her legs, letting her victim collapse with a thud to the floor.

Jessica was spent, her power fled. She fell backward to the carpet, gasping in breath, new tears falling from her eyes as the pain roared back throughout her body. But she was the winner, and that was all that mattered.

“Oh, you’re just pathetic,” Paris mocked her rival. “At least Jessica can give me a real run. But you? You’re nothing more than a cheap copy of her, aren’t you?”

Ashlee’s only remark was an agonized wail, followed by her gasping sobs as her opponent tightened the vise around her ribs. The singer had simply been outclassed by the heiress from the opening moments of the fight, and Hilton had literally been toying with her prey until she finally decided to finish Simpson off.

“P-please...no more...!” Ashlee pitifully whined.

“Oh no,” Paris sneered. “You don’t get to decide when we’re done. That’s for me to say. And I say we aren’t finished until you’ve passed out from the pain. But first, I want you to remember what I’m telling you: I want you to crawl back to your bitch sister and tell her that what I’ve done to you tonight, I’m going to do to her ten times worse! She’s going to pay for what she’s done to me!”

And with a pained moan, Ashlee collapses into blissful unconsciousness.