Keira Knightley vs. Catherine Zeta-Jones (apartment wrestling) by simguy
Catherine Zeta Jones lies stunned on her back, her long black hair strewn out across a white fur rug, tossed across her eyes, and even in her gaping mouth. Her red bikini blazes bright against her pale flesh - those sturdy bra straps; the underwired cups. She tosses her head side to side to clear the cobwebs, trying to make sense of her predicament, but it's too late! Keira's sitting up pretty - hands back behind her for balance - as she lifts her right leg, lithe and straight, then brings it ax-chopping down heel first into her opponent's expensive midsection. Catherine gurgles and hugs herself as she rolls onto her right side, facing away from tormentress. The pure cheek of Keira: smiling broadly, licking her lips, eyes bright with disrespect for her legendary foe.
They're fighting in front of a glass enclosed medieval fireplace - 6 feet square - the crackling orange flames lending a strangely soothing atmosphere to the struggle. Keira sits crossed legged, then stands with limber grace, snapping her black swimsuit bottom in against her taut buttocks. Her highlighted curls are pulled back into a long ponytail that streams down her back and in the firelight's orange blaze her porcelain features radiate confidence as she gazes down looking pleased.
With brutal delight, Keira jumps into the air,
arms gull-winged out to either side, little fists clenched near her
shoulders as she comes crashing down hard - bony-knees-first into
Catherine's shoulders and ribs. Moans from Zeta-Jones, pitiful and
moist: she's a tired, frustrated, bewildered beauty...
* * * *
Catherine sipped chai, watched the monitor as Penelope Cruz' pathetic, high pitched Spanish whines and squeals spilled out from the television set. Jones' practiced ear could tell Pene was done just from the tone of her cries at this point. Keira was torturing her with a constant wriggling, writhing series of enveloping scissors. The blonde was so confident she rarely used her hands, fighting from her back with her elbows pushing on the canvas to shift position, letting her legs tie up and wear down her Spanish foe.
"She's utterly reliant upon her legs," Catherine said, gently blowing on her tea, her eyes never leaving the screen.
"She's very quick," a petulant Sienna Miller said.
Sienna's left eye was still puffy from where Keira had gone to work on it not two weeks earlier when she'd beaten the little blonde starlet badly, knowing her to be a Zeta-Jones affiliate. The message had been loud and clear.
"She's just a slip of a thing. A twig. She must know I'll break her once I get my hands on her," Catherine said before taking a tentative sip of the warming tea.
"She's cocky," Sienna snarled, eyes narrowing as poor Penelope clutched at either of Kiera's knees wrapped tightly about Spanish ears. "She's hateful! You need to put her down."
Catherine Zeta Jones sipped her chai and stared
intently at the screen as Keira stretched happily out on her side,
looking down the length of her lithe body to better appreciate
Penelope's doomed struggles. "You'd like that, wouldn't you
Sienna?" Jones whispered, smiling at her vassal's discomfort.
* * * *
Jones cramps up, eyes clamping in a tight frown, lips parting in a pained wince: Keira's stepped into her with a wiry right hand firm to paunch. The bigger brunette tilts forward, hands clutching her tummy - grinning Keira palms Jones' shoulders, walks her gently backwards until crimson-clad buttocks smudge against sandstone wall. Pushing Jones' torso upright, Knightley draws her right elbow back and shoves another slender right hand deep to soft underbelly. Catherine can't hold the sob back - hating the sound of it on her lips as she sinks to her hands and knees, snivelling, at Keira's feet.
Knightley reaches her arms up and tightens her ponytail, bright eyes dancing with half a dozen ideas about where to take Catherine next. Knightley moves quickly, wanting to keep Zeta Jones under constant threat. Scooting to a seat off Jones' left hip, Keira slides her long legs underneath the brunette's body, curling the limbs up to trap Jones' head and right arm, bending her awkwardly forward, face-first into white fur. Keira grins, hooking her left arm around Catherine's free left arm, establishing complete control: she's got the great woman on her knees, trapped, breathing hard.
The fire crackles nearby: Keira feels it's heat on her back and shoulders. She reaches her right arm around Catherine's waist and pulls her quivering body in close with a snug little partial gut wrench. Big smile then, Keira's tongue pink between her teeth as she locks and unlocks slender ankles for maximum leverage. Jones' breath comes in strained huffs and puffs as she makes little pushing and writhing movements, suffering in Knightley's grasp.
All night long, it had gone this way: Keira just a step ahead, beating Catherine to position, then bogging her down; kicking at her legs or belly and jumping away from receipts; bedevilling the bigger, stronger woman at every turn. At first, it had been a nuisance to Jones - an irritation. She fought with an annoyed little wince on her face as Keira scored and escaped, the slender blonde nibbling at her foe, but never risking decisive battle. Time and again, Catherine would grab an ankle or elegant wrist, only to see Keira writhe and twist free.
On their feet, Jones had trouble closing - Knightley's constant circling and feinting keeping her always a shade too far away for Jones to shoot the waist or legs. And Keira's kicks - licking, snapping blows with her hands high and her mouth wide open - those kicks stung, discouraging Jones from simply walking the smaller beauty down.
But it was the carpet that had held the most unpleasant surprises for Jones. A dreaded grappler in her own right - she was shocked to find herself constantly enveloped by Keira's maddening legs - feeling their wiry strength about her ribs, her hips, her head. Knightley was slippery as an eel, contorting herself into unlikely positions and locking her ankles, controlling Jones' head and one arm, leaving hands free to punch and slap, or to tug long black locks. Jones' irritation evolved into a huffing, puffing confusion, then shiny-sweat fatigue began to set in. It was nearly impossible to get behind the whippet blonde, no way to get that muscular sleeper about her slender throat or lock in Jones' preferred belly-to-back bear hug. Keira was so relaxed, so poised for one so young: fighting off her back, her upperbody not taxed at all as her legs instinctively sought out Catherine's body and skull.
Knightley was winning the energy management battle outright: Jones was squandering her reserves fighting clear of Knightley's legs while Keira stayed fresh, thriving on Jones' frustration and suffering.
Catherine crawls on her belly and elbows, hair a tattered tangle about her face and shoulders. She'd almost succumbed to that endless headscissor, but Knightley had released her just to produce this moment: the moment when Catherine Zeta Jones crawled across carpet to escape her adversary. Knightley stands, hands on hips, shrugging and laughing into the crowd. Strutting to Jones, Keira straddles Catherine's hips, sitting down hard in Jones' back, facing the brunette's legs. Reaching for the limbs, Keira cinches in the Boston Crab, hooking her arms in under Catherine's knees and rocking back with a winsome glow on rosey cheeks.
Jones' cries are exquisite, raising hair on the scalps of even the most jaded fight fan in the exclusive, invite-only audience. Pain of course - the sobs express pain eloquently enough - but there's so much more there. There's a warble in there that's all about the humiliation of being used up by a younger vixen. There's a shrill note about Keira's lower status as a wretched ingenue - a mere slip of a girl. There's rage and frustration: Jones is bigger, stronger - how could this have happened? It takes an ear practiced and sensitive as Catherine's own to hear it all, but this is a knowledgeable audience. They don't miss much.
Keira releases with a cry of exultation, standing up from Jones' trembling buttocks and raising her slender arms in triumph. Catherine hasn't surrendered, but Knightley can feel quit oozing from every pore on the great woman's body. With a sneer, Keira stoops to reach into Catherine's lush black locks, barking "UP!" as she pulls Jones' head up off the carpet. Creaking and wobbling, Jones rises, her hands clutching at Keira's grasping knuckles. Knightley's rough, meanspirited: she forces Catherine chest first to the cold stone wall, releasing the hair to palm at Jones' triceps.
Catherine turns her face to her left, eyes frowning shut: a grinning Keira Knightley takes delight in kneeing the plump goodness of Jones' rich backside: the right knee; either buttock bunching up under impact. Keira steps back, laughing: Jones reaches to her hamstring, limps a step or two off the wall and falls to her knees. Keira steps in with a swinging boot to the ribs: a thick, hollow thud against Jones' torso; Keira's hands high, her foot snapping off Catherine's body, the knee rising high on follow through. Jones rolls to her back, gurgling in stupor and then Keira pounces! Slithering across Catherine's upperchest with an ear to ear grin as her elegant fingers grip tight at Jones' right wrist, stretching the arm out flat. Keira looks back over her right shoulder, biting her lower lip as her legs flail to wrap up Catherine's left arm. Crossbody!
A sick, tortured moan escapes exhausted Jones as she grits her teeth, tossing her head side to side in protest. Catherine bucks her hips, feet skidding across rug, but Keira's locked in. Knightley crows, loving it: Jones is too weak now to do anything but waste the rest of her strength. Proud legs kick and stamp, then tire - pushing listlessly at the rug until finally, the knees flop side to side in wilting protest. The hips gulp up and down with less and less energy. Jones' grunts give way to gasping whimpers, tears spilling down from the corner of either eye to track back across her temples.
"Give it to me!" Keira crows at last, knowing Jones no longer has any choice.
"I...yield," Jones croaks, devastated under the weight of her foe. "Get off me."
Keira rises to her knees, snaps her trunks into place, gazing down at Catherine like newly found treasure. The conqueress rises, stepping extravagantly across her foe as Jones gathers her hands between her breasts and rolls to her right side, shuddering with silent tears. It is the moment of a lifetime for young Keira - her breakthrough performance. Too young and too vigorous for her pampered, precious, complacent foe.
Keira's's still preening for the audience when Jones' right arm suddenly slams upward between ingenue's trim legs from behind, drawing a shocked cry of agony from poor Keira at the unexpected pelvic punishment! Clutching herself, Keira falls to the carpet, cringing into a question mark on her side. On her knees, Catherine Zeta Jones' eyes blaze with cold fury, daring anyone in the audience to interfere.
It's not right and it's not fair - but this is London, England and it's Catherine Zeta-Jones' barn. She WILL have her way. Her face is flushed with fury; her black hair wild and unkempt as she ties into her cringing opponent. Grabbing lusty handfuls of Keira's hair, Jones bashes Knightley's forehead into the fur rug: Keira on her belly, propped on her elbows as she slips into glassy eyed stupor. Jones snuggles in from Keira's left side and bulls her onto her back, then Catherine sits heavily on her girl's stomach.
Jones takes Keira's left wrist in her left hand, holding the hand against Knightley's chest while leaning in to SLAP her face with big, bold, right hands. Great clapping blows - back and forth - Knightley makes no sound as her face is whip-lashed side to side, her eyelashes fluttering open and then squeezing shut. Jones face is a snarl, hair tumbling down across her heaving breasts.
The audience is silent, unmoving - frozen by the awful majesty of Catherine Zeta Jones unleashing every ounce of hate in her regal body until Keira swoons out on her carpet, badly, badly beaten! She's still. She's helpless. Perfect, as far as Catherine is concerned. Those legs: those long, wiry, curvy legs belong to Jones now. She'll have her way with them - twisting, spreading, kneeing, punching, stomping - until Charlize Theron finally gets up and finds the courage to pull her away!
"You'll be sorry you interfered!" Zeta-Jones snarls as she steps over Knightley's body, giving her a back heel to the chest before she storms angrily out of the room, leaving Theron to comfort and console the battered young blond.