Paris worked Jack over with a cold, deliberate calm, closing one hold after another while his age and the eighty pounds he carried on her counted for nothing. She slipped past his reach, locked in, and let her legs do the work: a guillotine that cut his air, a bodyscissor that folded him in half, a headscissors that pinned his face between her thighs, then a side headscissors that rolled him onto his shoulder and kept him there. Every time he tried to stand or shove her off, she was already somewhere else, resetting before he could get his hands under her.
He had walked in expecting an easy night against a girl that striking. What he got was a string of taps he could not quite finish. Each squeeze pulled a raw shout out of him, then a broken plea, then another shout when she tightened instead of letting go. She never rushed. Her face stayed even, almost pleased, as if the match were going exactly the way she had drawn it up, strength sitting almost entirely in her thighs and hips.
By the end he was spent, face flushed a deep purple, pride gone and nothing left but a broken male ego. She released the last hold only when she was ready, and he stayed where she had put him.
