The Nightmare (7-1) Ranked 2nd Dragon (20-5) Ranked 3rd

Nightmare is back. Meaner. Meaner than last time. Last season she bled for the belt and they stole it. Now she grinds out extra rounds, extra miles, every drill a fresh grudge. One thing she knows: Dragon folds when fingers drive deep in that slick cunt. Dragon walks in twenty pounds heavier but it is not weight, it is brick-hard muscle. Shoulders cut, thighs carved. Best shape of her life and it shows—shoulders rolling, back rippling. She wants the big crown. Nightmare stands between her and that crown. No welcome mat. No mercy. They circle. Sweat already beads. Muscles flex under thin gear. Dragon lunges; Nightmare meets her, palms sliding low, hunting the wet heat between Dragon’s thighs. One finger slips inside, then two. Dragon’s breath breaks. She grinds against the hand, trying to ride it out, but the fist keeps working, knuckles dragging tender walls. Dragon’s ass flexes tight, curvy hips rolling like she cannot stop. Nightmare pins her shoulder to the mat, fingers pumping faster, deeper. Dragon hisses through clenched teeth, body arching, tits crushed against Nightmare’s chest. Dragon fights back. Rolls Nightmare, spreads her legs, forces her own fingers past the wet folds. Nightmare snarls, grabs Dragon’s wrist, slams it away, shoves her thumb right back into the pulsing cunt. Dragon’s ass lifts off the floor, thighs quivering. Every thrust drags a ragged sound out of her throat. They trade, bodies slick, breath hot, neither one giving ground. Nightmare knows the spot, keeps hitting it, keeps owning the rhythm. Dragon’s eyes lose focus. Her abs lock. Nightmare drives in again. Dragon’s legs shake, then give, and the match tips. Nightmare’s fingers stay buried, twisting, owning, proving she still owns that weakness.