No.743                                    "A CHANCE FOR EUROPE"                                     by Ajax
 

Emma Varradale knew perfectly well that she had been extremely lucky to defeat Ingrid Schmidt, but it meant that she was now automatically chosen for the European Middleweight Championship, having beaten two of the contenders, Ingrid and Val Rioch.  It was no surprise when she was invited to attend the championship in Zurich, and she went as cheaply as she could, traveling by train.  Her bankroll was not big enough yet to give her the sort of cash she would need to travel by air.

The hall where they were to fight for the championship was not as large as she had hoped, but the ring that was installed the evening before they fought was a good one, and she felt as confident as she reasonably could about the outcome.

The eventual winner would need to be a tough woman, all right, under these rules.  They would be drawn in four fights in the morning, the winners going into the semis in the early evening, and the final would be fought around midnight with a number of fill-in bouts between the semis and the final.  Even for a tough, fit wrestler, three bouts in a day was a hard prospect, especially if any injuries should be carried over.  There was to be no seeding, all the fighters going into the hat on an equal footing, so she was only too aware that she could find herself up against Ingrid or Val in the first round.  But she had a chance for the European Championship, and that was what really mattered.

In the event she was drawn against Verna Ramfelt, the Swedish champion, with Ingrid and Val against each other.  Mara del Quiaro drew the French champion, and the other two girls, Emma did not know.

It was an exciting morning's action.  The first fight, that between Mara and the Frenchwoman, went seven rounds before Mara defeated her with a brutal series of Bostons, leading to an agonizing submission that weakened her for the KO that followed at the start of the eighth round.  Ingrid and Val, coming on second had a marvelous fight before Ingrid bear hugged the Scot out of contention, and brought Emma to the ring with Verna.

With Ingrid back to her proper form and Mara already through, Emma was determined to have a real go at beating Verna, whom she had never met in the ring before.  She found her to be a real aerialist, and suffered a bad hammering in the first two rounds, before she steeled herself
against drop-kicks, flying scissors, monkey climbs and airplane spins, to get in to the body with forearm and elbow smashes, slow her, and then turn the tables with her own acrobatics until after six rounds she was able to drop-kick her to the jaw, and put her out for the count.

With three places decided, the two unknowns, Ljuba Cracovsakya, Yugoslav and champion of Austria, and the Turk, Zubenala Zret, came out to fight for the fourth.  They were both extremely brutal competitors and both were bleeding from nose and mouth before half the ten rounds were
completed.  The eventual victor in this bruising contest was the Turk, Zubenala Zret, and it was she who went into the hat for the semi-final draw along with Emma, Mara, and Ingrid.

Tension for the draw was electric, and it was a horrifying prospect that faced Emma.  Any of the other three would provide a terribly hard battle, and she was as fearful as she could remember being when Bethge got up to make the draw for the semis.

Even worse was that Emma came out first, and she sweated as the man's hand dipped into the bag again and came out holding the next ball.

"Emma Varradale," he had said, "will fight..." the pause seemed endless as he fished around inside the linen before drawing her opponent, "....Zubenala Zret." He paused again.  "Which means that Ingrid Schmidt will face Mara del Quiaro."

Emma's head was already in her hands at the realization that she had drawn the brutal Turk, and she found her belly churning over and over at the thought of matching strength with a powerhouse of a woman who looked even tougher, and not half as nice as the stocky Ingrid.

But at six o'clock she had to face her, and what she needed before that was a good rest.  As she left the room to take it, Miss Zret smiled at her, showing one broken tooth and one missing one, a hint of blood still around her nose where the Yugoslav had clobbered her.

Her black starback costume she was saving to wear in the final, and emerged to fight Zubenala Zret in the green one of the same cut and design.  She was aware that she was being very presumptuous to reserve herself a place in the final, but at the same time felt that if she didn't no-
one else would.  Nevertheless, she felt very good about her appearance.  She had firmed up a good deal under training and the several bouts she had had in recent months, ten since she had fought Ingrid in the Legersham Town Hall, in the fight that at the time had been so unsatisfactory, but
which was instrumental in bringing her here to Zurich.  She had donned her bright green starback with confidence - the starback costume had become something of her trade mark since her comeback.  It was a useful style, since it was one piece that looked like a two piece, and she could
wear it in halls where their was insistence still on the use of the more modest one piece costume.  That hers obeyed the letter rather than the spirit of the intention secretly pleased her, though she had received disapproval more than once during the latest months.

With her starback she wore her normal long tan boots (they went rather better with the green in fact) and had her long blonde hair, even more luxurious now than before, in a pair of heavy plaits.

Zubenala Zret was of homely countenance, and slackish figure, and Emma's breasts were much the firmer of them.  Perhaps in Turkey there was less worry about a good figure, for from the style she had displayed against Ljuba, it seemed that strength was the prime requisite for a wrestler in her part of the world.  Well, Emma told herself, she probably had a better chance against Zubenala than against either of the other two, even though it would be hard graft.

How hard the graft would be was brought home to her in the very first round.  Dark-haired, darkened and sallow skinned, Zubenala wore a two piece costume whose fit, to the English girl's mind, was appalling.  The whole thing was too tight on her.  It seemed that she might have bought it some months before, but had put on a lot of weight since.  Her large, and none too firm breasts were spilling out of it in all directions, but whatever the shortcomings of the costume might have been, they did nothing to detract from a strength that was the equal of Ingrid's, possibly greater, and a nasty experience, though not exactly a surprise to a girl who was a good bit lighter than her, and who was thrown headlong into a corner at their first clash.

Emma learned from that, and did not approach so openly next time.  She had thought that it might be a good idea to take the fight to the bigger woman first, and try to impress her with her confidence.  Zubenala had no time for such psyching, and merely seized her and hurled her away into a corner.

They rose and circled more carefully on the second occasion, coming to grips with Emma the more firmly footed.  Interlocking her fingers with Emma's the Turk flexed the muscles of her arms and back, pressed her hands to the canvas and stood on them.  Emma was bent like reed hoping to evade the inevitable knee smash in the face, and was glad she had when Zubenala smashed into nothingness and grunted her surprise, converting her smash into a knee drop into the lighter girl's shoulder blades that made Me squeal in agony as her breasts were mulched beneath her into the canvas.

However, the move did free her hands, though there was little she could do with them when the Turk, kneeling on her shoulders already, sat back onto her head, and ground Emma's right ear into the floor as well.  The smell and texture of Turkish rump did little to enthuse Emma, who got her hands level with her shoulders, and tried to press-up out of the position.  She did not manage to do it, her left arm collapsing under the strain of their combined weights when she was halfway up, but dreading the possibility, of the rump crashing back onto her head again, she twisted leftward, heaved, and dislodged the Turk who rolled away leisurely, and started to come to her feet.  Using her speed, Emma was up quick as a flash, and drove a kick at the head.  Zubenala's short hair, flew up as it landed, and it was her turn to roll away groggy.

Emma leapt on her, and tried for a pin.  She thought the effort would be useless, but had underestimated the power of her own kick.  Zubenala was for a moment dazed, and the first round ended in less than a minute with a pin for the English girl.

Amazed at such an early success, Emma returned to her corner for a mouthwash and a quick shoulder massage where the Turk's knees had delivered a pair of bruises that she could have done without.  And counting her blessings.  There was one reservation though.  Zubenala Zret was going to be furious in the second to have lost a fall so stupidly.  What a furious Turk of her strength might do was a mite worrying, but Emma knew that she would have to face it whatever it was.

Indeed, her fears were fully justified.  Zubenala came out like an express train, all ten and a half stones, a hundred and forty-seven pounds of her, and slammed a bear hug round her before Emma knew what had hit her.

Emma howled in agony as her ribs creaked under the strain, but her right hand was free, and she used it to slug the Turk in the nose, hoping that the sudden pain would ease her grip.  She was wrong, but it did bring the gore flowing from the nose again, which gave the Englishwoman some satisfaction.  But she was being held so tightly she couldn't breathe, and when the Turk finally tired of crushing her, and flung her contemptuously away, Emma felt three parts dead, and the other part half dead.  She was sure her ribs were cracked, and the effort of breathing was so great that she almost passed out.  She lay on the canvas writhing as the referee intoned the dreadful count.

She just about made it up at nine, but was in no state to stand the series of vicious and powerful forearm smashes with which Zubenala roasted her breasts, before knocking out of her what bit of breath Emma had got with a knee to the belly.  Stricken, she dropped to the canvas gagging again, and fighting to hold herself together.

Again she rose instinctively at nine, but saw her opponent through a mist of pain.  God!  but the woman was powerful.  She limped away from her as Zret stormed back in, and managed to trip her into the ropes.  Emma herself sagged back into them taking a desperate moment to regain some
senses before the Turk righted, and hurled a kick at her.  It smashed into her groin and sent her through the ropes to lie on the ring apron writhing in agony again.  Once more the count came, and the desperate Emma prayed that she could make it back in time.  She cursed these European rules
that allowed single-foot kicks and punches, and forced herself back to her feet and clambered back into the ring.

It was only because the referee, herself as hard faced a woman as Emma had ever wrestled under, had held Zubenala in check while she regained the ring that Emma was able to offer any defense at all as the Turk rushed at her again.  She sidestepped the rush, some ability to think
leaking back into brain as the pain of her ribs, her groin, her breast and her belly ebbed towards the bearable, and threw an arm around Zubenala's waist, stopping her rush, and then dragging her back to fall over her extended right knee.  Out of control the Turk toppled over the knee to her shoulders,
and Emma dropped on her, driving the point of it into her right breast.

The scream that left the Turkish throat was one of pure hell as her wobbly breast was ground between Emma's knee point and the ribcage beneath it, and she went white and wild, kicking across with her left leg and knocking Emma sprawling.

Dragging herself up as quickly as she could, she prepared to try to face the enraged Turk.  She knew now what she had to do, but as she started to carry out her plan, Zubenala, needing a respite from the pain herself, backed off, and would not come to grips.  Loath to encourage her to belabor her again, Emma accepted the break gratefully, and there ensued a whole minute of minor scuffles and skirmishes where neither gained a decisive advantage.

Towards the end of the second, and feeling almost subhuman, Emma launched herself into a well timed drop kick, catching Zubenala in both breasts with a forceful slam, and sending her back into the ropes.  She did not like it, and wailed in agony as Emma, at last reaching the subhuman category, landed catlike on her feet, and let fly to the belly with the European single leg kick.  The Turk gagged and fell to her knees, taking a six count, before rising looking hurt and shaken to close again.  They were saved the necessity by the bell, and Me returned to her corner for the second time feeling that she was at least beginning to get somewhere.

It surprised her that the big Turk should be quite as sensitive about the breasts as she appeared to be, but thought herself lucky that she was.  .  Perhaps she was unused to taking much in the way of a breast beating.  It was the one thing that she could do to beat her with comparative ease.  But there was a suspicion lurking in the back of her mind that the woman might be putting it on to lull her into a sense of false security.  Why, she was not sure, but that might be the cause of her extreme reactions to her breast attacks.  However, she chose to ignore her suspicions as the third round started.  The thought did cross her mind that the Turk and the Yugoslav had not done much breast battering in their first round contest, so there was little to judge her suspicions by, but by then she was into the mill of the wrestling again, and looking for the headlock that might allow her to finish the contest in her favor.

Twice she tried to get one on and failed, but the third time she was successful, taking Zubenala with her right arm, and locking the hold on with her left, seizing her wrist, and grabbing the Turk's head immovably.  Then, with deliberation, slowly at first, and then with increasing frequency, she started to bring her right knee up to slam it into the woman's left breast.  From her reaction this time, she became sure that her fears were groundless.  Zubenala Zret really was very sensitively breasted.  She could feel her shuddering with pain as the blows went in, though her cries were muffled by having her head driven so hard against the sweaty body.  Four times she rived her knee into the left breast, and four times Zubenala shuddered, and fought to drag her head clear,
even to use her strength to lift Emma off her.  To prevent that the English girl lay back on her hard, and she was unable to find the power even in her massive form to lift her off the ground.

Knowing that she could win here, Emma increased the power and viciousness of her attack upon the woman's breast, even managing with something of a stretch to reach the other.  After a time she noticed that Zubenala began to sweat heavily, then to whine, and finally she went limp in her grip.  Emma released her hold, smashing her knee into the Turk's face as she hit the deck, and stood back.

The count proved a formality, for Zubenala, agonized beyond what she could stand, had fainted clean away, no doubt assisted by the semi stifling against Emma's side, and suddenly, the blonde girl in the green starback costume, had triumphed over the Turk in the yellow, too small bikini, and was in the final of the European Middleweight Wrestling Championship.  Who against, she would have to wait and see.

Whatever the outcome of the other semi-final, Emma Varradale was on her way to making her name in Europe, but she was still puzzled by the Turk's excessive sensitivity of breast.  She was also very tired after the struggle and the trauma of the second round.  Again, she felt, she had got away with a victory where she had not expected to win one.  This one, though, was really important.  However, she felt justified in a way.  She had beaten Verna well in the quarter-final bout to reach the battle with Zubenala, and the result showed that she should have at least some chance of lifting the final.  But it was very close and she was very sore, and the shower and another good rest beckoned her powerfully.  She noticed that they were still working to revive the fallen
Turk as she left the ring.

This, she now knew, could be the greatest night of her life.  There was still a chance for Europe, and she felt minded to take it.

END
 

No.743
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