Last night Ken Shigenori had gone to bed secure with his lot in the world. He'd gone to the right school, worked hard, been admitted to the right university, worked hard, took a job at the right city firm, worked hard, and while he wasn't one of those 'Masters of the Universe' the papers liked to bang on about, after successfully closing out the DiMaggio deal he could expect to add a cool seven figures to his bank account once bonus season rolled around.
He'd thought about phoning up an escort, or two, to celebrate, but the even more lucrative Pontac deal had kept him in the office until past midnight.
"What do you think coke was invented for," a colleague had joked with him a while back.
The joke was on the colleague. His desk was abruptly cleared out a couple of months later, a consequence of taking the wrong position on a multi-million pound deal.
The city could be ruthless, but her rewards for the savvy and fast-thinking were considerable. Ken was the cream of his generation. He had a well-paid career with stellar prospects. He had a swish apartment in a fashionable district of London. He could retire to his bed, pull the covers over his head and sleep soundly with the knowledge his future was a fast motorway to riches and luxury.
Life was good.
They'd snatched him off the streets of the capitol, in broad daylight, as he'd been returning to his office from an expensive lunch. Al-Qaeda? Anarchists? Criminal gangsters? Ken had no idea. His captors had shoved a black hood over his head and bundled him into a car. That hood had remained on his head as they'd drove and drove to a place where the hustle and bustle of city activity had faded away.
Hours later and still blindfolded, Ken was standing with his hands tied behind his back. He didn't know where they were, but from the cool damp air and the echoes his footfalls made off a hard stone floor he guessed it to be underground somewhere.
A roar erupted around him as his captors prodded him through into a larger opening. It sounded like a raucous crowd at an illegal dog fight. Ken's anxiety grew.
He heard a rattling sound in front of him, like a chain-link gate clanking open. Someone sawed through the rope around his wrists and then roughly shoved him forwards. Ken lost his balance and went down to one knee. At least with his hands free he could finally tear this bloody hood off.
Ken did that and looked around in time to see a wire-mesh cage door swing shut behind him. He heard the metallic clank as bolts were slid across. Behind the wire-mesh door dirty faces twisted into hate-filled masks glared at him.
He turned around and saw similar snarling faces pressed up against chain-link fence all around him. They spat and screamed obscenities at him. Ken was in a cage and surrounded by a mob baying for his blood. They were underground. Naked torches burned in brackets on the walls and in a chandelier far above his head.
What the hell was happening? Where was he? It looked like a gladiatorial arena from a post-apocalyptic road-warrior film. The baying mob didn't look quite that unkempt, but their shouts and jeers were just as barbaric. Fists rattled against the fencing as Ken spun around.
"Fucking bankster scum!" a black man with dreads shouted at him.
Was that what this was about--more of that ninety-nine percent versus the one percent bollocks? Yeah, Ken was in the one percent. He was smart and had fucking worked his ass off to get there. Any of those around him could do the same if they weren't too busy moaning and looking for someone to blame for the tawdry ruins of their lives. Fuck, if they wanted someone to blame they could start with the moron politicians they elected. They were the people that kept setting the rules in favour of the elite.
He'd read plenty of the 'hang 'em from the lampposts' comments on the mainstream news sites. He'd dismissed them as the rabid frothing of people too lazy to move their fat asses out from behind their keyboards and do something constructive with their lives. Had someone finally found enough of a spine to do something?
They wouldn't get away with it. The city was too important to the country. She looked after her own. The police would baton-charge this scum back into the slime where they belonged.
The noise, already a ferocious cacophony of hurled obscenities and rattling fences, ratcheted up a notch and changed in nature. Cheers and whoops replaced the jeers as a tremor of excitement thrummed around the cage. A door on the far side opened. Ken's opponent was entering the arena.
He was expecting a tattooed thug and instead they sent in a statuesque woman dressed in a flowing, glossy black cape and skimpy fetishwear.
Who the fuck was she?
She was tall enough to be imposing. Ken reckoned she had a couple of inches on him and he was over six foot. If that height had been backed up with the muscular physique of a wrestler he might have been concerned. It wasn't. She was all soft curves, including a ridiculously over-inflated pair of tits. She looked more like one of those wrestling divas that never actually wrestles and were only there as eye candy to keep the dads from getting bored.
And she definitely was eye candy. Her costume, little more than a series of shiny black straps to hold her mammoth tits in place, looked more appropriate for the streets behind Kings Cross Station in the early hours of the morning. Her glossy black leggings even had a zipper over the crotch.
She posed seductively and blew kisses to the enraptured crowd. She courted their adoration like a gothic vampire queen with her pale skin, flowing raven hair and black cape.
"Eh-ry-zu! Eh-ry-zu! Eh-ry-zu!" the crowd chanted.
"Suck the leech dry!" someone yelled.
She must be the warm-up girl, someone to whip the crowd up like the Vegas showgirls that paraded a number around the ring before the start of each round of a boxing match.
"Fuck him up, Eryzu!"
"Batter the bankster scum!"
They couldn't be serious. Just look at her figure. Breast-obsessed perma-adolescent game developers could add voluptuous bodies like this into their fighting games to appeal to their equally breast-obsessed perma-adoloscent audience, but real fighters had actual physics to worry about. Look at those breasts for starters. They were ludicrous. There must be about a football's worth of silicone in each one. It was not a body practical for fighting in.
Ken could think of plenty of other things that body was practical for. And plenty of those things he'd pay good money to do with her.
But no, she turned, gave him a haughty stare and settled into what he assumed was some kind of fancy martial arts stance.
Ken shook his head. If those morons thought they were going to derive some entertainment from watching an over-inflated dominatrix beat the shit out of a pathetic, desk-bound banker they were about to get a shock.
He held up his fists and assumed a textbook boxer's stance.
He wasn't some flabby, overweight desk jockey. He'd boxed for his university and still worked out regularly at the gym.
The girl, Eryzu, smiled at him. She looked amused.
Ken suspected she wouldn't be smiling so much after he'd worked her face over. Or planted a solid body blow right in the centre of one of those big, fluffy white tits. Normally he wouldn't have relished messing up a girl's face, especially one as fine-looking as hers, but he'd been abducted, blindfolded and thrown into an illegal fighting ring fuck knows where. The gloves were off.
Still, it would be a shame to smash up a work of art like that.
"I'm not like the other nine-to-five slobs," Ken warned. "I boxed a lot at amateur level. Stay in here and you're going to get hurt."
"I don't think so," the woman said, her dark eyes twinkling.
"I'm not going to go easy on you because you're a woman," Ken said.
"Do your best," Eryzu said. Her bee-stung lips turned up in smile of amused contempt.
"Eh-ry-zu! Eh-ry-zu! Eh-ry-zu!" the mob bayed.
She circled Ken. Her movements were fluid ... easy. Despite her impractical figure, she moved gracefully. Like a big cat. She must know a martial art, Ken thought. He wasn't intimidated. For all their flashy moves, most martial arts were about as effective as dancing when up against a trained boxer.
Let's see how good you really are, Ken thought. He fired out a piston jab at the white, flawless mask of her face.
Pretty good, as it happened. Good enough to glide to the side with an amused little smirk on her lips and see his jab pass through empty air.
So she could dodge. But for how long?
He'd fought slick operators before. Puffed up on their own arrogance, they slid around the ring like oil. All it took was one good clip and they fell down like a sack of spuds.
Ken kept his shape and kept firing out piston jabs. Eryzu glided out of reach of his fist like a wraith, but was unable to get close enough to counterattack.
Ken was hoping she'd see he meant business--that he wasn't a tubby overweight desk jockey--and call a halt to this ridiculous farce. He didn't relish the prospect of messing up her elegant face, or that bombshell of a body, but he would if she left him no other choice.
Eryzu kept dodging and Ken kept pressing. She could duck and weave with the best, but she was running out of cage. Ken was inexorably herding her to the corner. Once trapped there, Ken intended to fully show her the folly of getting in a cage with one of the big boys.
.... There is more of this story ...