The journalist smiled as the blonde woman in the short red silk robe opened the door.

"Come in... I guess you're Pete."

"Yes, I am. Nice to meet you, umm... Queen Cobra... obviously that's not your real name, so I'll call you... ?"

"You'll call me Queen," she said, motioning for him to sit in a loveseat. She walked to the sofa opposite him, sat down, and drew her legs up. "Remember the rules of this interview, Pete. You were never here. What you will write about will not contain any names, or real places, not even the name of this town. That was the deal."

"Of course," he chuckled nervously. "I'm sorry. Queen it is." He took out his pad and pen and jotted down some quick notes. "Thank you for making the time, really."

"Not a problem. I just don't want our society to get broken up because of being exposed to the wrong people, ok?"

"I don't want that either. I just want the story for the magazine, and if I did anything to screw it up, it would hurt me too."

She nodded, and leaned back, her long blonde hair cascading down her front, curling in as if to point to her cleavage. She was referring to the Female Fight Society, an unofficial, very underground association of voluntary women, age 19-35, who met once a month to catfight at a very secret location, where men--and a few women--came and paid big money to watch. The 23-year old Queen Cobra was currently the hottest fighter in the society, having advanced the ranks quickly with some decisive wins over some of the society's best fighters. She had lost her first match over a year ago, then won three in a row, lost once more, and since had ticked off seven consecutive victories to stand at ten wins and two losses. The rules were simple: fifteen minutes in the ring--no "rounds". The fighters wore bikinis or another form of skimpy swimsuit. A referee, who was to stop the fight only if blood flow became a serious obstacle and threat to a fighter's life. That was it. You won by making your opponent submit, or by decision after the fifteen minutes was up. Only two fighters had gone fifteen minutes with Cobra, and one of them had beaten her. She was quick, savage, and unforgiving. The crowd loved it when a fight didn't go the 15 minute limit, because that brought in the "excess time" rule. Whatever time was leftover was awarded to the winner to do what she pleased with the loser, and there were no limitations. It wasn't uncommon to see a defeated fighter strung up on the ropes and bitch-slapped, then made to crawl around the ring with a leash on, or to see a victress strip the beaten girl of her panties and fuck her dizzy with a strap-on. The winner, short of causing serious injury, could do what she pleased with the loser for the time remaining.

The purse, as well as the pleasures, for the winner of these fights was substantial--50% of the take. The loser got 20% and the remaining 30% paid for the private warehouse, underground parking and security. Curiousity seekers and any others without an authorization code weren't let in. The place was always packed, which meant a gross take of about $8,000. A winning fighter would rake in about $4,000 for her victory, and an extra one hundred dollars for every minute of "excess time" left in the fight. A girl who could make her opponent suffer enough to give up in three minutes could walk out of the warehouse with over $5,000 in her purse. Domination paid off handsomely.

"Would you like something to drink? Coffee, beer, anything?" She asked politely.

"Actually a cup of black coffee would be great, thanks," Pete said, rising.

"Sit and relax. I'll take care of it," she said. Then the blonde fighting champion clapped her hands twice loudly.

To Pete's surprise, a shapely young girl with jet black hair came quickly into the room. She stood there in a pair of white terrycloth shorts and a matching top. She was alarmingly pretty, though she didn't smile, and didn't look a day over twenty.

"Sasha, get this gentleman a cup of black coffee," Cobra said.

"Yes, Ma'am," the girl replied quietly, and hurried into the kitchen.

Pete raised an eyebrow. He wasn't privy to what wages these girls made, but figured that to hire servants and cleaning people one has to be doing pretty well.

"Winning big has it's advantages, I see," he said, smiling. "Enough to afford domestic help, huh? Not bad."

Cobra laughed. "I didn't hire her," she said, a glint in her eyes.

Pete smiled in confusion. "No... ?"

The striking blonde catfighter shook her head. "No. I won her. In a fight."

Pete nearly stopped breathing. "You what?"

"I won her. By beating her. She is my slave for three months."

Just then, the girl came walking back in with a steaming cup of coffee. She set it down on a small table by the loveseat where Pete sat. Pete looked at her up and down.

"Slave?? Oh c'mon, this IS a joke, I'm sure."

Cobra wasn't smiling. She stared right at Pete and her gaze never wavered. "Sasha," she said calmly, "take off all your clothes."

"Yes, Ma'am," the girl said, closing her eyes and swallowing nervously. Pete watched in amazement as the pretty brunette pulled off her top exposing a pair of smallish but lovely, pert breasts. Then, she slid out of her shorts and panties and stood there, naked, head down, blushing heavily.

Pete's mouth was open silently when Cobra, without a word, pointed to the floor at her feet and clicked her fingers. Sasha instantly walked to Cobra and went to her knees in front of her.

"Do you believe me now, Mr. Journalist?" Cobra said.

Pete closed his mouth and swallowed. "How... what... ?"

"Sasha here challenged me one day, when she was new to the society. She had won her first two fights, and was feeling pretty damned good about herself. The problem was, the brash little brat ran her mouth all over the society, telling people I wasn't as tough as everyone thought, and that she was going to teach me a lesson by kicking my ass and making me look like a fool.

Pete nodded, and was scribbling enthustiacally on his pad.

"But that was a terrible mistake," Cobra said, lightly scratching the underside of Sasha's chin as if she were a pet, "wasn't it, kitten?"

Sasha looked at the floor and nodded. "Yes, my Queen."

Cobra laughed. "I'm not sure if there has been five minutes in that ring where one girl has been beaten that badly. She was in such agony from what I did to her the ref didn't hear her submit at first. I did, but I pretended not to hear it and kept working her over. She finally screamed it when I spread her butt cheeks and kicked her so that the toe of my boot was hitting her asshole directly. Otherwise it would have ended in four minutes, not five. I hurt her so bad that she was willing to suffer whatever indignities I would heap on her to avoid further punishment. But all I could think of when I looked at her pretty little body, crushed and quivering at my feet, was that I wanted her for more than just ten more minutes. I wanted her to be my slave, serve me, be at my beck and call. I wanted this humiliation to last a long time. I wanted to see that face in the morning, eager to serve and please me."

Pete listened with aroused fascination.

"So, I knelt next to her, and I told her that I was planning to strip her, fuck her, and invite the crowd to come up and pull out her pubic hairs one by one, until they were all gone. Then I was going to pull open her butt cheeks and piss right into her asshole. I had done that to another girl when I beat her, and she had been unable to hold it in before leaving the ring. She had to squat, and unleash all of my fluids from her ass, right there in her corner. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is for a female to be hold the liquid waste of another girl inside her body--and then to have to show it to everyone when she lets it loose?

"I... can't imagine..." Pete said, wincing as he took it all down on the pad and on his tape recorder.

"Anyway, I told her she had a choice--to suffer all that in front of everyone, or to live with me for six months and be my slave. No beatings, no pain, just servitude. She had to do everything I say until three months was up. Everything. She has to cook, clean, and take my messages. And when I get horny and need to get off, I use her. However I want. She lives in my walk-in closet. There's a small mattress there for her to sleep. Sometimes, of course," Cobra said, stroking Sasha's hair, "she is allowed to sleep in my bed. Aren't you, slave girl?"

Sasha nodded, her eyes on the floor.

"You see, she sleeps with a collar on, and long thin chain running from her collar to the side of my bed. When I tug on it, she comes to me," Cobra said with a wicked smile. "Comes in very handy when I get horny in the middle of the night and I want my pussy eaten."

"Good god," Pete whispered, writing frantically.

"Anyway, there she was in the ring at my feet. She lay there for about ten seconds, and then she nodded and said 'ok'." Cobra mocked the girl's whimpering, exhausted voice when she quoted her.

"That must have been a hell of a beating," Pete said, trying to tear his eyes from Sasha's beautiful ass. He looked apologetic when Cobra caught him staring.

"Sasha, go get on all fours in front of the nice man so he can get a better look at your ass."

Sasha wordlessly got up and displayed herself on the floor in front of Pete, laying her head down on the carpet and jutting her naked ass up next to his leg.

"Very nice..." he said in a voice raspy with excitement.

Cobra chuckled again. "Yes, as you said, it was quite a beating." Cobra got up took a video tape from a cabinet, and popped it in the VCR. "Here, see for yourself."