If you are citizen of an European Union member nation, you may not use this service unless you are at least 16 years old.
You already know Dokkio is an AI-powered assistant to organize & manage your digital files & messages. Very soon, Dokkio will support Outlook as well as One Drive. Check it out today!

30 July 2013 AHW Exhibition Kirsten Dunst vs Isla Fisher

Page history last edited by Archer844 10 years, 5 months ago

Kirsten Dunst 05.jpg Isla Fisher 02.jpg

Posted by Rampant Fighting on July 30, 2013, 6:28 pm

‘I don’t care that you lost, you know. Everybody loses. I just wanted you to try. Even if it wasn’t for you, couldn’t you have tried for me?’ Kirsten had heard variations of that same speech a dozen times or more, in different accents, different tones. Sometimes it had been spoken by people who she disliked, and she had taken a kind of pleasure in their disappointment, but sometimes the words had come from men or women who had done their best to help her, and hearing them had hurt as much as a punch.

She thought of them as lost years. Dragged to the ring by contractual obligations, she had demonstrated her anger by withholding her best efforts. The losses and listless performances had made a joke of her reputation, and certainly the women who had beaten her did not seem to care that their win should come marked with an asterisk, but at the time she had told herself that it was the only way she had of keeping control over her life, and so she had sabotaged her own career without hesitation.

The fight against Penelope was the first time for a decade that she had given all that she had and still lost. When she woke the next morning the accumulated punishment had made her body stiff and her movements as rigid as a puppet carved out of wood. She showered and dressed and went out to run errands, but each time she tried to imagine what it would be like to climb back in the ring it became an exercise in the abstract, as though she was thinking about an upcoming event in someone else’s life.

****

‘It’s fun. Like we’re doing a sexy dance, only not as choreographed and with more hairpulling. I’ll lead, if you like.’ Isla Fisher stripped down to her mismatched lingerie while Kirsten sat on the bench and stared at her clasped hands. Exhibitions were an awkward hybrid of competitive fighting and entertainment that she had always found disconcerting to be a part of, but Isla had been a friend since they filmed Bachelorette together, and so when she’d asked Kirsten to step in as a late replacement for someone else it had been easy enough to say yes. ‘I saw you on the PPV last month. Really thought you had her for a while in those middle rounds.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’

Something about her voice must have sounded strange, because Isla stopped what she was doing and looked across at her. ‘Hey. Trust me, this will be fine. Maybe the beginning will be a bit weird but once you get into it I reckon you’ll love it. All the blokes will be too busy staring at our tits and our arses to notice any mistakes. And people eat this shit up. I see you guys beating the crap out of each other and think you’re crazy when you could be doing this and getting just as much work out of it.’

The crowd was closer than Kirsten had expected. Isla waved to people that she evidently recognised, spinning around and arching her back to give them a view of her pert behind as she walked over to the bed. They faced each other on their knees on the mattress. Isla’s red hair was tied in a loose ponytail – Kirsten knew that part of the plan was for her to pull it free at some point – and she wore an orange bandeau bra and white bottoms. Before they leaned in to start, she winked at Kirsten and mouthed the word thanks.

With two women who were confident in their movements and had worked together often it could have been wonderful. Kirsten could even visualise how it would have looked; pale limbs intertwining and separating, alive with supple rhythm, each sequence choreographed to display their bodies to the audience as though they were a pair of exotic creatures from a faraway land, captured and brought back to the city to perform for the rich and the privileged. But the reality was a mess of disjointed events and poor execution that left them both hot-cheeked with frustration. They bumped against each other often. Flailing knees and hard elbows banged against heads. Isla’s whispered words of instruction began to sound like a snake’s hiss in her ear. She was on her belly on the duvet now, with the warm weight of Isla’s butt shifting on the small of her back. Isla’s hands were interlinked beneath her chin, bending her into a steep curve that caused her breasts to thrust forward against the material of her bra. Her mouth was stretched open and her lips were peeled back from her clenched teeth in a way that suggested she was in agony. But the hold wasn’t real. The expression of pain twisted onto her face wasn’t real. The profane threats that Isla was shrieking into her ear weren’t real.

Kirsten responded to confusion and doubt like a petulant child stomping their chubby pink foot onto buildings made of sand. So when Isla rolled into the space between her legs she moved fast. Before she had even thought about what she was doing she had trapped Isla Fisher in a scissors and wrapped her thin arms around Isla’s head and started to squeeze.

She could feel the vein throbbing in her temple and imagined it somehow working like a pump to push back the guilty thoughts that she knew would come later. She was sat in Isla’s lap on the rumpled duvet, their torsos close together. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, ankles crossed, trembling with the effort of crushing Isla. Facing away from the audience, she noticed that the apartment walls were grimy and there were cobwebs on the molding so thick they looked like dark stains.

Isla had cried out when Kirsten scissored her. Her hands flitted and did nothing as she panted out her breath into the warmth of Kirsten’s breasts. After a while she toppled forward so that Kirsten was on her back with her legs pointed at the ceiling and Isla was in kind of a half-crouch on top of her. The room was almost silent. She could feel Isla’s lips working against her skin, see the shiny wetness there glistening in the light. When she let go Isla mumbled like someone woken from sleep.

Kirsten rolled off the bed and looked down at her friend and pulled the duvet up over her body. ‘Sorry,’ she said, so quietly that she knew Isla would not have heard it.

(Another idea kind of lifted from tennis. I've always thought exhibition matches are really strange; for people who are so competitive, how do they go from having that attitude to something so utterly different? Isla Fisher has been around for ever but somehow manages to look pretty much the same as she did when she was in Home and Away)