Kayfabe Babe (M/F)
Posted: Mon Jun 16, 2025 6:58 pm
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Kayfabe Babe
Saturday, June 12, 2021
Let me tell you about something that happened to me one summer. Modeling makes me feel like I am still alive and reminds me that I control my decisions. I choose to be bound and gagged and negotiate the scene before we start filming, and the reverse is beautifully true as well when I play the dominatrix role in a scene to perfection. This leads me to one of my funniest jobs: wrestling. I love bondage wrestling, and I have a winning record in my matches. I also love modeling for a local kayfabe wrestling show that cycles through the Midwest, and that's this story.
I mean kayfabe, like you see on TV shows. Piledrivers, clotheslining, big muscular guys, buxom broads standing ringside cheering them on, and ridiculous plotlines. That kind of show. I love to be the buxom broad because I get a good laugh for free, and people get entertained. Sometimes I have friends there to laugh with me, and sometimes they laugh at me. I get to be me without any reservations, and it's not something I have to hide from my friends or my family, either. Truth be told, it's the one thing I do to find some sense of validation from outside myself.
On this occasion, I wore grey knee socks, my trusty black combat boots, super tight fitting black denim short shorts, a glistening belt, a grey sports bra, and a grey bandana headband. Would you please come along with me on this journey? Step into the dressing room with me? Watch me as I transform—from a former inmate who now is honored by her profession of police officer—into a beautiful woman who stands by the edge of the ring to cheer, to claw, and to be beautiful?
I arrived dressed as Felice Pryce, as a police woman, friend, and daughter who had learned how to live with her past and not to let the past define her. I opened the black door into a small room that was hardly a dressing room, and I put my small travel bag on the solid black counter before one of three small mirrors. Inside the bag was all my clothing and some makeup, but I was also free to use makeup that the organizers provided. With a smile, I opened my bag and put my real life behind me and embraced the role of a Kayfabe Babe.
With that same smile on my face, I took off all my clothes except my panties. Yes, I was alone; I grabbed my own breasts and sighed, as if I needed the reminder that I was my own person. I sat down on the chair with its mismatched burgundy fabric; the decorations were horrible. It served a purpose and my needs. I looked in the mirror and found a familiar face before me. Girls who did the things I did frequently sit down before a mirror and see a stranger or a monster. I see the girl who not only survived but changed into a person that was respectable to herself and to those who mattered to her. That's not just transforming; that's becoming a new you.
I couldn't help but giggle as I pulled the grey knee socks onto my legs, absolutely tickled that I'd shagged a pair that were much too long and actually came up past my knees. I applied powders and other such things that will bore the boys, so ladies I'm not detailing it here. I did what I had to do to hide the blemishes and make sure any glistening was only for the audience's pleasure. I then stood up and pulled the black shorts onto my body. They were too small for me, really, and I loved how they rode my front and rear with tightness. The sequin studded black belt brought it from beautiful up to gorgeous. Everyone in the arena would remember me for years to come. In similar immodest fashion, my grey sports bra hugged my bust and form, but this was the correct size for me. It felt good, though, and with confidence I used a black scrunchie to hold my hair in a ponytail. Can you feel that power? I chose this. I am… a Kayfabe Babe.
Then came the part of my ensemble that was Felice Pryce's stamp on it: my black bandana. This was such an ordinary and even apropos piece for a Kayfabe Babe whose belt was worn all too tight, but it was what made Felice Pryce stand out from the other Babes who might be inside that arena on any given occasion. My six-pack abs were on display for the world, and my choice of Western Paisley for my bandanas was not accidental. Like everything else in my fashion, this decision was made with careful determination and to reflect something about who I am.
I prefer the Western pattern because of its duality. It represents the Wild Wild West (I did like to watch that show as a child, corny as it was) and the ruggedness of cowboys and frontiersmen, but it features a flower that makes a striking homage to femininity when paired with feminine outfits and style. It's not just a 22 inch square piece of patterned cotton; it's a character sketch that sends an elegant message that I am strong yet delicate, hard yet soft, and dominant and submissive. It's a perfect, characteristic signature piece for a Kayfabe Babe like me though.
One final look in the mirror and a final squeeze of my breasts. I smiled and, with swagger in my step, left the dressing and walked to find the program director, who would share my role with me and tell me what was expected of me as a Kayfabe Babe. Would I cheer, jeer, be a buxom sidechick, get into a catfight with another wrestler's Kayfabe Babe, or flirt with the fans? I didn't care so long as it meant that the show went on without a hitch.
"So, Felice, Hank Hammer has kidnapped you because you're Mike Borne's girlfriend. You'll be bound and gagged, and you get to escape the ropes, jump into the ring, and heroically help Mike by taking the hammer away from Hank's girlfriend so Mike can Hammer Hank into defeat."
"Oooooo, I get to be a sex icon. All right, well, Miss Felicity Jones is ready to do this," I cooed.
Yes, I have my real name, my old prisoner ID number, my police officer ID number, my kayfabe alias, and my bondage modeling alias. I own my prisoner ID with the dogtags on a heavy chain I wear around my neck. One is stamped with my prisoner ID number on the front and my old cell number on the back; the second has my date of incarceration and my date of release. These are a symbol to me, the reminder of who I used to be, my reminder that I still control my own choices.
I contain my laughter to internal guffaws when thick, pathetic ropes "bind" my wrists behind my back and my ankles. A single piece of pink duct tape goes over my lips. It's laughable. But this fine crew is unaware of the fun I secretly have as a Bondagette and as a Cool Girl. Right now, I am Felicity Jones, Mike Borne's girlfriend, a buxom broad, a Kayfabe Babe. Those titles I list vary, but that last one, my own invention, is as intoxicating as "dominatrix" in my lexicon of bondage, TUGs, and performance. Kayfabe Babe is a public performance, though.
"Here's that villain with a sledge that's known for slamming opponents into submission… Yes, it is… HANK HAMMER!" the announcer called out, and a loud cheer went into the air as I was slung across the shoulder of a 35 year old black man with the sexiest figure you've ever seen in your life while his usual Kayfabe Babe strode alongside us in her sensual manner. I tried to wriggle a little, and numerous gasps went up into the air when they saw me in my cheesy bind.
"And that seemingly mythical figure… raised by giants… It's Mike Borne!" and more cheers and a few jeers came out of the crowd. Out of the dressing room stepped a white man standing 6'5", a man who couldn't possibly be my real-life boyfriend. I am 5'2"; I would probably explode if we copulated. In reality, give me Hank; he's such a gentleman while real Mike's a total boor. In this group of the evening, Hank is the only one who treats me like a lady deserves to be treated.
"The hell you doin' with my girl?" Mike snarled and pointed to Hank before running and, with a perfected kayfabe touch, does a dive and a slide under the ropes into the ring. He's one of those big ripped guys who wrestles only in what's basically solid black underwear and sneakers, but it is all part of the persona that people drink up so eagerly. If only they knew the real Mike Borne was a mortgage counselor at a bank and was already twice divorced at 33 years old!
"Ahhhh ha ha haaaaaaaa!" Hank did my famous dominatrix laugh in his own style, but yes he'd gotten it from me, and he used his hammer on Hank's shoulder before he could stand up. Yes, it was a padded aluminum box on a stick, so that it would whack and look like Hank raided Thor's garage. Mike immediately began writhing around as if he was in total agony while people in the arena gasped and booed Hank. Ah, ironically, Hank actually is a mundane police dispatcher who I see nearly everyday and whose voice frequently fills my ears when I'm on duty.
"Mmmph!" I ham it up and try to hop towards Mike, but Hank pushes me back towards his own Kayfabe Babe. Maybe he pushes, but I know it's theatrical. I almost orgasmed when he'd carried me into the ring because of how tender his grip was. If I'd been properly tied and gagged like a true Cool Girl or Bondagette, I would have almost certainly lost myself on that entry walk. I was taken into the arms of the Kayfabe Babe, a black girl with straight dark long hair, two thousand pounds of makeup, and a pink bikini. "Miss Stella Knight" had a husband who always sat in the front row and never once felt threatened by the wrestlers; he was a judge!
"Gentlemen!" the referee pulled them apart, "Save it for the match. You will both have plenty of opportunity to smash each other's brains out," and he proceeded to lay down the rules as if Hank and Mike were schoolyard bullies and not two successful career men. I hopped around the edge of the ring until Stella helped me to stand on the outside of the ring while she held Hank's trusty hammer, a prop he'd been using to capture and rescue Kayfabe Babes since I was still a girl incarcerated for her sin nearly 10 years before this. Stella is a good person when you talk to her.
Now came the action the people craved, with Mike and Hank wrestling it out. Some of the men watched the match; many of them watched the way my shorts rode my crotch and butt cracks in a deliberately provocative manner. It was a touch for the men that was missed by the kids who were in attendance, hated by the wives, and loved by Stella, who quietly observed my ensemble in that way only a woman can and whispered in my ear, "Youse hot stuff tonight, honey."
I only winked at her and focused on happily making exaggerated muffled sounds because a solo piece of duct tape did absolutely nothing to silence me. I squealed when Mike landed a vicious piledriver on Hank and wailed in despair when Hank had Mike in a figure-4 headlock. I had to stifle a giggle when one would lean back into the boundary ropes and launch forward as if those actually had such power to do so. It was a program, but it was fun to be a Kayfabe Babe.
When I could, I hopped a little so my boots could clomp. It was ineffective bondage, but I sold it as being the most real and effective bondage anyone had seen in their life. I owned a persona the world saw and admired. Those thigh-high grey socks and the grey sports bra were my spectacle. I possibly had better abs for my figure than those two hunks who were steaming up the ring for a paying audience. My bandana was my signature piece, the piece that made a Kayfabe Babe who people recognized, etching Felicity Jones into their minds as the announcer mocked me with a ringside interview during the match. My black and grey helped me blend with Mike's pathetic black underwear; I was a starlet. No one knew who I was or what I'd done, but they loved me.
Stella's grip was kind and gentle, and I always liked when she and Hank were on stage on a night I was working. Oh, part of my a Kayfabe Babe persona is that half the wrestlers have had a piece of me as their girlfriend over my three years as part of this show, and I've made many jeers and cheers as I've turned on men mid-match for scripted reasons. They see disloyalty, envy, and an appetite for conflict. I see a Kayfabe Babe who just escaped and used the rope to wrap around Stella's neck to "choke" her out, although I barely pressed the rope against her throat.
"Mike, here!" I hand Hank Hammer's famous sledge to Mike Borne, who proceeds to "smash" a seemingly stunned Hank into submission. Mike then pins Hank down against the tarp, and with a look of shock on his face the referee tamps three times on the tarp to end the match. The team of Mike Borne and Felicity Jones has snatched victory out of the jaws of defeat, and the crowd is shocked and erupts in applause. Not all noticed me subduing Stella, making the triumph more of a shocker to them. Stella, Mike, Hank, and I knew it was coming, though, and we hid it well.
"Felicity!" Mike picked me up and gave me a smooch on the cheek, and I returned the kiss with one of my own, a kiss appropriate for a Kayfabe Babe. Mike took the title belt from one of the promoters and held it in the air. He handed the belt to me to put around his waist in wrestling style, and soon the arena began to grow quieter. My moment was over, and it was time for others to put on the next part of the program. With me sitting on his shoulders, Mike and I left behind a seemin unconscious and defeated Hank Hammer and Stella Knight. I heard "Borrrnnnne!" in an exaggerated tone of despair behind us, and I couldn't help but laugh, "Ahhh ha ha haaa!"
Mike put me down, and I glued myself to him while he gave the usual loaded winner's interview that was purposefully worded to stoke fires, issue challenges, vaunt his capabilities, and express his gratitude for my escaping and giving him the hammer. Outside, the people cheered while the interview played over the sound system, and when he said "my sweet girl Felicity" a loud cheer went through the arena. I might not be the star of the show, but I was the star of the match.
Then Hank gave a loaded interview with hisses promising revenge on me and Mike, but the best part of my persona was my fickleness. I might dump Mike for another man between now and a potential rematch. Oh, I was such a troublemaker in my own right, and I drank it all in when the people booed me for being such a backstabber in the middle of a match. Oh, what a sport, but it brings me so much joy to entertain them all. I am a Kayfabe Babe, after all!
"Felice, you were beautiful, baby!" Hank greeted me once we were away from the public.
"Oh, thank you, Henry, but you really sold it with your version of my laugh."
"Oh, my 'Ahhhhh haa haa haaaaaa!' that I stole from you? I left fingerprints, did I, Officer?"
"Now," I turned to Stella, "Now you see what I have to work with every day."
"You think I'm a thief, yeah?. Hey, Jim Natale, you gettin' visitin' privileges with the kids yet?" Hank Hammer teased Mike Borne with his real name, "You earned them a year ago!"
Welcome to my life. Oh, the stories I can tell, but, my sweet readers, I hope you enjoy my story as much as I enjoy telling them. Don't worry. My outfit from this story has seen me get torqued up in the way you were hoping I would this time, but that happened at home and not the arena. I would love to tell you more stories of… (1) Felicity Jones, the Kayfabe Babe; (2) Roxanne Rutledge, the bondage wrestler and dominatrix extraordinaire, and (3) Felice Pryce, the beloved friend and wife. I'll see you in whatever story I choose to tell next.
Kiss kiss
Kayfabe Babe
Saturday, June 12, 2021
Let me tell you about something that happened to me one summer. Modeling makes me feel like I am still alive and reminds me that I control my decisions. I choose to be bound and gagged and negotiate the scene before we start filming, and the reverse is beautifully true as well when I play the dominatrix role in a scene to perfection. This leads me to one of my funniest jobs: wrestling. I love bondage wrestling, and I have a winning record in my matches. I also love modeling for a local kayfabe wrestling show that cycles through the Midwest, and that's this story.
I mean kayfabe, like you see on TV shows. Piledrivers, clotheslining, big muscular guys, buxom broads standing ringside cheering them on, and ridiculous plotlines. That kind of show. I love to be the buxom broad because I get a good laugh for free, and people get entertained. Sometimes I have friends there to laugh with me, and sometimes they laugh at me. I get to be me without any reservations, and it's not something I have to hide from my friends or my family, either. Truth be told, it's the one thing I do to find some sense of validation from outside myself.
On this occasion, I wore grey knee socks, my trusty black combat boots, super tight fitting black denim short shorts, a glistening belt, a grey sports bra, and a grey bandana headband. Would you please come along with me on this journey? Step into the dressing room with me? Watch me as I transform—from a former inmate who now is honored by her profession of police officer—into a beautiful woman who stands by the edge of the ring to cheer, to claw, and to be beautiful?
I arrived dressed as Felice Pryce, as a police woman, friend, and daughter who had learned how to live with her past and not to let the past define her. I opened the black door into a small room that was hardly a dressing room, and I put my small travel bag on the solid black counter before one of three small mirrors. Inside the bag was all my clothing and some makeup, but I was also free to use makeup that the organizers provided. With a smile, I opened my bag and put my real life behind me and embraced the role of a Kayfabe Babe.
With that same smile on my face, I took off all my clothes except my panties. Yes, I was alone; I grabbed my own breasts and sighed, as if I needed the reminder that I was my own person. I sat down on the chair with its mismatched burgundy fabric; the decorations were horrible. It served a purpose and my needs. I looked in the mirror and found a familiar face before me. Girls who did the things I did frequently sit down before a mirror and see a stranger or a monster. I see the girl who not only survived but changed into a person that was respectable to herself and to those who mattered to her. That's not just transforming; that's becoming a new you.
I couldn't help but giggle as I pulled the grey knee socks onto my legs, absolutely tickled that I'd shagged a pair that were much too long and actually came up past my knees. I applied powders and other such things that will bore the boys, so ladies I'm not detailing it here. I did what I had to do to hide the blemishes and make sure any glistening was only for the audience's pleasure. I then stood up and pulled the black shorts onto my body. They were too small for me, really, and I loved how they rode my front and rear with tightness. The sequin studded black belt brought it from beautiful up to gorgeous. Everyone in the arena would remember me for years to come. In similar immodest fashion, my grey sports bra hugged my bust and form, but this was the correct size for me. It felt good, though, and with confidence I used a black scrunchie to hold my hair in a ponytail. Can you feel that power? I chose this. I am… a Kayfabe Babe.
Then came the part of my ensemble that was Felice Pryce's stamp on it: my black bandana. This was such an ordinary and even apropos piece for a Kayfabe Babe whose belt was worn all too tight, but it was what made Felice Pryce stand out from the other Babes who might be inside that arena on any given occasion. My six-pack abs were on display for the world, and my choice of Western Paisley for my bandanas was not accidental. Like everything else in my fashion, this decision was made with careful determination and to reflect something about who I am.
I prefer the Western pattern because of its duality. It represents the Wild Wild West (I did like to watch that show as a child, corny as it was) and the ruggedness of cowboys and frontiersmen, but it features a flower that makes a striking homage to femininity when paired with feminine outfits and style. It's not just a 22 inch square piece of patterned cotton; it's a character sketch that sends an elegant message that I am strong yet delicate, hard yet soft, and dominant and submissive. It's a perfect, characteristic signature piece for a Kayfabe Babe like me though.
One final look in the mirror and a final squeeze of my breasts. I smiled and, with swagger in my step, left the dressing and walked to find the program director, who would share my role with me and tell me what was expected of me as a Kayfabe Babe. Would I cheer, jeer, be a buxom sidechick, get into a catfight with another wrestler's Kayfabe Babe, or flirt with the fans? I didn't care so long as it meant that the show went on without a hitch.
"So, Felice, Hank Hammer has kidnapped you because you're Mike Borne's girlfriend. You'll be bound and gagged, and you get to escape the ropes, jump into the ring, and heroically help Mike by taking the hammer away from Hank's girlfriend so Mike can Hammer Hank into defeat."
"Oooooo, I get to be a sex icon. All right, well, Miss Felicity Jones is ready to do this," I cooed.
Yes, I have my real name, my old prisoner ID number, my police officer ID number, my kayfabe alias, and my bondage modeling alias. I own my prisoner ID with the dogtags on a heavy chain I wear around my neck. One is stamped with my prisoner ID number on the front and my old cell number on the back; the second has my date of incarceration and my date of release. These are a symbol to me, the reminder of who I used to be, my reminder that I still control my own choices.
I contain my laughter to internal guffaws when thick, pathetic ropes "bind" my wrists behind my back and my ankles. A single piece of pink duct tape goes over my lips. It's laughable. But this fine crew is unaware of the fun I secretly have as a Bondagette and as a Cool Girl. Right now, I am Felicity Jones, Mike Borne's girlfriend, a buxom broad, a Kayfabe Babe. Those titles I list vary, but that last one, my own invention, is as intoxicating as "dominatrix" in my lexicon of bondage, TUGs, and performance. Kayfabe Babe is a public performance, though.
"Here's that villain with a sledge that's known for slamming opponents into submission… Yes, it is… HANK HAMMER!" the announcer called out, and a loud cheer went into the air as I was slung across the shoulder of a 35 year old black man with the sexiest figure you've ever seen in your life while his usual Kayfabe Babe strode alongside us in her sensual manner. I tried to wriggle a little, and numerous gasps went up into the air when they saw me in my cheesy bind.
"And that seemingly mythical figure… raised by giants… It's Mike Borne!" and more cheers and a few jeers came out of the crowd. Out of the dressing room stepped a white man standing 6'5", a man who couldn't possibly be my real-life boyfriend. I am 5'2"; I would probably explode if we copulated. In reality, give me Hank; he's such a gentleman while real Mike's a total boor. In this group of the evening, Hank is the only one who treats me like a lady deserves to be treated.
"The hell you doin' with my girl?" Mike snarled and pointed to Hank before running and, with a perfected kayfabe touch, does a dive and a slide under the ropes into the ring. He's one of those big ripped guys who wrestles only in what's basically solid black underwear and sneakers, but it is all part of the persona that people drink up so eagerly. If only they knew the real Mike Borne was a mortgage counselor at a bank and was already twice divorced at 33 years old!
"Ahhhh ha ha haaaaaaaa!" Hank did my famous dominatrix laugh in his own style, but yes he'd gotten it from me, and he used his hammer on Hank's shoulder before he could stand up. Yes, it was a padded aluminum box on a stick, so that it would whack and look like Hank raided Thor's garage. Mike immediately began writhing around as if he was in total agony while people in the arena gasped and booed Hank. Ah, ironically, Hank actually is a mundane police dispatcher who I see nearly everyday and whose voice frequently fills my ears when I'm on duty.
"Mmmph!" I ham it up and try to hop towards Mike, but Hank pushes me back towards his own Kayfabe Babe. Maybe he pushes, but I know it's theatrical. I almost orgasmed when he'd carried me into the ring because of how tender his grip was. If I'd been properly tied and gagged like a true Cool Girl or Bondagette, I would have almost certainly lost myself on that entry walk. I was taken into the arms of the Kayfabe Babe, a black girl with straight dark long hair, two thousand pounds of makeup, and a pink bikini. "Miss Stella Knight" had a husband who always sat in the front row and never once felt threatened by the wrestlers; he was a judge!
"Gentlemen!" the referee pulled them apart, "Save it for the match. You will both have plenty of opportunity to smash each other's brains out," and he proceeded to lay down the rules as if Hank and Mike were schoolyard bullies and not two successful career men. I hopped around the edge of the ring until Stella helped me to stand on the outside of the ring while she held Hank's trusty hammer, a prop he'd been using to capture and rescue Kayfabe Babes since I was still a girl incarcerated for her sin nearly 10 years before this. Stella is a good person when you talk to her.
Now came the action the people craved, with Mike and Hank wrestling it out. Some of the men watched the match; many of them watched the way my shorts rode my crotch and butt cracks in a deliberately provocative manner. It was a touch for the men that was missed by the kids who were in attendance, hated by the wives, and loved by Stella, who quietly observed my ensemble in that way only a woman can and whispered in my ear, "Youse hot stuff tonight, honey."
I only winked at her and focused on happily making exaggerated muffled sounds because a solo piece of duct tape did absolutely nothing to silence me. I squealed when Mike landed a vicious piledriver on Hank and wailed in despair when Hank had Mike in a figure-4 headlock. I had to stifle a giggle when one would lean back into the boundary ropes and launch forward as if those actually had such power to do so. It was a program, but it was fun to be a Kayfabe Babe.
When I could, I hopped a little so my boots could clomp. It was ineffective bondage, but I sold it as being the most real and effective bondage anyone had seen in their life. I owned a persona the world saw and admired. Those thigh-high grey socks and the grey sports bra were my spectacle. I possibly had better abs for my figure than those two hunks who were steaming up the ring for a paying audience. My bandana was my signature piece, the piece that made a Kayfabe Babe who people recognized, etching Felicity Jones into their minds as the announcer mocked me with a ringside interview during the match. My black and grey helped me blend with Mike's pathetic black underwear; I was a starlet. No one knew who I was or what I'd done, but they loved me.
Stella's grip was kind and gentle, and I always liked when she and Hank were on stage on a night I was working. Oh, part of my a Kayfabe Babe persona is that half the wrestlers have had a piece of me as their girlfriend over my three years as part of this show, and I've made many jeers and cheers as I've turned on men mid-match for scripted reasons. They see disloyalty, envy, and an appetite for conflict. I see a Kayfabe Babe who just escaped and used the rope to wrap around Stella's neck to "choke" her out, although I barely pressed the rope against her throat.
"Mike, here!" I hand Hank Hammer's famous sledge to Mike Borne, who proceeds to "smash" a seemingly stunned Hank into submission. Mike then pins Hank down against the tarp, and with a look of shock on his face the referee tamps three times on the tarp to end the match. The team of Mike Borne and Felicity Jones has snatched victory out of the jaws of defeat, and the crowd is shocked and erupts in applause. Not all noticed me subduing Stella, making the triumph more of a shocker to them. Stella, Mike, Hank, and I knew it was coming, though, and we hid it well.
"Felicity!" Mike picked me up and gave me a smooch on the cheek, and I returned the kiss with one of my own, a kiss appropriate for a Kayfabe Babe. Mike took the title belt from one of the promoters and held it in the air. He handed the belt to me to put around his waist in wrestling style, and soon the arena began to grow quieter. My moment was over, and it was time for others to put on the next part of the program. With me sitting on his shoulders, Mike and I left behind a seemin unconscious and defeated Hank Hammer and Stella Knight. I heard "Borrrnnnne!" in an exaggerated tone of despair behind us, and I couldn't help but laugh, "Ahhh ha ha haaa!"
Mike put me down, and I glued myself to him while he gave the usual loaded winner's interview that was purposefully worded to stoke fires, issue challenges, vaunt his capabilities, and express his gratitude for my escaping and giving him the hammer. Outside, the people cheered while the interview played over the sound system, and when he said "my sweet girl Felicity" a loud cheer went through the arena. I might not be the star of the show, but I was the star of the match.
Then Hank gave a loaded interview with hisses promising revenge on me and Mike, but the best part of my persona was my fickleness. I might dump Mike for another man between now and a potential rematch. Oh, I was such a troublemaker in my own right, and I drank it all in when the people booed me for being such a backstabber in the middle of a match. Oh, what a sport, but it brings me so much joy to entertain them all. I am a Kayfabe Babe, after all!
"Felice, you were beautiful, baby!" Hank greeted me once we were away from the public.
"Oh, thank you, Henry, but you really sold it with your version of my laugh."
"Oh, my 'Ahhhhh haa haa haaaaaa!' that I stole from you? I left fingerprints, did I, Officer?"
"Now," I turned to Stella, "Now you see what I have to work with every day."
"You think I'm a thief, yeah?. Hey, Jim Natale, you gettin' visitin' privileges with the kids yet?" Hank Hammer teased Mike Borne with his real name, "You earned them a year ago!"
Welcome to my life. Oh, the stories I can tell, but, my sweet readers, I hope you enjoy my story as much as I enjoy telling them. Don't worry. My outfit from this story has seen me get torqued up in the way you were hoping I would this time, but that happened at home and not the arena. I would love to tell you more stories of… (1) Felicity Jones, the Kayfabe Babe; (2) Roxanne Rutledge, the bondage wrestler and dominatrix extraordinaire, and (3) Felice Pryce, the beloved friend and wife. I'll see you in whatever story I choose to tell next.
Kiss kiss
