WARNING: The following story is fetish smut, made for perverts who enjoy natural body magic/detachment/disassembling people non-lethally. If you are not a member of that community, I strongly advise that you turn back now. Things will get freaky.

This story is a ground-up rewrite of "Bloodless Sport", designed to be an improved and generally more enjoyable retelling of that tale. If you've read the original, great! Hopefully you will like this version more. If you've never read the original, great! Now you don't have to!

-

For the warriors circling each other in the center of the arena, the deafening roar of the bloodthirsty crowd was as silence. The audience, the guards, the wicked necromancer forcing them to fight, all irrelevant details. The warrior opposite was the only thing worth thinking about, all else was tuned out.

Femrum, Crusher of skulls, held an obvious physical advantage. Well over six feet tall and armed with a long sword three quarters her height, the athletic orc barbarian could snipe at her adversary's limbs without ever allowing the puny human to retaliate with her shorter arms and flimsier rapier. Were this contest one of blades alone, it would seem little more than a lopsided farce.

But, Monty Salamanca had a gun. This evened the odds considerably for the pudgy pirate in the garish get up of reds, oranges, and yellows. The human could simply retreat, draw, and fire if Femrum tried to abuse her reach advantage to its fullest.

This left the fighters locked at an awkward middling distance, where Monty couldn't close without being overpowered by the brawnier Femrum, Femrum couldn't close without conceding her reach advantage and turning the battle into a flailing scramble, and neither wanted to retreat as the orc could press and end the fight in one stroke, but if that one stroke failed to find its mark the human would build the distance needed to draw her pistol and gain an insurmountable advantage. The fight hinged on one decision, and both women dared the other to cast the die.

It was the orc that eventually rolled, throwing herself at the human and hoping for the best. She didn't quite get that. Monty's rapier pierced the barbarian's surprisingly smooth shaven armpit and emerged from the back-top of her shoulder. While certainly severe, it was nothing compared to the wound Femrum inflicted with her unharmed arm, her sword cleaving through Monty's squishy midriff and tearing her in two. The pirate gasped as her torso tumbled away from her legs, the lower half of her knee-length orange coat flopping to the dirt a moment before the lower half of her body. Either as a final act of defiance or simple shock, Monty kept hold of her blade as she fell, the rapier twisting violently inside Femrum's body and improbably carving flesh and hide despite the lightweight weapon's specialty being stabbing. The orc let out a cry as her arm was popped right out of its socket, tumbling off her body and landing in the dirt alongside her fallen enemy.

The orc screwed her eyes shut, unable to look at her gnarly wound or her fallen foe. "Sorry, old friend."

"First round goes to the creature!" Declared the necromancer, her soft voice carrying over and silencing the rowdy crowd.

"No, I won!" Contested Monty. Propping her upper half up on her arms, freshly cut grass clinging to her face, she pointed at her orcish adversary's empty shoulder. "Upper torso stabs are lethal! I killed you first!"

Femrum huffed, and in a voice with a distinct SoCal beach-bum drawl, replied "No, you stabbed my shoulder! That's part of the arm! Barbarians ignore attacks to limbs and lower torso!"

"Bullshit! Shoulder is where the arm ends, not where it begins! That's a kill!" The pirate complained, in a voice more whining and Italian than the suave Spaniard swashbuckler she appeared to be.

"Says who? Torso ends at the armpit, you stabbed me through the pit, so it was on the line so I'm still good!" She said, motioning at her shoulder. Looking over, the taller woman could see that, in fact, there was a sizable chunk of her inner shoulder missing, the strap of her modified sports bra cut away and leaving her left barely-b-cup boob on the verge of spilling out. Seeing her opponent point and open her mouth to call this out, she continued "You didn't cut into my torso until you were falling, I'd already killed you before that!"

"You are a bullshit factory today, Layla!" The pirate said, seating herself on her stump and folding her arms across the half of her midriff that she was still attached to. "This was a kill before I died! And even if you're right, which you're wrong, post-mortem deaths are still deaths! That's what you said when we last practiced!"

Shit. Layla totally had said that last time. "Well it's still not a kill. Shoulder is where the arm begins."

"No, it's where it ends!" The shorter woman shot back, puffing up her significantly more impressively proportioned chest and arching her back to make herself seem bigger even as she looked up at a figure more than twice her present height.

"Begins!" Retorted the big girl, placing her one hand on the respective hip.

"Ends!" Said the short girl.

"Begins!"

"Ends!"

"Ends!"

The halved woman blinked, all anger draining out of her face and confusion flowing in to replace it. A second later, the two emotions mixed into a look disbelieving annoyance. "Did you honestly believe, for even a moment, that that was going to work?"

"No, but I wasn't gonna pass up the chance to try." Said Layla, shrugging her shoulder and a half. "Whatever. Call it a draw?"

"Draw my disconnected ass..." Said the woman dressed as a pirate, conceding the point with her tone. Twisting onto her back and grabbing her lower half to realign it, she called up to her partner "We're texting Kyle about this shoulder thing! I don't want you getting killed ten minutes into the LARP because you let yourself get stabbed, thinking stupidly you could take it."

"I totally can take it." Said Layla, squatting down and grabbing her severed arm. "You're just jealous you already dropped a bajillion dollars and a thousand hours of your life assembling a pirate costume. You'd totally switch to barbarian if you could! Kyle made them so overpowered."

"Please, as if I would ever pass up opportunity to have such..."She motioned at her flamboyant ensemble, comprised of a bright orange coat with yellow trim, a red vest, poofy pantaloons, medium brown boots, a hat with more feathers than brim, and a bright red cravat. "Damn, what is the word that means 'swag', now? It begins with 'd'? Uh... Damn, it's on the tip of my tongue!"

"Drip, Regina. The kids say drip, now." Layla answered, pressing her pieces back together. The barrier of pink magic energy capping off her wounds vanished, and in an instant it was as if Layla had never been brutally dismembered in the first place. "Don't even try to blame English for that, you're just becoming an old lady."

"You're a year my senior, even if you won't act it." Regina retorted, smiling as she pressed her halves together and likewise was returned to a pre-murdered state. She lifted her thick legs up high, then rolled onto her butt, painting the back of her stylish costume with a shimmering sheen of grassy green. It was a good thing they still had some magic detergent, which not only repaired clothes cut by magic but was also supernaturally tough on stains, otherwise Regina's drip would've been ruined already. "And English would be easier to pick up if kids stopped reinventing 'cool'. You have so many words all meaning 'cool', yet none have replaced cool classic!"

"Yeah, well, Italian would be much easier to learn if your teacher didn't keep laughing every time you tried to say something." Replied Layla, extending a ring clad hand which her wife accepted with her own ring bearing hand. Layla leaned in and kissed the back of Regina's hand, causing the naturally tanned woman to flop her wrist in an 'oh you!' gesture before allowing the bigger woman to pull her to her feet.

"And you think no one laughed at my accent?" Reg asked rhetorically. "Or my second accent?" She asked, this time leaning heavily into the American Southern drawl she picked up after moving from Genoa, Liguria to Savannah, Georgia. "You've heard them laugh! Laughter is just part of the learning process! It's what encourages you to get good!"

"I see." Layla said, lifting her sword. "And what'll encourage you to get good at sword fighting, Reg?"

Reg undid the bottom buttons of her red shirt, which hung limply tucked into her waistband, and tossed the scrap aside. This left her in a makeshift crop top, exposing the squishy tummy her wife loved to cuddle. She glanced up, and as predicted caught Layla staring. She chuckled, and grabbed her rapier. "You dare to question the mastery of Monty Salamanca? Grovel for my forgiveness, Femrum, lest your head adorn my mantel once I escape this infernal arena!"

Layla closed her eyes and took a deep breath, imagining she was trapped in a dark, grimy, villainous fighting pit, surrounded by screaming minions and overseen by a wicked necromancer resurrecting Femrum and her companion just so they could kill each other over and over again for her twisted amusement. This, of course, took quite an imagination, as Layla and Regina were currently standing in a beautifully kempt back yard under the most perfect summer sun to ever grace the earth, with the only thing even remotely reminiscent of a run-down dungeon being the hideous 8ft tall wall of unpainted cinder blocks separating their back yard from the neighbors'. But even that Layla couldn't help but find beautiful in its way. The tall wall gave the surf instructor and her Mediterranean wife peace of mind when they sunbathed, did nerd shit like this, or got a bit raunchy in the back yard. Not that that Reg the out-and-proud nerd cared one way or the other who saw her doing what.

Femrum, Crusher of Skulls, opened her eyes. "If only your blade were sharp as your tongue, you might stand a chance!"

Femrum took a single long stride at her opponent, trying to get her to flinch, but the pirate stood her ground. With one hand on her extended rapier and the other hovering over her pistol, the two girls were locked in the very same standoff that had inconclusively resolved.

"Feh, you call this combat? My tribe has held dances deadlier!" Femrum taunted, shrugging casually and allowing her blade to wander, exposing herself to attack.

Monty refused the bait, the tip of her sword twitching but not committing to a thrust. "I'm not surprised, everyone is in danger when a brute like you tries to dance!"

Femrum released a humorless guffaw, returning her sword to a combat position. "Then consider this our last dance!"

Before Monty could say that wasn't really a comeback, Femrum's blade twisted in a semicircle, batting the lighter rapier away and sniping for her exposed ankle. Monty hopped back in the nick of time, her fashionable if not entirely practical boots nearly throwing her feet out from under her on the soft grass cosplaying as oily mud. Catching her fall, the pirate grabbed for her pistol while her sword flailed in front of her as a wall of pointy jabs. Femrum brought her blade back and high over her right shoulder for a massive overhead.

Of course, an attack that telegraphed had to be a feint. Monty kept her sword flailing at the orc's toned midriff, ready to parry high or low as she unholstered her pistol. What she hadn't expected, however, was an attack from another weapon altogether. Femrum's long, powerful, prominently scarred left leg swept out like and ax and hooked the pirate's forward foot in her instep. The kick carried Monty's leg sideways and up, the force pulling her entire body sideways and into the for a fraction of a second that felt several seconds long. She made a noise between a yelp and a proper scream, which drowned out the blast of her pistol that fired high into the sky as she slammed into the ground.

"E-AUGHW!" Monty coughed, dropping her sword and pistol and clutching her chest.

"Pathetic!" Femrum taunted, taking a single long stride to her downed opponent and thrusting her sword into her exposed belly, pinning the writhing pirate to the ground. "Your puny 'guns' are no match for these!" She said, flexing her athletic if not exactly bulging biceps.

Monty continued to wheeze, staring straight into the sky. She clutched her throat, gasping desperately as air failed to pass through it and into her lungs.

"Oooh no!" Layla said, breaking character and grabbing her wife by one shoulder and the opposite side. "It's okay! Just breathe! Slow down, breathe slow and deep! Deep breaths, one after the other! In... Out..." She instructed, trying her best not to panic. She'd just knocked the wind out of her, there was no need to panic. Everything was fine. If her hands would just stop shaking that would be super! Everything was totally fine!

"OWAAAAaaaa!" Layla screamed, her short dirty blonde hair yanked and a magical rapier sailing through her neck. Her world became a swirling mass of inscrutable colors as her head was flung away, her body standing and then immediately keeling over as her inner ear and the soles of her sandal clad feet gave wildly conflicting accounts of where up was. Her head hit the grass and rolled a few more feet, coming to rest facing away from her wife and herself near their rosemary plants.

"THAT... WHAT... GET!" Wheezed Regina, following Layla's instructions and slowing her breathing down as best as she could. "What. Hell. That. Kung Fu shit?"

"Sorry!" Layla said, screwing her eyes shut as she recalibrated her sense of balance. "I didn't mean to hurt you, it's just... Kyle said we were allowed to do some light hand to hand combat and grappling! It was in the rules!"

"LIGHT!" Regina emphasized. "And we'll be getting magic aspirin at the real game so we don't hurt each other! You can't just do that when we don't have magic pain killers!"

"I just wanted to knock you over..." Regina pouted. "I can get you some aspirin once I find where you threw me."

"Will it be magic aspirin?" Regina asked rhetorically.

"...Maybe if I administer it mouth to mouth?" Layla said, hopefully.

Reg huffed. "I guess that'd be worth a try." She dropped her rapier and grabbed the sword stuck in her stomach. "You know, you're very lucky you're so beautiful! You wouldn't make it nearly so far in this world if you were ugly!"

Layla scoffed, her body pulling itself up to its hands and knees. "There are no ugly women, only beautiful women and bitches that tear others down." Retorted the exceptionally fit, tan, tall, elegantly proportioned woman with the cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Reg felt it was the sort of empty platitude that only someone who'd never once had their appearance seriously critiqued could confidently say, but she wasn't about to start that fight again. Even if Layla somehow managed to make her scars beautiful! Both the fake ones Reg had painstakingly painted on and the one long, prominent real one running up her left thigh, where she'd slammed into a reef while surfing and managed to give herself a compound fracture. Now that the wound had healed up, all it did was draw the eye right to her powerful thighs.

It was the fact that Reg could appreciate these thighs that let her know "You're moving away from your head, you fool! Turn around!"

"I thought so..." Layla said, screwing her eyes shut and concentrating on the sound of rustling grass. Her body turned 90 degrees, and crawled itself straight into the cinder block wall, prompting an "Oof!" from Layla.

Reg rolled her eyes, and focused on freeing herself so she could help her blind and apparently deaf spouse. Unfortunately, the longsword was significantly longer than her arms. She tried to sit up, but too much of the blade was buried in the dirt for her to leverage it out, as unlike flesh and fabric, dirt was not affected by the magic of the blade and reacted naturally to its edge. She paused, then tried pulling again, this time with one arm. Once the sword was as far out as she could pull it, she carefully grabbed the flat of the blade with her free hand, then released the grip and held the blade with both hands. She slowly pulled up, the center of balance suddenly shifted, and with a "Shit!" Reg managed to get both her palms cut in half and have the blade drop right back down into her. She sighed frustratedly, her fingers drumming the grass a few inches away from her sides as she rested her thumb and the remaining halves of her hands on her stomach.

Realizing she was well and truly pinned until Layla could pull her stupid sword out, Reg turned to her wife's body. "Turn your body counterclockwise 30 degrees, then crawl 4 paces straight ahead." She instructed, watching the hot, headless body slowly carry out her commands like a remote-controlled car. "Stop. 15 degrees counterclockwise, 2 more paces straight." She said, course correcting and craning her neck until she was wondering if it might not pop off without magical assistance.

"Ah! Oh, got it! Thanks baby!" Layla said, accidentally slapping herself in the face before scrabbling for her head and planting it back on. The magic once more vanished, leaving her a bit dirtier and with her green make up a bit runny, but otherwise unharmed. Turning around, she saw her wife still pinned to the ground, staring up at her expectantly. "Uh, what's the problem?"

"I'm stuck. Your sword is too long." Reg said, holding up her halved hands.

"Heh, that's what she said." Layla joked, strolling over to her pinned wife.

Reg sighed. "Really? You really just... ugh. You spend far too much time around those surfer 'bros' of yours. You need some more girl friends."

"Hey, there are chicks in our bro unit!" Layla retorted, knowing full well that she herself accounted for 33% of all the women in her 12 surfer circle of best friends. "Besides, guy friends are important! They teach you some important lessons, like how to trust your caveman instincts!"

With that, Layla grabbed her wife's ankles and lifted her legs. Right as Reg registered what was about to happen and started screaming for her wife to stop, she was pulled across the ground along the blade's edge, sawing herself vertically in half from the hips up.

"Yoouu fuucking biitch!" Reg spat, her voice distorted in an odd, slightly stereo fashion as each half of her mouth produced sound a few inches apart from one another. She tried to look down at Layla, but with each eye offset and their field of vision intersecting at a brand new angle, she quickly developed a headache trying to process the dizzying fish-eye perspective. "Yoouu aabsooluute fuuck!"

"What? You Italians invented cutting the knot!" Layla said, bending over and squeezing her wife's halved head back together.

"First, the Gordian Knot is a Greek myth!" She said, starring xyphos into Layla. "Second, Alexander the Great was a Macedonian, not Greek!" She continued, knowing Layla probably already knew this and was just playing stupid to maintain the crumbling facade that she wasn't a total nerd just like her wife "And thirmph!"

Layla bent down and kissed Reg, clutching her soft, dimpled cheeks in her long, slender hands. She straddled her, squeezing her thighs tightly into Reg's wonderfully plump sides and either accidentally or deliberately closing the magical wound bisecting her torso. Reg held the kiss until she was certain she was back to normal, sans hands, then pressed the magically crackling stump of her right hand on Layla's forehead and pushed her face away. "Third, you must realize that now I'm going to have to say the same stupid joke about the pants again."

"Like I didn't hear all your jokes by the third date." Layla said, sticking the end of her wife's hand back on and using it to pull her to her feet. Handing Reg the other half of her other hand, Layla expectantly said "Go on, say the line!"

"At least I'm still wearing the pants in this relationship!" Reg said, sticking her hand back together and painfully dragging out each syllable as her wife giggled far more sincerely than she had any right to for this second hearing of the same terrible joke. Balling up the mass of bisected cloth and tossing it over to the patio in a fluttering mass of fiery color, Reg reloaded her pistol and reholstered it, took up her sword, and pointed it at the uncut strap of Layla's sports bra turned battle harness "So, you ready to get a matching top? You're already halfway there!"

"Like I could ever match yours!" Layla joked, yanking her sword out of the ground and aiming it right between her wife's big, beautiful boobs.

"Just as you will never match my skill! En Garde!" Monty Salmanca declared, drawing her pistol and shooting the painted ball of foam right at Femrum's forehead.

"You cheating little twerp!" Layla said, charging her opponent like a sword wielding freight train.

"That still counts as a win it's 1-1 now!" Reg quickly interjected, running away and flailing her sword behind her at the great green mass of muscle bearing down on her.

And so it went, the two women cutting down and reassembling one another again and again. With each battle, their clothes and makeup was paired down further and further, exposing more of their flesh to the imaginary crowd that howled with silent delight. The fighters could hardly remember the order of events. A boot bisected here with a long, flat foot still inside it. A pant leg lost there with a surprisingly ticklish thigh going with it. Panties snipped and slashed as bodies were bisected at uneven angles. They couldn't even remember how many duels it took before both of them were left naked and sweaty standing in the middle of their yard, the summer sun having shifted so much that it now sat perched atop the tall stone wall. The beams of light were now running down parallel with the shoulders of the evil necromancer queen, who at a glance bore striking resemblance to the most goth doll in Regina's extremely peppy collection, and appeared to be affixed to the wall with scotch tape rather than seated on an imposing throne of bones and chattering skulls.

"So. What say you? Shall this be the final bout?" Monty panted, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her holster had been sliced away, along with the pistol, leaving her with only her sword and her wits to face off against the slimy orc juggernaut.

"Yes. This farce. Has continued long enough." Femrum panted, seemingly equally out of breath. She shook the green tinged sweat off her face like a dog, twigs and leaves and blades of grass flying out of her short cut sandy hair, before staring her opponent down for the last time.

"Fight!" The necromancer declared, glaring over her steepled fingers as her puppets danced for her amusement one last time.

Blades clashed and clattered as the exhausted warriors threw their all into each swing. While Femrum's wild blows were mighty, the nimble rapier of the cunning pirate dashed and darted about faster than the orc could keep up, forcing her on the defensive as she slowly retreated beneath Monty's assault. Her long sword had given her the edge when their sparring had begun, but after hours of swinging its weight had become a great hinderance. Her strength had been sapped by her own sword, she could barely keep her blade up as the lighter weapon of the heavier set scoundrel threatened to pierce her defenses at any moment. She felt the tip graze across her heaving stomach, leaving a thin line that would doubtless turn into a cool scar if she somehow managed to survive. A poke through her arm had the orc yelping and stumbling back, only adrenaline and rage preventing the wound from incapacitating her. A slash to the leg would've gone straight through and thrown her off her feet if it weren't for... uh... her dense orcish bones. Yeah, that was it. The light weapon couldn't carve through such a thick bone! It's not like there was a metal rod holding her femur together after she smashed it to bits once, metal being a material that magic blades simply bounced off. The medical technology needed to put a rod inside someone's bones wouldn't exist for another thousand years!

As Monty drew back her sword for another strike, Femrum knew something needed to be done. Now. Lest she finder herself dead again. She thought about thinking up a plan, but thinking would take too long, so like any self-respecting orc she just did. She threw herself at her smaller opponent, a hand on her sword and another grasping at anything graspable. Her open hand struck something narrow and on instinct her fingers tightened around it, and only after a she pulled the thing to one side did she realize it was Monty's wrist. The pirate realized this at the same time, and tried to drop her sword from her ensnared hand into her free one to make a quick slash at Femrum's midsection, but the orc would have none of that. Her limbs shot out in every direction, her right leg planting itself firmly into the dirt, her left leg rising up to kick the falling blade away, her left arm yanking Monty's wrist up into the air, and finally her right arm scything around, slicing through her limb right at the shoulder. Whether or not this was a torso or limb shot was irrelevant. The pirate, unable to power through the pain, collapsed into the mud, clutching her wounded shoulder.

Femrum just barely managed to avoid joining Monty in the dirt, spinning and tumbling as her flailing attack nearly threw her off her feet, but manage she did. Towering over the pirate, who stared defiantly up at her even as she clutched her empty shoulder, Femrum couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. This was her friend, her most trusted companion in battle, who had served with her across many long and arduous campaigns. And she was going to kill her, perhaps for the last time, at the behest of some twisted fiend? Just to save her own hide for another day until the witch brought in a new fighter, younger and more powerful than Femrum herself? No, it couldn't end like this. She wouldn't let it.

She leaned in, as close as she dared with the necromancer watching her every move. "Just play along. I have an escape plan."

Through the pain, Monty gave a slight nod. While the orc was never known for her plans, it's not like Monty was in a position to try something.

Straightening up, Femrum cocked her head back and said with disgust. "Pathetic. You humans truly are a contemptible lot. Arrogant beyond belief, in spite of your obvious inferiority."

The orc had strafed around Monty, and before the human could retort, she brought her blade down, evening Monty's balance and sending her other arm toppling away. Monty's cries became more of a surprised yelp and an "oof" as Femrum planted a filthy, bare, mud-covered foot against her back and firmly but not forcefully kicked her onto her stomach.

"You writhe around in the dirt like worms, unable to... uh... stand up and fight!" She continued, slicing off Monty's plump and in several ways decadent legs as she delivered her contrived off-the-cuff metaphors. Or, off the spot where her cuffs would be, had she any cuffs or clothes of any sort. "Now, I shall return you to the worms!" She raised her sword high above her head, posing dramatically as the crowd's cheers swelled to a cacophony of calls for blood. "Now, you will..."

Femrum spun around, dropped her sword in abject terror, and pointed to the sky "By the Gods!" She shouted, her voice trembling. Every head in the crowd, even the mighty necromancer's, twisted up to the source of the once fearless orc's consternation. To their great confusion, they saw nothing. And when they turned their heads back, they were doubly confused to see the orc and the pirate had mysteriously vanished, leaving behind only four limbs, two swords, and the remains of two costumes to mark the scene of their great battles.

-

"Really? That was your plan? A look over there?" Monty asked, her bare butt coming to rest on a patch of moss so soft, it almost felt like a thick comforter thrown over a mattress.

"Did you miss the part where it worked?" Femrum inquired, gripping the sore shoulder that had bore Monty's bulk and rolling it to work the kinks out. While the amazingly uneventful travel had made the journey feel like it flew by in a matter of seconds, Femrum had in fact been trekking for hours, trying to put as much distance between them and the necromancer's lair as possible.

"No. The part I missed was why you needed to cut my arms and legs off!" Monty whined, her four stumps flexing to show off all the nothing they had to offer.

"Your puny human legs couldn't keep up with me." Femrum said, shrugging. "And their weight would've slowed me down."

"You calling me fat?" The limbless woman asked, her voice straddling the line between Monty and Regina.

"N-no!" Layla answered, panicked. Seeing her wife giggle at how easily she could fluster her, Layla decided to try flustering her back. Clearing her throat and dropping back into her deep, commanding Femrum voice, she said "We will assemble our comrades and storm the Necromancer's keep within the week. We will return you to full fighting fitness! In the meantime..." She hopped up on top of the limbless beauty, planting her hands to either side of her and resting her aching legs where the pirate's no longer were. Without those pesky legs in the way, their sweaty sexes grazed each other at an angle otherwise impossible to achieve. The pirate shuddered, and let out a low groan, these being some of the only things she could do without her limbs. "I'm sure we could find ways to make the best of this situation, wouldn't you agree?"

The limbless girl's hips bucked on reflex, rubbing her womanhood against her wife's. "Cut the nerd shit and fuck me!" She commanded.

When Layla finished laughing, she replied with a simple "Aye aye, captain!"