Liv Stratton’s Seduction Started in the Taxi — But the Real Game Was Waiting
She Changed the Match Before It Started — and No One Realized Until It Was Over
Liv Stratton’s Seduction Started in the Taxi — But the Real Game Was Waiting
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The taxi smelled faintly of leather and vanilla air freshener.
Liv Stratton sat in the back seat, one leg crossed tightly over the other, her black boots catching bits of city light as they passed through the windows. Her long honey-blonde hair spilled over the edge of her crimson leather jacket — zipped halfway for effect, not warmth.
The arena was just ten minutes away.
She wasn’t late.
But she wasn’t early either.
Just… calculated.
---
The driver kept glancing in the mirror.
He recognized her. Most did.
But Liv didn’t speak. She simply locked eyes for a second too long when the mirror caught hers — enough to freeze his breath — and then looked away, like it was never meant to happen.
---
In her lap sat a sealed folder.
Tonight’s match? Not exactly.
Inside were revised plans. Her plans.
Plans that the booker hadn’t seen yet.
Plans that her opponent definitely hadn’t.
---
As the taxi turned into the underground ramp of the arena, Liv finally spoke.
"Park here," she said, one hand on the door handle.
“But this isn’t the main entrance—”
“I know.”
She slid out smoothly, boots clicking against concrete, and didn’t look back.
The folder was still in her hand.
---
Backstage was a maze of cables, rolling crates, and whispers.
Liv walked through like she’d rehearsed this moment in a dream — red jacket still on, hips swaying like she wasn’t carrying any weight at all. But her mind was ticking.
She wasn’t just changing a segment.
She was rewriting the narrative — without asking permission.
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Her opponent tonight: Renee Thorne — rising fast, clean record, strong pop from the crowd.
But she lacked something Liv had in spades: presence.
And Liv was about to teach her what seduction looked like when power walked into the ring.
---
They met near the locker room hallway.
“You’re late,” Renee said, arms crossed.
Liv leaned in close enough for perfume and silence to do their job.
“I was busy deciding how you’d lose tonight.”
“Funny. The script says I win.”
Liv just smiled. “You’re still reading scripts?”
She walked away before Renee could answer.
---
The bell rang thirty minutes later.
Liv stepped through the ropes slowly — not lazily — but like she owned every second.
The crowd roared. Some booed. Most watched.
Renee looked ready. Focused.
But Liv?
Liv looked interested — like the match was just the setting, not the story.
---
They locked up.
Standard start.
But Liv didn’t push — she slid behind Renee and let her hands linger.
One palm gripped too long at the waist.
One breath brushed too close to her neck.
Renee turned stiff.
Liv whispered, “Still reading ahead, sweetheart?”
---
The rhythm cracked from there.
Renee slipped on a rebound.
Missed a timing cue.
Liv caught her — not just physically, but mentally. She dipped low on a scoop slam and made it look like slow motion.
Every move was a message.
Every hold was a hush no one could quite hear.
---
The referee glanced at them nervously mid-match.
Liv winked.
Renee tried to recover — landed a clothesline, a dropkick — but Liv kicked out at one.
Not to show toughness.
To show she was in control.
---
When the end came, it wasn’t clean.
Liv countered Renee’s finisher into a roll-up — held it just long enough, bent over her in a way that looked more like an embrace than a pin.
The referee counted to three.
The crowd barely reacted.
They were still processing what they felt.
---
Backstage, Renee stormed past the producers. Angry. Red-faced.
Liv was already changed — jacket on, folder tucked back under her arm.
A voice behind her:
“You improvised all of that?”
Liv didn’t turn. “No. I planned it.”
---
The same taxi waited outside.
She slid back in, tossed the folder in the seat beside her.
“Same place?” the driver asked.
She smiled.
“No. Let’s take the long way this time.”
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