Mixed fighting freestyle, 310 pictures 1920x1080 (FullHD), partially CFNM, no blood.

​

Leah had won her first fight (Gallery 623) using "dirty tactics". She didn’t win her second fight (Gallery 642) entirely without them, but no one could deny her skill and strength, or her ability constantly to surprise her opponent(s). It was easy for her detractors to claim her methods were unfair – in particular removing her opponent’s shorts, and in the case of her first fight, gripping one of his testicles; or in the case of her second match, kissing one of her opponents to distract him. But her supporters would reply by asking what the point was of labelling a contest NHB, if some tactics were, in fact, barred? Moreover, they insisted, the man didn’t have to kiss her back! Predictably, her critics tended to be men, and her admirers women.

But whatever the arguments, her record was there: two professional mixed matches, two wins. Or women 2, men nil, as many women liked to remind men. While most men grumbled and shrugged, one young man, Greg, had become obsessed with this willowy figure, who defeated powerful men and humiliated them. He kept his deep thoughts to himself, but as is so often the case with young men, beer was his undoing.

Yes, the curse that gets so many young men into trouble was working away on him, Friday night when he was out with the other male wrestlers. Inevitably the conversation turned to Leah, and there was plenty of head-shaking and tutting. Inevitably, too, the subject deviated from her known abilities to her surmised skills.

"Lovey arse on her," mused one.

"No, it’s her tits that I like," countered another.

"Imagine her getting you in a scissor!"

"Cor, yeah; but in a bedroom with just the two of us, not a ring with thousands of spectators. I wouldn’t resist at all!"

"You could say she’s a waste of a woman, really," volunteered someone else.

"That’s the problem," Greg joined in, quietly.

"Eh?"

"Well you say she’s a waste of a woman. Forgive the joke, but she has a lovely trim woman’s waist, that arse that you mentioned, Dave, and those tits that you like, Joe."

"Yes, and?"

"But she fights better than we do!"

"All right, don’t keep on."

"But she’s insulting us! So are the other women when they keep reminding us of her."

"I do believe I sense a challenge building here," suggested Dave.

"Bloody right you do!" thundered Greg, causing heads to turn from other drinkers in the pub.

No doubt he regretted it the next morning. But the curse had won as it always does, and he had no choice but to issue the challenge.

*****

There was much support for the event. Everyone now knew Leah; but Greg was an experienced and respected wrestler as well. Plus mixed matches always added another dimension of excitement. Whatever men may say, a lot of them loved to see Leah in action. Those who admitted it, even to themselves, were fascinated by this slight, dainty woman who could throw a man, and who had great subtle strength. They always wished it was themselves facing her, though as the ribald commentator of the night in the pub had admitted, in private. There wasn’t one who didn’t secretly envy her boyfriend. And women gloried in the way one of their own sex could dominate and beat a supposedly stronger man.

Cheers greeted them both as they climbed into the ring. Leah stood a couple of inches shorter than Greg. She was dressed in a daring, skimpy white leotard, cut to just above the navel in the front, and above her hips at the sides. Its thin gauze material gave delightful glimpses of her body beneath it. Greg was dressed equally daringly in a black thong. He reasoned that she was less likely to try to take it off him than if he had shorts on, because there was hardly any point. They both wore boots to match their outfits.

The cheers subsided, and a hush anticipated the combat, as Leah and Greg adopted a fighting stance. Then Greg fired a right cross, which Leah ducked under. While she backed away, he tried again with a high kick, and she swerved to avoid it. This action was repeated, but swapped between them, with honours even.

"You’ve got to hand it to Greg, he’s fast," Dave murmured to his neighbour, Ian, who agreed. (This time the men were sober, though some of the women appeared to have been drinking, as they were already calling out in encouragement to their heroine, and derision to their pantomime villain.) As Leah’s blank kick landed, Greg punched high with his right, but she cannily avoided it.

Contact – and female cheers! Leah’s avoidance had skilfully placed her so she was facing away from Greg. Her resultant super kick crunched into his jaw and jolted him backwards. This turned out to be lucky for him, because if he hadn’t been crouching to avoid falling, her next high kick would have had him over. As it was, it shot over his left shoulder, and her initial kick had been too good for her planned follow-up.

"He likes that right cross, doesn’t he?" Dave suggested to Ian, watching the next move.

"Yeah. Shame it never works … oh shit, I felt that!" He looked along the line of his friends, and they were all grimacing like him, having seen Leah’s boot slap into Greg’s balls. Conversely, some of the women were laughing and cheering. But their noise didn’t quite drown out Greg’s yell of pain. He turned away in the foetal position, clutching his groin, and the women’s cheers changed into boos and catcalls. 

These, though, were short lived, for Leah’s left boot slammed into the small of Greg’s back. He groaned, and his body was hammered into the reverse of the foetal position it had been in a moment before. He would indeed have fallen backwards, had she not grabbed him under both arms. 

She had him at the ropes now and lifted him, to the delight of several hundred women. She raised him up further, before bringing him down with her. She lay on her back and held him so he was facing the ceiling, but with his back over her bent knees, in a backbreaker. Cruelly she also tormented him by holding the back of his head between her breasts. Some of the audience could see she was talking to him, but couldn’t make out the words. (So they might be glad to read this account.) But they could guess that she was straying beyond the boundaries of those "dirty tactics" many criticised her for.

"What’s the matter Greg, don’t you like my tits? Aw, just because you’ve got my pretty knees making your spine crack, doesn’t mean you can’t spare my nice neat bosom a little compliment, surely? Of all the ungallant behaviour!"

For his part, Greg had his teeth clenched but made no sound, probably because he was unable to. It was doubtful whether he would be able to bear the steadily-increasing pain for much longer either.

Even some of the women felt relieved when Leah relinquished the hold. They approved loudly, too, as she placed Greg on his back, raised his legs, and locked him in a head scissors.

"Lucky bastard!" muttered Doug, the one who had mentioned being "scissored" by her in the pub.

"’Lucky bastard’ nothing," replied Ian angrily. "He’s in far too much pain now to enjoy what’s going through your dirty mind."

"Yeah, but you’ve got to wonder at her all the same," Doug persisted. "How can such smooth, shapely legs be so strong? Look, she’s talking to him again! I’d love to know what she’s saying!"

"You would, you dirty little sod."

"Come on Greg," she was indeed saying, "don’t tell me you don’t like my lissome thighs either! How ungrateful can you get? I mean, your friends in the crowd will be envying you this. Men dream about being scissored by me. Oh well if you don’t like it this way …"

She let go of his legs, and hooked her arms under his, while she worked her legs over his, in a black widow. Then she exerted her deep strength, and elicited a roar of pain from Greg, as flames seemed to tear through his whole body. Once again she stretched his muscles, tendons and frame to the very extreme of their ability and endurance.  Like a torturer after a confession, she slowly ratcheted up the pressure. Then the relief as she at last relaxed the hold!

But now what was she doing? With her arm round his neck, she steered his face towards hers, and kissed him.

"Oh yes, here we go again! Bloody disqualify her!" one of the men groaned, to which several women replied, in what had now become a stock answer, "He doesn’t have to join in."

"No?" demanded a man at the end of the row, to the woman across the aisle from him. "If you came over here now and kissed me, it doesn’t matter how passive I was, I would still be ‘joining in’ unless I was able to free myself."

"Sorry, you’ll have to do better than that," the woman replied haughtily.

"Yeah, well it was worth a try."

"Oh come on," another man complained, "how can she keep getting away with this? Look at her rubbing his cock with her foot!"

"What do you think about that, then?" the man on the end of the row asked the woman opposite. She tossed her head primly.

Leah gently brought her mouth away, smiled at Greg – and shoved him, under her left thigh, which she already had poised to snap shut with her other thigh over his ribs and stomach. The body scissor did the opposite of the black widow. Whereas that had wrenched his body to its extreme, this compressed it.

"You’ve got to admire her, boys," one of the women called over. "Look at her patting her hair into place, while she has him struggling and choking. She’ll be making up her face next!" But no man answered her, as Greg struggled to breathe. He mouthed silently, but no sound came from him, while Leah’s thighs tightened their grip, like a boa constrictor wrapped around him.

Suddenly she let go of the hold, darted over him, and made for his right arm, which she twisted behind his back. Those in the audience facing Greg could see the despair and fear in his face. Her assault was relentless, but always calm; and seemed to be planned to a timetable. She fought coldly, never with passion.

Greg felt ill with the pain, and wished he could pass out. Anything to be free from this! But as she knelt across him, he couldn’t help noticing her slender waist, and the gentle curves of her hips and thighs. That, of course, was her reason for executing the hold in this way. But now, while maintaining the arm twist, she sandwiched his neck and ribs between those ubiquitous thighs, to inflict more general pain at the same time.

Cheers and applause broke out among the women, as their heroine next lifted her male opponent up and across her shoulders, in a rack. She held him there, helpless, and moved slowly 360 degrees, so that everyone in the audience would get a chance of seeing her prey. (That is, if they wanted to - many men looked away.) Then she brought him over her head, and held him like a baby for a moment, facing upwards, before lowering him. At the same time, she knelt on her left knee, and greeted him with the other one in the small of his back. It was another backbreaker.

Greg was in despair. Not again! He was in severe pain all over his body from her merciless, scientific attacks, and now she was repeating the onslaught where she had already made him vulnerable – in two places, for she added to the tension by cupping his balls in her left hand, to predictable protests from the men.

But she chose not to do it for long, and preferred something new. Letting Greg fall onto the canvas, she lay opposite him on her back, facing away, and gripped his right leg in her left leg, meanwhile trapping his left with her right. Then she moved. Greg’s left leg was bent at a hideous angle into a figure four, with his shin at a right-angle to his thigh. He found his voice again, and yelled in agony. One or two men began to leave their seats, unable to watch any more, as Leah once again remorselessly built up the intensity.

As usual she timed it to the moment when she thought he would faint, before letting go and turning to his right leg, forcing it into a lock. While Greg was still visibly shaking from the punishment meted out to his left leg, Leah was contorting the other one to ever more extreme, unnatural angles. Sweat was running down Greg’s face. What energy he had left was engrossed in the negative effort of working to withstand the shattering pain. All idea of attack had long gone.

"A standing head scissors this time?" questioned Ian at her next move.

"No," Dave replied, "she has something else in mind, look. Pedigree, mate."

Sure enough, Leah secured Greg’s neck in her formidable thighs, facing away from her, while she linked her arms beneath his. She let him rest there for a few moments, enjoying the dread of anticipation that she knew he felt. Then she raised him. Everyone’s heart quickened in the audience because they knew what was going to happen, but the cruel woman kept them and her victim in suspense – literally in his case.

Greg’s ribs hit the canvas first; they would take weeks, if not months, to heal. But further, she had his arms behind him, yet again at a grotesque, excruciating angle. She had now damaged every part of his body that really counted: both arms, both legs, ribs, spine, neck and stomach. He was proving his ability to withstand pain, at least. His friends longed for the fight to end, and some were wishing he would just tap for his own sake.

Their thoughts were interrupted, as Leah once again raised him across her shoulders, facing away from her, in a second rack. The graceful, ladylike figure seemed to bear without effort the heavier male, holding him over her, while he flailed about uselessly at head height. He stopped doing this, though, as she reminded him and the audience of why the hold is called "the rack". With the back of her head against the small of his back, she pushed his head and lower leg forward while her head lodged his back in its original position. In effect it was another backbreaker. Greg made mournful, muffled sounds beneath her hand that was over his mouth.

Then she let go. His hands hit the canvas first, followed by his face and then the rest of him. Stunned, he struggled even to get to his knees, whereupon his face was met with a straight kick. Then another one, angled in this time, as he was in that awkward limbo between kneeling and standing. He fell back to his knees, and Leah seized his right arm, twisting it behind his back for a second time. Her actions bordered on the sadistic, as she made hideous variations on the twist, dragging it yet again away from anywhere that it was naturally meant to be. 

She hauled him upright by the unfortunate arm, meaning to change holds, at which point it can be argued that Greg took the initiative. He ran away. There were the ropes; all he had to do was to make for them, and escape the tigress. But his suffering told. He was slow, whereas Leah was as nimble as when she had entered the ring, and easily caught up with him.

"She’s punched him!" the woman who had tossed her head at the man opposite her previously, called out triumphantly to her new acquaintance, who didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed in horrified fascination ahead, as Leah’s pursuing punch forced a desperate Greg to turn round, away from the ropes.

"She’s punched him again!" the woman excitedly exclaimed, and this time the man did turn, to see her licking her lips.

"That’s how you throw a right cross," muttered Ian grimly to Dave, as Greg did indeed manage to get a part of himself over the ropes – his head, courtesy of Leah’s fist.

He fell forward, and would have landed on the canvas, had his fall not been interrupted by the toned, supple curves of the woman’s mid-section. He held on, for support or comfort we don’t know, but she propelled him back on his way with her elbow. Just in case he had any idea of getting up again, her boot put an end to it; and this last kick finally concluded the slaughter. 

Women cheered and hooted as the dainty victor posed above the powerful frame of the vanquished male. They cheered even more heartily when she removed her boot from his face, and placed it on his groin, whereupon the chant went up, "Three-nil!"