Vivian was considered to be the best investigative journalist in the business. She was willing to undertake just about anything to uncover the truth – donning disguises, walking for miles in desert, jungle or arctic, and even – recently – fighting to keep her job. (Gallery 872).

But ever since she had been given the task of uncovering the facts as to how sophisticated components produced in a particular factory had ended up in weapons used by a proscribed terror organisation (known as Strivec), she had been met with obstacles. Her work computer had crashed and was beyond repair; the brakes had mysteriously failed in her car, causing a minor accident; something in her food at work had made her seriously ill; and her boss – the editor – had wanted to fire her (see above).

And now she had this creep to contend with, who introduced himself as Hansen. He claimed to be a Middle Eastern envoy, and said he had such happy memories of his Army Officer training at Sandhurst.

He started off as they always did: oh-so-nice. He praised her hard work, courage and tenacity as a top-notch investigative journalist. He said he could help her. When she asked how, without a trace of the guarded scepticism she actually felt, he told her:

"You need to pursue the Algiers lead."

"I’ve tried that, and it led to a dead end."

"Try it again. You’ll be surprised what you’ll uncover."

"How do you know this?"

"Now that I cannot disclose," he replied, smiling. "But the Klansbourg lead will get you nowhere."

"Really? It looks promising to me."

"Don’t pursue it," he urged, a harshness entering his tone.

"Why not?"

"Because" – he stroked her face – "you have such a pretty face, and it would be a shame if your good looks were to get spoilt."

"Oh? And who’s going to spoil those looks? You?"

"Let’s just say I used to box for the King’s Royal Rifles."

"Yes, well I used to box for the Nuffield Girls’ High School, usually against one of the boys from their high school, informally in the fields between the two schools. I don’t appreciate being threatened, Hansen, so why don’t we go and settle this in the ring right now?"

"I have no shorts with me," he protested.

"Well that’s bad luck, isn’t it? You should have thought of that before you threatened me. Come on, otherwise I’ll start on you in here!"

*****

"Did you think I wouldn’t be able to defend myself, with the job I have to do?" Vivian demanded as she ducked under Hansen’s left fist. "Supposing security at the embassy had discovered the identity of the fake cleaning lady, one day?" she continued, adroitly avoiding his right fist. "That ‘cleaning lady’ would have had to fight," she finished, hurling her right fist into his chest. 

"And I mean more than throwing her mop bucket at the nearest guard!" she asserted, simultaneously leaning out of the way of an attempted hook and battering the same spot on his chest with her other fist. Two ugly sounds competed with each other for dominance – the hollow sound of her fist banging into his chest, and the yelp of pain from Hansen as she hit the injury she had only just created.

"Come on slow coach, you’ve got to do better than that!" she jeered, leaning back easily to avoid a lumbering right from him.

"Dear, dear! This is amateur stuff!" she scoffed, warding off another laboured attempt. "Here, let me show you," she offered, crashing her right fist into his chin.

This stung Hansen as much psychologically as physically. A beautiful woman had just punched him in the face! Moreover, it was after he had several times failed to lay a hand on her.

But he didn’t have time for such thoughts, because she fetched him a really nasty one in his right ear. The pain was bad enough; but the fogginess caused slight dizziness and impaired his coordination.

Hansen had overlooked Vivian’s professionalism: of course a person who did her job would need to be a skilled fighter. He couldn’t just expect to threaten her and get away with it – not unless he had a gun in his hand and stood at the opposite end of the room. She confirmed his realisation by hooking a smart, shiny, feminine stiletto heel into the exact sport, slightly behind and just to the side of the knee, to render his left leg temporarily useless.

He tried to reach the ropes to give him some support; but on the first hop the pointed toe of her right boot caught him in the balls from behind. Not quite so professional, true; but look what it did to him! His body went taut, as if he had had a massive electric shock, he screamed in pain, then dropped to the mat, whimpering in the foetal position. 

"In another life, I could quite easily and happily be a dominatrix," thought Vivian, surveying the result of her handiwork. Then she went over and stood with one foot on his neck, as he struggled to get up.

"You’re a nasty piece of work, aren’t you?" she accused him, prodding with her heel. "Threatening to hurt a woman! How many others have you done it too, eh? She pushed him back down with her foot now on his back. "You’ll think twice before you do it again though, won’t you?" Yes, it was very much the dominatrix as she concluded with her foot on his face. Perhaps she could earn some extra money doing that as a sideline, she thought, making to walk away.

Hansen seized her right leg, making her fall. "Not so much of an amateur now, am I?" he gloated, moving to grab her from above and behind.

"Oh, I don’t know, she responded, landing the toe of her right boot under his chin, correctly guessing where it would be. 

He recoiled; she spun round to face him and got him on the same place with the heel of the other boot. It knocked him back, and he had to support himself with his hands under his back, leaving him extremely vulnerable. It was a gift, and Vivian smashed her right boot against his neck.

All the same, Hansen had surprised her and brought her down. She had been too cocky, she knew. There were no wisecracks from her now, as they both got up, warily watching each other. They put their fists up and exchanged glares. 

Hansen struck with his left fist, but she swung her nimble body out of its path. He launched a powerful right at her, but she squatted out of harm’s way, looking for an opening. It arrived, and her right fist slapped into his right jaw, making him stumble. 

Vivian put him on the ropes with a superb left uppercut. Her earlier lapse in concentration spurred her to greater effort now. Plus, she believed that victory in this fight was key to cracking the mystery that was holding up her story. Nothing inspired her to action like the chance of a good story, and she glued him to the ropes with a right uppercut, angled in. 

A left cross from her snapped Hansen’s head over the top rope; long, thick blonde hair swirling and dancing as her trusty fist once more found (and made) its mark. Never mind the dominatrix, she fought like a professional as she swept him along the ropes with a right hook.

The woman dug her left fist deep into the man’s stomach, superb footwork giving her punch greater impetus. Hansen, coughing and wheezing, was close to begging her to stop. But it’s doubtful whether she would have noticed, because the fight seemed to have possessed her, as if it’s what she had been programmed to do.

The former head girl (no less) of the Nuffield Girls’ High School gave her male opponent a black eye. There was, indeed, something about the indignant, righteous lady schoolteacher in the way she fought, the sort of woman the Victorians admired. You can imagine how they would have described that moment:

"And the cowardly brute, who had so basely threatened the courageous, resourceful, valiant lady with violence, now received a thoroughly deserved black eye from her." 

The "courageous, resourceful, valiant lady" now drove her left fist up under Hansen’s chin, jabbing the heel of her left boot down hard on his right foot for good measure. ("There’s nothing like stiletto heels if you get into a fight," she thought.) His face was a picture as fist and heel struck home simultaneously. Glowing, throbbing black eye and all, it was the epitome of pain and panic.

In went Vivian, using her right fist to torment that vulnerable spot on his chest for the third time. Hansen groaned and folded over her fist. He had been covering his face, which had been receiving a lot of punishment from her, so she simply helped herself to the wide-open target of his body. She gave him no time to recover, but zoomed the same fist into his stomach, making him lurch to his side.

Vivian forced Hansen’s head down and at the same time drove her right knee up into his chest, which by now felt red-hot to him. She was merciless. Sensing him falter, she grabbed his ears to keep his head down and slammed the other knee into the same spot, the fifth time she had struck him there.

Hansen doubled up, clutching his wound, and she cashed in by punching him on the way down, hitting him in the neck. This time, she gave him time to straighten up. Among his confused and crowded, tortured thoughts were the ones: "why isn’t she finishing me off? Why is she allowing me to stand up straight again?"

He didn’t have long for his answer. She waited for her moment, then kicked him hard and high in the face. Having seen the cctv video of the fight, I defy anyone to watch that moment and not look away, or at least wince. Her kick was the action of someone at the peak of confidence and physical fitness. It was a model of poise, strength, and agility – devastating, yet at the same time beautiful.

Vivian had won, they both knew that. Hansen, holding himself up with his arms over the top rope, was wondering if he could escape, both her and his handler, who didn’t tolerate failure. But his immediate concern was his safety at the hands (and feet) of Vivian. And it wasn’t looking good.

"You know what I’m going to do now, Hansen, don’t you?" she asked, holding him by his hair.

"Ngno," he managed to stammer in trepidation.

"No?" she repeated, smiling ominously. "I’m going to do my favourite thing now, and kick you in the balls," she gloated.

"Please no!" he implored.

"Oops, too late," she crowed, as her stylish, immaculate, expensive boot slammed into his balls. At that moment he would rather have faced his handler and the assorted thugs and assassins than this cruel-yet-lovely woman. Because she was cruel, laughing as the toe of her boot wrought agony on her victim. She still held him by his hair too, seemingly just for the hell of it.

But now her demeanour changed. Releasing his hair and looking grim, she told him she was going to put him on the mat. Despite the hideous pain he felt, he had the stirrings of an erection when he heard those words. He watched, mesmerised and fascinated, as she clenched her left fist. He saw it swing …

There were a few moments when he seemed to float. Everything had become dream-like. He had never felt such sensual comfort. But then reality returned. He was lying on his back, sore from having just landed hard on the mat.

Nice to see I haven’t lost any of my old form, Vivian thought, no doubt recalling happy student days, when a defeated young man lay at her feet. But there was work to do. She placed her boot on Hansen’s defeat boner, very much the dominatrix making her return. 

"You know what I’ll do with this boot and stiletto heel, don’t you, Hansen? Or should I call you Amani?"

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

"Because I’m the best investigative journalist in the business – and you’re a useless agent. For the record, you boxed once for the regiment and got beaten up so badly by a female cadet that you resigned your commission in shame. 

"I’ve watched you going in and out of the Klansbourg embassy for weeks now. Don’t you remember the traffic warden, the lollipop lady helping the schoolchildren cross the road, and the cleaning lady inside the embassy?"

"I took no notice of them," he replied glumly.

"You fool. Now, how did the embassy get hold of those components?" she gave her boot a little twist.

"Please don’t!" he wailed. 

"Well?"

"It didn’t."

"DON’T LIE!" she shouted, tapping his balls hard with her boot.

"I’m not lying!" he protested, hysterically. "They got the formulae for making them and passed them on to Strivec."

"How did they get the formulae?"

"Ericson smuggled them out of the factory, and took them to the High Street furnishing company, where they were inserted into the hollow metal frames of trestle tables hired by the embassy."

"Yes, they’ve certainly been having a lot of parties recently – it fits. Well, Amani, you don’t deserve this, but where you’re going no woman is going to make you cum for a long time."

Vivian moved her boot up and down on his cock until he shuddered and gasped. Then she carefully wiped the mess off it onto his face. Triumph! All she had to do was report Amani, Ericson and the furnishing company, then write up her piece. What a scoop!