Mixed fighting freestyle, 350 pictures 1920x1080 (FullHD), completely CFNM, no blood.

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Sandra was a battered wife. She married at 18, and separated from her husband at 20, after a hellish 2 years of physical and verbal abuse. He went to prison for it, along with other crimes, such as robbery with violence. Her experience left her frightened and timid, and her friends persuaded her to go to therapy to regain her confidence. Her therapist, Moira, was a woman who passionately believed in exercise and fitness as a way to do this, and she and Sandra spent a lot of time in the gym or out running. She was gratified to see how well Sandra took to it. Moreover she noticed she was acquiring a competitive edge, so she posed a question one day:

"Have you ever thought of taking up self-defence?"

"No, I can’t say I have."

"What do you think about it? When does your ex-husband come out of prison?"

"A few years’ time."

"Would you like to beat him up, the way he did you?

A slow smile crossed Sandra’s face. She didn’t need to say anything. She enrolled in self-defence classes the next day, and gained a basic knowledge of all forms of it, but specialised in wrestling.

Now, 5 years on, Sandra was herself a therapist of a different sort to Moira. Whereas Moira’s job had been to restore confidence, Sandra’s was to take it away. Her clients were prison staff, women, who sought to break the aggressive spirit of abusive men. What she did wasn’t strictly legal, but none of the women jailers objected to it, and no men ever got to hear about it.

Abusive men were usually brawlers, with no skill to speak of. Sandra’s therapy was to challenge them to a fight in a makeshift ring beside the prison. The day before the fight she would insist on the man having a full medical. This included a "vitamin" injection. In fact it was general anaesthetic; and when he was unconscious the nurse would leave, and Sandra would fit what she called a "housewife’s revenge" (or HR) to his penis. This was a metal sleeve. Sandra also carried a small control box which, when she pressed a button, sent several volts through the metal sleeve. It was such fun to see the man hopping about when she did that!

Its purpose was twofold: if Sandra did get into difficulties, it was a way of staying safe in the ring; and if she wanted to goad a beaten man into making an ill-judged attack, when really he should concede defeat, all she had to do was … exactly.

There was one drawback, though. As soon as she touched an unconscious man’s penis to fit the HR, it would become erect. There was nothing for it but to "get rid of" the erection, for obvious reasons. She found this task disagreeable, but it did provide her with ammunition to use against the man when they met in the ring, as will be seen.

*****

"Where are my clothes?" demanded Sandra’s opponent, Sam "The Sadist", in the ring the next day. "Why did they confiscate them?"

"Oh, it’s part of the rules. Didn’t they tell you?" Sandra answered casually.

"They never tell me anything. And what’s this thing round my cock?"

"Ah, I’m glad you asked me that. You see, with this little box that I have here, all I have to do is –"

"Ah, fuck! Shit! Turn it off, for Christ’s sake!"

Sandra lent against the ring, laughing. "Sorry, it always does this to me."

"How did they get it on me?"

"Ah, now that would be my lovely assistant, Samantha. She’s gorgeous! You’d have an orgasm just looking at her! There was one problem fitting it though, she told me. As soon as she touched your cock, you got an erection. What could she do? She couldn’t put it on with you in that state, so she had to make you cum. I went and had a gin and tonic, and left her to it. I got back half an hour later, and she’d only just got it on. You took ages, she told me. Sometimes the injection does that. She gave you a blowjob – the works. She rubbed her delicious tits and her delectable bottom on your cock, she…"

"Ah, shit!"

"It’s not a good idea to get an erection when you’re wearing the HR, you know."

"You’re evil!"

"No, you are, and I’m going to fight it out of you right now."

"Come on then."

Sam punched straight, with his right; Sandra swerved out of the way. He switched to the left; she ducked and deflected it. Being low down, it was easy for her to make a swift movement to lie on her side, and trap his right leg in hers, bringing him down. He fell, confused, and she wound her legs around his, like spaghetti. His left leg pointed straight, and his right was literally bent back, as she locked him in a figure four. He had had a lot of fights, but he had never known the like of this before. Molten darts of pain shot through his right leg and up his spine.

"Ah, fuck! What are you doing?" he protested. "This isn’t fighting."

"It’s not slugging it out behind the pub at closing time, I admit, though I can fight like that too, if I choose. But there’s so much more skill to this, which is why you’re a stranger to it. See now –" She exerted more pressure, making him roar in pain.

Suddenly she released his legs, sat up, gripping both his ankles, and kicked him in the balls, eliciting a second yell of pain from him.

"Ah, shit! You fight dirty!"

"What, and you don’t? Battering your wife isn’t exactly clean fighting, is it?"

He moved his head from side to side as she pressed home the assault, before she at last relented, and stood up. He got to his knees, clutching his wounded balls, while Sandra couldn’t resist a bit of unprofessional taunting.

But he knew a little more than she thought. Steadying himself, he made a sudden hand stand, and lashed out in a right kick. He very nearly caught her. Her escape was a little too hurried to be a calculated evasion, and she thought she may yet have to use the HR to protect herself. But she avoided his next attack – a right punch – with her usual dexterity, leaning backwards out of harm’s way.

Sam struggled to keep his balance. Having put all his effort into the punch, which then merely hit air, he stumbled and lurched forward – and a laser-like karate chop hammered the back of his neck. He would certainly have fallen after that, had not Sandra grabbed both his arms immediately after the chop, from behind. Forcing him back further, she ratcheted her left arm around his neck, in a reverse headlock.  She stretched his body back to the maximum of his endurance. Breathing was difficult, and counter attack was out of the question.

Next, she swung him round half-circle, forced him to his knees, secured his arms behind her thighs, and sat on the small of his back. This was her own hold, which she called the full Nelson bombardment: her legs did the work of the arms in the full Nelson; and the "bombardment" came in the form of her buttocks pressing against his back while his arms were hauled in the opposite direction. Unorthodox it might have been, but if it still inflicted pain and – equally important – fatigue.

Sandra felt Sam "give", so she allowed him to collapse on the canvas. With the position that she had, it was easy for her to change to a camel clutch, still sitting on the small of his back, but now hauling his head up by linking her hands under his chin. The stretching was extreme – on the one hand her admirable buttocks held his body down, but on the other her surprisingly strong arms lifted his neck up so that the back of his head brushed her pliant bosom.

Ever inventive, Sandra now used the hold on his chin to slip onto her back, bringing Sam with her, and hooked her legs and arms round his arms in a horizontal variant of a double chicken wing. It was a clever move, because she now exerted the opposite, forward, pressure on his neck, while heaving his arms back.

She spent just long enough with this hold to earn another yelp from Sam, before she slithered round him, relinquishing his left arm, and securing his right arm in a bar, straining his shoulder and ribs. It was surreal. His neck and chest were trapped enticingly against her feminine thigh and rear, while his arm was yanked with the strength of a lumberjack. 

Sensing his perception of her abundant charms, she sought to increase his mental and physical torment by moving to the side and maintaining the arm bar in what could be called an arm scissors. Meanwhile she maintained the grip on his wrist with her hands, and "accidentally" caused the back of his hand to lie between her wonderful breasts. She was gratified to hear him moan, as his brain got the message and blood pumped to his cock in response, in its unyielding confines of the HR. 

Ratcheting up the sexual pressure (and the pain), Sandra chose to employ her favourite head scissors, swinging round so that his head faced away from her, and locking his left arm in hers, beside her left breast. 

"You haven’t been this intimate with a woman for some years now, have you?" she taunted him. "You like my tits and thighs, don’t you? Did I mention my bum? Did I even need to? If you weren’t such a bastard with women, you could enjoy this sort of thing without the pain. But as it is you’ll get that in spades, with just enough sexual contact to remind you of what you’ve been missing."

Keeping Sam’s left elbow at her breast, Sandra knelt, and bent his arm in a twist. Exclamations of pain now came regularly from him. He gritted his teeth, trying not to let her know too much how he was suffering. Still kneeling, she suddenly hauled him round and secured his other arm in a lock, before standing up, and prizing his fingers in opposite directions. This forced him up to his knees, and he hung his head impotently.

It was too inviting for her to ignore, so she hammered her right knee into his chest, before dragging him up on his feet. She hadn’t seen his face for some time, and it was a picture of suffering. All the time she forced those fingers agonisingly apart. 

At last Sandra released him. He took his chance and ran to escape. He got to a corner of the ropes. She went after him. He turned to see where she was, and she high-kicked, punishing his left jaw and ear. His hearing went foggy. Dimly he saw her left foot land perfectly and, as if in a dream, noticed her draw back her fist. It got him high in the stomach, and he folded round it.

"This is more your style, isn’t it?" Sandra tormented him. "But as I told you, I can fight like this too. Nothing wrong with that punch, was there? I can tell by the way you’re coughing. An elbow to the jaw should just complete the pub-style for the time being. There, just like that! On second thoughts, a knee in the chest would do well now."

Sam lurched forward. Sandra raised her left arm, and then brought her elbow crashing down on his neck. He fell. Unrelenting, unforgiving, she wrenched him off his back and onto his front, lying across him. She had him in an arm lock, her breasts pushing against his chest. Then she twisted.

Sam got as near to screaming as any man can. His struggling was reduced to curling and uncurling his toes, while his free hand clawed the canvas. He’d been right, he thought grimly, she was evil! She was possessed – she had to be to have such supernatural strength. As if in silent confirmation, Sandra stood and lifted him, folding his body over her shoulders in a back breaker. His spine and ribs were stretched grotesquely, unnaturally; and his stomach muscles felt as if they would burst. He uttered incomprehensible sounds while her hand was over his mouth.

This couldn’t last, even she realised that. She moved him, and held him in front of her like a baby for a moment. "Oochy, coochy coo!" she mocked, but he was beyond that by now. She lowered both of them until she was kneeling on the canvas, with his back over her raised knee. Then she reapplied the back breaker. She had more control over it this way. She knew when to ease off slightly, and when to increase the pressure. A torrent of sounds came from the protesting male, but the only words she could make out were the predictable obscene ones.

Relief at last! She let him go, and he subsided on his back. But then she placed her foot on his balls and pressed hard, holding his left leg up. Sam tried to sit up, but only got about half way, imploring her to stop. She ignored him, looking at him in a way he couldn’t fathom. 

Eventually she released him from his torment. She shouted at him, "Well, are you going to batter women again?" but he was too far gone to reply. He sat in a corner, clutching his balls and whimpering. 

"Are you ready to fight again?" she demanded.

No answer. No response at all.

"Very well, it’s time for housewife’s revenge!"

Sandra held the little box, and pressed the button. Zip! Zip! Zip! Barbaric volts hissed as they sprang through his already battered manhood.

"You’re a sadist!" Sam yelled.

Zip! Zip! Zip! Sandra pressed the button again.

Swearing foully, Sam got to his feet. He cursed once more and lashed out at Sandra, punching with his right. She avoided it effortlessly.

"Oh, we’re back to the pub-style are we?" she commented. "All right then, I told you I could fight that way too."

So saying, she smashed his chin with an uppercut. For a moment, it stretched his back as far away from the rest of his body as the back breaker had done previously. His mouth opened in pain and wonder. How on earth could a woman fight like this? She followed up with a powerful left cross, and his body lurched away in its trajectory.

"Actually this is my favourite way of finishing a man off," Sandra said, more for her own benefit than his, because he was too addled to register. "Beating a man on his own terms – with fisticuffs – is the ultimate humiliation for him, and I love it!"

The man staggered drunkenly. The woman drew back her fist. Whereas the left cross had been powerful, her climactic punch – a right cross – was devastating. It knocked the man both over and out. 

Sandra raised her arms in triumph, as the vanquished male lay at her feet.