Bordering on Comedy

Mixed boxing, 230 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), partially CFNM, bloody action.

Marcus was a highly privileged young man. His parents encouraged and indulged all his interests (at least, those he told them about). One of these interests was boxing, so his father had a ring made in the grounds of their large house. It was discreetly shielded from public view, and if his parents went away – as they often did – he would be quite alone with his sparring partner.

On the subject of them, his father paid for professional boxing tutors to visit Marcus and spar with him. But they had to be careful. If there were any injuries to his face or body, he made it plain to them that he would sue them, and perhaps ruin their reputations. In other words, Marcus had to win.

But he grew bored. Yes, he was genuinely interested in boxing, and fought to a reasonable standard. But like most young men, he was preoccupied with women. Yes, too, he liked the glamorous young women you see in films and fashion shows; but he had another taste – he liked the idea of strong women. The thought of a woman competing on equal terms against a man excited him, and the excitement became an obsession. How he would love to go a few rounds against a powerful woman in the ring!

Still, it shouldn’t be impossible to arrange. His parents were going away for the weekend in a week’s time, and he knew there were websites that catered for his taste. All he had to do was find a woman he liked the look of, and who would be prepared to travel. Money wouldn’t be a problem.

Here was one: Yvette. Oh, yes! Whereas the others posed, flexing their muscles, Yvette wore a dress. It was if she had no need for all the parading, and you would discover her strength soon enough. She looked at you with what seemed a natural superiority, which bordered on contempt.

Trembling slightly, Marcus rang the number that was advertised. A friendly enough voice answered, and he outlined what he wanted.

“You want to fight me? Are you sure?” she asked, when he had finished.

“Yes, please.”

“Well, be warned, because I won’t hold back. I love beating up a man – it really turns me on!”

Just to hear her say that aroused him, and he eagerly assented. Once a day and time had been agreed, he could think about nothing else all week.

*****

Yvette was cool and professional. She shook hands formally with Marcus when he opened the door to her, and slipped off her coat to give him a glimpse of her body for the first time. Although she was quiet, her body seemed to shout its strength. This was the woman of his fantasies! Her breasts were medium-to-large, and she had one of those wonderful, full-rounded and womanly backsides, to make you want to gape at it. Then there were her muscles. Strong and well-built though he was, Marcus felt threatened by the formidable sight of her arms and her legs – threatened and excited.

He led the short distance from the house to the ring, but there was just one problem for him. He had been so absorbed in her appearance and the prospect of fighting her, that he had an erection. Yvette noticed it as soon as he stripped to his shorts (which were more like underpants, to make his state even more obvious).

“Don’t worry,” she chuckled, indicating it once they were in the ring, “I often have that effect on a man who’s about to fight me. Believe me, it will grow even bigger once I get to work on you! Come on then, try and hit me!”

“Are you giving me a free shot?” Marcus asked, surprised.

“Not free, there’ll be a payback, I assure you.”

He lunged at her; but she was up like a whippet, blocking it, and making his effort look laboured. She leant easily, almost lazily, out of the way of his next attempt. She parried a third with her glove, and nudged a fourth, very frustrated, punch out of harm’s way with her shoulder.

She had him cursing as she swung out of the way, or deflected everything he could muster. His gloves “whooshed” comically but insultingly, as his strength wasted away with his futile attacks. He might as well have been a mime artist. Then she struck. Yvette’s right fist thundered into his face in a sloping hook. Marcus’s hearing felt as if he was under water, even though she hadn’t actually hit his ear. It was an aftershock from the main blow to his jaw, which had him sprawling, half-in and half-out of the ring.

There was a cool, damp feeling on his face – blood! What was he going to tell his parents? His father would be looking to sue the person responsible, but Marcus could hardly tell him who it was.

She, meanwhile, was enjoying herself, laying on the insults while he moved into a kneeling position to recover. Dammit, he was the customer! He hadn’t paid her to come here and humiliate him (or, at the back of his mind, had he? His erection straining in his shorts certainly betrayed a subconscious excitement.)

Marcus stood up, trying to dismiss his confusion and concentrate on the present. But it was the same story: whatever he tried, Yvette managed to make look ridiculous, comical, and clumsy. For example, there was an almighty lunge with his right fist, which she saw coming and avoided by flipping upside down and standing on her hands. In fact he would have fallen over, carried by his momentum, had she not caught his neck between her upturned thighs.

Marcus sensed what was coming next. In fact it was obvious. Even though this was supposed to be boxing, Yvette wasn’t going to let an opportunity like this go – especially as she had prepared it. But what would you call it? A flying headscissor? A handstand headscissor? Whatever, it was as effective as any conventional headscissor, and it had him struggling for breath and gasping.

Yvette brought him down to the mat, ensnared between her formidable thighs, so she could concentrate on the scissor. She knew instinctively when to exert pressure and when to ease off to allow a partial recovery. But she would keep changing position, which hurt even more. One moment she would be lying dead straight in a line behind him, the next she would be at a right angle, forcing his neck to respond as best it could. Then she lay on top of him, facing down his body, still with those superb thighs gripping his neck.

Yvette inched slowly backwards until she couldn’t go any further. Her progress was halted by Marcus’s face, as she intended. It was up fast against her sex, and he sensed what he had to do. But what was she doing, meanwhile? Surely not? She was, though, she was playing with his erection.

“Peep bo!” she laughed, releasing it from his shorts, then putting it back again.

But the unrelenting pressure on Marcus’s face and neck, and the lack of oxygen, made him pass out. Yvette stood up and celebrated the conclusion of the round, with her foot on his face to emphasise her dominance. As she did a victory lap in the ring, he regained consciousness. He sat up, supporting his head in his hand to regain his breath, then he stood up once more.

“Ready?” Yvette asked, grinning.

“Yeah,” Mark grimly replied, striking out with his left.

She blocked it, and threw her left into the action, catching him squarely on the jaw. She had now drawn blood on both sides of his face, and she compounded his suffering with a right cross. It landed on his chin and bent him backwards, then over, after vainly trying to stay on his feet.

On his knees, Marcus looked dejected. Yvette stood over his shoulders, and he thought she was going to scissor him again. But instead she attacked his face with punches. He tumbled to the mat, on his front, and she continued the assault, kneeling above him and showering punches down on his head and face. Then she turned him over onto his back, and resumed her punch fest. Jaws, eyes, nose and mouth were all attacked. Eventually, tiring of this, she stood up and brought her right foot down hard on his chest.

It was too much. Marcus lay still, his head on one side, once again knocked out by her onslaught and its unbearable pain. Yvette repeated her victory earlier victory pose, with her foot on his chest.

It woke him up, in more ways than one. With the return of consciousness came anger. This evil bitch had taken his money (and plenty of it), she’d injured him far more than he had anticipated, and she clearly loved inflicting pain. He stood up, snarling and vowing revenge. Her insolent smile increased his fury, and he lashed out with his right.

Yet again his punch sailed harmlessly through the air, and this time Yvette responded by hammering her left foot into his balls. His manhood, at full erection, felt as if it would burst with pain. Marcus felt sick and dizzy as Yvette now headlocked him in her right arm.

It was like the headscissor all over again. His neck was trapped in the grip of her strong arm. Her bicep was as tight and coiled against his face as a piece of rope. It was no surprise that she was able to lift him off the mat with the hold – the surprise came when she banged her left knee up mercilessly into his balls. They were still tender after her kick; now waves of pain swept from them across his whole body.

Marcus only noticed absent-mindedly when Yvette let him drop to his feet, and he landed in an ungainly, crouching position. But she brought him up soon enough with her foot in his face. It was like a bludgeon combined with a hornet sting, and as he shot upright the lady’s left glove homed in on his chin. It was a fine, straight punch, the mark of a boxer in peak condition, (whose marks, indeed, were now all over his face).

Then came her right, low down in the stomach – so low, in fact, that it scraped painfully the tip of Marcus’s erection through his shorts. It seemed to remind her of its attraction as a target, and she rammed her right knee up ferociously once more into his battered balls.

Marcus’s vain, despairing, left hook in reply traced a semi-circle in the air. Yvette seemed to ignore it, and she fired a rising left cross once more at his chin. There was a dream-like quality to a further right hook from him, that was so slow in any case that it would just have patted her if it had caught her. There was nothing of a pat about Yvette’s left foot arriving in his balls though! It forced about a third of his cock out through the gap in his shorts.

“What a good idea!” she thought, now behind the dazed Marcus. She charged in low, rather like a rugby tackle, and there was a tearing sound as she turned the shorts’ gap into a gaping hole so that they fell off him. Then she was on him, piggyback-style, and driving punches into his ribs and face. He slumped down to his knees, then to his side, but still she continued with the punches.

Blow after blow cascaded onto his face and body until, with a grunt, he totally subsided, unconscious once more. Yvette knelt over him, one knee on his face, and celebrated her victory as if there were a crowd of thousands watching, rather than the odd, oblivious fox, and a magpie resting on a nearby branch. It didn’t matter to her. She loved to defeat and dominate men – loved, in fact, her chosen job.

At length she stood up, gloating down at the beaten, supine, naked man. It was bordering on comedy with him lying there, still unconscious but sporting a gigantic erection. An observer would have thought that marked the end of the encounter, but Yvette seemed intent on waking him up, and after a succession of taunts, she managed it.

Marcus yawned, and got up slowly and painfully to his hands and knees. He felt his battered head, and groaned in agony and recollection. The woman’s punt kick and knee put him straight back down on his back again, though. Then a vicious kick, landing crossways on his face, sent him right back to sleep, for the very last time.

So it was celebration time all over again. Yvette stood with one foot on his erection, and a fist in the air, content at last to bask in victory.