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Mixed Battles
Finished Off
Product Details
Бренд:
Rules for losers
Уникальный код:
W-732
Mixed wrestling, 380 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), partially CFNM, no blood.
Following their loss to Kjersti and Kristin (Gallery 730), Torsten and Oliver were worth nothing as fighters in their home country, Germany. Promoters cancelled their bookings after people demanded refunds on their tickets. No one was going to watch a man fight who had been beaten by a woman. It was a crisis, and both men reluctantly agreed that eventually they would have to challenge the women to a rematch.
It caused Kjersti and Kristin great merriment, because they guessed the problem. Indeed, it had happened before. A man could lose to another man, or a woman to a woman, and still be taken seriously. Newspapers would run stories about a career relaunch, or a fresh challenge, and ticket sales would soar, especially if the man or woman were popular. But if a man lost to a woman, no one wanted them in a newspaper, a club, or an arena. The only publications that were interested in them were feminist ones; and they had no desire to be featured alongside “Jackie’s Vegan Journey”, or “Sandra’s Experience Demonstrating Against Climate Change”.
The fact that “two sexy girls from Norway” (in the words of the referee, who obviously relished their victory) had defeated the pick of Germany’s male wrestlers, was bad for the country’s self-esteem as well. Even the euro dropped in value. So, soon there was a clamour for a rematch, which would have become irresistible, except that Torsten and Oliver had come to the same conclusion anyway.
The challenge was issued, and the “two sexy girls” happily accepted it. Germany breathed a national sigh of relief, and eagerly offered to host the event within weeks. Ticket sales rocketed, and it wasn’t long before the quartet were standing in the ring again. It was agreed that Kristin and Oliver would face off first this time.
The excited crowd watched as the combatants entered the ring. Mother and daughter, in cool, Nordic blue this time, went into a huddle, and everyone wished they knew what they said. In fact Kristin’s words to Kjersti were:
“They’re wearing singlets this time. It will be impossible for us to take them off.”
“That’s all right, dear,” Kjersti replied, “We’ll both play the dominatrix, and force them to take them off themselves.”
The two parents left the ring, and everyone eagerly watched the younger couple confront each other. There was some speculative weaving in and out by both of them at first, with no contact made, until Kristin swooped and grabbed Oliver in a head lock. She held his neck in the crook of her right arm, while he tried to grab her right leg, and heave her off balance. But she was too quick, and forced him upright by his neck. She swung Oliver round by his neck, gaining momentum, until the man’s feet left the canvas, and he landed uncomfortably on his side, with her on top of him.
Outside the ring, Torsten ground his teeth in anger at the sight of this pretty, shapely blonde, throwing his helpless son. For his part, it gave Oliver a number of sensations (apart from pain): frustration, a desire for revenge, and – he tried to ignore this one – sexual excitement. There was no doubt about it, though: being thrown by this attractive blonde was sexually stimulating. The willowy girl had him off his feet, in the air, and banging down on the mat in a quick series of moves, which he had been powerless to resist. He felt that old stirring in his groin at the thought.
Kristin sat on top of him, pinning him from behind. Then she knelt, straddling him, grabbed his wrists, and pulled him towards her, stretching his shoulders, ribs, and stomach muscles. She was surprisingly, deceptively strong, he thought, as another injection of excitement went to his loins. But his immediate concern was the trouble he was in, and how to get out of it. This trouble became acute when Kristin drove her knee into the small of his back, all the time hauling him backwards.
By this time she was inflicting serious pain on his upper body; and she compounded it by twisting his left arm behind his back. She could feel him shaking in reaction. Pushing the pace, she wrenched that left arm upwards now, locking it, before sitting beside him and maintaining the lock. She had the arm trapped in her left leg and her right arm, against her breast (and another message went from his brain to his loins).
Of course she guessed the effect she was having on him, and adored teasing and dominating him. She manipulated his arm this way and that, causing him to yell, before placing her right boot on the small of his back and heaving away at his wrist.
Suddenly she leapt on him, scissoring his neck inside her right leg, with his left arm still locked in the crook of her right arm. Then her left hand went between his legs, and she mangled his balls. That’s when his resistance broke, and he begged her to leave off. She was ready with her terms of surrender:
“I’ll let you go if you get naked,” she told him, squeezing away.
He agreed – anything to make her stop – and she told him she liked obedient boys, still not letting go. He implored her, insisting he would be obedient, and at last she relented. She may have inflicted severe pain on him, but those messages had zipped from his brain to his groin so many times that he was fully erect.
“Oh, I see something that wants to be naked!” Kristin laughed, kneeling with one foot on his face, before letting him stand up and remove his clothes.
Once he was naked, she again dictated her terms: they would have some fun, she said, and she would get him in a hold, which he must try to get out of it. If he didn’t manage to within 10 seconds, she would have won that particular bout. Oliver (who had no choice) agreed, and she told him she would start with a camel clutch.
She had him down on the mat again and squatted over him, with her thighs wedged under his arms. She linked her hands under his chin and pulled, telling him his obedience would be rewarded (and his cock seemed to drill into the mat).
“Fight back,” she told him, wrenching away, and causing the same agony in his back, shoulders, chest, ribs and stomach that she had inflicted earlier. But however much she urged him to resist, he couldn’t. Her hold and strength were too much for him, and she declared herself the winner after 10 seconds.
Next, she put him in an anaconda, with his head locked in her arms, and his legs trapped by hers. It had the effect of a choke hold, and he could hardly breathe, let alone counterattack.
Presumably she considered she had won that bout too, because she switched to an armbar. It was his right arm this time, trapped between her thighs to his side, and heaved away from him in the powerful grip of her hands, while her foot rested on his neck. She had called it “fun”, but Oliver began to have doubts. He was enduring considerable, increasing pain, and she was working very hard for it to be “fun”. Still, he wasn’t going to argue!
No, he wasn’t – not when she whisked him up in the air with her legs, but still with a hold of that right arm. Down he banged onto the mat again, his arm trapped as ever, before she lay across him, trapping his left arm under hips and locking his right, in what could be described as a “cross pin”, with her lovely bosom rubbing against his chest. She now twisted his right arm, to give him yet more mauling. Raising herself a little, she pushed her right knee into his chest and twisted the unfortunate arm behind his back.
Briefly toying with a triangle choke, Kristin settled down to a Boston crab. Oliver’s head and chest were on the mat, while Kristin crouched facing away from him, with his legs trapped in her arms. Once again, his upper body was stretched to its limit, as it had been earlier with the camel clutch; but this time his middle and legs were suffering as well. She bent his body to her will, forcing it in ever more perverse angles. It was the longest 10 seconds Oliver had ever known.
But when she swapped holds it was no better. This time it was a bow and arrow. She lay on her back, with his back over her legs, while she held him by his right ankle, wrapping that leg over his left. She placed her left hand on his throat, and pushed up with her legs, while pulling down with her hands. It was the same agony all over again. You could ask, why bother changing holds? But then, she told him she was going to work through them. In fact this was closest in effect to a back breaker. Oliver began to wonder how much bones, tendons and joints could endure.
But his contemplation was short-lived, because she swapped holds again, opting for a bridge. She positioned herself above and to the side of him, facing upwards, linked her hands under his chin, and yet again pulled the hapless male into more unnatural, painful angles, this time by his chin. Of course, Kristin had put herself to great exertions, and the hold required great stamina from her, never mind him. But she worked through her holds with professional skill (and a great deal of enjoyment).
Next, she opted for a choke with an arm twist thrown in for good measure. She held his neck in the crook of her left arm, and bent his left arm behind his back with her right hand. Then she swung him to face her, and swapped arms for the choke, locking his right arm. She held him so that he was kneeling, and lightly applied her right knee to his balls, just to give him something to think (and worry) about.
Kristin bundled him onto his back and sat high up on his chest, bending his arms over her thighs by gripping his wrists. Then she inched forwards until she was sitting over his mouth. Oliver took his cue, and obliged. But she chose not to indulge herself for long, and settled back to a more conventional pin.
He had not been able to counter any of her holds, and had been at her mercy. She dictated how long each hold would last, and all he could do was try to endure them. So at last she celebrated victory declaring a 10-nil win. (“Is that what it is?” thought Oliver. He had lost count of the number of holds, and didn’t care whether it was 10 or 20, by now.)
Triumphant, Kristin stood up and pulled him to his knees. She let him recover for a few moments, before helping him to his feet, whereupon she caressed him under his chin. All aggression seemed to have left her, and she was displaying affection for him. The one thing that was constant for him was his erection, which she now playfully scolded him for.
She called him a pervert because he liked to get beaten by a girl. She added, enticingly, that though he wasn’t allowed to cum just then “I’ll finish you off a bit later”. She added that she was sure he would remain aroused, watching his father get beaten by her mother, and sent him off to tag him with a light, friendly, kick. For her part, she tagged Kjersti.
Torsten joined her in the ring, and they faced off. She fired a kick, which he parried with his arm. He was already furious, having seen what had happened to his son, and disgusted with him for meekly accepting defeat. He was looking to restore some honour for his family and his sex. Kjersti, on the other hand, was in excellent spirits, having seen her daughter on such prime form, and her smile enraged him.
He fired a right cross, which she blocked. After another kick from her, broadside-style, which failed to connect, her next super kick was a bullseye. Balancing on tiptoe on her left foot, her right cracked into his jaw, shooting behind. Torsten recoiled at the blow, but summoned his reserves of strength and remained on his feet. He had the advantage of Kjersti in that he was facing her; and recovering sooner than she anticipated, grabbed her while she was still facing away from him.
He held her tightly by both wrists and bent her down to one side. He swapped the hold on her wrists for a choke, but made a terrible mistake – her left arm was free. At point-blank range, she banged that elbow into his balls. Torsten yelled in surprise and pain, forgetting all need to retain the hold, so Kjersti slid down on her right leg, kneeling on her left, and rammed her right elbow into the same spot. Torsten froze in silent agony, then collapsed onto the mat, front first.
As he fell, Kjersti had free shots at his balls; and her smart, deep blue boots were merciless. While he struggled to get up, she got his balls again with her right boot, this time kicking straight ahead. No, he couldn’t get up from that, and when she demanded he “get up and fight”, it was impossible.
This was when she chose to be the dominatrix. Torsten asked if she would leave his balls alone, and she declared she might if he got naked. He readily assented, and rose unsteadily to take his singlet off. Then he turned to face her. He lunged at her, running; she swerved to the side, and rammed her elbow down on his neck as his momentum took him past her. He stumbled at the blow, and Kjersti reinforced it by plunging both her arms down on his bent back, and clubbing it.
He went down, and she was on him. She sat on the small of this back, grabbed his arms, forcing them over her thighs, and swung backwards. The sway brought him to his knees, while her glorious round bottom pushed down on his back. It was a very feminine, and highly effective, version of a back breaker. It was a bit like a rider on a wild horse, taming it, except that in those cases it’s the horse doing all the bucking, whereas Kjersti was the one pushing down and pulling up, to cause maximum pain. As a bonus for her, she was able to stretch his arms, putting pressure on his shoulders, as well.
As soon as she relaxed the hold, Torsten flopped down gratefully on the mat. Not for long though, because Kjersti scooped him up above her, lay on her back, entwined his legs around hers, seized his wrists, and pushed up, in a classic romero. They resembled a frame, or a piece of machinery, as she put his back, shoulder, and leg muscles through increasing pressure, as well as his spine, rib cage and shoulders. Once again, she was able to control just how much his body was stretched, keeping it hovering around the unbearable limit.
Like Kristin earlier, she worked her way thought the holds, next choosing a bow and arrow. He was held across her on her legs, which pushed up on the small of this back, while her hands on his chin and right ankle tugged downwards, with his right leg trapping his left. The greatest sensation he felt was heat, as the anger of his pains threatened to reach the point of over-heating.
Now it was the cobra clutch. Kneeling on her left knee, Kjersti had Torsten’s head locked, and his left arm twisted above his head. The pain in his arm was savage; but he couldn’t help noticing her magnificent breasts digging into his shoulders as she fixed herself behind him. It was a simple enough move to change this to a dragon lock, with his head locked in the crook of her right arm, while her right hand twisted his right arm behind his back. She had now inflicted pain on every part of his body, while many parts had suffered with every hold.
Kjersti had obviously gained a lot from watching her daughter fight earlier, because she rapidly went through the library of holds, and next off it was a cross face. She lay across him on her side, with his left arm secured in her thighs (pleasantly enough), while her linked hands over his eyes, yet again forced his upper body upwards, while the pressure of her lying across him pushed back down.
Then it was briefly back to the cobra clutch, before she brought him down on top of her with his left arm twisted behind his back, and his head still locked in the crook of her right arm. Despite the clamp around his neck, and the hideous twisting of his arm, Torsten was greatly disturbed and distracted by being crushed up against such abundant womanhood. It would take a highly dedicated wrestler indeed not to be (so long as he was heterosexual, of course).
It was almost a relief – almost – when Kjersti swapped the hold for a head scissor, although she still lay across his chest, while his head faced away from her, sandwiched between her splendid thighs, and she kept up the twist on his left arm.
The next item on her sadistic menu was a leg arm lock. She lay with her left leg over Torsten’s stomach, and her right over his throat, while she stretched his left leg and left arm towards her and each other. In fact they were touching where she had them both locked in her linked arms. His leg, especially, was dragged to its extreme possible limit, being forced beyond a right angle from his body.
Then it was back to the cross face, but with a difference: she had his left leg scissored between her thighs so that the lower leg was pulled upwards and away from any natural connection with the rest of the leg, while she lay to the side of him pulling him upwards with her hands over his face, and pushing downwards with her body.
Torsten began to wonder how much more he could take, when she swapped the cross face for a full Nelson, from the same position, with his left leg trapped in her thighs. She still heaved his upper body upwards, but this time by his shoulders, while her hips on his back pushed downwards.
After that she sat on his middle (tormenting his naked cock with her buttocks), and twisted his right arm forwards in her left arm, while pushing his head on the mat with her right hand. He was now severely weakened, and towards the limit of his endurance - though still preoccupied, despite himself, with her voluptuousness.
Kjersti sensed he couldn’t take much more, and opted for a pin. She squatted on him, clutching his throat with her right hand. Then she moved off him and twisted his right arm in her left hand, still with her right over his throat. After that it was back to the pin, this time with both hands around his throat.
This was when Torsten broke:
“I can’t breathe! Please stop, I submit! Just pin me, I’m not going to fight back!” he blurted out.
Kjersti insisted that Oliver must submit to Kristin as well, and Torsten eagerly called him – and Kristin just as eagerly brought him.
“Come on Oliver, time to finish you off,” she told him.
Now that young man had been watching Kjersti maul his father, and he had recalled how Kristin had done the same thing to him, right from the first throw. It shouldn’t happen, he thought, but he also delighted in it happening. She now forced him down to his knees. He tried to resist, for appearances sake, but she overpowered him; and his sexual excitement went up another notch. Kjersti, still sitting on Torsten, now added her thoughts:
“A girl giving a post-match hand job can be the ultimate form of sexual humiliation …”
Kristin made Oliver lie on his back, and she lay on top of him in the familiar “69” position. For the second time that day he did as he was bid, and she uttered her delight. Then she made him jump, as her practiced, knowing fingers curled around his cock. She could be silkily subtle and savagely strong in moments, with a thousand little variations in between. “You have to submit, Oliver,” she insisted, but softly. He did, wholeheartedly, there and then, to her superiority in general, and to her hand in particular.
The women stood over the defeated men and celebrated their victory, and the referee announced, “The second victory of the girls’ team!”
Torsten stood up and kissed Kjersti’s hand, and she just got the impression there was a little mockery in the way he did it. She couldn’t be certain, but she had a feeling this might not be their last encounter. It certainly didn’t look as if it were Kristin’s and Oliver’s last, either! Look at them, Kjersti thought, behaving like a couple of teenagers, nervous on a first date! Yes, there we go, Kjersti continued with her thoughts, it’s phone number time, and the promise by Kristin of a “nice match” in store.
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