Private Match 1

Mixed boxing, 210 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), partially CFNM, no blood.

Torsten and Oliver came to two very different conclusions, following their matches against Kjersti and Kristin (Galleries 730 and 732). Torsten considered that he had had the advantage of Kjersti during their first encounter, and that the match had only been lost following the substitution of parents for offspring. (Kjersti, wise woman, agreed with this verdict and confessed as much to Kristin, who vehemently protested, loyal daughter that she was.)

He was also of the opinion that the only reason he failed when he next confronted her by herself was because she attacked his genitals. This was, of course, technically illegal, but it was notorious that certain referees regarded such attacks as a natural part of a woman’s armoury. He was soon working for a possible revenge match, and instead of calming down over time, his preoccupation with the “wrong” done to him turned into an obsessive grudge.

Oliver’s conclusion, though, had little in the way of professional analysis. In fact it was a confusion of conclusions, something along these lines: Kristin was adorable, and losing to her at wrestling had introduced him to an erotic world he had hitherto been unaware of. Naturally he didn’t mention these feelings to Torsten, although he suspected something, because he had been there when Kristin gave him her phone number.

Yes, that phone number. About 4 days after the match, when the pains from it were definitely subsiding, Oliver resolved to ring her. He felt very nervous, and it took him a couple of attempts before he completed the call. But she replied, and was very pleasant, so they had an agreeable few minutes’ small talk. Then she asked:

“So when are you coming up here for our private match?”

“Well, er,” he stammered, “When can I?”

“Any time, silly! Mother and I have our own gym with a ring. It’s open to the public, but we can close it at any time for what we call ‘private tuition’, which can mean anything.”

“That sounds great!”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Perfect, thanks. What should I wear?”

“For the match? Oh, just shorts. I’ll soon have them off you anyway, once I’ve set to work on you!”

“My God, I can’t wait!” thought Oliver, as he said goodbye, and went to pack a few things.

Telling Torsten where he was going was awkward; in fact he wished he had made up a different story. They had a row, and Torsten warned him that his friendship with “that bitch’s daughter” threatened to break up their partnership. It was a relief to get on the train.

*****

The next afternoon, he pressed the buzzer at the gym door, and Kristin let him in. They kissed, and went to the ring.

“So do you still feel ok, having submitted to me?” asked Kristin, once they were in the ring.

“Yes, I loved submitting to you while you er… did what you did. It was right for me to submit, because you are the better wrestler.”

She frowned. “No, Oliver, I’m the better fighter.”

“But it was a wrestling match.”

“True, but I am still the better fighter.”

“You might not be,” he argued. “I can also box you know, but I have no gloves with me.”

“I can box as well, and I also have no gloves with me. But if you want me to beat you up with my bare fists, I can and will.”

“I don’t believe you can,” he countered.

“Come on then,” she responded, raising her fists.

They circled each other, and Kristin made the first move, feinting with her left. It tricked him into avoiding it, and he laughed at how easy it was – then abruptly stopped when her right fist landed hard in his eye, which closed over. It was a clever move by her, because straight away she had impaired his vision, and she followed it up by plunging her left fist low into his stomach.

She fought ferociously, and never gave him a moment to absorb a blow or to recover, but she was at him with another attack. So while he was lurching forward and coughing, following her stomach punch, she cracked his chin with a right uppercut. He staggered backwards – so far, in fact, that he felt the ropes on his back, with a corner to his left. That’s where she wanted him, and she swung a left hook into his jaw to put him there. But it did more than that, and the delighted young lady watched as the young man tumbled and rolled away from her punch, to end up on his front on the mat.

Kristin’s first love – indeed her profession – was wrestling, and as she had him there prone, it would have been a waste not to exploit the fact. Holding his head steady with her right hand, she seized his right forearm with her left hand, and hauled it behind his back, locking it. Smiling broadly, she worked it in the good old way, relishing her superiority over her male opponent, before rolling him onto his front. She wickedly spread his legs apart, and placed her right knee on his manhood, teasing, threatening.

“I wonder how much a professional dominatrix earns?” she murmured, making Oliver gulp with fear, before easing his shorts off him. Sure enough, he was sporting a huge erection.

“Well I never!” Kristin mocked, jumping up and pointing at his cock. “Every time, and every way I beat you up, this happens! Dear, dear, you are in a bad way (or a good way, depending on your point of view). Anyway, I don’t mean to hurry you, but come on, we have a fight to finish here. Up you get!”

Oliver stood up painfully, and none too enthusiastically. He raised his fists, and Kristin darted nimbly in, thrusting her right knee up hard into his balls. He roared in pain, and then wailed:

“I thought this was a fist fight!”

“I slipped,” she lied, crunching his chin with a left uppercut.

Wherever had she learnt to fight like this? Oliver, in his confusion and shock, wondered almost in a dream. Here she came again, with a right hook. God, she was strong! He half fell into the ropes, which steadied him. But steadied him for what? The left cross that now came at him. The ropes embraced and then rejected him, hurling him into the path of a right cross, which had them straining at their burden.

She battered him with a second left uppercut; punished him with another right cross; tortured him with a further left cross. He was finished. He was held up by the ropes under his arms, like a drunk supported by two friends. Kristin laid off, hands on hips, and pleased with her handiwork.

“I’m sorry Oliver, but I must finish this properly,” she told him, leading him by the chin into the centre of the ring. She steadied him with her left hand still under his chin, and clenched her right fist.

“For the woman to dominate the man completely, she has to knock him out,” she announced, blasting him with a final uppercut.

It had him off his feet and sailing – in both direction and mind. He landed on the mat with a thud, that didn’t register on his face at all. No, he was somewhere comfortable and secure. But only for a few moments. He came round and stared, blurred, at the lovely face looking into his. Kristin was cradling his head in her right arm, and there was something soft and pleasant against his face. He smiled, realising it was her beautiful bosom, under the thin material of her leotard.

“Oh, I’m sorry Oliver!” she blurted out. “I shouldn’t have hurt you so much!”

“You hit so hard!” he answered sorrowfully, playing for the sympathy vote.

“Well yes,” she answered thoughtfully, “but I can be gentle too” – her left hand strayed downwards, until her dainty fingertips were dancing enticingly around his cock – “and you deserve a little treat…”

What happened next is best recalled in Oliver’s own words:

“Ah, schon, so schon! Ich bin in Himmel! Ah, meine Liebling, du bist … ah, mein Gott … du bist … WUNDERBAR!

*****

Two days later they were engaged. Kristin immediately told Kjersti, who came round with a bottle of champagne. Two days after a face-battering, though, is when the bruising looks at its worst.

“What have you done to your face?” asked Kjersti.

“Tell her, Oliver,” Kristin instructed.

“Kristin and I had a fight,” he said mechanically.

“Oh, mother it was such fun!” Kristin joined in, clapping her hands with girlish enthusiasm. “I gave him that black eye early on, knocked him down with a left hook, and finished him off with an uppercut!”

“Does Torsten know?” asked Kjersti thoughtfully.

“No,” Oliver replied, “and I hope he doesn’t find out.”

He then told them about their row over his visiting Kristin, and Torsten’s grudge against Kjersti, along with his training for another rematch.

“I suspected as much,” Kjersti added thoughtfully, when he finished. “I told you he beat me in our first encounter, didn’t I, dear?”

“Yes,” Kristin answered, a little troubled.

“So now he feels aggrieved. Oliver?”

“Yes?”

“Ring him, and make it a video call. Turn the sound up, so we can hear.”

“Do as she says, Oliver,” Kristin told him sternly, seeing him hesitate.

“Hi Dad,” Oliver spoke at the screen, trying to appear cheerful.”

“Hi Oliver … what the -? What’s happened to your face? Did those two bitches do that to you?”

“Give me the phone, Oliver,” Kjersti told him, and he passed it over.

“Good morning, Torsten!” she spoke briskly, “What’s the weather like were you are?”

“Fuck the weather! Was it you who did that to my son’s face?”

“No, the artwork that you saw was all due to my daughter’s ladylike fists. Rather neat, wouldn’t you say? But, you know, she made it sound such good fun - blackening his eye, and knocking him down with a left hook – that I fancy doing the same to you.”

“I’m on my way right now, bitch! But I warn you, there’s no big-arsed Frau that’s going to do that to me!”

To be continued…