Mixed Battles
Mixed fighting freestyle, 250 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), partially CFNM, no blood.
Continued from Gallery 740
“’Big-arsed Frau’ indeed!” complained Kjersti, closing her call with Torsten.
“Oh, never mind that now,” intervened Kristin, clearly worried. “Torsten will be here in a few hours, and we’ve got to think hard.”
“What about?” scoffed Kjersti.
“Well, you’ve just talked yourself into a fist fight with him. He’ll have the advantage over you.”
“No he won’t. I was brought up by my grandparents, who had both been members of the Resistance. They taught me to fight, all right.”
“Oliver,” Kristin continued, ignoring her mother, “you were his tag team partner, can you give us any tips about him.”
“I don’t think I should be disloyal …”
“You don’t seem to understand your changed circumstances, Oliver,” Kristin told him, with a hint of menace in her voice. “You do as we say now, unless you want another fight.”
“No, no,” he answered hurriedly. “Well, although he hates you, Kjersti, he is also fascinated by you – even obsessed with you. He was drunk the other evening, and he called you a ‘fabulous, mature woman’. He went on about your ‘fine, full breasts’ and the ‘lovely arse that swings to and fro when she walks’. He made it obvious what he would like to do with you.”
“The dirty bastard!” volunteered Kristin.
“They all are, dear,” Kjersti told her.
“When he’s sober, he’s worried that your body could seriously distract him in another fight with you. Something he will probably try to do is surprise you by taking a cheap shot at you before you’re ready, when you’ve both just entered the ring.”
“Good, Oliver.” Kristin encouraged him. “That’s valuable information, isn’t it mother?”
“Sorry, what?” Kjersti asked. She had been busy admiring her profile in the mirror after hearing of Torsten’s words of praise for her body.
“Mother, please!” sighed Kristin.
*****
When Torsten arrived, he telephoned Oliver, who gave him directions to the private gym, and Kjersti set off for it at the same time. Kristin and Oliver stayed behind to watch the fight remotely, but with sound communication.
Kristin’s heart was beating hard when she saw Kjersti enter the gym, and wave towards the camera. When Torsten arrived, she couldn’t even look, and only returned her eyes when she heard Oliver chuckling. They were walking up the steps to the ring, Kjersti leading, and – sure enough – Torsten was gazing hard at her backside while it swayed away “naturally”.
Certainly, she looked utterly desirable in the blue leotard that she wore in Gallery 848, for her rather disappointing comeback. It criss-crossed at the back, showing a lot of bare flesh, before plunging in a “V” to show off her womanly, round bottom. At the front, it clung tightly around her large breasts.
No sooner had Torsten entered the ring than he attacked, ignoring the usual, accepted agreement to begin. He caught Kjersti with a hard left hook, and she dropped to the mat, stunned.
“I knew she wasn’t listening!” Kristin whispered to Oliver. Then to the screen she called out, “Foul! That was one dirty foul!”
Torsten crossed to the ropes facing the camera, raised his arms in triumph, and called back:
“So isn’t it a foul when you bitches pull our shorts off?”
Kristin argued back, but what she was really doing was playing for time. She could see Kjersti stirring behind him, with an expression on her face that she knew well. She almost felt sorry for Torsten, knowing that she would unleash fury on him.
Kjersti strode silently across the ring, determined on revenge. She slammed her right fist low and hard into Torsten’s kidney from behind, and he jumped rigidly, like a startled cat. He turned round, his left side burning, to confront Kjersti, now full of fight. It was game on!
He tried a second left hook, but this time she was ready for it, skilfully swaying out of the way. She glared into Torsten’s eyes as he followed through, and he found it almost as unnerving as her recent punch in his kidney. He hurriedly tried again, to take his mind off her mesmerising eyes, and fired a left cross.
But it sailed harmlessly past his evasive opponent, who now replied with a right uppercut that she angled in. Landing on his jaw, it was a nasty example of how accomplished this woman was with her fists, when he was more used to scissors and various other holds from her. To confirm this, she showed him how you do a proper left cross, and got exactly the same place on his jaw with it that she had just struck.
Kjersti had him in retreat. Reinforcing her dominance, she got him in his left ear with a full-on, straight right. He stumbled, and she helped him on his way with a kick to the face. On his way, that is, to unconsciousness.
*****
Torsten came round, and sensed something was deeply wrong (apart from the fact that Kjersti had just knocked him out). When unexpectedly cool air wafted against his manhood, he knew: the bitch had taken his shorts off yet again! He got up, and there she was, leaning nonchalantly in a corner, and unexpectedly now dressed in a white leotard, and boots.
And what a leotard! It hugged her breasts as tightly as the blue one, then plunged in a dramatic “V” both back and front, also like the blue one. But what was most striking about it was the fact that the left sleeve was very long, joined under the hand, whereas the right side showed a bare arm and shoulder, plus even a little bit of breast.
“Ah, Torsten,” she greeted him, “welcome back! Do you like my change of leotard? I did it just for you (plus the fact that I can move more easily in this one; it’s much more liberating – almost as liberating as knocking you about this ring.)”
“It should be black, to match your heart,” he growled.
“Fighting talk!” she mocked. “Does that mean you want to carry on?”
“Of course it does!”
“Well, you know where to find me. I’m standing here in this corner – just one, defenceless little woman.”
He roared - well, something, and ran to attack her. Kjersti swiftly, smartly, evaded his futile punch. Then, with impeccable timing, she exploited the momentum of his follow- through with a right hook. It sent him spinning into the corner, facing the post. This was a gift. She kicked him in the balls from behind. He roared again, this time definitely in pain, jumped, and banged his head on the post.
Turning to face her, she greeted him with her left fist. It got him dead straight on the chin, and would have had him over if the corner post hadn’t stopped his fall.
“Come on Torsten, walkies!” she sang, head locking him with her left arm and marching him backwards to the middle of the ring.
She tweaked his nose, then pulled her right fist back, before thrusting it into his cheek. She bludgeoned his cheek in this way twice more before releasing him from the head lock. Torsten, numbed and humiliated, tried a clinch to play for time, clinging onto her magnificent bottom. While it was one way to feel better, it was also damn’ distracting.
To take his mind off that, he lashed out with his left fist; Kjersti leant underneath it and banged her left knee into his stomach. Then she landed a nasty right punch to his jaw. It was an incongruous sight: one outstretched, bare, glamorous lady’s arm punching a well-built man on the jaw. There was nothing wrong with it though – in fact, by the pained look on Torsten’s face, and the jolt of his head as it homed into his face, it had everything right about it.
Kjersti, assured and confident, uppercut him. It was a glancing left uppercut, landing on his left jaw. But it sent his head violently backwards, as more conventional ones to the chin would. When he came back down again, she nipped in an overhand left to his chin for good measure.
Oliver, staring open-mouthed at the screen, groaned at Kjersti’s next punch. To say it was a right cross to the chin would be accurate, but it would be like saying the goal of the season was just another goal. Facing away from the camera, slightly sideways on (she knew how to please an audience), she planted her fist on Torsten’s chin. It looked dainty, yet it was ferocious. Because she was leaning forwards, her beautiful bottom faced the screen; yet it also caught her shapely and generous left breast, thanks to the slightly oblique angle.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” complained Kristin, glancing down into Oliver’s lap. “We’re going out for a meal after this, and you’re not bringing that with you!”
Torsten was on the ropes, literally and metaphorically. Kjersti, now able to pick her targets, got him on the chin with a lovely full-on left cross. She waited for him to regain his balance, then seized his left wrist with her left hand, and swung a kick into his balls. At the same time, she punched his right temple.
Torsten stumbled, crouching to stay on his feet, so she improvised a sort of scoop punch into his jaw and chin. It may have been unconventional, but it worked. Kjersti, her long blonde hair waving gracefully with the lithe movement of her body, and wearing an almost sympathetic, motherly smile, pinned her opponent to the ropes with her right fist.
Torsten flung his right fist at her; she adroitly slipped it, and hooked her left fist into his chest from the side. Then, just in case anyone should be thinking she was amateur and unorthodox in her methods, she fired a textbook right cross into his jaw, left fist up guarding her face in the approved manner.
Still, the unorthodox has good entertainment value, so she powered her right boot up into his balls. Whatever she did, she managed to look graceful, even when she had her male opponent howling in agony, as now.
Kjersti plunged her right fist into Torsten’s stomach. He folded around it, vainly trying to absorb the pain. Immediately afterwards, the woman punched the man in the eye. It was a superb strike, executed from a crouching position, so her right fist soared upwards to achieve both a bullseye and a black eye.
Left uppercut. Right hook. Left uppercut. She punched him with ever-growing ease, while he seemed to be glued to the ropes. In truth, every time he tried to escape, one of her fists would put him back. Just about every part of his face had been “kissed” by a fist, sometimes more than once.
One more punch would bring him down, Kjersti just knew. She let fly another uppercut, but into his chest. Torsten groaned, then seemed to drop in slow motion onto one knee. She had ample time to help him on his way with her left fist. It landed on his right ear, just when his hearing in the other ear had returned to normal after her earlier assault.
One thing you could say for Torsten was that he had resilience. Even now he tried to pull himself up by the ropes. Kjersti waited for him to be half-sitting on the lowest rope, with both arms hooked over the ropes, then sprang on him. Balancing with one foot on his middle, one on the lowest rope, and clawing his face with her left hand, she menaced him with her right fist.
Torsten worked his way along the ropes, trying to escape. She just went with him, and they halted when they arrived at a corner. Seeing her still brandishing her fist, toying with him, he vainly put his hands up, one supporting the other, to protect himself. She merely hit them out of the way, and he collapsed in despair, his defeat boner being the final insult.
“Dear, dear!” she said, teasing it with her foot. “You always know when you’ve beaten a man! Now we mustn’t waste it, must we? Come on Torsten, stand up like a man. But what am I saying? I’ve just unmanned you! Here we go then,” she concluded, raising him to his feet. She hooked his arms behind the top rope and his legs behind the bottom one to hold him there. Then she tormented him with her body, brushing her most intimate parts against him.
“Oh, you love the mature lady’s big, lovely breasts, don’t you?” she murmured.
“Ah, ja, so schon!” he wailed, trying to grab them.
“No, no,” chuckled Kjersti, skipping out of the way. Then she turned round and pointed her bottom at him:
“And you really love the ‘big-arsed Frau’, don’t you?”
“Ah, ja … WUNDERBAR!”
Smiling mischievously, she rubbed it against his erection. “How does that feel, Torsten?” He sobbed some sort of reply.
“Do you prefer up and down or round and round?” she teased, pushing against him. Again, he gave an incoherent answer.
Feeling him throb and tremble, and hearing him pant, she hopped out of the way. She watched and sniggered as he came with a yell.
When it was safe to return, she held him by the chin, moving him off the ropes, and called to her daughter:
“Kristin, this dirty bastard has cum over our nice clean canvas. He’ll have to be punished for that. What do you think? Time for my party trick? You know, a combined right knee to the nuts with a left punch to the face.”
“Oh yeah, please, I have to see that!”
“Oliver!” laughed Kjersti. “You want to see me drive my knee into your father’s balls?”
“Oh yeah!” he croaked. “Please, I must see it.”
“You want me to hit him so hard that it knocks him out?”
“Oh, please do it!”
“Very well dear, just for you …”
