Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Mixed fighting freestyle, 380 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), partially CFNM, bloody action.

Following Natasa’s macabre triple killing assignment (Gallery 731), she caught a flight to Los Angeles. A taxi was waiting for her at the airport, and she was driven to the hotel where she was instructed to “take out” Luigi Guilliani, the notorious mafia boss. The agency booked her a room in the same hotel as the suite of rooms that Guilliani’s people had booked.

When Agent Verdi, on the reception desk, was informed Natasa had arrived, she phoned Guilliani’s personal minder and asked if there was anything he wanted. There was a pause, and then the minder answered, “Signor Guilliani would be pleased to accept some nice female company in an hour’s time.”

The call went to Natasa’s room and she answered it, knowing what it was going to be. Guilliani’s taste for call girls was well known, and she had the two qualities essential for the task: she was glamorous and deadly. So she had an hour. Better make that half an hour, to allow for the two guards the agency had told her secured the first and second ante chambers before Guilliani’s room.

“Ok, so I’m a call girl,” she told herself, and spent the next half hour concentrating on the role, like a professional actress (which, in a way, she was). She pouted in front of the mirror, giggled girlishly, patted her hair, looked demurely downwards, cast flirtatious glances, pushed her bottom out, and emphasized her shapely bosom. At the same time, she made sure she could fight in her outfit – a bright red leotard supplied by the agency - and went through a brief routine of moves. Satisfied, she put on the short, very fetching red dress the agency had also left in the room, looked at her watch, and decided to make her way to Guilliani’s suite of rooms.

There was the first guard. Ok, Natasa, play your part:

“Hiya, I’ve come to see Signor Guilliani.”

“You’re half an hour early,” the guard told her. “He won’t be able to see you yet.”

“Oh, it’s not my day!” she retorted. I couldn’t find the hotel, then I couldn’t find the room, and now I seem to have lost my bracelet! I think I lost it somewhere up there,” she concluded, pointing vaguely up several flights of stairs and landings.

The guard looked to where she was pointing - and she thrust her knee up into his groin.

“What the fuck?” he gasped, stumbling as she karate chopped him on the neck (simultaneously divesting herself of the dress, which was an encumbrance and unnecessary now).

Her strong hand sent shudders through his entire body from his neck, and as the side of that hand cracked it again, he fell to the floor. Natasa gave him just enough time to get back to his feet before kicking him horizontally. One elegant red stiletto heel, and the sole of the boot, crashed into his face, and he was down on his knees, still nursing his injured balls. A further kick on the back of his head sent him down on his front; and, struggling to get up, one more to his face sent him hurtling down on his back.

Then she was on him. Two fingers pressed onto the pressure point was all it needed, in the quick, clean, efficient and ice-cold way that the agency trained its operatives.

Detached and dispassionate, the agent stood and regarded her handiwork. “Not bad,” she thought, before knocking at the door of the next ante chamber. The guard, seeing his stricken comrade, uttered an expletive in disbelief; and a rising kick told him all he needed to know about the last few moments. Natasa’s boot struck him square on the chin, with the stiletto heel catching him just above the Adam’s Apple.

The guard sank to the floor, helped on his way by one of Natasa’s brutal karate chops on the neck. He landed on his backside, which was the worst position to be in, considering who faced him. Her gleaming red boot punished his face once more, and he collapsed, supine and unconscious.

For a second time, Natasa regarded her work. He wasn’t going to be “out” for long, she thought. In fact he already showed signs of coming round, with a troubled look on his face as he stirred and groaned. Hmm, what to do? It was still early – in fact too early for her appointment with the boss. She clenched her fists and smiled. Yes, it was definitely time to bring them into play!

The man came to his senses, uttered a second expletive; and then a third as the voluptuous woman landed on his middle, kneeling either side of him, and proceeded to fight him into submission. She might as well have a little fun, seeing she had time to spare, so she used just enough strength to keep him in “play”, while subtly, gradually, increasing the pressure as his hands, locked in hers, began to lose ground.

“I love overpowering a man,” she purred at him. “I find it’s the greatest sexual stimulation there is,” she added with some truth, while tormenting him by grinding her hips against his. “Do you like being overpowered by me?” she asked, taunting him.

“Fuck off, bitch, whoever you are,” he answered.

“Now that’s not nice,” she mockingly reprimanded him, after all the attention I’m paying you.”

The guard was aware that he was losing momentum, as Natasa slowly notched up the pressure on his hands. He began to shake slightly, and sweat broke out on his forehead, while all the time this devil-woman smiled lazily down at him, curse her. There was a curiosity in her look as well, as if she were calculating how much longer he would be able to resist.

She used that seductive body of hers to distract him as well. Her tight red leotard accentuated the generous curves of her breasts, which swung above him slightly with the effort of the combat; while all the time she stirred her majestic round bottom, causing a rhythmic movement of the hips (his as well, despite his efforts to resist).

She defeated him, and his hands hit the floor while she chuckled, placing him in a schoolgirl pin, her breasts hovering and quivering barely an inch from his face. Then she crushed them against his chest, and lay firmly over him, trapping him. (It was the sort of thing he dreamt about, but the trollops who charged him good money for it, never came close to Natasa’s ability and skill.)

All of a sudden, she was businesslike, kneeling over him, with her hands on her hips, and her knees securing his arms. But still, just about everywhere he looked – though his options were limited – those breasts dominated. If he did force his tender neck down, it is true, he could see her nipped in stomach, the swelling of her hips, and the slanting “V” of the front of her leotard … Perhaps it was better to look at her breasts after all!

“Now, about the language you used,” she disturbed his thoughts, and an ominous steely tone entered her voice, “it’s no way to speak to a lady, you know.”

“I wouldn’t speak like that to a lady - aggghhhh!”

Her left fist struck his ear like a mallet, and his hearing was instantly distorted, with a foggy echo.

“Now this lady’s going to teach you some manners!” Natasa cried, punching him on the jaw with her right fist.

His head swung violently to his right, and he dreamily, vacantly, restored it to the centre, only for it to be cracked plum on the chin by her left fist, propelling it upwards. Then she got him on the mouth. The light flashed and danced on her painted, shiny red nails, while her fists pounded his face, until her right fist concluded the barrage.

He had hardly any strength left, so Natasa dragged him up by his shoulders just enough to put him in a standing head scissor. The expensive nylon of her tights crackled with static electricity against his face, while the tops of her boots slipped over his jaws with her movements, as she first settled into the hold and then tightened it. She crossed her legs and pulled, swinging his head this way and that, while he vainly tried to prize them apart.

Then his efforts ceased, and he was entirely passive. Natasa released the hold, and he slumped to the floor, lifeless. Once more, she made certain that particular task was accomplished before slinking silently into the boss’s rooms.

Unluckily for her (and for him, as it turned out) the recent struggle had not been so silent, and Guilliani now opened a door and called:

“Yo, Bruno, what’s all the row?”

Natasa pressed herself against the wall, readying herself to attack if he came out any further. He did, and she fired a kick, sideways on, into the astonished man’s genitals. She almost laughed, because he had obviously just come from bed, or the shower, since he was in boxer shorts. (You don’t imagine a mafia boss wandering about in boxer shorts.) Guilliani lurched forward, cursing at the pain, and she clubbed his neck with her elbow. He groaned, feeling sick with the shocks he’d received, and she whisked him up, above her head.

She held the helpless man in the air for some moments, emphasising her superior strength, before racking him over her shoulders, and bending his spine at an unnatural and potentially lethal angle. Then she lowered him, trapping both his arms and one leg in her arms, while sandwiching his neck in her thighs. They locked his head so high up, that the scissor could have been called “face standing”.

Then she allowed him to drop to his knees, and she hooked just her right leg around his neck. She tightened the vice; he reached up, vainly imploring her to stop (the first time he had begged for anything), but she imperiously ignored him, securing his arm by the wrist.

She released the hold, and he slumped gratefully forward. But the reprieve was short-lived, because she now opted for a conventional standing head scissor. Facing the same way as him, she elegantly crossed her legs just under his chin, and counted the seconds until he stopped struggling and passed out. It didn’t take long, and she let him drop to the floor in the recovery position.

Natasa stood over him, once again checking her work, before satisfying herself that he was truly “out”. Then she lifted him, fireman-style over one shoulder, to the bedroom. His dream must have been very close to reality, she thought as she carried him, because he complained and groaned a great deal. She placed him on the bed and removed the boxer shorts.

When he came to, bewildered and troubled, she told him gently:

“You looked for a call girl, and here I am.”

Guilliani wondered if he was still dreaming. Wasn’t this the girl who had half-killed him? Had it all been part of a dream? No, it couldn’t have been, because the pains he felt were real enough. And what had happened to Bruno? And Paulo (the first guard) come to that?

“I don’t understand,” he weakly protested.

“Sshh, it’s all right,” she told him softly, coaxingly. “Come on, lie back, and let me ease the pain out of your poor limbs.”

“Well you have been in the wars, haven’t you?” she said, sympathetically.

“But you were the one who…”

“Sshh, relax.”

“Do call girls normally throw their clients around, and half-strangle them?”

“Sometimes, when we get asked to,” she told him, starting to massage his body. “Some men have the most … eccentric tastes. Perhaps I was given the wrong information about your requirements,” she suggested. “Now, turn over please, and I’ll attend to your back. My hands have healing powers.”

“That’s handy, after the other powers they have,” he grumbled.

Even so, he began to sigh with pleasure as she went to work. “In another life, I’d make a good call girl and masseuse,” Natasa thought, indulging him for a while, as her soothing hands rubbed his shoulders.

But she turned round after a while, and facing away from him, hooked her legs under his arms, two stiletto heels lightly touching his face in a sinister echo of what he had recently endured. This meant she was sitting on his neck. Guilliani nearly asked her if her arse had healing powers too, since his neck still hurt from her elbow attack and the rack, but decided against it.

She moved down to the small of his back, and brought his legs up, holding his feet. Her “work” began to border on the painful, he thought uneasily. Next, she lay underneath him, with her knees pushing into the small of his back and held his wrists in both hands, occasionally brushing the back of his hands against her breasts.

She turned him back onto his front. Sitting on his middle, she placed the soles of her boots on the side of his face. The “massage” was pushing some strange boundaries, he thought, wishing his guards were to hand, and wondering if she had something to do with their disappearance. Then, stretching luxuriantly, she rested on her hands either side of him, and placed her thighs around his neck, prettily crossing her legs again.

“Sorry, no time,” she told him, starting the assault all over again, and scissoring just as before. Lying crossways on now, she also trapped his left arm in her thighs. The triangle choke, though, was just a fancy extension to the effect of the head scissor. She acknowledged this to herself, and lay on her back, bringing him with her by way of his head in her thighs. Hooking her ankles over, she indulged herself with a figure 4 head scissor, while engulfing his face in her sex.

She starved him of oxygen. The pressure built up so such an extent inside his head, that blood erupted from his mouth and nose, as she literally squeezed the life out of him. But it was her task accomplished, and it was time to leave.

Unfortunately a member of staff now appeared. Quite why, Natasa didn’t stop to find out. But he must be eliminated as, she said, lifting him by the throat, “witnesses are not allowed.”

Poor man, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.