Mixed freestyle fighting, 300 pictures 1920x1080 (FullHD), partially CFNM, no blood.

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Ronda Rousey nearly spat her coffee out.  She was reading “Combat Magazine”, and some fool she had never heard of claimed that women’s MMA was an “illusion”, a “trick”.  It was, he argued, “stage-managed” by actresses and stuntwomen.  The infuriating man demonstrated his case with pictures of various stuntwomen performing falls from several films.  You could say the same about men’s MMA, she thought bitterly, and produce similar pictures of stuntmen.  But no, once those smug men read that they’d be saying,

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“I knew it all the time.  It’s all a con.”
 

She read the article to the end, and noted the author’s name.  Then she wrote her response, to be published in next month’s magazine:
“I read with interest Mr Clayton’s article about women’s MMA being an ‘illusion’.  I can assure him it is not, and if the sport’s authorities will permit it, I offer to meet him in a cage to prove it. He might even learn something while we’re at it.”
 

The authorities did consent (bearing in mind they knew it would be good for ticket sales) and everyone awaited Mr Clayton’s reply in the following month’s magazine.  But when it came it was a disappointment:
 

“I am not a fighter.  My profession is the theatre, and that’s how I know.  While I can’t meet Ms Rousey in any cage, she is welcome to come along to one of our rehearsals, where we will show her how it’s done.”
 

What a damp squib that turned out to be!  Ronda merely responded with a suggestion that he stick to acting, while she stuck to fighting, and that should have been the end of it.  But lo and behold, this is what she read in yet another month’s magazine:
 

“Babes can’t fight, and I’d be glad to prove it to Ms Rousey any time she likes.”  It was signed, “Mike”, a recognised MMA fighter.
The authorities rubbed their hands.  The mixed match was on after all, and they promoted it lavishly – although they really didn’t need to, because everyone was fascinated with the prospect, albeit in different ways.  Those who were solely interested in the sport weighed up the chances of the opponents.  Some women hoped to see another woman beat a man, and were angered by Mike’s assertion.  Some men were horrified at the idea, but wouldn’t have missed it all the same.  Then there was the unspoken motive of others: mixed combat could be stimulating to watch.  In short, the event sold out.
 

*****
 

The “buzz” of excitement in the crowd was palpable.  Ronda’s supporters were out in force, and if anyone did support Mike they were very quiet about it.  Women were there to cheer on their heroine; some men wondered why they were there at all.  A portion of these concluded it was to please the girlfriend sitting next to them, but there were those – often sitting by themselves – who looked forward to the fight with a mixture of obsession and dread.
 

A roar of cheering – most of it female – greeted Ronda as she appeared and entered the cage.  When Mike strode into it some moments later, his reception was embarrassing by contrast.
 

“I wish you’d stop fidgeting and sit down,” Melanie scolded her boyfriend, Rob, who seemed to find it such hard work to take his coat off.  

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“It’s going to start any moment. They’re doing that talking business now … my God, she’s punched him in the face!  I could almost feel the impact!”
 

Mike recoiled from the blow, righted himself, and struck out with his right leg, kicking high.  But Ronda had anticipated the move, observing him shift his weight to just his left leg after her punch, and kicked in her turn – straight into his vulnerable groin.  Women in the crowd cheered and grinned, while men winced and groaned.  
“You need a stuntman!” shouted a woman, to more cheers from her friends, as poor Mike squatted to gain time and recover.
 

As if she were a circus act, or an Olympic gymnast, Ronda somersaulted perfectly, to attack Mike with a flying kick.  He stood up in time and warded it off, feeling a little confidence return.  But whether it was an expansive feint or not, his confidence was misplaced, for she now cracked his chin with a missile of a high kick.  He fell backwards, once again recovered, and managed to repel a repeat of the attack.
 

His defence was good, as even some of the less partisan women admitted, when he parried a third kick with both arms.  Then when he worked a fourth so that it sailed harmlessly over his left shoulder, they began to exchange anxious glances.
 

Now Mike kicked, but Ronda leant back out of harm’s way.  She responded with a flying kick, which once again failed to break through, being met with a solid defence.  The crowd could sense both combatants’ frustration.  There was a discernible increase in tempo when Mike attempted a high kick which Ronda deflected.  Maddeningly, he repelled her next one as well.
 

They both acknowledged failure, and appeared to agree to change tactics to break the stalemate.  They grappled for a moment, and Ronda managed to score a blow by forcing Mike’s head down into her knee, following up with a nasty strike on the chin with her right elbow, while he missed with a left cross.
 

She feinted with her left elbow, forcing him to swing to his right, and she seized his exposed left arm, instantly locking it.  Cheers of relief greeted the success, as Mike’s body was forced into an “L” shape by her grip on his arm.  He could do nothing but stare at the canvas while she manipulated his trapped arm.
 

She forced him down on one knee, briefly locked his head in the crook of her left arm, and had him on his back.  She slapped his face, back-hand.  But he was strong, and he wasn’t going to submit so easily.  Moreover she had already fought dirty, he thought, and there were those breasts, as easy a target as he’d get that night …
 

“Bastard!” yelled several hundred women, as Ronda’s head shot back in painful reaction.  But she still had the advantage of being on top, and viciously back-slapped his face once more.  His head jerked to the side, so she “adjusted” things with a palm strike to his jaw.
 

(A single young man and woman found themselves next to each other in the audience.  At this moment the man shook his head and uttered “Phew.”  The woman smiled at him, and whispered, “She’s strong, isn’t she?”  Forgetting himself, he answered, “She’s wonderful!”  The girl chuckled and told him, “I’m Janet.”  “I’m Luke,” he replied.)
 

Mike’s teeth slammed together with the palm strike, but Ronda wasn’t letting up now.  She slapped again, but Mike caught her on the chin with his right hand.  For the second time, her head jerked up – but what was she doing with her hands?  
 

A roar went up from the same several hundred women as Ronda jumped up, and displayed Mike’s shorts to them.  Luke looked at Janet, open-mouthed; she grinned in return.
 

“That’s our Ronda!” shouted a woman to general delight, as she mocked Mike, inviting him to make a grab for his shorts, before throwing them out of reach.
 

“Bitch!” he shouted.
 

“I know!” she laughed.
 

“I’ll get you for that!” he yelled.
 

“Here I am!” she responded.
 

But she was too confident.  Although she had infuriated him, he hadn’t lost his concentration or his sense of tactics.  She, on the other hand, was too concerned with playing to the audience.  She ought to have noticed where he was looking, as he ran towards her with his arms outstretched.  Too late!  He bent down and scooped her up in his arms, before raising her, one-handed, above his head.  
Women could yell “Cheat” as much as they liked, but it was a legitimate move, and Ronda had paid the price for showing off.

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She was helpless.  Like a pantomime villain, Mike displayed her to the booing audience, before letting her fall to the canvas, at which most of the audience looked away.
 

Many, in fact, missed what happened next, and were surprised to see Mike darting up from her, prone as she was on her back.
 

“What happened?” Melanie asked Rob.
 

“He thought he had her where he wanted her, but she cracked his jaw with a right hook – literally, I wouldn’t be surprised.  There she goes again!”
 

Sure enough, Ronda repeated the blow with her left fist, and Mike fell to the side, whereupon she concluded her counter attack with a second punch on his exposed left jaw.
In full control once more, she grabbed his left arm, forced her right leg under the small of his back, her left leg over his stomach, and applied a deadly scissors.
 

“She’s so sexy when she fights, isn’t she?” Janet asked Luke.
 

“She’s got a lovely arse,” he whispered.
 

“My arse is better,” she quietly insisted.
 

“Is it?” he asked eagerly.
 

“You can see for yourself later on, if you like,” she invited him, causing him to marvel at his luck.
 

They weren’t the only ones to find her fighting stimulating. Women were laughing and pointing at the cage, because Mike now sported an obvious erection.  Even though he was trapped in her fine, powerful thighs (or perhaps because of it), a sexual message had been sent from his brain to his circulation and there, most prominently, was the result!
 

Ronda transferred those inescapable thighs to Mike’s neck.  Her head scissors had the women in the crowd whooping with glee, and this became a tumult with her next “hold”.  She secured Mike’s neck from behind him with her right arm, in a headlock.  Then she slowly, teasingly, reached down with her other hand.
 

“She’s not going to … surely?”  Someone asked.
 

“No, look, she’s raised her hand again.”
 

“They always do that,” complained a man, grimly.
 

“No, look, she’s grabbed it!”
 

The roar from the audience vibrated round the arena.  Mike’s head went back, whether in pain or ecstasy (or both) no one knew.   So intent was the audience on the spectacle that no one noticed Janet slyly brush the front of Luke’s trousers with her finger tips.  He jumped with surprise; she sniggered.
 

Ronda now had Mike on his back, maintaining a grip with her left hand that was a thousand things all at once: delightful was at one extreme, intimidating roughly in the middle, and terrifying at the other extreme.  With her other hand she held his left wrist, though it is doubtful if he would have attempted to escape without it.
 

“So ‘babes can’t fight’ eh?” she demanded, applying extra pressure.
 

“Oh, God!  Please!”
 

“It’s all acting and stunt work, is it?” she persisted.
 

“No!  You win!”
 

“I’ve won the argument, but I’ve still got a fight to win.”
So saying, she released his wrist, and hooked both his legs in her right arm.  Then she moved up his body and knelt, enveloping his neck throat and face in her upper thighs, forcing his mouth against her sex.
 

Janet took Luke’s hand and placed it inside her skirt, whispering, “Go on, have a little feel.”  As she gazed at the spectacle in the cage, her tongue poked between her lips in pleasure at Luke’s touch on her thigh.
 

Ronda was in much the same state.  With her right hand now on Mike’s cock, she lay on her back, “encouraging” him to work away with his tongue, while she gently bit her left fist at the sensation.

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For his part, he needed no encouragement, and discovered an instant desire to see her breasts (as any gentleman would).  But he misread Ronda’s mind, who was having none of it.  She put him firmly back in his place, which was in a head scissors, before pushing his face with one hand, as if to say, “I’m still in charge”, while returning to his cock with her other hand.
 

Missing his earlier attentions, she now dragged him down so that he faced her lying on her back, and once again trapped his neck between her thighs, so that his mouth had only one place to go.

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Then, deciding he still needed some attention, she spun the bemused man so that he was upside down, with her thighs now lodging him in place by his armpits, and his shoulders on the canvas, before resuming her ministrations on his cock.
 

But this was only a stage towards another position, which owed more to the Karma Sutra than to any wrestling manual, but who cared?  It was the universally recognised “69”.  He fed away, while she tugged furiously with one hand, and seized his balls with the other.
 

“Go on, higher, that’s right, good boy!” coaxed Janet, staring at the “combatants”, and ignoring the humourist near them who shouted,

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“Where’s Mike’s head gone?”
 

Ronda was oblivious to everything but her own pleasure.  She sat up on her victim’s face, and opened her mouth with silent joy, before she screamed with delight, and stood arms aloft as if she had just won the fight.
 

But that, at any rate, was still undecided.  While Janet reluctantly pushed Luke’s hand away and adjusted her skirt, the man and the woman once again faced off in the cage.  Mike reached for Ronda’s right arm, and she let him have it – by way of an elbow cracking his nose.  He staggered back, and she pivoted on her left foot, spun round, and delivered a superlative high kick.  No defence from him this time!  It blasted into the side of his face, and sent him tumbling down on the canvas.  
 

She looked down threateningly at him, fists clenched, and not letting her guard up.  The threatening look turned into a menace, as she stood with her right foot on Mike’s cock.  Then, seeming to change her mind, she knelt on him either side of his left arm, which she grasped, and locked it.  He yelled as she forced it into a hideous, unnatural, shape.  With one knee on his shoulder, she demanded, “Tap!”
 

But he didn’t. He fainted, clean out.  The “Combat Magazine” photographers lapped up Ronda’s victory poses (while Janet and Luke hurried out of the arena and ordered a taxi)