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

It was the same every week. Ever since the boxing class had moved next to the aerobics class, the young men of the boxing class had been a nuisance. At first, they had just gathered outside the doors, and looked through the windows, cheering or shouting comments at the ladies working on their aerobics. But recently they had taken to coming in, and this evening was the worst yet.

Sarah, the aerobics tutor, was putting the women through a routine that involved the usual bends and stretches in time to the music. But this routine also included a clap when the music went “pom”. The men found it hilarious to clap out of time, and throw them off their moves. Every time one of the girls turned round and glared at them, they took it as a point earned.

“This is impossible,” announced Sarah, turning the music off. “I’m going to complain about this. You can come with me if you want, ladies. Let’s disrupt their class for a change!”

They marched into the neighbouring gym, along with the grinning young men. “Who’s the coach in here?” demanded Sarah of the nearest man at a punching bag.

“I’ll call him over,” he told her. “Hey, Stinger, this lady wants to see you.”

Sarah looked distastefully at the approaching man. True, he was thick-set and appeared strong enough, as you would expect from a boxer, but he had a bit of a beer belly at the same time, and looked decidedly seedy, in need of a good wash. In fact most of the men looked pretty similar – not like her girls at all, she thought proudly.

“Hello love,” her leered at her, “What can I do for you?”

“I run the aerobics class next door, and I must protest at the behaviour of some of your young men. Every week they disrupt our class, and this evening was the last straw.”

“It’s only harmless high spirits,” he answered.

“No, my ladies pay good money for their aerobics, and they don’t deserve to be disturbed by your boxers.”

“And don’t you think we hear your music through the wall?” Stinger demanded, raising his voice. The gym went quiet. “Then when you turn it off, we can hear you all talking at once and giggling.”

“As to that,” responded Sarah, her pulse quickening with the confrontation, “We can hear you lot grunting, gasping and farting [sniggers from the women], the latter action being one at which you especially excel.”

“That’s pretty insulting talk,” Stinger told her, quietly this time, though everyone could hear him. If you were a man, I’d invite you to step into the ring with me.”

“Ah, that old excuse, spoken by a man who thinks he’s safe. Well I can tell you, Stinker, that I’d be delighted to step into the ring with you.

“You haven’t got any gloves.”

“Good. I’ll enjoy the feel of my bare knuckles against your face.”

“And I’ll enjoy showing the lads your bare arse. Come on, no gloves for me, either.”

With no more talk or ceremony, they climbed into the ring. Everyone in the gym watched them with fascination. Stinger may look powerful enough, but the girls knew how agile Sarah was, how supple her body was, and how quick her reactions were. If she could avoid a direct hit from him for long enough, who knows?

They squared up, and Stinger fired a right jab. With a speed that surprised him, she blocked it with her left arm. He tried again with a hook, but she leant back and ducked out of the way. Glancing up, she saw his body swing round as he followed through with the attempted strike. There was his chin, inches above her, and presenting the easiest target imaginable. She helped herself, and the girls cheered as her fist struck home.

Stinger momentarily lost his footing at the unexpected blow, so Sarah darted in and burrowed her left fist into his stomach. Then she fetched him a really nasty one in the eye with her right fist, which put him on the ropes, close to the corner on his left. She sent him into it with a left hook, took advantage of his disarray to set herself up for a huge punch with her right, then let him have it.

It was a classic right cross, and as he had been turning away from her for some reason, it caught him on the ear. The subsequent cheers and applause from the women reached him in foggy waves. His shoulders, neck and head were forced through the ropes by the strength of the blow, and he staggered for some moments, hovering between collapse and recovery.

Recovery won, and Stinger righted himself, steadied somewhat – and got Sarah’s ferocious left fist on his jaw. She looked splendid! In her black, white-bordered leotard, this pretty blonde was the unquestionable mistress of the fight. Her wavy hair waved just that little bit more, as her punch rocked its victim and seemed to wedge him into the corner.

Once again, she forced his head through the ropes with a follow-up right cross. Her punch actually caught him on the mouth, but you would hardly have noticed, so quickly did it propel his head beyond the ring. Back came the conflict between collapse and recovery for Stinger, and this time collapse won. His eyes glazed over, and he tumbled down to the mat.

“Hey boys, what do you reckon?” called one of the girls, Angie, taunting the bemused, sulky young men. “How about Sarah takes over the boxing class from Stinger, and he can come and teach us aerobics?”

“Yuk,” joined in her friend, Beverley (inevitably, they were known as A & B), “Imagine that grotesque pile doing aerobics. It’s enough to put you off your dinner!”

The two of them struck up an intermittent conversation from then on, which became a semi-official commentary on the fight.

But look at it from Stinger’s point of view. This slip of a girl (admittedly with rather large breasts) had insulted him, and goaded him into a fight. He had started conventionally enough, with a probing jab, but she zipped in and out like a mosquito, then punched like a prize fighter. That last one, while he was hemmed in the corner, stunned him. His senses were no more, and his control over his body disappeared. But it felt nice, down on the mat. It was safe and warm for a few brief seconds. Then, with consciousness returning, so did reality.

He came round to the sound (still coming in waves, as if his head was under water) of women’s laughter. There was that she-devil who had knocked him out, leaning on the ropes and laughing with the women. She was pointing at him, in particular at his shorts. His shorts? He wasn’t wearing them!

“Hey, Stinger!” called Girl A. “I thought it was Sarah who was supposed to go bare-arsed!”

“You shouldn’t have said that,” joined in B, “Because she got rid of your shorts instead, while you were sleeping like a baby. What’s more, getting beaten up and knocked out by a woman has given you an erection! Ladies, just look at that boner!”

It was true, he realised to his horror. She had literally knocked him senseless, and it had done that to him? Incensed by his humiliation and embarrassment, he began to struggle up, mouthing furious threats and curses. Sarah let go of the ropes, moved to the centre of the ring, and clenched her fists, smiling confidently. Then she greeted him with a left uppercut. That stunned, numbed feeling threatened to return to Stinger, and he retreated, playing for recovery time. The only trouble was, she went after him.

“There it is,” said A admiringly, the good old knee up into the balls! Looks better when the man’s naked, doesn’t it?” she added, licking her lips.

“Look at all the boys, turning away!” chimed in B. “Some of them look as if they’re going to be sick! Whoop, up comes that knee again…”

Indeed it did. Sarah held onto the back of Stinger’s head, driving it downwards, and slammed her knee into his face, in particular the eye she had already hit. While the young men shuffled about and looked hopelessly at each other, the ladies stared spellbound at the action. Here was their lovely, graceful aerobics tutor, demonstrating the superiority of female nimbleness and inventiveness over male brute strength.

Sarah now spun him into another corner with a right hook. Buoyed up by her success, she began what everybody sensed was the final flurry. Standing artfully with her left leg between his legs, so that her thigh lightly brushed and teased his naked manhood, she fired a left cross into his jaw. Once again, Stinger’s head recoiled, this time to bang into the corner post. She brought him up again with a right uppercut, so that he resembled a comic statue.

“She’s got him in the eye again,” murmured A. My God, she’s made a mess of his face!”

“Yeah, imagine him trying to instruct aspiring boxers with a black eye, a cauliflower ear, a bruised chin, and a puffed-up mouth! Wait a minute… he’s falling. She’s put him on his knees. Doesn’t she look sexy, standing over him and menacing him with her fist? Any moment now…”

“There it is,” concluded her friend. “A solid right to the side of the head. What a heroine that Sarah is! But that must be it now.”

It was. Stinger slumped in his corner, with his arms hooked over the bottom rope preventing him from lying supine. Sarah posed over the beaten man, with her foot on his manhood in traditional dominant woman style. Then she walked over to the spectators, and stared threateningly at the young men (who all avoided meeting her eye). She pointed at them, and said quite quietly, but in a tone that instilled fear:

“If any of you interrupt my class again, that is what you’ll get.”