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Mixed boxing, 370 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), completely CFNM, bloody action.
Sandra and Nigel were rival clothes designers in a highly successful fashion company. Unsurprisingly, Sandra designed women’s wear, and Nigel designed men’s. The company was due to expand that year, and it was to launch one new fashion range. Needless to say, Nigel and Sandra both wanted it to be their department that got the job. Just about every conversation they had ended in an argument over the new range, and today their tempers flared.
“You have many more resources dedicated to women’s design than I have for men’s,” complained Nigel.
“Of course I have!” Sandra countered. “A woman might want to wear a dress to look elegant (and sexy, of course). She might choose a skirt and jacket to look professional (and sexy, naturally). She might opt for a trouser suit to look bold (and sexy, it goes without saying). Or she might decide on leggings and a tight top to look … well, sexy. You only have shirts, jackets and trousers to work on.”
“That’s not true!” he fired back. “Just look at me now!”
Sandra sniggered, but said nothing. Nigel was wearing an expensive suit, complete with a gold-and-white waistcoat, and a gold bow tie. He had a gold handkerchief in his jacket pocket (perfectly folded) and a pleated shirt. All this for work!
“Oh, come on,” Sandra tried a different tack, “why not just listen to my plan? I’m working on a winter range for women, because summer’s been overdone – if skirts get any shorter, they’ll become head bands. I have made a woollen-like material for a warm dress that shapes itself around the bust, waist and bottom. Now wouldn’t you like to see us girls in those?” she appealed to him.
Unfortunately for her, Nigel was a young graduate, who had been pumped full of woke ideology for three years.
“You mustn’t be gender-stereotypical,” he rebuked her.
“Look, sunshine,” she answered angrily. “I design women’s clothes, and I know that women want clothes that make their bum and tits look good – and why not?”
“You’re bigoted,” he condemned her.
“Why don’t we settle this in the ring, downstairs?” Sandra suggested.
“I haven’t got any shorts with me,” answered Nigel, shocked at her idea.
“Then fight naked. Or are you more conservative than you would have people think?”
“Never! Okay, let’s go.”
She took his arm, walking out of the office, to give any staff who might see them the appearance of friendliness. They then went into their respective changing rooms, and Sandra got her favourite black leotard (designed by her). Calculating that it would take Nigel a long time to get out of all those clothes, she admired herself in the mirror for a few moments. It was certainly an admirable sight, too. The stretchy material showed off her Venus-like figure beautifully. It emphasised the largeness of her breasts, her narrow waist, and her round hips and bottom.
With a contented sigh, she reached for her boxing gloves – bright red, matching her neat, laced boots - and left the changing room. Nigel was waiting for her, and they went into the gym, then climbed into the ring.
The strange thing was that now they had decided to settle the matter this way, the hostility between them seemed to evaporate. As they touched gloves, and took up boxing stances, Nigel was even quite friendly in the way he asked:
“So do you know a lot about unarmed combat?”
“Quite a bit, freestyle. I dance a lot, and fighting is very much like dancing, in that you learn to anticipate your partner’s (or opponent’s) moves, and form a response. So now, try and hit me.”
He did, and his right hook swept inches above her head.
“Very good,” he admitted.
“Well come on,” Sandra encouraged him, “try again,” and she swerved out of the way of a left cross.
The same thing happened to a right cross, and then a body punch. The chemistry between them was the best it had been for months, and she smiled at him from behind his subsequent right hook. For his part he genuinely admired her skill, and found himself oddly stimulated by it. Here was someone who had mastered, in a deeply feminine way, what he had always thought of as a masculine sport.
A left cross passed over her shoulder; a body punch swept round her waist. A low left cross did nothing more than place his nose an inch above her delightful breasts; a right uppercut found him panting, and they both realised that he was getting tired.
As Sandra darted beyond yet another abortive punch, she decided that now was her time. Her smile vanished as she seemed to flick Nigel off his feet and down on his front, with her right arm constricting his neck and pushing him forward, while her right leg tripped him up. Quick as a cat, she was on his back and choking him, with both arms fastened around his neck. She knelt either side of him, but worked her lower legs under him, so that her heels pushed up painfully into his manhood.
“This is how a lady defends herself, Nigel,” she whispered in his ear, while her surprisingly strong arms worked like a python around his neck. “I have you trapped,” she chuckled.
She rolled them over, and him an extra time, so she was now on her back with him facing her. She hooked her legs around the small of his back, and the body scissor now did to his waist what her arms had done to his neck. Her left arm was indeed still putting pressure on that neck, because she had secured it and his left arm in an arm triangle choke.
Suddenly she tumbled him onto his back, but held onto him from underneath. She still had one infernal arm coiled around his neck, and her legs locked over him, in a classic black widow. Nigel gasped. She felt him tremble, and then go weak.
She stood up, and then walked around him, savouring the successful bout. For his part, he remained on his back, taking thankful deep breaths and suffering, until he made an effort and struggled to his feet. He began to feel better, and was full of admiration for his colleague.
“That was amazing!” he told her.
“Okay, ready to go again?” she asked.
“Well I don’t know …” he hesitated.
“Oh, come on,” she urged him, “we’ve only had one round. Are you willing to give me that contract, then?”
“Right then, fight!”
“Okay then,” he agreed. “You try and hit me this time.”
She sent a punch past his right ear to give him a little false encouragement, making him believe he had dodged it, before evading his reply. She gloved his next attempt out of the way, and then she struck. A vicious right hook caught him on the cheek by surprise. The cold leather of her glove stung intensely, and it didn’t help that she laughed at the stroke.
This was when it stopped being fun for Nigel. Trickles of blood on his cheek transformed his mood, and he lashed out with his right. Sandra blocked it with her right arm, and plunged her left fist low into his stomach. As he stooped and coughed, she struck him again on the right cheek, and it had him on the mat.
“This is how I’ve been wanting you for some time, Nigel,” she murmured, “lying on the mat and looking fearfully up at the dominant lady, who’s just about to hit you!”
Sandra teased and tormented him for some moments, hovering her right fist about two feet above his face. Then she let him have it. Her glove slapped into his jaw, and his whole body shifted to his right, such was the force of her punch.
“Oh dear, you’re all lopsided,” she goaded him. “Here, let me straighten you up,” she mocked, smashing her left fist into the other jaw, knocking him out.
It was a moment to celebrate. Her hobby had greatly helped her career, because she now had a major new project to work on. (She had also knocked a man out in a fight, something she had always wanted to do.) She got up and placed her foot on Nigel’s chest. When he came to, she left off and smiled down at her defeated opponent, who got up painfully to his knees.
“Thank you, Nigel,” she said, “but I must go now. Women are going to have warm, comfortable bosoms next winter, after all!” she finished, walking off.
“Progressive” Nigel might have been. But he felt deeply embarrassed and humiliated that this pretty girl had knocked him out. This lady, who enjoyed talking about which clothes should go with which make up, for whatever complexion and hair style, had first of all wrestled him to the mat, then had set about him with her fists. Well she wasn’t going to get away with it!
With all thought of pain gone, and resentment fuelling his recovery, Nigel ran after her to prevent her leaving the ring. He caught up with her just as she was at the ropes, and hit her nastily in the kidney. She turned round to fight back, but he beat her to it, landing a vicious blow to her face. With a shout of triumph, he realised he had drawn blood, and considered it restored his pride. Fired up, he landed a right hook, forcing Sandra onto the ropes.
But Nigel’s initial rush of energy was spent now. You don’t get choked and knocked out without it impacting on your stamina, and Sandra sensed him beginning to falter after that last blow. Moreover, she was now the one whose anger spurred her to greater effort. She turned round, gripped the top rope with both hands, and swung herself up to land a double blistering kick to his chest. Seeing him stunned, she repeated the swing, one foot getting him in the face, and the other returning to his chest.
“You disgusting pervert!” she shouted, punching him in the eye. Hitting me from behind, like the coward you are, gave you an erection, didn’t it?” she concluded, slamming a left hook into his jaw.
Sandra repeated the hook, but this time with her right foot. Pivoting on her left foot, she swung her right into Nigel’s stomach. He suffered a dull, numbing dead drag of a pain, which burned, and he stumbled, trying to get away. She helped him on his way with a left cross, and he had the unfriendly sensation of the ropes on his back.
“Here, this should cure your erection,” she told him nastily, thrusting her right knee up into his balls. He felt sick, faint and dizzy, sinking to his knees.
Sandra helped herself, with him in that position, and banged her left fist into his jaw. Then she dropped to her knees behind him, and put him in a hammerlock. It seemed an age since she previously choked him, yet here she was again with her left arm around his neck, held in place by a link with her right arm. She brought them both to their feet by the hold, which she maintained for a while, to reinforce her dominance.
Eventually she let go and kicked him horizontally, sending him onto the ropes again. He turned round, and her left foot met him in the stomach, before her right fist stormed into his face, and his back arched between the top and middle ropes. She just gave him time to stand back up “straight”, then resorted to her favourite left cross, plumb on the chin.
This was no longer a fight over a contract and a difference of opinion, where at least a level of mutual respect could have been maintained. It now had all the bitterness of sworn enemies. Nigel’s mood had already changed from relative good humour to animosity; and since he had attacked Sandra from behind, when she believed the fight to be over, she fought furiously. She had now drawn blood in several more parts of Nigel’s face, and she delighted in seeing his head jerk back, and hearing his cry of pain when her glove ploughed into his chin.
Her punch would have knocked him down if the ropes hadn’t been behind him, and when they pushed him back again, she kicked him smartly in the balls, sideways on.
“Still erect are you, pervert?” she hissed at him. “Let’s see if that’ll work.”
It did, but not in the way she meant. For Nigel gave a despairing gasp, and slumped down to the mat. He half-sat, half-lay, with his back against the bottom of a corner post, and his arms hooked over the rope on either side. His head lolled forward, and if a painter had captured the moment on canvas, he would have called it “Hopelessness”.
Sandra relaxed. She got that pleasant feeling of tiredness after physical exertion, while she savoured her victory, and looked down at Nigel’s forlorn figure. She could afford a little fun now.
“STILL erect, I see. Well you’ll need to go to the sick bay in a minute, and you can’t take that with you, can you?” she demanded, placing her right boot on the tip. “I don’t see why I should do you any favours at all, but…” she let her voice fade out, and began to move her foot up and down.
It didn’t take long, but she enjoyed playing the part of a dominatrix while it lasted. It gave her a sexual thrill to stand over him and sneer down at him – a new experience for her. She gave a little cheer when he came, put a fist in the air in triumph, and calmly walked away, ready to start work on that winter design.