Mixed wrestling, 280 pictures 1920x1080 (Fulll HD), partially CFNM, bloody action.

Following Germany’s loss to Algeria (gallery 754), Germany fielded Gretchen for the next match in this bitterly contested league. Gretchen had been banned from every wrestling league except this one, because of her “tactics”. She had a reputation for flaunting her magnificent body whenever she fought a man – and for abusing his body. She had indeed starred in a sleazy film, “Dirty Fighting”, a parody of “Dirty Dancing”, before the authorities banned it.

In response, Algeria chose Azil for the match. A formidable wrestler at home, he was known for his religious fundamentalism, and he considered women competing against men to be evil. Indeed, he thought women should obey their husbands, and be covered from head to toe whenever they were in public. The Algerian board calculated that he would fight all the harder because of this, and the league sponsors were delighted that here were two contestants with extreme, irreconcilable, differences.

Some weeks before the match, a video link up between the two was arranged, and the fans watched, fascinated, as these polar opposites “introduced themselves”.

“Hi Azil, gorgeous, Gretchen began. “You’re going to love fighting me, I have lovely big tits, and the best arse in the business!”

“Ayee! Filth!” was all he could reply.

“Oh, come on babe, don’t you want to be up close against these?” Gretchen leant forward, giving him and the viewers an alluring glimpse of cleavage.

“Disgusting!” Azil shouted. “A woman should always respect a man!”

“Yeah, right!” she laughed. “A man’s at his best when he’s lying at my feet, beaten. And that’s how you’ll be when I’ve finished with you.”

“Never!” raged Azil. “I will punish you! I will…”

But here the sponsors interrupted, telling the fans they were sure to get a fascinating contest, and to remember to subscribe to the event, so they could watch it on television. For his part, Azil went home and shouted at his wife, Fatima. She and his sister, Fetnab, must watch the fight on television, he said, to see how this woman’s twisted morals would be vanquished. He produced an illustrated book on unarmed combat, and insisted that they learn the moves, holds and punches, so they might see how he asserted male supremacy over this wayward vermin.

*****

So now, as the two combatants entered the arena, the scoreboard reminded viewers (as if they needed it) that so far it was one-nil to Algeria. There was silence in a million living rooms in the two countries as their champions walked towards each other, in their national colours. Gretchen’s blue leotard was rather like a strappy summer dress, displaying most of her back, with barely enough material lower down, and a band of it over her shoulders. Elegant, pointed, stiletto-heeled boots completed the striking picture.

Fatima drew in her breath when Gretchen stroked Azil under the chin, calling him “Liebling”, while he glowered at her. Then they faced off, glaring and snarling.

“Right hook … she’s blocked it!” declared Fetnab.

“Right cross – missed – she’s got HIM instead!” Fatima joined in. “Low, in the stomach.”

Azil winced, absorbing the pain, and Gretchen pounced. Her strong, dependable arms trapped his neck in a headlock, while she deliberately held his face firmly against her left breast. (“Always distract him with your charms”, was her motto.) She proceeded to walk him around, for the benefit of the TV audiences, bending forward to maintain the hold.

“Hmm, you can see why she claims to have ‘the best arse in the business’, can’t you?” mused Fetnab.

“She certainly looks good,” agreed Fatima. “But this is what he was supposed to be doing to her. It’s all going wrong.”

“Oh dear!” sniggered Fetnab.

Gretchen forced Azil down to the mat and swapped the straightforward headlock for a hammerlock. She had him sitting on the mat while she knelt on her right knee behind him, and secured his head firmly, with her left arm around his neck. Her right hand clasped it, trapping Azil’s right arm against her thigh and rendering it useless. He began struggling to breathe, and the sisters-in-law exchanged puzzled glances. Was Azil going to be beaten by this woman? From what he had told them (many times over) it was unthinkable; yet just look at the screen! See the contortions on his face, and the smile on Gretchen’s.

“No! She can’t do that!” exclaimed Fatima.

“I’m afraid she just has,” confirmed Fetnab.

“He’ll be furious! I’m not allowed to take his trousers off, and I’m his wife!”

“Leggings, dear, and he might enjoy it if you did take them off some time, despite what he tells you.”

In fact Gretchen tore them off him. She had him in a complicated leg lock, kneeling on the small of his back, with only his chest and head on the mat, while the microphone picked up the sound of ripping material. She threw the tattered garment contemptuously away, and imposed a Boston crab on her exposed, vulnerable, opponent.

Squatting over him, still prone on his chest and head, she bent him back by his legs, secured in her arms, and displayed his genitals to about a million viewers. His curses and groans of pain were plain for everyone to hear. Then she turned him over and held him upside down, still with his legs trapped in her arms, before letting him drop, whereupon a ladylike boot caught him on his right jaw and drew blood.

Gretchen seized Azil’s right wrist while she stood over him, and hauled it into an armlock. It was done as much to display his blooded face to the camera as it was to progress her dominance. But that remained her primary concern, so she brought him to a sitting position, and twisted the same arm above his shoulder. The more he yelled, the more she smiled.

Fatima shook her head as she watched this virago maul and mutilate her husband. She got him on his feet from behind, and held both his wrists behind his back. Then she kicked.

“Did you hear that?” demanded Fatima. “You actually heard a slap as her boot hit his … his …”

“His balls, dear.”

Gretchen held the pretty, dainty boot against his genitals for the camera, before at last stepping back and viewing her handiwork – and what a sorry sight it was! Azil moaned and crouched, ape-like, while he struggled against nausea. He overcame it and turned, blazing with fury, to face his adversary. He shot a left cross; but with a nimble flick of her body, Gretchen let it sail past her.

“She’s punched him in the face!” shouted Fatima, strangely excited, almost enthusiastic, as Gretchen’s left fist banged into Azil’s face, to show him how he should have done it. The woman’s solid punch rocked him, and he threatened to fall to his right; so she knocked him back again with a right cross, which caught his ear and his jaw.

“She’s fighting him just as a man would, “declared Fetnab, unable to disguise her admiration, as Gretchen hammered another solid left into the man’s battered face. Her large breasts wobbled noticeably with every punch, and half a million male viewers in Germany and Algeria gaped, open-mouthed, willing her to punch him again (never mind any national loyalty). She indulged them, and smashed a straight right into his face, stunning him. She fought with methodical, German efficiency, seemingly planning 3 moves ahead.

Gretchen brought the punch party to a pause, electing now to balance on one elegant stiletto heel, while propelling the other one into Azil’s chest. When he staggered, she recoiled the same heel, and then fired it devastatingly into his face. It was a glorious high kick, a model of timing and precision, which earned spontaneous applause in many households, German naturally, but some Algerian as well.

Then it was back to her fists. She got him a nasty low blow into the kidney with her left, and while he wretched and moaned, she brought her right fist back …

“She’s knocked him down!” roared Fatima, gazing at the screen as Gretchen’s uppercut had the bewildered Azil sailing onto his back.

“Go on, hit him again!” yelled Fetnab, as the two women openly changed sides, and began cheering on this majestic champion of their sex, who now set about Azil as he lay supine.

Bending forward at 90 degrees, so television viewers were treated to the voluptuous sight of “the best arse in the business”, she cracked Azil’s jaw yet again with her left fist. His head and whole body swung to his right, so she sent him back again with her right fist. She was sitting on his middle now, tormenting his naked cock with that sexy arse of hers. While one fist struck home, the other was poised to join in the fun. It was as if some drill sergeant was shouting “Left right, left right.”

At last she relented, turned the hapless male onto his front, and twisted his left arm behind his back, while pushing his head down against the mat, to emphasise her ascendency. Then it was an armlock for the same arm, as she knelt over him on his side, dragging his arm up, while her left thigh prevented him from moving up with it for any sort of relief. Gretchen grinned at the camera as she moved his arm into and around her generous cleavage.

Fancying something else she grabbed his right arm, and hooked her left leg around his neck in a “choke-scissor” while sitting on his face. Then she moved her right hand down along his body.

“What’s she doing?” demanded Fatima, in indignation rather than as a genuine question. I’m not allowed to touch him there, even in bed, unless he instructs me to.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing, then!” snorted Fetnab. “Men like it when a woman takes the initiative. At the moment I think he’d prefer you to be handling his balls though, because she’s not fussy about hurting him.”

“I won’t be if he carries on like this,” the other muttered. “Look what he’s doing with his tongue!”

“I don’t think he has much choice, dear. Hmm, she’s handled plenty of those before, hasn’t she? You can tell.”

“This is disgusting!” Fatima fumed. “Are we watching a fight or pornography?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell, dear. It’s certainly warming up though, isn’t it? Tell me, when he does instruct you (as you call it) to touch him there, does it take him long to … you know?”

“Not all that long, no.”

“Interesting. Do you think he might?”

“He’d better not! Look at her now, the hussy!”

Gretchen had turned round so that she faced Azil, looking down at him as she forced him to pleasure her. Meanwhile her left hand still probed, fiddled, teased and squeezed, transgressing the boundary between pleasure and pain. Indeed she went so far beyond it, clenching her fist around his balls, that he cried out his submission, and begged her to stop.

“I said you would end up beaten at my feet, didn’t I?” demanded Gretchen, as much for the television audience as for Azil, while she stood with a stiletto heel on his balls, and the sole of her boot on his cock. “Well?”

“I … I … ah, GOD!”

“The dirty bastard!” yelled Fatima. “He’s been unfaithful to me!”

“I don’t think you can blame him, dear …”

“The fucking wanker!” Fatima hissed at the screen, as it confirmed “Algeria 1, Germany1”.

Then came the adverts: “Ladies, learn to fight like Gretchen! Ring this number for discreet, professional tuition.”

“I bloody will!” stated Fatima, writing down the number. “Azil’s going to spend so much time at prayer after this, begging forgiveness, that I’ll be able to learn to fight like an army and he won’t notice. Then when I’m ready I’ll throw him around, kick him, scissor him, and punch him just like Gretchen!”

“I cannot allow it!” retorted Fetnab. “He is my brother and I forbid it. Unless …”

“Unless what?”

“You let me watch.”

For the first time that evening, Fatima smiled.