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Torsten always thought he should have beaten Kjersti the first time they fought (Gallery 730). It was in a tag team match, comprising the two of them, along with his son, Oliver, and Kjersti’s daughter, Kristin. He didn’t say so at the time, but he considered the match only went downhill for his team when Oliver faced Kristin. That had been a disaster, and after a rematch (Gallery 732), which went even worse for the male team, Oliver and Kristin began a relationship, breaking up the teams.
But Torsten always obsessed that he could beat Kjersti, and it nagged away at him that he had been in the losing team twice. Another grievance he had against her was that he had both times ended up naked against her, which he considered to be a disadvantage (with some justification, it must be admitted).
The grudge ate away at him and, invited to write an article for the “Wrestling Monthly” magazine, he aired it. Certain women, he claimed, could only win by taking a man’s shorts or leggings off. He didn’t mention Kjersti by name, but everyone knew that was who he meant, and she was invited to reply.
“If I were to fight him again,” she wrote, “I wouldn’t want to inflict such a miserable sight on the audience – it was like a maggot with a peanut either side.”
That did it. A rematch was arranged, ticket sales went into orbit, and in a matter of weeks, Kjersti and Torsten were glowering at each other in the ring once more.
The crowd went quiet as the two wrestlers eyed each other. Their personal enmity sharpened the expectant atmosphere. Torsten wore black leggings (harder for an opponent to remove than shorts, because he didn’t trust Kjersti), while she glowed in her bright red leotard and boots. As usual, they proudly wore their national flags on their clothing.
It was with some relief all round when they locked up, because the tension had hung over the arena. Torsten had been training hard, for a long time, Kjersti could tell. He seemed stronger than before, and she found she was always having to respond to his increases of pressure. He would force a little harder, she would react, and then he summoned up more power. Kjersti found herself weakening, and he began to wear her down.
But Torsten opted for surprise, and instead gripped her jaw with one hand, and secured her by the small of the back with the other. He squeezed hard, felt her go limp, and trapped her in a headlock. That’s when he forced her down onto her knees, holding her by her left wrist and twisting her right arm behind her back. Kjersti cried out in pain, and Torsten’s German supporters had something to cheer at last.
Aware of where they were sitting, he turned them both to face them, called out “Walkies!”, and proceeded to walk her on her knees, keeping hold of her left wrist. Then he pushed her down onto her side, and lay over her, twisting her left arm behind her back. From that, it was quite straightforward for him to put her on her front and squat over her, facing the opposite way, hook her legs in his arms, and raise her by them, while at the same time pushing the small of her back down with his weight in a classic Boston crab.
Kjersti’s whole body was put under huge pressure, and her supporters began to worry that she would break under it. It was probably her spine that suffered the most, being bent the “wrong” way, but her legs stomach, ribs and chest were all having their endurance tested as well.
But Torsten wasn’t in the mood to settle on one hold and force a decision with it alone. He was determined to put her through the works, as it were. He let her drop, thankfully, on her front but he gave her no time to recover. Facing upwards over her, he put his left foot onto the mat between her thighs, trapping both of them in the grip of that leg, his right foot outside them, reached with both hands behind his head, and seized her by the chin in a bridge. All he had to do was pull with his hands and push with his feet to inflict more pain on her.
There were more German cheers (though not from all the German women) at this expert display of skill and strength from their erstwhile hero, before he let her go once more and opted for a camel clutch. Squatting over the small of her back, this time facing the same way as her, he again pulled her up by the chin while his weight pushed her middle back down on the mat, piling more pressure on her spine, ribs and chest.
Torsten was working his way through moves and holds so quickly that if you blinked you would miss one. So, by means of a swift hammer lock, he got Kjersti onto her feet, standing in front of him, scooped her into the air, and slammed her down, on her back. Then it was a twin arm headlock, raising her onto her knees, and then onto her right foot, and securing her left leg in what could be called a “leg triangle choke”.
Loyal Torsten supporters (and there were some left after his string of defeats) nodded with approval, because they knew what was coming: a cradle suplex. It was one of his trademark moves, such a lock followed by the suplex, and Kjersti was whisked expertly up and over, to come crashing down on her back a second time, with her head and leg still locked.
In a way, Torsten wasted some of his holds. By passing over them so quickly, he failed to exploit them, and Kjersti escaped a fatal loss of endurance and resistance. For example, as soon as he imposed a crossface on her, he swapped it for a dragon lock. It was as if he lacked patience, and was expending as much energy himself as he was extracting from her.
Many of his supporters looked at each other, exchanging questioning glances, as the dragon lock quickly gave way to a full Nelson, with the two wrestlers on their feet once more. Mind you, the full Nelson led to a brilliant dragon suplex, and Kjersti was despatched expertly over his body, to land with a bump and a jolt on her head and shoulders. From that, Torsten raised her and began to spin, cradling her ankles in the crook of his arms, in a giant swing.
You could understand him not spending too much time on this, because he didn’t want to make himself dizzy. So he twisted her over, facing down, head scissored her and slammed her again in a pedigree. Ever restless, he maintained the head scissor of the pedigree, and lifted her upside down, to drop her painfully on her head in a piledriver, relinquishing the hold at the last moment.
Now he had her up on his shoulders. For a moment he glared at her, then slammed her down yet again on her head and shoulders, before turning her over and raising her. He locked one foot in the crook of each arm, while he gripped her wrists, and stood either side of her in a swing.
Torsten used the crook of each arm a lot, because he now stood Kjersti up and locked her arms in those crooks. Bowing his head, he raised her over his shoulders in another variant of the suplex, and yet again banged her down on her head and shoulders.
Crossface. Double arm lock. Sleeper. It was bewildering the way he swapped each hold, like a discontented child unable to settle to a particular toy. Even so, the sleeper worked, for Kjersti went limp. Triumph, and at last! Torsten raised his arms to his cheering, relieved supporters. Their hero was back!
But many of his supporters, in particular the women, went from adulation to complaint instantly. Because he now took off his leggings to betray a full erection, and he looked gloatingly down at Kjersti’s mature, generous figure. He slavered at the prospect of ravishing her while she was semi-conscious. To shouts of “No!” from most of the crowd, he rolled her onto her back, and put a hand on each of her breasts.
“I’ve always wanted to feel your nice Norwegian knockers, he murmured to Kjersti. She was stirring, and aware that something was drastically wrong. His sweaty hands mauling her breasts was like cold water being splashed in her face, and her alertness returned. The dirty bastard was going to rape her! He was kneeling, ogling her, his erect penis obscenely making obvious what he was about to do.
Kjersti had one chance. She groaned, as if still asleep, and “absent-mindedly” brought her right leg up a little. Then she kicked. Women in the crowd were jubilant as her bright red boot crashed into Torsten’s erection; they laughed and cheered at his shouts and wails of pain.
Kjersti was on her feet, fury carved into her face, as Torsten staggered about, clutching his balls. She punched him in the face, to cries of “Yes!” from the women, Germans and Norwegians alike. Then she got him in the stomach. It may no longer have been wrestling, pure and simple, but this was a real fight they were watching, rather than a professional contest. Kjersti’s right knee struck him on the jaw, just to confirm that.
He blundered about, dazed, and she karate chopped his neck. Then she kicked the back of his right leg, and as his body began to give way, she got him in a headlock from behind, bringing him down onto his back. She menaced him with her fists for a moment, as he lay fearfully anticipating a battering, but appeared to change her mind, bringing him up to his knees, whereupon she kicked him in the balls. He would have been better off with the battering!
Kjersti forced the terrified man back down onto his back, and banged her right knee into his balls. Then her left foot had a go, after which she sat beside him and dragged his right arm up through her legs, locking it then stretching it.
She was working her way through her moves and holds as quicky as Torsten did, but with more intensity, driven by rage at Torsten’s near-rape of her. So she now swapped his arms and locked his left over her lap, still sitting beside him. As before, she stretched it, satisfied when Torsten gave out a yell of pain. Then she sat on his right shoulder, and assaulted that arm again, dragging it behind him, way beyond any pain barrier.
There seemed to be no limits to her variations with arm locks, for now she had her boot in the small of his back, while she heaved his left arm towards her, at the same time pushing him away with her boot. Torsten’s arm and shoulder were burning inside, as she heaved his muscles, tendons and bones to breaking point.
Kjersti knelt on one knee, locking his left arm in the crook of her left harm. She punched him in the face for good measure, before turning around, swapping her imprisoning arms, and attacked his balls with her free hand.
“You’re not going to try to rape any more women, are you?” she demanded, while she squeezed, ground, and kneaded. Torsten made an incoherent, falsetto reply.
The pace of this match had been bewildering throughout, and Kjersti maintained it as she now lay on her back, at a right angle to Torsten, and locked his right arm through her legs in an arm bar. She wrenched his arm towards her, while pushing away at his body with a boot. Then she lay across him, her breasts squashing into his face. She had both his arms locked now, his right in the dependable grip of her hands, and his left trapped between her fine upper thighs.
Then she opted to twist his right arm behind his back, if anything pushing the pace of the match, before opting for a headscissor. She lay above him with his neck trapped in her upper thighs, his face up against her sex. As she faced the opposite direction, her breasts swung above his manhood, which she proceeded to manipulate, teasing it – and Torsten – by occasionally brushing it against the thin material that only half-encased those wonderful, large breasts.
Showing immense dexterity, she maintained both the scissor and the pain-pleasure-pain manipulation of his manhood with one hand, while with the other she twisted Torsten’s left arm behind his back. Then she knelt over him, preserving the scissor so he was on his hands and knees, and his cock and balls were at the mercy of both her hands.
At last, it seemed, getting to her feet, Kjersti stood over him and kept up the agony on his left arm. All the time she had it hostage, while she tumbled him over onto his back. He roared in pain as his body was moved but his arm didn’t go with it. Pulling him up to his knees by the arm, she moved him forwards a couple of paces, and called out “Walkies!”. The crowd roared their approval at her inversion of Torsten’s earlier jibe.
Kjersti pulled him almost to his feet, and swung her right boot heavily into his balls. He plunged back down onto the mat, first shouting in pain, before whimpering at her feet. She pulled him up to his knees by his hair, and now back-kicked his balls. She raised him higher, first by his ear and then by a wrist, and karate chopped him on the jaw. Then she half-dived, and punched him in the stomach.
The crowd loved it. Kjersti could be skilled wrestler one moment, and street brawler the next, with a bit of boxer thrown in for good measure. She now demonstrated this with an uppercut. She laughed as Torsten fell back in confusion, before bringing her left knee up into his face.
She hook-kicked into his side; she kicked him behind his leg; she punched him in the face; she dominated him psychologically as well as physically, holding him at arm’s length, and threatening him with her fist.
“Hit him again!” shouted a woman, so Kjersti obliged with a glorious right cross, before her relentless boot went sailing into Torsten’s groin once more. He howled, and bent forward – never a good idea with Kjersti around! She accepted the invitation, and banged her elbow down on his neck.
Sensing victory, she brought him down over her shoulder, and knelt with her right knee on his neck, while seizing his right arm and heaving it upwards in a lock, bending his wrist. (In fact, if there’s such a hold as an ankle lock, why not a wrist lock, because that’s what this hold could more justifiably be called?) From that, she placed her right knee on the small of his back and pushed hard, while pulling him back, this time by both his wrists.
“You’ve lost, Torsten,” Kjersti murmured in his ear, while twisting his left arm behind him in a half-Nelson. “The woman has beaten the man again, and you hate that, don’t you? Come on, up with you!”
So saying, she dragged him back to his feet, jumped on his back piggyback style, and headlocked him. Then with a swing forward, she had him back down on the mat on his front, and the headlock became a choke. She increased the pressure of her powerful right arm around his neck, and his face contorted in agony and a desperate struggle for breath.
Torsten flopped forward, unconscious, and Kjersti celebrated. She sat on the small of his back and raised her arms to the cheers of her (and a good deal of Torsten’s former) supporters. Then she stood over him, in traditional style, basking in her triumph.
“Come on, Torsten,” she told him once he had come round, “You’re going to give them a little show.”
“No!” he vainly protested, while she pulled him up, and carried him across her shoulders, parading him in front of the jubilant crowd. They were in a corner, and people feared she might throw him out of the ring altogether. But she had a different idea. Instead she stood him on his head, and hooked his legs over the middle rope to keep him in place.
“When you attempted to rape me earlier,” she explained, “you told me you had always wanted to feel my ‘nice Norwegian knockers’. Well now I’m going to grab your diminutive Deutsche dick. Won’t that be nice!”
“No!” he cried ineffectually again, because she had already curled her womanly fingers around his penis. Brightly painted red nails flashed under the lights, while her knowing hand did its work, inexorably towards its inevitable finish.
“Up, down, flying around, looping the loop …” she sang softly in accompaniment. Torsten shuddered and shouted in orgasm, then choked in disgust because she had managed to aim his ejaculation straight into his face, including his mouth.
With Torsten still spluttering, Kjersti kicked him contemptuously out of the ring, and all future serious competition.