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Mixed wrestling, 560 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), partially CFNM, no blood.
Bragging among sportsmen is probably as old as sport itself. It’s an ugly spectacle, and while you would expect them to have self-confidence, boasting tends to put people off, apart from their most ardent supporters. Yet so many of them do it. It gets headlines, of course, and can boost ticket sales for an event, but it doesn’t make the man likeable. It’s to be expected that the worst braggarts come from the combat sports.
But it’s very seldom that women brag, not just in sport, but in life generally. An exception to this was the phenomenon of the MMA scene, Farah. She was a North African beauty of an Amazon: tall, with unusually blonde hair, shapely, extremely well-toned, powerful and dangerous. She burst her way into the combat, destroying every opponent, and she soon became known as “The Ebony Goddess”.
But this wasn’t enough for her. She wanted to enter the underground mixed sexes MMA arena. She was accepted, and hit the sport like a whirlwind, demolishing her opponents. Her nickname changed to “Man Eater” (not very original, admittedly) and she relished it. Victories fed her ego, and she soon became as insufferable as any male braggart. She said it was her dislike of men in general that brought her into the sport, and she loved nothing better than to sneer at a man, lying beaten at her feet. This statement earned her several challenges (and many humbled opponents).
Her claims became ever wilder. Her most notorious one was that she could fight two men, one after the other, and beat them both. A promoter jumped at the idea, and within weeks of her boast, we see Farah warming up in the cage, about to face Matt first, and then Phillip. The event would be filmed live, and shown to subscribers in private cinemas in quiet side streets across the world. Farah wore her white “fighting leotard”. It was cut quite low at the front, and was designed to distract opponents with her large breasts. It was open from the small of her back to just below the shoulders, and cut well above the hips.
Her fans, mostly women, loved to see her warming up. Men had to admit (if only to themselves) that she looked formidable while she did it. You could see her muscles tightening, preparing themselves to demolish another opponent. But Matt chose to look nonchalant about it all, entering the cage. He earned huge cheers from the women in the cinema, but that was because of his “shorts”. They were little more than a jock strap, gauzy at the back and leaving nothing to the imagination. “Do I really want to see this?” thought several thousand men.
“Fight,” directed the referee. They touched gloves (MMA standard) and faced off, Matt having to look up because Farah was about two inches taller.
Perhaps he looked up too much; he certainly didn’t see the left cross until it got him on the chin, jarring his whole body. Then she thrust her right into his stomach, and he crumpled round it. It made it a simple task to get him in a headlock. Farah linked her arms around his neck, and trapped his left arm in the hold as well, so it was as much of an arm triangle choke. But whatever the niceties of definition, it worked perfectly. She could walk him around as she chose, meanwhile piling the pressure on his neck and shoulder joint.
From this hold, she was able to scoop him off the mat and hip toss him beside her, so he landed on his back. Then it was headlock time again. She squeezed his neck, so that his face rubbed against her left breast. Normally it would be a real treat, but it’s doubtful if Matt even noticed it, because he was struggling to breathe. In fact she felt him flop, so she let go and stood up.
When he stirred, she told him to “get up and fight, bitch”.
He stood up, and they circled. Farah got the feeling that Matt was already acting defensively, intent on avoiding any risks rather than taking the initiative. A driving instructor would have recognised the attitude as “undue care and hesitation”. So she kicked him in the radiator, his midsection, and waves of pain certainly radiated from it.
A left jab knocked his head sideways. Farah was so strong that it did the same damage as a left hook from most other fighters. But her right fist landing on his chin from the side had him in trouble, and nearly sent him over. Momentarily dazed from it, he wasn’t aware of her hands linking behind his neck. But he noticed soon enough when she bulldozed him in the stomach with her right knee. Coming so soon after the kick there, it was her most telling blow so far.
A fearsome, African, right leg rooted itself behind his right leg, and a formidable ebony arm hammered against his chest, bringing him down on the canvas. She dived on him, a lioness with her prey, and they grappled, Matt with more desperation than ability. Farah soon overpowered him, and glared into his eyes, while she pinned him. Then she sat up and prepared to lay into him with her fists.
She sighed with frustration and exasperation as a cowering Matt succeeded in getting his arms in the way of her right fist (although even that hurt enough). But her left fist struck home, on the jaw. He managed to wriggle to his side, so she slapped the back of his head, ordering him once again to “get up and fight, bitch”. “I can’t, with you sitting on me,” he thought, but didn’t reply. However, she had the same thought, so she stood up, feet either side of his head, and stared down at him, hands on hips.
Seeing Matt struggling to get up, Farah did some posing for the cameras, and female cheers erupted in about 50 private cinemas. Then it was laughter, as she mocked his feeble efforts simply to get to his feet.
Man stands up, woman punches him in the face. Farah’s left fist stamped its mark on his jaw, then her right blasted into his left ear. Matt felt as if he was swimming underwater with the blow, and he played for time by clinching. He felt safe as long as he clung on to her finely- toned body. But the cold, criss-cross feeling of mesh told him that she had used the clinch to force him against the edge of the cage.
Farah smiled at his astonishment, and celebrated by bringing her right knee up into his stomach, while pulling him down by the head so his stomach would feel its full force. Matt lurched, gasping, but she sent him back upright with a left uppercut.
Several thousand women and girls in the cinemas settled back and smiled as their heroine now kicked him in the kidney, interrupting his dismal attempt at a punch. Showing him how to do it properly, she left hooked him and he crashed into the mesh again.
There was cheering again when she lifted him by his waist, so that his feet dangled helplessly 18 inches above the canvas. She held him there for a several seconds, knowing that her audiences (or at least the women in them) would adore the sight of her picking the man up as if her were a bag of vegetables. Then she disdainfully threw him to the canvas, and the cinema screens showed him grimace when he hit it.
Farah did a little more posing for the screens then, seeing Matt on all fours, concluded that only a standing head scissor would do. She gripped his neck in those fearsome thighs. She stretched and flexed for her fans, while the wretched man suffered in all that concentrated strength.
At last she released him, only to shove her knee into the small of his back as he tried to get up, and he sank back down despairingly. She posed over him some more while he lay on his back. Ominously, she reached down to “help him up”. But surprisingly there was no trickery – unless that in itself was a trick. Always keep your opponent guessing, and it can be just as unnerving when there is no treachery. So Matt reflected her fighting stance.
Farah’s left fist on his left cheekbone told him that he should have done more than just that, though. But it was too late, and her right joined in the fun, landing a second blow to his left ear. A left hook sent him sideways, and made his eyes bulge; a right uppercut brought tears to them before he collapsed, unconscious.
Farah stood over him and raised her arms in triumph. Then she began to count him out with the commentary that seems to be fashionable in certain circles. At 4, Matt was a “bitch”, and he wasn’t getting up. At 9, the “bitch” got humiliated. At 10, she had KTFOed said “bitch”.
Farah paraded around the cage, posing and celebrating. Returning to Matt, now on his hands and knees, she demanded his shorts, then told him to get on his back. She would have her victory reward! She lay along his body in a reverse head scissor, smiling at the prospect of pleasure, while she sat on his face. Her hands teased their way slowly to his cock; but there was no teasing once she reached it. She yanked away like a good ‘un, demanding if he “gave”, while practically suffocating him with the grip of her thighs.
“I give, please let me go,” implored Matt, as slender, elegant fingers and manicured red nails brought him to a shuddering climax.
There was one more brief, farewell face-sit, then Farah stood up and posed with her foot on Matt’s manhood, before waving for the camera, and walking out of the cage. There was time for a quick freshen up and a drink, before taking on Phillip.
He was taller than Matt, and about the same height as Farah. Finding him already in the cage, naked for the fight, she proceeded to warm up. He joined in, rather pointlessly calling her a bitch. She glared in return. When the referee instructed “Fight,” it was with some relief that they both took up fighting stances and began to circle, looking for an opening.
Phillip had watched the previous fight. He had seen how Matt surrendered the initiative to Farah right from the start, and he was determined not to repeat the mistake. So he jabbed with his left. She leant back out of its way. He sent a quicker right; she moved to her side, and it went over her shoulder. She took a step back, and contemptuously pointed to her chin. Furious, he fired with his left, but she ducked under it.
Phillip wasn’t the only one who had planned his tactics. From the outset, Farah had decided to let him get frustrated and waste his energy in strikes she was confident she could evade. So she blocked his next punch. He tried a kick. Nothing. A determined right hook was deflected by a well-placed arm, and she noticed he was panting. So she clinched, and forced him against the mesh of the cage. Then her left fist struck home, hard into Phillip’s kidney. The pain this inflicted, coupled with his tiredness, was debilitating.
Farah kept him at the edge of the cage with her right fist, equally hard into his chest. Seeing him flounder, she put him in a bear hug, and lifted. Up he went, then round, after than over, and finally, bang onto the canvas, with his terrifying opponent on him. He struggled, but it was futile. He was close to exhaustion, and she had him on his back.
Farah sat on Phillip’s middle, and rocked his head to the side with her left fist. Her right then jerked it in the opposite direction. Having stunned him, she rolled him over and put him in a sleeper. It was very good thinking on her part. Remembering his panting earlier, she rightly guessed that he was tiring. She had just dulled his senses with those last two punches, so now it was time to drain his reserves of energy. She thrust her right arm under his throat, to turn the hold into a sort of sleeper-choke.
On the other hand, she didn’t want the fight to end just then. (Fans were funny like that. True, they wanted you to win – but they also wanted their money’s worth, and if you won too early, they started weighing the cost of the subscription against the amount of time they got for their sport. She found it was a balancing act between weakening her opponent, without breaking him too early.)
So she slapped him on the back of his head. If it was supposed to jolt him back to his senses, it didn’t work. Plan B, then. Farah stood up and smiled, then waved to the cameras. To Phillip (but for the benefit of her fans and their love of value for money) she said:
“Get up, bitch, the fight is not over.”
That did work. With that sentence of hers, he remembered her bragging, and the reason he had agreed to be the second man in her fight – he wanted to deflate her ego. Not only that, she had embarrassed him in front of several thousand viewers, and he couldn’t let that go. So up he got, raising his fists, and matching her scowl for scowl.
It’s a shame he couldn’t match her punch for punch! She got him with a left jab. It was a nasty reminder of who it was that had been able to pick him up so easily, and throw him onto the canvas. A harder right cross crashed into his temple, abruptly ending his earlier hubris. A feint with her left completely fooled him, thinking he had done so well to avoid it, before a scorching feeling in his left kidney, courtesy of her right fist, told him he had been duped.
That was bad enough. But when she kicked him in the same place immediately afterwards, the scorching feeling seemed to become an inferno. As for his dismal attempt at some sort of punch simultaneously, Farah was simply able to ignore it.
Talking of Farah, she was more relaxed now. Gone was the glare, and in its place she wore a smile. She had her opponent where she wanted him, so to speak, and she could pick her targets. While not yet on the “home stretch”, she knew the hard work had been done, and she could give her fans a bit of a show from now on.
Those same fans in the cinemas also relaxed. Their heroine had mauled her first opponent, and now this man was faring equally badly. Every time she fought, several hundred women signed up to learn martial arts, usually to the dismay of their boyfriends/husbands. This time would be no different. “Man Eater” never let them down and, to illustrate the point, she pulled Phillip down by his head while she sent her knee up into his face.
A left kick low in the stomach – so low, in fact, that it would be illegal if it were not a no holds barred match – had him off his feet. It would have put him on his back, but he was already close to cage edge. When his back hit it, cinema viewers could see the structure move a little. Too many of those, and it would need repairing. As it was, he hit it so hard, that viewers were treated to the comical sight of the mesh imprint on his back.
Having earlier written that Farah had Phillip where she wanted him “so to speak”, she now literally did as well – bang up against the mesh of the cage. She sliced a left uppercut into his chin, and he gave out a cry of pain. His useless effort of a punch in retaliation travelled at a docile pace over her shoulder.
Every blow of hers put the cold mesh of the cage against his back. A knee to the stomach made him look up and appear to pray. It set him up for what was probably the most popular strike of the match: a rising broadside of a right kick. It caught him in the same place, on the temple, that she had earlier struck with a right cross, but it did more damage.
Now she was on the “home stretch”, she could tell. She left hooked him on the jaw, and it had him swaying. By fluke, the direction of the sway took him away from the cage edge, so she sent him back onto it with a right cross to the other jaw. It was too much. He slithered down against the mesh, and slumped onto the canvas. Farah turned towards the centre of the cage and raised her arms in triumph, while female cheers erupted in about 100 cinemas.
Having moved Phillip to the middle of the cage, she stood over him and looked down into his eyes, hands on hips. Then she sat on his face. There ought to be a wrestling hold called a “face scissor”, because this is what it was. Phillip began by arching his back, trying to escape it, but strong hands pinned his wrists, and he knew it was pointless, so he gave up.
“Do you give?” Farah demanded, and immediately got the answer she wanted: yes, he gave.
“Do you remember when you called me a bitch?” she asked, moving herself intimately over his face, as if to ask, “Who is the bitch now?”
Phillip admitted that he did (and how he regretted it!) Satisfied, she stood up and posed for the cameras. Then she put her foot on Phillip’s head, and raised her arms again, imagining many thousand women cheering in the cinemas. Nor was she wrong, while their menfolk mostly wished they had stayed at home.
Indeed, there were protests in the cinemas (though not from the women) at what happened next. Noticing Phillip had got to his knees, Farah got behind him and swivelled him round so that he was sitting on the canvas. She locked his head in a sleeper, and ordered, “Stroke yourself, bitch.”
How humiliating! He reluctantly began to, but she insisted he go faster, tightening her grip. He made himself ejaculate, and collapsed on his back, vowing never to fight again. He’d take up rock climbing, or go to pottery classes, or do charity work – anything rather than be reminded of the shame Farah had inflicted on him.
For her part, she stood up and waved to the cameras. Then she put her foot on Phillip’s chest and looked down at her destroyed foe with amusement, before contentedly leaving the cage. She had notched up yet another victory, and made good her claim of being able to beat two men, one after the other.