She was supposed to be a care worker, but it didn’t explain everything to Grant. Why was she so tired after “work” sometimes that it interfered with their sex life? Why were her hours so irregular? How was she able to afford such nice clothes (and, though he chose to forget it, expensive presents for him sometimes)?

He didn’t like himself for this, but he resolved to follow her the next time her phone went and she left the house. All sorts of things went through his mind, and they inevitably came to the same conclusion: she was having an affair.

The next day, sure enough, her phone went and she promised to be “about half an hour”. Very well, thought Grant, phoning for a taxi while she got changed, we’ll get to the bottom of this. (Then he realised what an unfortunate phrase it was, given the context.) The taxi arrived just as Tanya drove off, and the driver just took it casually when Grant instructed him to “follow that car” as it turned a corner.

They reached a car park. Grant paid his driver and watched his wife leave the car park. Then he followed swiftly after her. He knew the area, though not well, because it was seedy. He followed her down a side alley to the back of a place many suspected to be a brothel, it was so secretive. Surely, she wasn’t doing that?

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, catching up with her.

“You made me jump!” she answered indignantly. “Well, I could ask you the same thing. Have you got an appointment here?”

“Certainly not! I’ve never been in a brothel in my life!”

“It’s not a brothel.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“It’s a gym … sort of.”

Once inside, she explained, trying to reassure him. Men paid a lot of money for wrestling sessions with women. She had her regular clients, most of whom got some gratification from being beaten by her. The client would ring the gym, asking for a session, and the gym receptionist would then ring Tanya if it were one of her regulars. Oh, and the wrestling was CFNM.

“I don’t like you doing this,” Grant complained.

“Neither do I, much. But the money’s great!”

“No. You’ve got to stop this.”

“Now I say no. Greg, my client, has paid for half an hour. Go and have a drink, then come back and I’ll take you on. If I win, I’ll continue; if you win, I’ll look for a different job.

*****

When Grant returned to the gym and got “changed”, both their moods had hardened. Although he had to admit to himself that Tanya looked great in her “fighting outfit” – her grey leotard moulded itself around her delightful, medium-sized breasts - she had a truculent look about her.

“Why did you tell me you worked in care?” he demanded.

“Why won’t you get a proper job, where you won’t be stuck at home, spying on my every move?” she countered.

“I wouldn’t need to spy if you told the truth,” Grant persisted.

“I’ve just sent Greg packing. It’ll give me great pleasure to do the same to you!”

“Come on, then!”

They locked up. Grant was surprised by her strength, especially so since she had only just fought. He expected and hoped she would be a bit tired from it, but it felt as if she had been saving herself for this encounter. Whatever force he threw in her direction, she was able to counter. He felt his hands beginning to shake. The next moment, she had forced him to stoop, and was tugging hard at his left ear.

Then the power struggle resumed, resembling a clinch. Here, Grant earned himself an advantage. Grabbing his wife round the waist in both hands, he raised her, bear hugging her around her middle. She pushed hard at his face in spirited resistance. Pulling herself onto his left shoulder, Tanya turned her brief disadvantage to her favour. Grant had to sustain both their weight, while she now clawed and mauled his face with both hands.

He dropped down to one knee with the strain, so she whipped both legs around his neck in a flying head scissor, swinging back and forth, while balancing with her arms outstretched.

“I call this my helicopter scissor,” she panted, while he tried ineffectually to prize his neck free.

“Now for the push up scissor!” Tanya announced. Supporting herself with her hands on the mat, she kept his neck imprisoned in her supple thighs.

“You know how you adore my strong thighs in bed? Well, how did you think I got them to be so strong? You love ’em, don’t you?”

He did too, in the bed. (He wasn’t so keen on them right at this moment, though.) But she didn’t keep the position for long, instead opting for an elaborate, curious scissor. Supporting herself with just her right hand on the mat, she had his neck still trapped in the crook of her left leg, while her right leg squeezed his ribcage and locked his left arm.

“I call this my hybrid scissor,” she explained (as if he cared what she called it). “It combines the best of a head scissor with a body scissor.”

But it was too ambitious. It was all right for a fairly weak man like Greg; but Grant was stronger, and she weakened herself by dividing her strength between the two types of scissor. He forced her off him, and she landed in front of him on her side. He ungallantly grabbed her breasts from behind, before raising himself to one knee – whereupon he got her left boot in his face.

It pushed him down, but he sprang back to his knees. As Tanya was halfway up, still on her knees, it was the power struggle all over again, and they cursed and snarled as they grappled. Each one had a hand on the neck of the other, but Grant’s greater arm strength prevailed, and he put his wife in a headlock.

Dropping her to the mat, he used an unusual sort of body scissor around her waist, using his arms. It didn’t work. Tanya freed herself by pushing up on her hands. She kicked back to distract him, then fastened her arms around his head and neck behind her, to answer his previous headlock. Steadily regaining her confidence after he had overpowered her, she raised him onto her shoulders, right arm around his right leg and left arm around his left shoulder.

She let him drop to the mat with a bump, then whipped her arms around his neck and head in a headlock/sleeper.

“Smile for the camera,” she hissed in his ear. He raised his middle finger in the direction of it instead, cursing her and the gym at the same time.

Switching to a headlock, pure and simple, Tanya worked him to one knee, then dragged him about as she chose by his neck. Very much in her stride by now, she lay to the side of him, locking his left arm between her legs and hauling him up by his chin.

“This is called a crossface,” she whispered, “exactly like the one you’re pulling now!”

She heaved and ratcheted up the pressure on his arm, neck, shoulders and spine. Then, by way of variation, she continued the crossface from underneath him. This put him in the most ungainly position, with his ugly backside in the air. But more importantly for her, it increased the tension on his spine, to include all of it.

Tanya dropped him down to his side, and the pair of them grappled confusingly for some moments, before Grant seized the initiative. Grabbing her right leg from above, he levelled a massive left punch at her, which she managed to block, using both hands, while she kept him at bay with her left foot.

From formal wrestling, the bout had degenerated into a bitter brawl. Husband and wife snarled abuse and insults at each other, while they struggled and panted, searching for any advantage. This came to Tanya. Forcing Greg back a couple of inches with her foot gave her room to strike; and it came in a thunderous kick to the face. Her left sole spanned his chin to his eye, and he collapsed onto his back. Tanya stretched back and pushed with her foot, to reinforce the blow.

She leapt up and across him, punching him in the right ear. Exploiting his temporary loss of coordination, she lay over him, headlocking him in her left arm, while trapping his right leg in the crook of her left leg. Using her superior leg strength, she bent his leg as far as it would go, eliciting a satisfying cry of pain from him.

She was working him through her extensive armoury of holds, some formal, others less so (though effective). Sitting on the side of his face, she locked his left leg in the crook of her left arm, bending his body into a horizontal U shape. With her right hand, she amused herself by gripping the fingers of his right hand and locking each one in turn, earning herself more yells of pain.

How pleasing they were for her to hear! Suspect her of having an affair, did he? Crack went his index finger. Believe she worked in a brothel, did he? Snap went his middle finger. Then, crunch went all his fingers.

But perhaps it was a bit too early to celebrate. She let go of his hand just a bit too soon, and he partially escaped by headlocking her in turn. But it wasn’t very effective, because she still had him stuck on the mat on his left side, and his right arm was limited in manoeuvre. She was able to spring free and kneel on his left leg, while keeping a hold of his right one.

“Bastard!” she spat, as he roughly grabbed her breast for the second time. She called him worse than that when he mauled her between the legs with his free, left, hand. “I’ll make you regret that!” she vowed ominously.

Escaping his dirty fighting, she knelt over him and half scissored his neck in the crook of her right leg, while locking his right arm in both hands. Her left leg over his left arm meant it was useless to him. It gave her freedom to increase the pressure on his neck, while adding to the torment of his right arm.

Forsaking the scissor, she lay over him and turned the lock on his right arm into a twist, while still fastening his left arm to the mat with her left leg. She knew he had greater strength in his arms, especially his right arm, so she now worked on weakening it from the wrist upwards.

Yes, go for that right arm, Tanya. Kneeling on his chest with her right leg, she dragged that arm into another lock under the crook of her left arm. She made him shriek when she manipulated it the wrong way from the elbow.

Her holds went from orthodox to homemade and back again. One moment, we see her expertly locking his arm in the approved textbook style. Next, we see her “doing the splits” over his head. Pushing his mouth and chin down with her right hand, she twisted that right arm around her right thigh, while still imprisoning his left arm under her left leg.

With hindsight, it was a bit too ambitious. She divided her strengths again, trying to show off what she could do to Grant. His left arm was still good, and he grabbed her chin. They both stood up, with him keeping hold, while she used both hands to try to prize herself free. She failed, and he raised her off the mat in a throat lift. Then, using his weakened right arm just as support, he threw.

The shapely, grey-clad figure of Tanya sailed through the air, to land expertly on her feet. Nevertheless, she was furious, not least with herself for losing her hard-won advantage earlier. For his part, Grant was enraged at the humiliation his wife – for heaven’s sake! – had inflicted on him. Each one rushed towards the other, like two stags charging one another.

Grant missed with a left hook; Tanya scored with a right cross. One smart black-and-white MMA glove smacked against his cheekbone. Grant paid her the compliment of returning the punch, but she darted out of the way and he almost over-balanced following through.

She expertly batted away an attempted left cross, then swayed beyond the danger of a right one. She saw with satisfaction that he was tiring, as a wayward left went harmlessly over her left shoulder. Sweat broke out on his forehead when he swept a useless uppercut over her ducking head.

“Payback time!” Tanya shouted, as she dropped to one knee, and wife punched husband in the balls. For a second, Grant froze on the spot, before roaring in agony. Then he clutched his wounded manhood, and Tanya helped herself (or rather her elbow) to his forehead.

He dropped to both knees, still holding his balls, and moping. What a gift for Tanya! She stood over him and crossed her legs around his neck for a standing head scissor. She looked down contemptuously at her husband, before smiling with the knowledge that victory was hers.

“Remember this?” she asked, using the scissor to walk him around the mat and keeping balance with her arms. “No? I’ll give you a clue,” she finished, with a rather poor imitation of a helicopter engine.

She brought them both down to the mat. Propping herself up on both hands so she could look at his face, she kept the head scissor going long enough for him to pass out. He was so exhausted that it didn’t take long at all, and she stood and posed over him.

That’s what you get for spying on your wife, she thought delightedly.