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Mixed wrestling, 210 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), partially CFNM, no blood.
As wrestling names go, Harry “the Hammer” was up there with the cheesiest of them. Nevertheless he was a formidable fighter, and had worked his way up to become the area champion. He offered to fight any challenger, and he had beaten an array of men with equally daft names (some people suspected they were taking the piss): “Heaving” Henry, “Throwing” Theo, and Percy “Piledriver”, to name but three.
His latest challenger had the slightly less ridiculous name of “Lethal” Lesley, and Harry entered the curious padded cage that they held the fights in to wait for him. He did some warm up exercises, and presently a very glamorous woman of about his own age – early thirties – entered the cage. She was blonde, with elegant thigh-length, high-heeled boots, a black leotard cut high above the hips, and a flimsy ballet sweater.
“Hi, Babe!” Harry called out to her. “You’re the classiest cheerleader I’ve ever seen!”
“Good evening. But I’m not a cheerleader, I’m Lesley.”
“What the fuck?!”
“Yes, you see my name is spelt the female way, ending in y or e y, whereas the male spelling is…”
“Lady, I’m not here to discuss spelling, I’m here to fight.”
“Good, because so am I.”
“I tell you what,” Harry went on, “Why don’t we make this a strip fight?” (He had a reputation as a bit of a pervert on the side.)
“Fine by me,” Lesley replied.
“Well this is going to be hunkydory!” Harry gloated, giving her an elaborate display of muscle flexing, while she looked impassively on, hands on hips.
“Finished?” she asked after a while.
“You bet. Come on.”
Lesley accepted the invitation and fired a body kick; the speed of Harry’s reaction unnerved her. He judged it perfectly, ducking underneath it, and her pointed heel powered over his head with a “whoosh”. He went over in response, stood on his hands, and reverse-kicked, catching her nastily on the jaw. He sprang back onto his feet, pushed her onto the mat while she was still reeling, and jumped, facing her crossways for a big splash. He landed, and Lesley’s body jarred with the impact.
Harry may have looked incongruous as a school girl, but the pin was effective. Lesley struggled in vain beneath him, and he laughed, mimicking her efforts.
Maintaining the female-named holds, Harry rolled them over and held her above him in a variation of a black widow. To add to her pain and discomfort, he folded her legs under her, so that she was kneeling on the canvas, while he held her back against him. To confirm his pervert reputation, he had a hand on each of her breasts, while her bottom was held tightly against his middle.
“Pervert!” hissed Lesley, her face next to his, resting on the canvas.
“Yeah, I know!” he chuckled. “And you love it!”
“Yuk!” she answered, her teeth gritted in both pain and distaste.
“Don’t like it?” he asked sarcastically, “how about this then?”
He rolled her back over and toyed with a camel clutch, before pushing her head down on the canvas and locking her right arm underneath his right thigh, as he squatted above her. Then he chose a camel clutch proper, sitting on the small of her back, with her arms locked between his arms and thighs, while he hauled her head upwards against him.
Lesley’s spine, ribs and stomach were stretched to the limits of their endurance. Her breathing grew more and more difficult. She had no choice other than to submit to this dirty slob, and he heard her muffled tones of surrender.
Harry stood over her and celebrated while she lay on the mat, trying to collect her thoughts. But surprise, pain and humiliation conspired against her willpower, and tears fell as she struggled even to kneel on the canvas. Whereas this would move most men to apologise, say it was all their fault and invite her out to dinner, Harry merely gloated and mocked her tears.
Lesley took a deep breath, steadied herself, and rose to her feet. She faced Harry, and took off her ballet sweater, to his delight. As she started to recover, his behaviour began to anger her. Real men don’t behave like that, only the lowest kind of brutes and bullies do. She handed him the garment, and he sniffed it.
“Hmm, expensive perfume,” he commented.
“Not really,” she replied, “but I doubt you’d recognise it anyway. You haven’t yet acquainted yourself with deodorant, have you? And soap and water are doubtful.”
Yes, she was feeling better! But she was also buying time. She was already moving more freely, and she was delighted to see Harry bridle at her insult, and prepare a reply. More time purchased!
“Snobby bitch, aren’t you?” he asked her rhetorically, adopting a fighting stance.
“Again, not really,” she responded, mirroring his stance. “But I do have certain standards, and you don’t meet them.”
They circled, staring at one another, and Lesley sensed Harry wanted her to move first. Very well, only get it right this time … She sprang and kicked, aiming slightly downwards this time. An impact, a thud, and – happy sight! – a heel and sole imprint on Harry’s chest.
He went down and glared up at her, pinning him for a moment with a lady’s elegant boot on his chest. He swerved, seized her foot, and swung her over, placing her in a rather dubious body scissor. He pushed her onto her front, to manoeuvre her into a second camel clutch.
Well, why not? It had worked before. The only difference this time was that Lesley expected it, and her left elbow cracked into his jaw to prevent it. It was a lusty blow, and Harry recoiled, falling backwards. Lesley was up instantly, and moved round him to keep him guessing where, and how, she would attack. She got in close - too close because Harry seized her right arm and flung his foot in her face.
It was Lesley’s turn to recoil. She lost her balance, landed on her side, and Harry was on her immediately. He pushed her onto her front, knelt over her, and drew his right fist back for a sit punch – but she drove her left elbow hard into his groin. He yelped, and rolled away, cupping his balls.
Lesley smiled. Ah yes, the trusty elbow! Harry cursed and panted, to her amusement. But she mustn’t give him time to recover, so she pushed him onto his front and clawed his face from above and behind. Then she grabbed both his wrists, and heaved his arms into a double lock, behind him.
Heavens, she was strong! It was now Harry whose ribs, spine and stomach were stretched until the tendons and muscles felt as if they would snap. Pain gave way to agony, as this fiend of a woman, sitting on the small of his back, drew his arms further and further away from their natural setting.
“Enough!” he heard himself declare, through gritted teeth.
Lesley savoured the moment. It was one-all, and he was the one lying and in pain. He was the one, she could see, now shedding tears. Well it was to be expected, she thought. A man who jeered at a woman crying was likely to cry himself in a similar situation. She stood and watched him kneel, wiping his eyes.
“Dear, dear! A grown man, crying!” she mocked. “First he can’t handle a woman; second he cries when she outfights him; and third, he has to take his shorts off. Come on, off with them!”
Harry stood up, dried his eyes, and handed Lesley his shorts as she had given him her ballet sweater. She flung them away with distaste, ran her hand through her hair, and stood waiting to begin again. Harry complied, and they once again circled one another warily.
She caught him in the stomach with a tentative kick, and he replied with a rising kick which she fended off with locked arms. Too slowly did he adjust from the abortive kick because, in a lightning movement, she turned away and super-kicked at the same time. Her instinct was spot on, because she caught him devastatingly on the chin while she was still turning. As her confidence grew, his ebbed away.
Harry stumbled and Lesley, having turned full circle, hit him on the same spot with a palm strike. Shaken by these successive blows to his face, he brought his fists up defensively. Lesley took this as an invitation. She swung her arms round his neck, hooked him towards her, and brought her right knee up into his groin. Then her left banged into his stomach.
But Harry wasn’t beaten yet, and he caught her by surprise. He dropped down, placed one arm between her legs, the other supporting her neck, and lifted her above his head. Then he threw her. As soon as she landed he was on her, kneeling briefly and putting her over his knee in a backbreaker. Then he lifted her again, and slammed her.
Roaring with fury, he ran at her prone figure, but just as he reached her she made a hand stand, facing away from him, and seized him in her legs. She forced him down onto his knees with the power of her legs, until they were around his neck in a reverse head scissor. Then she concentrated on the pressure.
The veins on Harry’s forehead bulged as he struggled to breathe. He tried despairingly to prize her legs off his neck, but they were too intent on their victim, until Lesley tired of the hold. She released the gasping, shaking, Harry, turned to face him, and sat on his shoulders, engulfing his face intimately. Then she rocked, and they both tumbled down on the mat.
They fought like cats as they got to their knees, both striving for an advantage. But Lesley proved more elusive and inventive; she appeared to fall onto her back, only to hook her legs round him in a body scissor. She banged him down on his side, and lay in the opposite direction on her side. She clamped her legs round his neck, and grabbed his balls.
“Do you regret wanting to strip wrestle, now? And do you regret your perverted behaviour earlier?” she asked, probing, manipulating, grasping and twisting. Harry gave a muffled cry, and she just chuckled while she concentrated on her handful, not forgetting to keep up the pressure of her legs on his neck.
At last she relented, and stood up. Battered and fearful of what this woman was capable of, Harry got unsteadily to his knees - only to get a kick on the chin. It brought him back down, but she let him get up the next time. He ran at her, looking to knock her down with the momentum; she dropped down and fired her left elbow into his groin once more. Then she was up, thrusting her left knee into his stomach, before attacking his groin again.
She reached round him and returned her hand to his balls, before breaking away. Then she gave him a good old fashioned, full-on, punch in the face. It was a left cross, and the astonished Harry staggered back after it. She followed up with a crisp stunner of an uppercut. Her poise, balance and synchronisation were perfect, and her fist shot up into the air while its victim blundered and lurched in reaction.
Harry kicked, but its purpose was defensive, designed to halt her onslaught. It didn’t work, for she slammed her right knee into his balls.
“Ah, did I hurt them?” she asked unnecessarily, “Here, let me feel. I love doing this!” she murmured, feeling his cock as well as his balls.
She broke away and turned away from him. Fearing what was coming, he put both his hands out in supplication. He had had enough, and was prepared to concede the fight. But she wasn’t having any of it! She coiled her left leg and blasted his face with a super kick, the equal of her previous one. She followed up with a ballistic right high kick. Then she returned briefly to her fists, and she battered him with a right cross before kneeing him in the balls.
Harry could no longer respond. He just waited dully for it to finish, praying it would be soon. It was. A left high kick had him reeling, then a right super kick sent him sprawling onto the canvas for the last time, where he lay prone. Lesley had one last little game with his manhood, reluctant to leave it alone, before eventually placing a boot on it and celebrating her victory in traditional style.