Nichols was in prison for beating up his girlfriend, and this was first visit to Tia, the prison therapist/welfare officer. It was supposed to be part of a rehabilitation programme, but Tia believed more in the punishment side of things - especially for what he had done. She greeted him pleasantly enough when he knocked on the door of her office.

“Hi, you must be Nichols. Good morning.”

Oh, well this seemed all right, thought Nichols. A nice bit of therapy with one of those goody-goody types, who believed most people shouldn’t be in prison at all. She’ll probably give me an in-depth chat about childhood, then finish by writing, “Promising progress” to please the governor.

So he was rather surprised when she presented him with some strange, wiry contraption, told him to get undressed, then to fix it on his penis and join her outside in the MMA cage.

“What is it?” he stammered.

“It’s a chastity cage,” she explained. A lot of men get horny when they fight a woman, and we don’t want that happening to you.”

“I’m sorry?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“I think you heard,” she told him, in a voice that combined authority with menace. Then she smiled when he accepted it, her best prison welfare officer smile. Nichols had been told to do exactly as she said, with a promise of early release if he got a good report. His record was good so far, and he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardise it. So he shrugged his shoulders, did as she said, and went to join her. He gulped a second time at the sight of her.

She had changed out of her pleasant grey dress and now wore a black-and-white leotard with dark pantyhose. It made her look dynamic and dangerous, not at all like the well-intentioned therapist he had been expecting. Despite himself, he had a frisson of fear, standing there and trying not to notice her large breasts. She smiled, but it wasn’t the unselfish smile of a couple of minutes ago; it had a foreboding to it.

“Do you know what I said to myself about you, when I read your notes?” she asked him, stroking him under the chin. “I said, ‘Scumbag’, because that’s what you are. I’m now going to do to you what you did to your girlfriend. Won’t that be nice?”

“But I thought this was about rehabilitation,” Nichols was puzzled.

“So it is. After I’m done with you, you’ll never want to hit another woman. Now, let’s have a look at you.”

“Christ!” Nichols thought, as powerful fingers gripped his right wrist, while Tia’s left hand steadied his head, presumably for her to have a better look at him. But it was a ruse to get him in a head lock, and she linked her arms around his neck.

He was right to think she looked dangerous. She couldn’t be more different from the pleasant woman who greeted him in a homely grey dress a few minutes ago. Prison welfare? No, this was retribution, he thought, as she increased the pressure of her arms.

Tia worked him down to one knee on the mat, before forcing him onto his back. That was where she wanted him, for her favourite combination of a body scissor with a sleeper. (Why just use the legs – or arms – when you can use the lot all at once?) Nichols was no stranger to “a bit of rough”; but he’d never had his middle constricted by formidable, pantyhose-clad legs, while the same woman imprisoned his head and neck in her arms before.

Tia lay beside him on her side, and steadily increased the pressure, gratified to hear the first muffled cry from her victim. The sleeper morphed into a head lock, her rock-hard right arm severely testing his ability to breathe.

But she was impatient. She wanted a quick result rather than a slow, drawn-out undermining of her opponent’s defences. (She wasn’t paid by the hour, after all.) She got Nichols onto his knees then, from behind, pushed each foot down hard on his calves. Pulling him to her by his throat, she pushed his middle away with her knees in his back. It was her own version – tried and tested on various hapless men, naturally – of a caverneria.

Quickly working her way through her holds, she opted for a head scissor. She propped herself up on her arm, so she could look down at Nichols’s distress, while her muscular thighs did their work. That was the best bit for her – being able to see the results her strong legs produced on a man’s face, and she smiled at the squirming loser trapped in them.

Next, she opted for a highly novel form of scissor. She sat over his head, cross-legged, squeezing his head where they crossed, and pushing his face against her sex. It was rather elaborate, so soon she opted for a more conventional face-sit, by straddling it. Just in case he didn’t get the message, she pulled his face harder against her with her hand. Well, yes he did get the message; but he almost suffocated.

Tia stood up and watched Nichols gulp the oxygen in. She’s a sadist, he thought, as he was aware of her eyeing him curiously while he shakily tried to recover on his hands and knees. His instinct was to shout some insult at her, but he depended on her writing him a good report, so he just had to take what she wanted to dole out. Her smirk told him that that was what she was thinking, too.

“Come on, up you get,” she barked, like a sergeant-major, taking his hands and pulling him up.

She kept a hold of his right hand for a moment, as if she were introducing herself, then whipped him across to her. Locking that right arm in the crook of her right elbow, she thrust her left arm up over his face. Just as he thought she was trying to drive him onto his back again, she went the opposite way. Seizing his right arm in both hands to lock it vertically, she used her left arm on his neck to make him double up, with his face looking down at the mat.

Then his face smacked against it. She pushed him down with her knee on his back, while she kept his arm locked. Gripping the wrist in her left hand, she proceeded to amuse herself by locking his fingers individually, using her right hand. Nichols bit the mat, trying to absorb the agony she inflicted on each finger. But she was getting bored.

“You can fight back, you know,” she told him, deliberately easing her grip to invite it. She liked a bit of a contest, after all.

For the first time, he was able to follow his instinct and accepted the invitation. He surprised her by suddenly rolling onto his back. It made her lose balance, as he intended, and he interrupted her fall by shooting his right foot under her stomach. Even she had to admit it was the perfect way to get her into a tomoenage, or circle throw.

She landed well enough, managing to make it her front, but he was at her straight away, pulling her hair.

“You’re not going to have it all your own way, you know,” he murmured in her ear, forgetting about being on his best behaviour for a moment, and relishing the change in fortunes.

“No?” Tia replied, rolling as he had done earlier, to dislodge him. With lightning speed, she was behind him on one knee, with her arms linked around his middle. She pulled him over her knee and worked him onto his hands and knees. Then she sat on him, as if she wanted to ride him.

But fun like that could wait for the time being. She used her weight to drop him onto his front. Kneeling over him, she grabbed his chin in both hands and pulled his upper body towards her in a partial camel clutch. She kept him guessing what she was going to do. Was he in for a full-blown camel clutch? Was she going to sleeper him (it seemed like it once or twice).

When she did settle on a hold, it was to squat over his back and lock his arms behind him over her thighs. As a lady wrestler will no doubt tell you, a man is strongest in his arms and shoulders, so it pays her to weaken them. Molten lava seemed to flow from his shoulders to his wrists, while she manipulated those limbs, sapping them of strength and imposing intense pain. At one moment, she would widen them so she could hear his shoulders creak; at another, she would bend them the “wrong” way to render his elbows useless.

Smiling as usual, Tia stood up but kept a hold of his arms behind him. Pulling him towards her by them, she pushed his middle in the other direction with her foot, surfboard-style. Keeping up the pressure on his arms, she now started to punish his ribs, spine and neck as well.

She pulled him to his feet, shoved him round to face her, and punched him in the face.

“I love my job!” she exclaimed, her left fist hooking destructively in at his cheekbone.

“Oh, I can’t bear to look!” she cried mockingly, shading her eyes with her left hand while storming a right cross into his chin.

“Bullseye!” she crowed, swinging her left fist in a mighty arc, to catch both his mouth and nose.

She couldn’t think of anything else to say, but she hit him all the same, with an uppercut so bang on target that it abruptly halted under his chin, without any expansive follow through. On the other hand, it snapped his teeth together and raised him onto his toes for a moment.

Then came the cruellest blow of the lot: she jabbed two fingers into his eyes. They filled with tears, and he was temporarily blinded. Tia was able to help herself to any part of his body. Continuing with the mean streak, she chose his balls, and she kicked him in them at point-blank range, the cage doing her work for her on his cock as well. He bent over double – still feeling his eyes – and her foot made an obscene sound, seeming to squelch into his balls.

Her fists had been bad enough; but she moved to a new level when she turned to her legs and feet to assault him. Swivelling on her right foot, she thundered into him with her left foot, broadside on. It got him on the chest and put him down instantly.

Ever the huntress, Tia launched herself at him and powered her right fist into his face. It stunned him, so she was able to pin him with no resistance.

“I think your rehabilitation’s coming on very well,” she said nastily. “I’ll write you a good report, so you can come back for another session next week,” she continued. (Nichols decided to break the prison rules somehow, so that he would be “punished” and denied any more rehabilitation.)

More immediately, Tia banged her back into his chest from the side, and grabbed his left leg in her right arm, locking it above him. From here, it was simple to move onto a Boston crab. Sitting on the small of his back, facing the opposite direction, she hooked both his ankles into the crooks of her arms and heaved his legs up, while pushing down on his back.

A little while earlier, Nichols had bent his body over double after the kick to the balls. But at least it was a natural and (relatively) comfortable position for the body to be in. Now, she strained every muscle, nerve and ligament in his middle and legs to breaking point.

After that, she inflicted on him the hold that she had teased him with earlier, but never quite imposed – the camel clutch. Just to contrast with her unconventional approach earlier, this was an orthodox one: sitting on the small of his back, with his arms wedged over her thighs, she dragged him up by the chin. This did to his upper body what the Boston crab had done to his lower; while the poor old middle – spine and stomach - suffered equally on both occasions.

Returning her attention to his legs, Tia crumpled him up into the oddest-looking hold. A double leg lock would perhaps be the best way to describe it. Raising him on his side, so that just his head and right shoulder were on the mat, she knelt on her right knee, with his legs folded excruciatingly over her left leg. Looking at the footage, it’s hard to tell which of his legs was which, so weird was the position she inflicted upon them. (As to which one hurt the most … I give up.)

“You’re showing off now,” Tia’s sense of decorum told her. “Yes, but who gives a toss?” her sense of fun answered it. She was in a push up position to the side of him, with her legs crossed over his head, scissoring it. She was so strong that she used the push up to raise his upper body off the mat in an echo of the camel clutch, so he suffered doubly.

From the double leg lock, we move to a double scissor. Interestingly, Tia put them both in a similar position, as if they were crawling in opposite directions. Putting her trusty thighs to work again, she head scissored him once more, while she lay over his back and body scissored him by linking her arms under his stomach. His neck was at the (non-existent) mercy of her thighs, while his stomach and ribs groaned under the constricting power of her arms.

How many variations of the scissor are there? Who knows? It seems to be up to the creativity of individual wrestlers to invent their own. Thus we get Tia on her back, with her thighs coiled around Nichols’s neck once more, having artfully placed him so that he knelt on his left knee on the mat. Once again, the scissor did two jobs. There was the primary task of restricting his oxygen supply through the pressure on his neck; the secondary task was to bend his body backwards and strain it from his left foot to his head.

“Okay, okay, you know your holds,” Nichols silently protested. “You’ve made your point, now leave me alone,” his thoughts ran before he became delirious. She now had him ensnared in a body scissor from side on, while wrapping his head in her arms in a sleeper, mirroring her earlier hold (that seemed so long ago, even if it was only a few minutes).

But no, that wasn’t enough for her. A further head scissor followed, in which his right arm was ensnared for good measure, while she manipulated the fingers on his left hand for a bit of diversion. Luckily for Nichols, he passed out before she could think up any other sort of diabolical hold.

With the prisoner unconscious, the “humanitarian” welfare officer celebrated, before writing him a glowing report.