Mixed wrestling and boxing, 300 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), completely CFNM, no blood.

“How’s this for a holiday idea?” Denise asked her husband, John, and she read aloud:

“’Strictly adults only health spa. Relax by our pool …’ blah, blah, here we are: ‘Expert tuition given in our gym for martial arts, and all types of unarmed combat. Afterwards, why not hire our Reserved Area to live out your fantasy?’”

“It sounds a bit kinky,” John commented, dubiously.

“Of course it’s kinky!” Denise scoffed. “Don’t you want to add a bit of excitement to our sex life?”

“Of course, but we don’t know anything about martial arts.”

“Weren’t you listening? There’s expert tuition given in their gym.”

“There may be, but we can’t learn all that stuff in a day or two.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll be on equal terms. I love the idea of a bit of a contest! I’ve heard wrestling can be really intimate. Shall I sign us up for it?”

“Oh, go on then. I suppose it could be fun. There’s a bar there I suppose?”

“Of course.”

So Denise booked the holiday for 6 months’ time (and then quietly booked a weekly martial arts course for herself on Friday evenings, when John went out and played darts with “the lads”.)

*****

“You’re so good at this! I’m really proud of you!” Denise gushed, as John was put through a rudimentary self-defence programme by the instructor. He tried to shrug it off, but he couldn’t disguise how pleased he was.

When it was Denise’s turn, she was all “girly” about it, asking about “Kung Fu karate chop thingies”, and giggling. John was a bit embarrassed, and he could see the instructor was struggling to keep his patience with her.

“So when you attack me like so, I need to deflect it like this … damn this bra! Serves me right for having big boobs, I suppose. Now where were we?” The instructor looked despairingly at John, who made a resigned gesture and said “Women” with his mouth, but without any sound.

*****

“That was great, wasn’t it?” enthused Denise, as she and John were walking to the “Reserved Area”.

“Oh yes, apart from the fact the instructor’s probably just had a nervous breakdown.”

“Oh, I thought he was rather sweet – and so patient!”

John shook his head, but said nothing.

“Listen,” she held him by his arm as they walked, “You’re obviously so much better at this than I am…”

“That statue of the founder of this place in the hallway is better than you.”

“Well, as I was saying, do you think it would be fair if you took on a handicap?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, say, if you were to fight … naked?”

“You, what?” He halted for a moment, opening the gate to the “Reserved Area”.

“Well anything goes here, and we’re experimenting with combat as a sort of foreplay, after all.”

“Why can’t you go naked too?”

“That’s not fair. You know my boobs would get in the way, waving about like they do.”

For the first time that day, John smiled. “Oh, all right,” he agreed. He stripped and put his clothes in the place where the boxing gloves were, for the “second half”. Then he gasped as his wife took off her jacket, revealing her new daring black leotard that she had secretly bought for the occasion. She might object to being naked, but by God that thing showed off her charms! Her shiny black boots with stiletto heels completed the picture.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Ok, try one of those moves on me that we learnt about.”

John kicked with his left leg, quite gently; but Denise was onto it instantly, warding it off with her arms. This was puzzling, and didn’t equate with the scatty woman in the gym an hour or so ago. He kicked harder and faster with the other leg; she did the same to it with one arm.

Then she struck: bang into the groin went her shiny black boot. John landed on the ground, hugging himself in pain. He was bewildered as well as hurt, as his wife celebrated her success with her arms aloft in triumph.

“I don’t understand,” he groaned. “In the gym you were hopeless at this, but now you’re displaying skill and ruthlessness.”

“That instructor was all right,” she explained, “but he overlooked an important item in combat.”

“Oh yes, Ninja, so what’s that, then?”

“Deception. Fool the opponent into thinking it’ll be easy and he’ll make a mistake – two in your case. Actually it’s not just important, it’s crucial, deception.”

“Otherwise known as cheating.”

“Are you going to sulk on your knees or are you going to give me a fight?”

John got up and Denise raised her fists, ominously he thought. He punched with his right, but she deflected it. Taking hold of that arm with both hands, she judo-threw him to land on his shoulders, with her kneeling over him and securing him in a headlock. This she swapped for an arm bar, lying on her back with one leg over his throat and the other over his chest, then hauling and eliciting cries of pain from her husband.

Leaving off, she stood up and briefly threatened his groin with her right boot before relenting and allowing him to get up. “Come on,” she encouraged him, inviting another attack. He did, and he surprised her by catching hold of her left arm and leg.

“That instructor knew his stuff after all,” he crowed. “You should have paid greater attention.”

John began to exert a little pressure, still reluctant to cause too much pain, and uneasy at the anguished expression on his wife’s face. She, however, had no such qualms. Taking advantage of his hesitation, she escaped his grasp after distracting him with a whimper, landed on her feet, and elbowed him in the chest, seizing hold of his near wrist to reinforce the blow.

Struggling with what he assumed must be severe heartburn, John was vaguely aware of movement after the strike. He was still gulping back pain as Denise manoeuvred herself in front of him but off-centre, with her left leg between his legs. Grabbing his free wrist, she jerked violently forward, taking John with her over her back in a sort of forward suplex. The momentum had him sailing over her and crash landing once again.

Denise lay behind him and trapped his head and right arm by linking her arms round his neck and throat, and entwined her right leg around his in an anaconda. Then she began to push, or constrict. John was stifled, and indeed it’s difficult to say when the hold stops being an anaconda and starts being a choke. Pushing him onto his front, she seemed to combine these two with the hint of a third hold – a sleeper. Whatever: it hurt, drained his strength, and it worked. John went limp.

Denise celebrated a second time, kneeling above him. Then she stood over him and couldn’t help gloating.

“I saw you and the instructor exchanging glances and tutting,” she told him. “So I bided my time.”

“But where did you learn all this stuff?” he demanded.

“Only at the local gym, every Friday evening while you were playing darts.”

“You double-crossing cow!”

“I know!” she laughed. “And what fun it is! But it’s not just the tuition. You forget I’m an accomplished dancer, and there are similarities in dance and combat. When I threw you over my back, for example – I bet that would have looked quite graceful to an audience.

“All right, don’t keep on,” John grumbled, getting up.

“Oh well if you’re going to be like that, I’ll go and ‘relax by the pool’, in the words of the brochure,” Denise tested him.

“You can’t leave at this stage,” John protested.

“No? Come and get me then,” she challenged him.

He pursued her, and she swung round just as he grabbed her round her waist, foolishly neglecting to secure her arms. She hooked her right leg around his left leg, placed her hands on his shoulders, and all she had to do was push. As he began to fall, she secured him in a headlock (in fact saving him from a hard landing, though making sure he couldn’t escape once on the ground).

“See?” Denise insisted, as she schoolgirl pinned him, “I said wrestling could be intimate all those months ago, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you seem to be dominating.”

“Of course, that’s the whole point! I love being dominant! A lot of men secretly like a woman to dominate them too. Do you?”

“Well it’s a new thing for me, I’m not sure.”

“I think you do,” she persisted, stretching his arms so he was spread eagled beneath her, and then lowering herself so that her ample breasts rubbed his chest through the flimsy material of the leotard. At the same time, she worked her hips gently around his middle.

“I see what you mean,” he conceded, his voice muffled by her cleavage that she had somehow contrived to move up so that his chin hovered above it.

“At the same time,” Denise changed tack, abruptly moving up and now kneeling over him, “It’s still a contest, which I intend to win.”

“It’s rather difficult to keep up, I must say,” he complained. “One minute you’re throwing me over your shoulder, the next you’re getting all sexy.”

“It’s called maintaining the initiative,” she answered impatiently. If I don’t keep surprising you, I’ll lose the initiative.”

“And we mustn’t have that.”

“God, you’re annoying!” she retorted, “and just for that I’ll…” She applied weight to her kneeling position.

“Aaagggghhhhh!” groaned John, as his ribs felt the pressure being applied by her strong thighs.

“So keep your quips to yourself, do you hear?” she demanded, pointing at his face to emphasise the statement, and all the while increasing the pressure of her thighs.

“Yessssssss!”

Denise moved off him and stood up. John stirred painfully so that he sat, and put his head in his hands, wondering how many weeks it would take for his ribs to recover. She gave him a few moments to get his breath back, before darting up again, and shouting, “Come on!” to resume the “sport”.

They circled each other for a while, she daring and inviting him to attack, he wary as to what would happen to him if he did. At length, she took that precious initiative, and linked her arms around his neck, which he tried to dislodge. But no, it was intimate time again. Her arms were around his neck, yes; but the hostility had gone. She moved her face towards his, he responded, and they kissed. Meanwhile she moved her smooth thigh over his manhood.

Denise caressed his body, her hands moving down his back, and then up again, resting on his head. She gently broke away from the kiss, moved his head down a little… and brought her left knee up into his face. The shiny black leather of her boot slapped sickeningly against his mouth and nose.

Dazed and disorientated, John vaguely felt his wife now coil her right leg round his left leg, and place her left leg between his legs, while she grabbed his shoulders, and worked him to the ground yet again. He landed on his back, and she pinned him instantly, grabbing both his wrists and kneeling on his right arm.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked unnecessarily. “I didn’t want to do that, but I have to win, and I can’t win without hurting you. I’ll make it up to you for the rest of the holiday, I promise!”

John said nothing, so as not to be “annoying”, but wondered if he would survive to enjoy the rest of the holiday. He wouldn’t have been able to say anything anyway, because she now moved up his body, sitting on him, and engulfing his face in a head scissors.

“Oh, yes, like that,” she purred. “Good boy! Just keep on like that … oh yeah …”She shuddered, but reluctantly broke off. Time for that later!

Up she jumped, demanding that they resume the contest. John calculated that he was less likely to be badly hurt if he did as she said, so he joined her and mirrored her fighting stance. Once again they circled. But John had reached that “past caring” stage. He thought, “What the hell!” and charged, roaring as everyone always seems to do when they charge.

Denise braced, apparently ready to receive him; then when he was almost upon her, dropped to one knee, and punched. John froze on the cusp of overpowering his wife, as her fist punished his manhood. His head went back, and he grimaced in silent agony.

But this time she gave him no time to recover. She stooped, and scooped her husband, locking his left leg in her right arm, and his left arm in her left arm, with her head against his back. Then she raised them both, trapping him in a rack above her shoulders. She dragged his arm and his leg forward, while she pushed back with her head, drawing cries from him. A Tudor torturer needed to have a wooden contraption built for him, with bolts, screws and levers, to gain what this one woman was achieving, with her own skill and strength.

But she only gave him a sample of what she could do, before manipulating him so that he faced forward. She had him helpless, and that was really what she wanted, having employed the menace of pain. She wanted him to savour the humiliation of being carried by her, unable to react, before she lowered him to the ground.

She sat on him again, and chuckled. “I’ve beaten you,” she stated, “admit it.”

“Yeah, you win,” he consented, glad the ordeal was over.

That ordeal, anyway, for Denise jumped up and announced cheerfully, “Boxing now! Have a chance to win back some pride!”

John watched her competently, familiarly, put on the gloves and adjust them. He bitterly recalled how, in the gym, she had put up her hands in horror – at those same gloves, if you please! – and exclaim, “Ooh, scary!”

Yes there she stood, confidently with her fists raised, and eager to start. “I might as well oblige,” thought John, trying a left jab. Denise blocked it with her right, and drove her left into his kidney. Sweat broke out on his forehead at this new pain, as if he didn’t have enough already.

But he surprised her with a sudden right jab. Yes, it caught her and stopped her in her tracks, he was relieved to see.

“You won’t have it all your own way!” he shouted, with relief as much as anything else.

Denise was furious, with herself as much as him. The last thing she wanted was for him to regain his confidence, so she retreated a step, playing for time. John came on, grinning – and stopped short as her right fist plunged low into his stomach. She nodded with satisfaction as his grin vanished. If he had surprised her, she had startled him.

A left cross now smashed into his right eye, as she followed up brilliantly. His head jerked back and sideways, recoiling at the force of her punch. His retaliatory right uppercut looked offensive enough; but in fact it was a desperate defensive measure, intended to keep her at bay while he recovered. In this it was partly successful: it missed, but it did force her to suspend her offensive and rethink.

As Denise leant back out of the way of the uppercut, she noticed John looking pleased, and guessed its true intention. Time for a little more deception, then. Keeping her right fist poised, she looked worried at the obvious strength of the blow. She noticed John nod to himself and advance a step. Too late! He was within devastating range of that right fist, which now beamed into his left eye.

With his vision now badly impaired, she drove a left uppercut into his stomach. He doubled up, coughing. This was the moment to finish the fight, with him stooping forward and his face so tempting! A right hook shot him off his feet, and for the penultimate time that day, the man lay at the woman’s feet.

“You win again,” John conceded, sitting upright, after an effort.

“I know,” she agreed, before knocking him back down with her boot. Well he had to be on his back, after all, didn’t he? For the unfinished business of the previous head scissors.