Mixed boxing, 250 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), no nudity, no blood.

Everyone knew, or knew of, Terry “Scrapper” Bernard in the small town where he lived. Everyone feared him, too. As his nickname implies, he had a reputation for getting into fights. In fact this narrative begins with him in prison. He was jailed for a series of offences including affray, aggravated assault, and actual bodily harm. The incident occurred in the “Rose & Crown” pub, and the police relied heavily on the witness statement of one of the barmen there, Derek, to send him to prison.

The “Rose & Crown” immediately barred Scrapper after the incident, and hired permanent security. He shrugged his shoulders about being barred – “There are enough other pubs I can go and drink in,” he said – but he did object to being sent to prison. Moreover, word reached him there that it was Derek’s statement that was responsible (small towns being what they are). Similarly, the “Rose & Crown” heard that he was intent on revenge, particularly on Derek, as soon as he was released.

When that day came, Derek was given the day off, and the bar was staffed by the bar manager, Ian. Sure enough, at some time in the afternoon in walked Scrapper, looking as unpleasant as everyone remembered him. It was a hot day, and he was dressed only in shorts (it was against the pub’s policy, but it hardly seemed to matter, given the more serious reasons for his ban).

As soon as he entered, the customers left, since they had no wish to end up as potential witnesses to another fracas. Scrapper swaggered up to the bar.

“Where’s Derek?” he demanded of Ian.

“He’s off today,” Ian replied.

There were a couple of glasses on the bar, and Scrapper furiously swept them off, so they smashed on the floor behind the bar. “No he’s not, he’s upstairs, isn’t he?”

“Hello boys, I hope this is all nice and friendly.” Scrapper looked over his shoulder, and beheld a woman approaching them. She looked like a cross between a glamour model and a ballerina, dressed as she was in a red leotard and pretty, short, high-heeled boots. Her fabulous, curvy figure looked desirable and daunting in equal measures, and her lazy smile betrayed experience and confidence.

“Who the fuck are you?” demanded Scrapper.

“Lucy’s responsible for security,” explained Ian.

“What – a girl?”

“That’s right,” she replied cheerfully. “I’m the only bouncer with bouncers. Now, what’s the problem?”

“This is Scrapper, who we’ve told you about,” Ian explained.

“Ah, of course. All right Ian, if you’d like to go upstairs, I have some negotiating to do with this … gentleman.”

“Very well, sir,” Lucy began, once Ian had left, “I think you understand you’re barred from here, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“What if I don’t?” Scrapper asked, truculently.

“Well unfortunately, in that case I would have to use coercion.”

He laughed nastily, and stretched out a hand in invitation:

“Coerce me, baby! You know it turns me on!”

It was the worst thing he could do, for practiced, knowing fingers gripped his wrist, then his elbow, and he found himself being swung in a circle. He gained an instant, albeit reluctant, respect for Lucy, who spun him against his will – he, Scrapper, who held the whole town in fear!

Both her hands were now at his right hand, and Lucy laughed at his yell of pain, while she manipulated his fingers, twisting this way, and locking that way. Then it was back to the complete arm, as the agile, inventive young woman locked it to his side and forced him to bend forwards, while she cranked and heaved it as she pleased. Once he was staring at the floor, she yanked it up behind him. It made him jump slightly to keep up with it, and to avoid dislocation.

Then it was round and round the mulberry bush again, until Lucy shouted, “We hey!”, let go, and sent him running into the bar. There was an ominous “click” on impact.

“Cracked a couple of ribs, have you?” she chuckled, “that’s going to hurt for weeks!”

Absorbing the pain, Scrapper caught sight of Lucy in a mirror behind the bar. She was standing just out of range of any back kick, and smiling, with her fists at the ready. He realised his only hope was to turn round fast enough to take the fight to her. But try doing that with cracked ribs!

However, that is just what he did – and it was a disaster. As soon as he had moved half round, Lucy darted in and hammered her right fist into his ribcage, exactly where it had just hit the bar. Scrapper shouted in pain, but was interrupted by her left fist smacking into his jaw. Then she cracked him on the other jaw with a right hook, punished him low in the stomach with her left fist, and planted a scorching right uppercut under his chin, whereupon his eyes began to glaze over.

Lucy stood to one side – still with her right fist raised for the benefit of the security cameras – and watched, delighted, as he dropped forward and landed face down, banging those ribs a third time. It was as neat a piece of work, she thought, as you’d see from any male bouncer.

At first, Scrapper thought he was back in prison, waking up in his cell. Or was he still dreaming? It looked like a pub where he was. But there was a beautiful woman looking down at him and smiling, with her fists clenched. Then he realised: those fists had put him where he was – on the floor.

“Is this turning you on then, Crapper?” Lucy taunted him.

“Fuck off, bitch!” he growled, wincing as he struggled to get up.

“Give up, you idiot,” she told him. Look at you! The state you’re in, I’ll murder you!

But no, she thought, male pride was always their undoing. Still, she might as well get some practice in with him. She waited until he was almost up, then blasted his chin with a left uppercut. He fell against the bar, and she advanced on him, then drove a hard right cross into his face. After his head recoiled, and then recovered, she sent it back again with a left cross. With that fist already extended, she drew it round to the side, and then planted a smart left hook on his jaw.

“Come on Crapper, fight back!” she mocked as he stood, battered and bewildered, with his back against the bar. “You’re the big bad bully that this whole town’s scared of, yet you’re getting beaten up by – ah, yes – the security girl! Well this is how a security girl punches!”

She repeated the trio of left uppercut, right cross, then left cross, that had just been so devastating. Scrapper stood, swaying, head lolling, and making incoherent noises. A pretty, feminine hand, with carefully painted nails, seemed to be all that held him up, as it stroked him teasingly under the chin. Her soft, gentle voice seemed surreal when compared with the violence of her methods - a combination of judo skill, swift initiative, and street brawling – as it now mocked him sweetly:

“Oh, you poor battered boy!” she gloated. “You’re just about all done in, aren’t you? I think one more hit should do it. Now, is there anything I haven’t done to you so far? Come on, think! No? Oh well, let’s see … I know! I haven’t kneed you in the balls yet, have I? How remiss of me!”

Lucy brought her right knee up smartly, mercilessly, into Scrapper’s groin. It was too much after everything else. The dull, burning, throbbing ache made him feel sick, and he sank, sliding with his back against the bar to land in the foetal position, clutching his injured groin through his shorts. She stood over him and nodded to herself, satisfied, while he wailed that he’d had enough, she’d won. How she loved to tame an aggressive male!

*****

“Now, listen to what I have to say,” Lucy began. She was leaning, with one hand on the bar and the other on her hip, looking steadily at Scrapper, who was on his hands and knees. He was softly cursing his luck in getting into a fight with a professional security lady.

“I’ve given you a couple of minutes to recover, so now you must leave here, and never come back. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yeah,” he groaned, getting up and turning to go, still clutching his wounded groin.

“Yes, Lucy,” she corrected him sternly.

“Yes, Lucy,” he meekly complied.