Mrs. Irene

[MuscleWoman]

At the end of the day, Mrs. Irene calmly began to close up the house. There wasn't much to close in this small typical two-story house in the Brazilian metropolitan suburbs: the windows of the two bedrooms on the upper floor, the windows of the small living room and kitchen on the lower floor, with their grilles that provide both a sense of security and imprisonment. Then she contemplated the impeccably clean and organized rooms of the comfortable but modest, lower-middle-class home. A hint of loneliness and sadness briefly visited her gaze as she looked at the photos of her husband and son on the dresser where the TV lay turned off. At 58 years old, Mrs. Irene had been a widow for five years. And four years ago, her son emigrated to the United States, disillusioned with prospects in Brazil. "I'd rather wash dishes in Miami," said the young man when he decided to emigrate. Recently graduated in civil engineering from a private, expensive and poor university, the boy never returned. Occasionally, he sent brief news, always devoid of affection. Her only sister lived in a distant state of the immense country. And Mrs. Irene never got along with her late husband's family. It seems that only now she realized how alone she was.

In fact, she wasn't exactly alone. And to understand that, we need to go back a little in time.
A few weeks after her husband's sudden death, Mrs. Irene discovered that he had left a significant amount of money in financial investments that were certainly not reserved to improve their modest conditions. The discovery shocked her because, despite being a small family, the three of them always lived spartanly. No luxury, no extra pleasure, no comfort beyond the basic or indispensable. The biggest luxury they allowed themselves were monthly dinners at the neighborhood pizzeria and trips to visit the distant sister every two or three years. Mrs. Irene never indulged in the slightest vanity. On the contrary, she humbly accepted the used dresses and few costume jewelry that her sisters-in-law gave her. Her hair remained dark because she dyed it at home. She did her own nails, although rarely. She cleaned, cooked, and did laundry for everyone in the house. And still found time to make appreciated knitting pieces, selling them - which allowed her to pay the bills for electricity, water, gas, and internet.

Sitting in the living room holding her husband's secret account statement, the now widow felt a mixture of perplexity, indignation, and doubt. The perplexity was more about not knowing what to do with this money. After all, she had become accustomed to living with very little. Above all, she had become accustomed to the idea of ��just waiting for the approaching old age, saving to pay for her health plan and face physical decline. That's when her lost gaze found the TV, which she didn't even realize was on. It took her some time to understand what she was seeing. In the afternoon program directed at housewives, she saw an older lady showing off her muscles. The presenter repeated, with a touch of sexual excitement, his admiration for the 70-year-old's defined abdomen. The woman, with a proud and arrogant look, did not hesitate to show off her rigid and well-defined muscles, exposed thanks to the sports top and leggings - which emphasized her thick and toned thighs, prominent calves, and pronounced and hard buttocks. Mrs. Irene was shocked, however, when the wrinkled woman with mahogany-dyed hair began to demonstrate her strength. The presenter challenged her to lift 30 kilos with her arms. The old lady smiled. "I always start with double just to warm up," she replied, now with a look of contempt.

[MuscleWoman]

"In leg exercises, I start with 100 kilos". Ms. Irene was fascinated. Still holding the bank statement in her hand, Dona Irene was surprised by her fascination. She wasn't shocked, outraged, or horrified. She was fascinated. She observed the firmness of the movements, the self-confidence, and above all, the muscular strength of that body, which lifted heavier and heavier weights to the delight of the audience and the presenter (who now seemed sexually aroused, with an increasingly noticeable bulge in his pants). Dona Irene herself began to feel sexually aroused. When she realized her arousal, she immediately turned off the TV. Embarrassed, she put away the bank statement.

That night, however, she couldn't sleep. Her fascination with the older woman's muscles and the realization that the presenter had become aroused by the scene kept Dona Irene awake. Not only that. In the following days, she found herself asking her son how to access the internet on his computer. Although he was curious about his mother's sudden interest, the young man showed her how to search on Google and navigate websites. One lesson was enough. In just a few days, Dona Irene became an expert navigator, going straight to what interested her and discovering something she had never thought of before. Something that was completely outside her imagination of female beauty and body aesthetics. Dona Irene discovered bodybuilding.

Obviously, she knew what weightlifting was. Her husband had even intermittently gone to the gym. And her son was a "fitness addict," which gave him a beautiful and healthy body that Dona Irene discreetly appreciated. But she understood that muscles and physical strength were exclusively masculine. Lifting weights and sculpting muscles was even repugnant to women, as she had always been taught. The female body could be firm, but never muscular, much less strong. Or superior to the body and strength of a man.

[MuscleWoman]

Well, upon seeing the woman on television, suddenly Mrs. Irene felt a desire that had been dormant or forgotten, because that woman had really excited her like never before. However, the attraction was not for the woman, but for the idea of being muscular and strong. Or strong because of being muscular. More than that, her desire now was to awaken in another man the same excitement that the old woman on TV had provoked in the presenter. It was then that Mrs. Irene remembered. She remembered that in her adolescence and early youth, she had been physically active. Born in the countryside, in a family of small farmers, she often had to do manual labor in the absence of male arms. She even recalled that when she met her future husband, he was amazed by the slightly defined biceps of the young Irene. The man even mocked the woman's discreet muscular delineation, insinuating that maybe she was a lesbian. The girl was desperate with the idea that she might have some masculine trait. And she avoided activities that would give her muscles.

Deep down, her greatest fear was not getting married. She felt very good knowing that she was capable of lifting, pulling, carrying, twisting, and pushing with the power of any man her age. More than that. She felt powerful. Many times Irene found herself imagining a reverse situation, that is, where the initiative would come from her – and not from men. In her fantasies, she even saw herself subduing her boyfriend, imposing herself on him, threatening to beat him if he did not obey her. Something unthinkable in the macho culture in which she was raised. This led her to confess to the priest, certain that she had sinned greatly with such thoughts. The priest rebuked her vehemently, threatening her with the fire of Hell and the loneliness of spinsterhood. Irene repressed herself, fearing loneliness more. And she ended up marrying already somewhat chubby and quite servile. The years that followed erased the promise of a defined musculature with accumulated fat. When, now a widow and with a good amount of money unexpectedly inherited, Mrs. Irene realized this, a strange smile sprouted on her face. "Why not?" she whispered. And she typed into Google the words that led her to the sites where she found what was needed to fulfill the now-revived desire: to become a physically strong woman.

It was not easy. She herself resisted the idea that seemed both strange and fascinating to her. But she noticed that her sudden interest in fitness did not cause surprise. On the contrary, her son even encouraged her, but hoping that his mother wouldn't give him too much trouble in old age. So, in the first few months, Mrs. Irene corrected her diet and sleep time, which was enough for her to lose a few pounds in just a few weeks. In addition, she enrolled in the same gym as her son. And she started with light exercises, "suitable for a woman her age" - as the trainer announced. Surprisingly, however, Mrs. Irene quickly responded to physical activities. And in less than six months, she had made notable progress that filled her with praise, enthusiasm, and self-confidence. It was just the beginning.

After some more hesitation, Mrs. Irene asked the instructor to intensify the training and increase the weight of the loads. The request was received with disbelief, but the trainer decided to test how far that lady could go in her pretentious purpose. He was sure that she wouldn't be able to withstand the new exercise routine for even a week. To his surprise, however, Mrs. Irene not only remained firm but also asked for more at the end of the month: more weight, more intensity, more training time. In his entire professional career, the trainer had never seen anything like it. And he began to suspect that that woman was using some medication or drug. In fact, she wasn't. It was pure discipline. And a strong will to become strong, as Mrs. Irene now even explicitly admitted.

"Do you think I can become stronger than you?" she asked Marcos, the trainer. He was a 35-year-old man, tall, with shaved hair, dense beard, and very white teeth that contrasted with his sensually dark skin. Masculine but attractive face, with a beautiful pair of seductive very dark brown eyes. A former MMA fighter, he graduated in physical education and opened the gym after realizing that he would not achieve the international stardom of other Brazilians in this sport. When he heard the question from the mature and obstinate student, Marcos smiled, incredulous. "Of course not, Mrs. Irene," he replied, smiling compassionately. "That's impossible. Look: I have a much bigger muscle mass than you. And I'm a man. Men are always stronger than women." Mrs. Irene just smiled back but took those words as a challenge. "I'll show you, young man," she thought.

Months passed and Dona Irene's progress in bodybuilding began to attract attention. At the same time, Marcos began to worry, fearing that the elderly woman's performance would result in some injury or serious illness for which he would be held responsible. At the gym, she had already surpassed the marks of most of her younger male attendees. Marcos himself, at the peak of his muscular power - which he maintained through continuous exercise - found in Dona Irene the only one capable of competing with him in bench press. However, in his last meeting with the woman's son before he left for the United States, Marcos revealed his concern and decided to make a drastic decision.

"Your mother was progressing very well, Rodrigo," Marcos began. "She lost weight quickly, eliminated the pain in her knees and back, and regained her elasticity. But I think what started as simply maintaining her health has turned into an unhealthy obsession. She spends four hours a day here at the gym, Monday through Saturday. Not a single day is missed. I have never seen anything like this, especially not in a woman who is almost 60 years old. I think you should send her to a psychiatrist. What she is doing is not normal."

"Well, at least she's keeping herself busy," Rodrigo retorted, somewhat impatiently. "I don't see any problem if she's enjoying it."

"But it's excessive. This could harm her..."

"Look, Marcos, I'm leaving for the United States the day after tomorrow. The last thing I want is to create a problem, especially with my mother. If she's not harming anyone and is even benefiting her own health, let it be. Besides, the old lady is even getting hot, don't you think?" And he winked at the instructor while giving him a light tap on the shoulder as a farewell.

However, Marcos did not want to take any risks. The following week, with Rodrigo already in the United States, he confronted Dona Irene as soon as she finished her exercises, after lifting dumbbells of 40 kilos in each arm fifteen times.

"Dona Irene, I would like to be very direct and frank with you..."

"Oh, Marcos, don't worry... Next week I'll start lifting 50-kilo dumbbells..."

That's not it, Mrs. Irene... Actually, that's exactly it! You've been increasing the weight loads at a volume that is incompatible with your age and...
But what's the problem? I'm not feeling any pain. On the contrary, they have actually disappeared. And I am able to handle increasingly heavier weights...
Mrs. Irene, that's not normal! Not even younger people can do what you're doing here. Nobody spends four hours a day in a gym unless they're an athlete. There must be something wrong...
What do you mean, "wrong"?
Look, I have nothing to do with your personal life. And I don't want to know whether you're using any drugs or not, but the fact is that I don't want to be held responsible for any damage to your health...
What?! I don't use any drugs, I pay my gym membership religiously, I do all the exercises correctly and you come up with this conversation?! Nobody tells me what to do! I do what I want!
Mrs. Irene herself was surprised by the imposing and threatening tone of her speech. She was surprised, but she also liked it. Raising her now firm and delineated chest, she approached Marcos more, looking straight into his beautiful brown eyes, and sentenced:
Are you afraid that I will become stronger than you, Marcos? Don't you think I've noticed that I'm already lifting the same weight as you on the bench press?
The trainer stiffened his athletic body, indignant at the sudden insolence of the woman, and retorted:
What you're saying is completely ridiculous! I have a business and a reputation to take care of. I won't let my gym become news with some tendon rupture or serious injury caused by your irresponsibility... Please don't come back here, Mrs. Irene! I'll refund the remaining amount of your membership and don't set foot in my gym again!
Mrs. Irene stared at him for a few seconds. And said only:
You'll regret it.

[MuscleWoman]

After Rodrigo bid farewell with a cold hug at the airport, Dona Irene hurried back home. Earlier that morning she had received the last boxes containing new equipment she had purchased for the small home gym she was setting up. Her son used the guest house as a workout space when he couldn't make it to the gym and he planned to sell the equipment before traveling. But Dona Irene bought them and kept them there, expanding the resources she had been installing herself. It wasn't just physical strength that Dona Irene was gaining, it was also the ability to decide and act according to her own desires. So, now that she had the money, she renovated the guest house (at the back of the small yard) and transformed it into a small and well-equipped weightlifting gym. She even covered the floor and (strangely, an attentive and suspicious observer would say) the walls.

Her internet research, which only took up less time than her actual exercise routine, allowed her to become independent of any gym. So, when Marcos kicked her out, Dona Irene was almost done setting up her private gym - although she planned to only use it on Sundays and at night for supplemental exercises. The expulsion only stimulated her more.

So as soon as she arrived from the airport, Mrs. Irene went to see her gym. Her son's old dumbbells, mats, bars and weights joined shiny new pieces, such as power racks for pull-ups and dips, leg extension and curl chairs, weightlifting belts, rowing machine, stationary bike and treadmill, flexor bench, and all equipment for horizontal leg press, calf extension, pulley, bench press, and development of deltoids, biceps, and triceps. In one corner, she installed a mirror. Seeing herself reflected in it, she observed her figure for a few minutes. Dressed in her usual sobriety and modesty, there was apparently nothing special about that woman in her late 50s, with discreetly painted lips, short dyed hair, a pair of even more discreet earrings (inherited from her mother), greenish eyes, and fair skin marked by wrinkles that betrayed her age. With a height of just over five feet, slim and erect, Mrs. Irene would go unnoticed like one among millions of other women of her age and social class, lost in the anonymity of a South American megalopolis. In the cheap, unsexy dress that covered her arms to the elbows and legs to the knees, Mrs. Irene saw herself in the mirror as "an ordinary woman" - she thought. "An ordinary woman?" she asked aloud. And she smiled sardonically.
Approaching the mirror, she began to unbutton her dress little by little. Over the bra that was now revealed, she groped her small but still firm breasts. Her hands descended a little more and revealed her abdomen, her greatest pride: it was visibly delineated, divided into six muscle "packs," giving her torso a sensuality she had never seen before. The thick layer of fat had disappeared. No flabbiness. If it weren't for the skin marks betraying her lifetime, that abdomen could belong to a young gymnast. Mrs. Irene smiled, satisfied, and finished unbuttoning her dress, exposing her thighs, the most powerful part of her muscles. She remembered the suffering, especially in the first few months, pushing heavier and heavier loads on the leg press, an effort that caused lancinating pain in that sedentary body for decades. But the suffering was worth it, she concluded, admiring those muscles as hard as steel and twisting her legs to appreciate her toned calves.
However, she enjoyed the grand finale at length. Getting rid of the dress, Mrs. Irene flexed her biceps and had great pleasure feeling them, hard and powerful, standing out on her arms. Still somewhat awkwardly, she trained typical poses from bodybuilding championships.

In the months that followed, now free from the constraints of academia, Dona Irene studied and applied everything she had learned in her forays into specialized websites. With this, she discovered herself to be much more intelligent than she had supposed - or that men, in particular, had led her to believe. She learned to balance her diet and exercise, her periods of rest, and the weights she lifted, pushed, and pulled. Above all, she learned to be patient. It was not just about getting in shape, nor even about becoming the physically powerful woman she was sculpting at Marcos' gym. Now that Dona Irene fully controlled her development, her ambitions had become greater. With a discipline that would make any military jealous, the fifty-something widow was building a strong body that would sexually satisfy her. But in a heterodox way.
 
Repressed for decades, Dona Irene would now choose the men who would give her the pleasure she sought. A pleasure that she quickly found in her internet wanderings. In addition to diets and exercise, the widow became a voracious consumer of wrestling sites (where women dominate men) and erotic videos of muscular women (simulating mixed fights or being adored by submissive males). And very quickly, she began competing with herself in solitary orgasm championships - which she rarely had with her husband - indulging in long masturbation sessions. Her wardrobe gave way to an impressive arsenal of erotic instruments and products that would enhance her pleasure: rubber penises, vibrators, pom-pom balls, anal plugs, candy, finger sleeve vibe, stimulating gel for the clitoris, clitoral stimulators... In her small private gym, she trained naked, admiring and getting excited by the image reflected in the mirror. She often masturbated while exercising her biceps with dumbbells. But at some point, something began to be missing.
 
After a year of intense home bodybuilding and exhilarating solitary pleasure, giving vent to the most unusual fantasies and exploring erogenous zones hitherto unknown, Dona Irene wanted more. Or rather, she wanted what she had always wanted: to dominate a man not only in her imagination. And not just any man, but the one she desired. A male defeated by her physical strength. Who was defeated by her muscular power. Who felt in his body the power of her titanic muscles. Who succumbed to her. Who would serve her like the erotic toys served her. When this idea first flashed in her mind, Dona Irene caused a roar by dropping the two dumbbells with which she exercised her increasingly powerful biceps. And she began her longest masturbation session, which lasted all night, with successive orgasms obtained in the most unthinkable positions, thanks to the tone and flexibility of her powerful body.

However, in order to subdue the man she desired (young, strong, athletic, muscular), Dona Irene did not think of imposing her muscular power abruptly. No. In her masturbatory fantasies, she demonstrated her physical superiority in every aspect. Not only did she demonstrate it, but she also experienced, on the body of the man who aroused her, the skills she had acquired beyond weightlifting. Slowly. With great technique. Prolonging pleasure, as she had learned to do with her erotic toys. That is why, in addition to lifting weights and sculpting her muscles, Dona Irene decided to learn how to fight. She then became a voracious consumer of martial arts films starring women, especially Cynthia Rothrock (although the actress's martial choreography seemed comically unrealistic to her). She knew by heart all the hand-to-hand combat scenes from all versions of Charlie's Angels. And she frequently masturbated watching Catwoman defeat Batman. However, unlike weightlifting, learning one or several fighting styles was not something she could do alone. Boxing and karate she could even train alone, albeit precariously. But Dona Irene thought it was not enough. Just as she had become a bundle of muscles with diet, rest, and heavy lifting, the mature lady intended to become feared on the mat and in the ring. Kickboxing, taekwondo, hapkido, aikido, judo, jiu-jitsu, muay thai, capoeira... Her physical strength would leave the solitary confinement of weight machines and finally impose itself on men in real fights, with male bodies made of flesh and bone - and not of pixels on screens.

That is why, as Dona Irene calmly completed the ritual of closing the house at the end of the day, she was not exactly alone.

Despite never having made it to the UFC, as he had hoped, Marcos never stopped being an athlete. After all, he owned a gym that offered various fighting or martial arts modalities. As one of the teachers, he had to stay in shape and train as if he were preparing for a championship, even though he had not competed in one for five years. That's why, as the sun rose, Marcos ran about six kilometers, using the long street where he had installed his gym as a track. It ended in a steep uphill, which he loved to climb to speed up and intensify his cardiovascular exercise. It was a quiet street, full of semi-detached houses, with old gardens turned into garages, typical of the working-class neighborhoods in São Paulo. On that tropical winter morning, Marcos started running when it was still dark. Despite the cold, he wore a short black shorts, open on the sides, that facilitated the movements of his long legs and muscular thighs. He wore a long-sleeved sweatshirt but with the hood down. He knew very well the risk that his dense beard, shaved head, and dark skin tone could represent for him, in a country where any man with these characteristics is often "mistaken" for a criminal by the police.

After a long warm-up, Marcos sprinted down the deserted and still dark street, happy with the vigor he felt in his long strides and the power of his lungs, inhaling and exhaling, in the cold of that routine winter dawn. Of course, he had no idea that he was being watched. From the upper floor of her discreet semi-detached house, Dona Irene saw Marcos quickly pass by towards the hill where the street ended. Watching her former coach's routine for days, she knew that in twenty minutes he would be back, blowing the air with an almost whistle and sweating profusely. So she went down and went to the front of her house. The asbestos tiles covering the old garden were dismantled by Dona Irene's vigorous arms. And what had been improvised as a garage for decades, darkening the living room, had returned to being a small and well-kept garden.

As soon as she saw Marcos, Dona Irene straightened up in her loose sweatshirt and pants, with the hood raised, leaving only her face out. As if she were about to leave, opening the gate, she exclaimed, feigning surprise:

"Hi, Marcos! Good morning! What a coincidence! I really wanted to talk to you..."

"Good morning, Dona Irene!" There was a tone of sincere satisfaction in the ex-fighter's voice. Since he had expelled Dona Irene from his gym, he had never spoken to her again, nor had he even seen her. Deep down, he had felt guilty for the violence of that embarrassing situation, although he was more concerned about his business reputation. The fifty-year-old woman even seemed to have gained weight, certainly because she had reduced the voracity with which she had adhered to fitness. But seeing her like this, willing to talk, made Marcos very happy. "Sure! Let's talk... What time works for you?"

"Now, if you don't mind."

"But aren't you leaving?"

"Yes, I also run here in the morning, for longer... " and Dona Irene interrupted herself, for she was going to say, "more than twice your route." "But I can leave it for a little later. The important thing now is to talk to you. Don't you want to come in and have a coffee?"

Marcos hesitated for a long thirty seconds, chewing on the words until he managed to say:

"No, Dona Irene. I need to open the gym in twenty minutes..."

"But I'll be very quick, Marcos! It's important, but it's quick. And then you can have your breakfast. My breakfast table is perfect for an athlete like you."

Still hesitant, Marcos saw the small gate open and Mrs. Irene touch his arm, urging him to come in. Reluctantly, he took uncertain steps across the tiny, flowery garden with the widow close behind, repeating, "Come in, come in, it won't take long."

In the clean and simple kitchen, the four-seater table was impeccably set with the healthiest options for a first meal of the day. However, Marcos was surprised to see two cups, indicating that Mrs. Irene was already prepared to receive him. His eyebrows contracted in an unmistakable expression of suspicion. Mrs. Irene, however, was quick, serving the coffee and handing the cup to the visitor without stopping talking:

"I know you're in a hurry, Marcos... So I'll get straight to the point. Look, I want to ask for your forgiveness..."

"What is this, Mrs. Irene! Imagine! I'm the one who has to apologize to you..."

"No, no, no, you were right. I was exaggerating and it would have ended up harming me. You were professional, responsible. I was the one who seemed like a teenager. Imagine! I wanted the body of an athlete... An old woman like me..."

Marcos relaxed his jaw and sipped his coffee, relieved. The old lady just wanted to apologize to him, and she had probably been rehearsing for days. A pang of pity pricked his heart. He even allowed himself a discreet smile as Mrs. Irene offered him the ubiquitous cheese bread:

"Cheese bread can't be missing from an athlete's table, can it?"

And Mrs. Irene continued talking while Marcos savored the coffee, whose taste seemed a bit unusual to him. She remembered her son now in the USA, her deceased husband, the difficult times they had in that house, then the discovery of bodybuilding... The coach continued to listen attentively to the woman's speech, but something strange was happening. He was trying harder and harder to understand what she was saying. That chatter was getting more and more distant and meaningless. And Mrs. Irene's image was becoming distorted, blurred, as if out of focus. Some words jumped out isolated, meaningless: "muscles," "lifting," "dumbbells," "repetitions," "biceps"... "What is this woman saying?" he thought. Marcos strained his eyes. But it was no use. He tried to say something, but his mouth seemed full of a milky paste. Then he tried to stand up, noticing the movements in slow motion. His last sensation was that of the fall, along with the sound of the cup shattering on the ceramic floor, not far from his ears.

First there was a blue stain. Then it became clear and revealed the typical rubberized floor of a bodybuilding gym. For a split second, Marcos thought he was waking up inside his gym, strangely with his head hanging down to the ground. But soon he felt the pressure of restraints against his whole body and his mouth taken by one of those sadomasochistic gags. Then he began to grunt, muffled by the erotic gag, bulging his eyes in an expression of both horror and anger, while struggling to free himself from the ropes. Standing in front of him was Mrs. Irene, dressed in her gray sweat suit with her hands resting in her pockets. It was at this moment that the athletic ex-fighter, ashamed, realized he was completely naked.

"You can scream as much as you want. No one will hear your muffled groans. And even if someone hears you, they will think it's me moaning on the weight machines. But you can see that I lined the walls. So you better calm down.," said Dona Irene. Despite his efforts, Marcos couldn't move. His entire body was tightly bound to the chair, with his legs slightly apart. He soon noticed a hole beneath his buttocks, which increased his panic and caused him to breathe heavily. Dona Irene calmly waited for long minutes until Marcos stopped struggling and grunting desperately. "Ready? Have you understood that you can't escape? Have you realized that you can't scream or speak?" she paused, "Good boy!" The coach had another outburst of desperate movements and terrified groans. "I'm not in a hurry, Marcos. I can wait until you get tired," said Dona Irene with a condescending smile. Marcos stopped moving, and she continued speaking, "Well, let me explain what's happening. Now, you belong to me. That's right, you heard me. You'll take time, and it'll hurt a lot, but you'll learn to be mine. I've been preparing for this for four years, Marcos, ever since I left your gym. You have no idea what I've learned during this time, nor what I'm capable of doing. Anyone who sees me like this, in this loose sweatshirt and dyed hair, thinks I'm just another lonely and useless old widow waiting to die, abandoned in a nursing home. Fortunately, I woke up in time. And I became what I am now," Dona Irene stood up, moved the stool with her heel, and slowly unzipped her jacket. Marcos widened his eyes when the jacket fell to the floor. The woman hadn't gained weight, but had doubled her muscle mass. Her torso, covered only by a sports top, was as defined as his. "And there are no steroids or anabolic steroids here. Just diet, rest, and a lot of weightlifting, every day, religiously," she flexed her biceps, "See this? As hard as a rock!" Marcos remained motionless, shocked. He had never seen anything like this since he started going into sports, still in his pre-teens. He had met many MMA fighters, tough as steel, with shapes that would envy many male athletes. And one of his students was preparing for the national female bodybuilding championship. But they were all much younger women who responded quickly to diet and training, focused on competition. Dona Irene was almost 60 years old and had built a competitor's physique in four years. "I'm not preparing to compete, Marcos," she said, as if she could read her former coach's thoughts, "I mean, not in bodybuilding competitions. I want to compete with the men I choose. And you were the first." Despite the gag, Marcos smiled and even relaxed his body, as if he felt relieved by the understanding of a mere misunderstanding. If he could speak, he would say that competing with him was complete madness, only emphasizing the certainty that this woman had gone crazy. No matter how muscular she was, Dona Irene could never compete with an experienced fighter like him - a 35-year-old man with his 1 meter and 92 centimeters of height, 95 kilograms, at the height of his vigor, famous for the power of his punches, and skilled in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. "I know what you're thinking, Marcos. You men are all the same. You don't have to be a psychic to know what you're thinking," she said, bringing her face closer to his. "As I told you, you have no idea what I am capable of. Think about it: how do you think you ended up here, in this situation? Of course, I had to sedate you. Yes, in the coffee you had. Did it taste a bit strange? Well, I did some stretching and started my daily weightlifting routine: I lifted you and carried you like a sack of potatoes. Yes, Irene, the crazy 58-year-old woman you expelled from the gym, had no difficulty putting you in that chair, where you are very well tied up. I could have broken you already, Marcos. But I want you whole. Very whole. Because I'm going to teach you to be mine. And you'll teach me to fight.'
The coach had already given up resisting. The ropes were firm, and the more he moved, the tighter they seemed to get. As the woman spoke, he tried to think of ways to escape, while being horrified by the absurd story. Fighting had taught him to keep a cool head. It was the posture he adopted after being unable to react.
'Well, I know it's no use talking,' continued Irene. 'You'll understand in practice, little by little. It will hurt. Don't say I didn't warn you.' And she squeezed Marcos's testicles."

[MuscleWoman]

The sun seemed high. What time would it be? How long were you trapped there? Now alone, with his testicles still throbbing, the former fighter was sure they would soon miss him. The sun seemed high. What time was it? How long had he been trapped there? Now alone, with his testicles still throbbing, the former fighter was sure that they would soon notice his absence. It was impossible for no one to notice his disappearance! Single, he lived with his parents and had a girlfriend - a black belt in karate, in fact. The gym was certainly open, but its five employees would be surprised to find it closed. There was no message on WhatsApp explaining his disappearance. Surely his parents, friends, students, and the police would start scouring the neighborhood in a few hours. Soon, his disappearance would be featured in sensational afternoon TV programs. Marcos tried to calmly review what had happened: the morning run, the strange invitation from Mrs. Irene, the coffee, the fainting... and here he was tied to a chair by a deranged woman, with a sickening speech about physical superiority and learning to fight. She was convinced that he was now like a possession, a slave to her! This idea sent a shock of indignation through his body. He vaguely knew that foreigners cultivated such a thing as "white supremacy," and he had heard of a certain Ku Klux Klan, which didn't even exist in Brazil... Could Mrs. Irene be a follower of one of these crazinesses? Marcos had never been an anti-racist activist, but his status as a mestizo in a country with a long history of slavery and hidden racism made him furious at any reminder of slavery and especially at any hint of racial discrimination. But he fought alone, in his own way, without joining identity movements or leftist parties - which, incidentally, he repudiated. He saw his effort and gradual business success as the best way to assert himself socially, denying the exclusion of blacks and browns like himself. He believed that, with effort and hard work, he would break down all social barriers. He was ambitious. He intended to establish a respected network of gyms, expanding it throughout Brazil... In fact, these digressions were a way for Marcos to endure the declining, but humiliating pain and the absurdity of that situation. The tension soon returned, however, when Mrs. Irene burst into the annex carrying a tray.

"Lunch time, champion," she announced. "Since we're just getting started, you'll have to swallow this mush like a baby. The gag has a hole in it. That's where the food will go in. Don't worry, it's quite nutritious. Vegetables blended with beef broth. Well seasoned..."
Marcos pulled back his head as the woman, seated in front of him, tried to insert a tube into the hole at the center of the ball filling his former trainer's mouth. Dona Irene just caressed the man's scrotal sack, causing him to make a panicked expression. "Well, you've got the idea, haven't you? Behave like a good boy and everything will go smoothly." Shortly after, there he was, swallowing about a liter of vegetable mush, as if he were a toothless child, choking a few times.

"Now I'm going to explain a few more things to you. You can't stay tied up like this all the time. But don't think I'm going to untie you. Not yet. Gradually you will gain more movement because I want you to exercise. And then teach me how to fight." Marcos groaned, furrowing his brow in an expression of horror and indignation. "Calm down! Everything in due time," the woman continued. "No rush. And I know you don't believe me, despite everything that's happening. With time, you'll learn to take me seriously."

Dona Irene stood up and waited for Marcos to faint again.

While her prisoner slept with his head slumped over his chest, Dona Irene indulged in a series of weightlifting exercises, which always excited her as she felt her physical strength in every muscle that worked diligently. In recent years, these sessions always ended in a prolonged and unvarying gymnastic masturbation. However, for the first time, the athletic lady didn't need to imagine the muscular stallions that she subjected in her fantasies: now she had her own, right there, languishing, bent in a chair, with his stunning nude body, all for her. But she couldn't linger in contemplation. Before the effect of the medicine wore off, she had to chain the former wrestler's wrists and ankles to the wall. Dona Irene muffled the cry of the orgasm she had just reached and, naked, quickly untied Marcos, lifting him onto her shoulders. The man grunted. The fifty-year-old woman gently placed him against the wall and tied the leather handcuffs to the ends of that beautiful athlete's body she had just masturbated over. "Good boy," she whispered, pressing her muscular body against his.

Ten minutes passed - and Marcos began to regain consciousness, while she pressed him against the wall, gently rubbing her clitoris against the rigid left quadriceps of the former MMA athlete. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, interrupting the growing waves of pleasure for Dona Irene. She hesitated. Should she trade an orgasm for an unnecessary door-to-door bleach salesman? The doorbell rang again. And with it, sensibility. That impatience could only be someone already searching for Marcos. She let him crumple to his knees, arms suspended by chains, grabbed her long, furry robe, and left to the sound of the third ring.

Coming! Coming! - she shouted, putting on her clothes as she walked to the door.
Behind the garden gate, a beautiful white girl with light brown hair, sportswear, and an erect posture looked nervously into the house.
Hi! Good afternoon! Could you give me some information, please?
Good afternoon! Yes, what is it? - Mrs. Irene replied, with the door ajar.
Do you know Marcos Galdino?
Who?
Marcos Galdino, the owner of the nearby gym.
Oh, yes, I know him. I attended his gym until about four years ago...
Well, he disappeared...
What do you mean?! - Mrs. Irene opened the door, crossed the small garden, and approached the girl, amiably touching her arms. - Oh, my God! What do you mean, my daughter?
Well, he went out for a run this morning and never came back.
But wasn't he carrying his cellphone? - the lady asked, aware that Marcos did not carry the device during his runs.
No, Marcos didn't run with the cellphone. The device is still at the gym.
Oh, my God in heaven... But can't you see if he had scheduled any appointments?... He may be in a meeting or doing something like that and forgot to notify.
No, he had nothing scheduled. I'm going door-to-door on this street to see if anyone saw him today. Did you see him?
No, no... I haven't seen Marcos for a long time. I haven't seen him since I stopped going to the gym. You know how it is, I'm getting old, right? The gym is for young people - said Mrs. Irene, savoring her intentionally contracted muscular abdomen under the thick robe. - But look, I'll keep an eye out, okay? If I hear anything, I'll let the gym know.
Oh, please! Everyone is very worried. Marcos doesn't usually disappear like this. We've already notified the police, but you know how it is... And I can't just sit around waiting for time to pass.
You're right. I'll pray that he shows up soon, okay? I'm sure everything is fine with him... He must have forgotten to tell us where he was. Marcos will show up soon. Don't worry. - Mrs. Irene made a compassionate expression. And added: - I'm sorry! I didn't even ask your name...
Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm so nervous that I didn't introduce myself. I'm Sandra, Marcos's girlfriend. And you are...?
Irene.

When the widow returned to the annex, she noticed that she had left the door open, through which came the tense jingling of chains and Marcos' now more desperate grunts. He had heard the doorbell. Dona Irene was confronted with the tense man, stretching the chains as far as possible, as if trying to rip them from the wall. The woman became aroused by the sight of that athletic musculature involuntarily displaying itself to her with all its vigor.

"How handsome you are, Marcos..." she sighed, taking off her robe. "I'm not going to masturbate now because we have a lot to do. So calm down. It's no use trying to escape or scream. Get used to it. Now you're mine," and she punched him in the stomach. Marcos writhed with the force of the blow, but the greater shock was from the unexpected gesture. Dona Irene hit him again, now on the temple, opening a gash in his eyebrow from which blood flowed profusely. Another punch, now under the jaw. Unaccustomed to the pains of the ring, the former fighter groaned under the erotic gag, through which saliva, blood, and the mush that Dona Irene shoved down his throat flowed. The widow's punches were very powerful.

"I lack technique, don't I?" - presumed the woman. "Now you understand why you're here? I mean, it's also for this," and she punched Marcos in the liver. "I've been training boxing alone, but nothing compares to having a teacher like you. Or punching you," she added with a smile. Even an athletic body like his couldn't absorb the force with which Dona Irene beat him. And she distributed punches to the most sensitive areas of her prisoner's body. "This time I'll spare your balls," she said, after fifteen long minutes of intense beating. Marcos' eyes were swollen, his face bloody, dark spots and bruises all over his body, his muscles sore. With some difficulty, he could contemplate his reflection in the mirror, strategically placed in front of him on the other side of the room. "Start learning who's in charge here," Dona Irene whispered in her former trainer's ear, now on his knees and hanging from the handcuffs. She took two steps back and kicked him in the face. Marcos passed out.

[MuscleWoman]

At the end of that day, therefore, Dona Irene was no longer alone. After checking if everything was securely locked - and gazing at the house with a vague melancholy - she turned on the TV with the volume a bit loud, to simulate to the neighborhood that she was watching the soap opera at six, like so many other Brazilian ladies her age. And she felt the hardening of her nipples and clitoral erection as she headed towards the guest house. There, she found Marcos crouched, his arms semi-raised by the chains and his back resting against the wall. His feet were soaked in urine, which reeked in the room.

The widow carried a wool blanket, a gallon of mineral water, and the catheter, which she inserted into the hole in the gag. And she began to speak in an almost didactic tone, with a maternal care:

Now I'm going to give you water. Plenty of water. You need to hydrate yourself. Don't worry, there's no tranquilizer this time. I know you're dying of thirst. Your lips are dry.
Marcos gulped down the water eagerly, choking and coughing a few times. The liquid leaked out of the corners of his mouth and ran down his chest, still speckled with pap. His eyes, purple and swollen, opened with difficulty. His face was dirty with coagulated blood. His muscles ached, feeling the blows of those vigorous arms that now held the heavy water jug.

Today you will sleep there, on your own piss, hanging from those chains," Dona Irene pronounced, suddenly severe. "Because I want you to learn." She made a long pause, staring at the virile instructor so weakened and humiliated. And she continued the speech, maintaining the harshness in her gaze. "You know, Marcos, until my husband died, men always told me what I was, what I could do, what I liked, what I wanted. I spent thirty-five years in this house cooking, washing, and ironing for two men who never said 'Thank you.' And I still knitted to help with the budget. Two weaklings. My husband couldn't even change a light bulb. He collapsed on that sofa to watch TV as soon as he came home from work. He had no discipline. He worked out for a week and stopped for six months. He wasn't even good in bed anymore. His dick wouldn't get up anymore. He got flabby, sloppy, and ugly. He ate only junk, like a pig. I lost my desire for him a long time ago. I went crazy when I found out that this idiot was saving money without telling me anything. He was definitely going to kick me in the ass and run away with some twenty-year-old slut!" Dona Irene rose from the stool, adjusting her robe. "Ah! But when I discovered bodybuilding!... It freed me, understand? I have always been what I am now, Marcos. Always! It's just that I couldn't be. On my parents' farm, the hardest work was mine. I was able to do with my arms and hands what any other man did. Even better. That scared them. And it gave me the greatest thrill! I liked feeling strong, having a lot of strength especially in my arms, imagining myself doing with men what they did with women, understand? Take the initiative, make the guy feel that I can do more than him, that no man scares me because I can do as much as anyone... But I had to hide. Or I'd become a spinster with a reputation for being a lesbian, stuck in a dusty and miserable piece of land in the countryside. Can you imagine what that means where I come from?" Dona Irene paused as if she really expected an answer. Marcos just looked on in absolute silence. "It wasn't any different in this house," she continued, raising her voice. "I never needed any man to fix anything! I dragged the furniture alone! I carried everything heavy! I lifted everything that those two useless men couldn't pick up! I kept this house clean! I paid for the electricity, water, phone, and internet they used to masturbate! I took care of them when they were sick!" A new pause. Her eyes shone with fury. The ex-fighter instinctively shrank his body, expecting a storm of blows. "Who is weak here?!" Another pause. "And one more thing: I want pleasure! Why can only men enjoy themselves? I can too! Actually, I knew I could, but my husband was a disaster..." Dona Irene smiled ironically and glanced at Marcos' genitals. "He had a tiny dick. Not even half the size of yours, which is soft now."

Today you will sleep there, on your own piss, hanging from those chains," Dona Irene pronounced, suddenly severe. "Because I want you to learn." She made a long pause, staring at the virile instructor so weakened and humiliated. And she continued the speech, maintaining the harshness in her gaze. "You know, Marcos, until my husband died, men always told me what I was, what I could do, what I liked, what I wanted. I spent thirty-five years in this house cooking, washing, and ironing for two men who never said 'Thank you.' And I still knitted to help with the budget. Two weaklings. My husband couldn't even change a light bulb. He collapsed on that sofa to watch TV as soon as he came home from work. He had no discipline. He worked out for a week and stopped for six months. He wasn't even good in bed anymore. His dick wouldn't get up anymore. He got flabby, sloppy, and ugly. He ate only junk, like a pig. I lost my desire for him a long time ago. I went crazy when I found out that this idiot was saving money without telling me anything. He was definitely going to kick me in the ass and run away with some twenty-year-old slut!" Dona Irene rose from the stool, adjusting her robe. "Ah! But when I discovered bodybuilding!... It freed me, understand? I have always been what I am now, Marcos. Always! It's just that I couldn't be. On my parents' farm, the hardest work was mine. I was able to do with my arms and hands what any other man did. Even better. That scared them. And it gave me the greatest thrill! I liked feeling strong, having a lot of strength especially in my arms, imagining myself doing with men what they did with women, understand? Take the initiative, make the guy feel that I can do more than him, that no man scares me because I can do as much as anyone... But I had to hide. Or I'd become a spinster with a reputation for being a lesbian, stuck in a dusty and miserable piece of land in the countryside. Can you imagine what that means where I come from?" Dona Irene paused as if she really expected an answer. Marcos just looked on in absolute silence. "It wasn't any different in this house," she continued, raising her voice. "I never needed any man to fix anything! I dragged the furniture alone! I carried everything heavy! I lifted everything that those two useless men couldn't pick up! I kept this house clean! I paid for the electricity, water, phone, and internet they used to masturbate! I took care of them when they were sick!" A new pause. Her eyes shone with fury. The ex-fighter instinctively shrank his body, expecting a storm of blows. "Who is weak here?!" Another pause. "And one more thing: I want pleasure! Why can only men enjoy themselves? I can too! Actually, I knew I could, but my husband was a disaster..." Dona Irene smiled ironically and glanced at Marcos' genitals. "He had a tiny dick. Not even half the size of yours, which is soft now."

[MuscleWoman]

The widow untied and opened her robe slightly, revealing her naked body underneath. Despite the cold, she did not let the discomfort stop her. Once again, Marcos was treated to the sight of a well-sculpted female abdomen - an unprecedented view for him on a woman approaching 60 years of age. Her defined pectoral muscles almost obscured her breasts, making her torso resemble that of an Olympic gymnast. Dona Irene licked her finger slowly, using it to part her toned thighs and lightly bend her knees. She traced the groove between her abdominal muscles until she reached the top of her vulva. With her other hand, she pressed down on the nape of her neck, arching her abdomen and accentuating its definition. Using her ring finger and index finger, she spread open her labia, allowing her middle finger to touch her clitoris. Her gaze devoured Marcos' masculine, athletic and dejected figure. Gradually, she increased the speed of her movements, pressing down with her fingers, alternately tracing larger and smaller circles, sometimes decreasing, sometimes increasing the intensity of the friction, controlling the waves of pleasure that rippled through her skin. This continued for several minutes as she controlled her climax. The movements of her hand on her clitoris became progressively stronger. Her eyes began to roll back, signaling her impending orgasm. She threw her head back and opened her mouth in increasingly loud moans. Dona Irene contracted her abdomen even more and rose onto her tiptoes, demanding even more from her muscular calves. A few seconds later, that mature and lonely woman with an athletic body let out a long and impressive orgasmic scream, while fluid gushed from her urethra and dripped down her fingers. Marcos had witnessed, for the first time, what he had only known by its English name on pornographic websites: squirting. And he responded to the scene with an equally impressive erection.

[MuscleWoman]

The next day, early in the morning, after running the same route that Marcos did every morning, Dona Irene entered the mini-gym with breakfast for the ex-athlete. The widow smelled freshly washed. The floral fragrance of the soap contrasted with the smell of urine that soaked the captive's feet. With his body bruised from the beating of the previous day, barely covered by a wool blanket on a cold night and tired from the predictable insomnia caused by the situation, he cast a tearful pleading look at the woman who was introducing the feeding tube into his gag.

"It's not overnight that you'll learn to obey me, Marcos," she said without looking at him, while the coach choked and coughed, drooling the porridge. "It will take time. You have a lot to learn."

As she made the man swallow a liter of that kind of soup, she gave him a look of disgust:

"You stink. You're covered in pee. What a sight! All drooling, like a senile grandpa. Who would have thought, huh? The champion took a beating from the fifty-year-old! And if I put some pictures of you on the internet, in this state? Have you ever thought about that? Pictures of me putting you in a chokehold with this steel arm. What do you think?" And she laughed, flexing her right arm challengingly. Then she removed the wool blanket that barely covered Marcos and announced, assuming the maternal tone he already knew: "Now I'm going to give you a bath, take off this dried blood, treat these wounds. I'll make you look handsome and smell good, you'll see!"

Dona Irene left the annex for half an hour, returning with a steaming bucket and an array of dressings, bath towels, and personal hygiene products. With a soft sponge, warmed in the water, she soaped up the tired body of the former fighter, who responded with visible pleasure, closing his eyes as if receiving a loving caress. The pleasant and comforting smell of the soap rose to his nostrils. The massage and hot water relaxed his muscles. For a few moments, he forgot about the captivity and smiled under the gag. It was the first time Dona Irene had touched his body and could feel the contours and solidity of that well-worked musculature that she admired so much. If it was comforting for him - he didn't react even when the sponge lingered on his buttocks and genitals - for her, it was exciting to explore every inch of that beautiful and sexy male body - her ideal of a sensual man now all hers, she thought. Then, the widow climbed onto the stool and poured hot water over Marcos, not without first applying shampoo to his thick black beard, styled in a lumberjack style. Finally, she grabbed two huge fluffy towels and started drying him off.

"I bought them especially for you, big man!" said the woman, as she carefully dried him off. Marcos felt a mix of tenderness and disgust. Then she pulled out the chair that, the previous morning, he had been tied to. "Now you rest, sitting here. There's a hole right in the middle of the seat, remember? That's where you'll pee and poop, got it? I put a laxative in the soup. It should take effect in a few hours. So spread your legs wide." Marcos obeyed, suspicious. Dona Irene passed the chair through the formidable arc of thighs that his former coach had formed, leaning the backrest against the wall behind him. Then she coated her hands with balsamic oil. "Push your butt back and stick your dick in the hole."

[MuscleWoman]

Once again, he did what she told him, anticipating the new torture that awaited him. 'That's it! See? Now you can pee. I'll put a bucket underneath.' Before he could change his position, however, she grabbed the captive's penis. Marcos groaned loudly, desperate, expecting a new session of testicular crushing. 'Calm down, stud,' she whispered in a warm voice. 'It's time for milking. I'm going to give you a nice, enjoyable hand job, one that not even the most experienced whore could give you.' Her calloused hands, strengthened by weightlifting, held the instructor's genitals, fully exposed in the orifice, in simultaneous movements of caressing the scrotum and stimulating the head of the still-retracted phallus. 'Relax, Marcos. I'll teach you what a well-beaten hand job is.'

Squatting before the athletic prisoner, looking up at him with a mischievous smile, Dona Irene started with light and gentle touches, exploring the sensitivity of that shrunk member, but whose monumental erection she had contemplated the night before. Without hurry, the woman gradually gained the captive's trust. Also gradually, Marcos relaxed and surrendered. With well-lubricated hands that emanated a balsamic aroma, she began to apply gentle pressure around the glans and shaft of the penis. The man groaned and eventually responded with the progressive stiffness of his phallus. Then she began to experiment with different types of stimulation, including caresses, circular touches, slides, and firmer squeezes, changing the focus of stimulation between the glans, the shaft, and the scrotum, multiplying the sensations she read on the former fighter's face. The main response, however, was in the penis, now rock hard. Dona Irene used both hands with surprising skill: the left stimulated the shaft while the other caressed the glans or massaged the scrotum, in rapid changes of technique, always attentive to Marcos' pleasure moans, who, with his accelerated breathing, found himself devouring that woman with a sensual look, asking her to continue, to intensify the movements, to take him to ecstasy. His eyes swollen from the beating the day before did not distort his pleading expression for that orgasm. A shiver ran through his body from the nape of his neck to his calves. He grunted something incomprehensible, chewing on the ball of the gag, as if trying to speak amidst the moans of pleasure. Even without understanding, Dona Irene understood: Marcos would accept anything in exchange for the climax, announced in generous streams of pre-ejaculation fluid. Immediately, she released his genitals and stood up, sentencing:

'You'll cum when I want you to.'

The man roared, with his penis erect like never before, on the threshold of orgasm, on the verge of ejaculation, experiencing an association of simultaneous and no less intense feelings than erotic excitement: anger, terror, frustration, guilt, humiliation... And at the same time, the uncontrollable desire to repeat all of it.

[MuscleWoman]

The widow untied and partially opened her robe, revealing her naked body underneath. Despite the cold, she was undeterred. Once again, Marcos was presented with the sight of a well-defined female abdomen, a new experience for him in the body of a woman approaching her 60s. Her defined pectorals almost hid her breasts, and her torso was more reminiscent of an Olympic gymnast. Dona Irene licked her finger slowly, then used it to part her toned thighs and slightly bend her knees, tracing the groove that separated her abdominal muscles until she reached the top of her vulva. With her other hand, she pressed down on the nape of her neck, arching her abdomen and accentuating its definition. Using her ring finger and index finger, she parted her labia, allowing her middle finger to touch her clitoris. Her gaze devoured Marcos' masculine, athletic, and weary figure. Gradually, she increased the speed of her movements, pressing with her fingers and alternating between larger and smaller circles. Sometimes she decreased, sometimes increased the intensity of the friction, causing waves of pleasure that rippled through her skin. This continued for minutes on end, as she controlled her climax. The movements of her hand on her clitoris became progressively more vigorous. Her eyes began to roll back, signaling the onset of orgasm. She tilted her head back and parted her mouth, letting out increasingly loud moans. Dona Irene contracted her abdomen even more and stood on her tiptoes, exerting her muscular calves. A few seconds later, that mature and lonely woman with an athletic body let out a long and impressive orgasmic scream, while fluid gushed from her urethra and ran down her fingers.
For the first time, Marcos witnessed what he had only known by its English name on pornographic websites: squirting. And he responded to the scene with an equally impressive erection.

***

The next day, early in the morning, after running the same route that Marcos used to do every morning, Dona Irene entered the mini-gym with breakfast for the former athlete. The widow smelled like she had taken a good shower. The floral fragrance of the soap contrasted with the smell of urine that soaked the feet of the kidnapped man. With his body marked by bruises from the previous day's beating, barely covered by the woolen blanket on a cold night, and tired from the predictable insomnia caused by that situation, he gave a teary-eyed plea to the woman who was inserting the feeding tube into his gag.

"It's not overnight that you'll learn to obey me, Marcos," she began, without looking at him, while the coach choked and coughed, drooling the mush. "It will take time. You have a lot to learn."

As she made the man swallow a liter of that kind of soup, she looked at him with disgust:

"You stink. You're dirty with pee. What a sight! All drooling, like a senile grandpa. Who would have thought, huh? The champion was badly beaten by the fifty-year-old! And if I posted some pictures of you on the internet, in this state? Have you thought about it? Pictures of me putting you in a chokehold with this steel muscle. What do you think?" And she laughed, flexing her right arm challengingly. Then she removed the woolen blanket that barely covered Marcos and announced, assuming the maternal tone he already knew: "Now I'm going to give you a bath, remove this dried blood, treat these wounds. I'll make you handsome and smelling good, you'll see!"

Dona Irene left the cottage for half an hour, returning with a steaming bucket and an array of dressings, bath towels, and personal hygiene products. With a very soft sponge, heated in the water, she soaped the tired body of the former fighter, who responded with visible pleasure, closing his eyes as if receiving a loving caress. The pleasant and comforting smell of the soap rose to his nostrils. The massage and the hot water relaxed his muscles. For a few moments, he forgot about the captivity and smiled under the gag. It was the first time that Dona Irene had touched his body like this, feeling the contours and solidity of that well-worked musculature, which she admired so much. While it was something comforting for him, he did not react even when the sponge lingered on his buttocks and genitals. For her, it was exciting to explore every inch of that beautiful and sexy male body - her ideal of a sensual man, all hers now, she thought. Then, the widow climbed onto the stool and poured hot water over Marcos, not before applying shampoo to his dense black beard, well styled in the lumberjack style. Finally, she grabbed two huge, fluffy towels and began to dry him off.

"I bought this especially for you, big man!" said the woman as she carefully dried him off. Marcos felt a mixture of tenderness and disgust. Then she pulled out the chair in which he had been tied up the previous morning. "Now you rest, sitting here. There's a hole right in the middle of the seat, remember? That's where you'll pee and poop, got it? I put a laxative in the soup. It should take effect in a few hours. So spread your legs wide open." Marcos obeyed, suspicious. Dona Irene passed the chair through the formidable arc of thighs that his ex-trainer had formed, leaning the backrest against the wall behind him. Then she smeared her hands with balsamic oil. "Push your butt back and stick your cock in the hole." Once again, he did as she commanded, suffering in anticipation of the new torture that awaited him. "That's it! See? Now you can pee. I'll put a bucket underneath." But before he could change position, she grabbed the abductee's penis. Marcos groaned loudly, desperate, expecting another session of crushing his testicles. "Relax, stud," she whispered in a warm voice. "It's milking time. I'll give this big, beautiful cock a nice, satisfying hand job. One that even the most experienced whore couldn't give you." The calloused hands from bodybuilding held the instructor's genitals, completely exposed in the orifice, in simultaneous movements of caressing the scrotal sac and stimulating the head of the still-retracted phallus. "Relax, Marcos. I'll teach you what a well-beaten hand job is."

Later, Mrs. Irene burst into her home gym, carrying cleaning supplies.

"Let's make this little house smell nice," she began, indifferent to the stunned and desolate look Marcos gave her. "I need to train a lot, and I can't work out with this place smelling like urine, can I? I'll warm up while I clean."

The captive observed the woman. Despite the cold, she wore a tank top and sport shorts open on the sides. She wore a comfortable and expensive pair of sneakers specifically designed for gym training. Her movements were confident, firm, and agile. But what impressed him was her physique, which he could now examine in full and with time for the first time. It was not the muscular structure of a "bodybuilder," as Mrs. Irene herself seemed to believe she had achieved. Due to his profession, Marcos could almost automatically distinguish between body types and the development of their respective musculatures. Mrs. Irene's was incredibly defined and, at the same time, voluminous. But it had not reached the exaggerated proportions of heavyweight bodybuilding champions, as this lady probably wanted. She had reduced her body fat percentage on a scale similar to that of competitors and had almost doubled her muscle mass, forming a mesomorphic figure. However, this did not mean that she had become a "monster" - in the language of fitness enthusiasts. Beneath her well-hydrated and healthy skin, marked by maturity, solid and sculpted muscles contracted, evident as she scrubbed, swept, pulled, lifted, and carried with vigor and skill, moving in a disciplined manner, aware that she was cleaning and exercising at the same time, including stretching. The scene had a touch of comedy in the studied exaggeration of gestures. Marcos, however, was attentive to the woman's well-defined biceps and triceps and her prominent shoulders, which gave her a broader and more symmetrical appearance - and the impression of physical strength that this set provokes in those who observe it. Her back also showed careful work with this muscle group, which stood out under the tank top straps. The lower limbs were equally remarkable: well-defined and voluminous quadriceps, glutes, and calves were displayed in agile strides and quick squats that the fifty-something woman did around the room, cleaning everything with the traditional skill and obsession of Brazilian housewives like her. Soon, the mini-gym smelled of cleanliness, with the equipment gleaming. When Mrs. Irene finished, evaluating the service leaning on the mop handle, Marcos realized that, once again, for a few moments, he had forgotten his degrading condition as a captive recovering from the beating inflicted by that same female body that, consciously or not, was exhibiting itself to him. She was undoubtedly an athletic, vigorous woman proud of her own body and aware of her power. He had seen similar cases only on the internet, touted precisely because they were rare. Many, in his opinion, were products of what he called the "pharmacy" - anabolic steroids, creatine, caffeine, soy protein... Marcos could not say whether Mrs. Irene multiplied the results of her exercises by resorting to this chemical arsenal, but he had never seen a woman Mrs. Irene's age with such a strong and carefully defined musculature in person. The biggest surprise, however, was yet to come.

Mrs. Irene left with the cleaning supplies and returned shortly after, taking off her shirt and revealing a black sports top. Marcos recognized her impressive abdominal muscles, which he had already seen before, but now they were more noticeable without the tension and fear from before. Her ab muscles were truly impressive! With the precision of his anatomy classes in college, Marcos recognized the muscle groups that didn't need any effort to stand out in the admirable case of that torso: the rectus abdominis, the external obliques, the internal obliques, and the transversus abdominis. It was the perfect model of a "six-pack," which would cause envy in his most dedicated students. The vertical grooves that formed the sensual parallel lines in a "V" shape towards the groin were even visible. But that wasn't the surprise.

After meticulously going through a series of exercises that worked out every muscle group in her body, Mrs. Irene undressed with the same care, as if nobody was there, folding each piece of clothing very slowly. Marcos was horrified by her indifference and soon began to fear what might happen next. The athletic woman looked at him with the same menacing look he had learned to fear. With impressive skill, in a small and sudden leap, she grabbed the pull-up bars and threw her legs over Marcos' shoulders, pulling his head until it was wedged between her thighs. The former fighter was pulled from his position, stretching the chains to their maximum, while Mrs. Irene's body remained horizontal, holding onto the bars and trapping the man's neck. It was as if he were in a guillotine, with his chin resting on the fifty-year-old's genitals. He felt the sweat's dampness and the strength of her thighs, while contemplating, from an unusual perspective, the defined and tense abs that Mrs. Irene had just flexed more than five hundred times. She raised her head slightly, which further contracted her abdominal muscles, and aimed for Marcos' bulging eyes, who was trying unsuccessfully to escape that prison.

"That's what I train for. I don't want to compete. I don't want to show off. I want to fuck the men I choose. But with strength. With this strength. Can you feel it? I'm stronger than you, Marcos. You saw it. Now you feel it."

Suddenly, she released her prisoner's neck, stood up, put her hands on her waist, and faced the man once again.

"Fight with me," she said.

Marcos looked at her with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"Fight with me," she repeated, slightly irritated. "I'll let you go," she continued, still in front of Marcos' disbelief. "Try to get out of here. I'm naked, without any weapons. Just my strength. You're bigger and younger than me, an ex-MMA fighter, a gym instructor. I want to fight you. I want to know if I can beat you. Because I really want to beat you. But this time, without restraints. I want you to defend yourself. If you escape, you end my life. If you lose, I'll fuck you. A lot. You'll be mine."

Marcos nervously nodded as she spoke because he was absolutely sure that if Dona Irene did what she was saying, he could get out of that absurd situation and get rid of that woman's sick intentions. He already imagined himself at the police station, detailing the barbarities he went through, bringing the police to that den, witnessing the arrest of the old woman, vibrating with her life imprisonment and exposure in the media. Dona Irene would pay for everything after he gave her a good beating. He was determined to beat her up. "Self-defense," he argued in his rapid thoughts, only to realize that, no matter how athletic she was, she was a fifty-year-old woman thirty centimeters shorter than him and with no fighting technique. At the same time, the kidnapper's proposal seemed so absurd to him that Marcos only began to believe her when, after a brief exit, and still naked, Dona Irene returned with the keys to the handcuffs that held him to the chains.

The kidnapped man took a deep breath and didn't hurry as she released each handcuff. Years of training had taught him to wait for the moment to strike. When she released the last cuff on Marcos' left wrist, he threw a clumsy but powerful right jab at Mrs. Irene's face, causing her to lose balance. The former fighter took advantage of her unsteadiness to throw a second punch, this time with his left, hitting the woman's eyebrow and opening a wound. Mrs. Irene, slightly bent over, was visibly disadvantaged and disoriented, which was now exacerbated by the uppercut Marcos delivered with his most powerful fist, making the kidnapper's head snap back and her teeth clench. This sequence lasted no more than a few seconds, enough time for the trainer to evaluate that it was enough for him to open the door and escape, giving up on seeking revenge for the beating the old lady had inflicted upon him. That's what he did. But when he turned the doorknob, he found that the door was locked, resisting his vigorous tugs. Then he shouted, realizing he was still wearing the gag in his mouth. It was too late. Two strong arms embraced his waist, lifted his body, and threw him backwards to the ground. Beneath him was Mrs. Irene, who skillfully wrapped her legs around his ribs while choking him with a powerful rear-naked choke. Marcos swayed from left to right, taking advantage of the leverage of his long and powerful legs, trying to get free, and with his free hands, he mercilessly punched Mrs. Irene's face, who was choking his neck. It was then that he realized her strength. The MMA fighter knew that the situation was fatal: if she continued to strangle him like that, he would lose consciousness in fifteen seconds. So he intensified the punches to Mrs. Irene's head until everything began to darken.

When she realized Marcos had passed out, Mrs. Irene quickly dragged him to the chain wall and handcuffed him. She was exhausted, panting, sweaty, groaning. Her entire musculature hurt, but especially her face. The woman stood up and approached the mirror. There were welts in some parts of her body. Her face, however, was badly injured. Blood was flowing from her eyebrow and nose, as well as from one corner of her mouth. Her teeth throbbed. And a swelling was beginning to appear in her right eye. Mrs. Irene turned to Marcos, still unconscious, handcuffed and leaning against the wall. She moved in front of the mirror so she could see him in the background. Contemplating the scene, Mrs. Irene flexed her right arm, displaying her well-pronounced biceps, contracted her muscled abdomen, slightly bent her knees to force her thighs, smiled, and with her left hand, reached for her clitoris, indulging in a long masturbation session.

[MuscleWoman]

Sandra slowly untied the knot of her black belt and slowly opened her karate gi, never taking her eyes off Marcos. She let the belt drop. Her dark skin glowed in the dim light of the empty gym, which had just been closed, while her toned abdomen, just below the black sports top, pulsed with slightly accelerated breathing. As she took off her karate gi jacket, Sandra revealed her slender yet athletic torso, typical of a dedicated weightlifter. Always staring at her trainer, she picked up the black belt from the floor and tied it around her slim waist again. Her movements were firm, determined. No hesitation. No trembling.

"No man can fool me, Marcos," she began.

"What are you talking about, Sandra?" he asked, puzzled by his girlfriend's words and behavior.

"You think I don't know?"

"Don't know what?" The former MMA fighter's puzzlement turned into anger.

"Every man is the same," she sighed, with a slight ironic smile, as if speaking to an audience. "I know you're sleeping with that bitch who trains MMA here."

"Have you lost your mind?! I've never had anything with Diana!"

"Crazy? Marcos, do you think I'm stupid?! I saw you fucking that cow in the women's locker room... And worse! I saw that slut fucking you after beating you up, you pervert! I found out that you enjoy getting beaten by women! Now I know where those marks on your body come from... I checked your browser history and saw the videos you like, you faggot! You get turned on by getting beaten by women, you sicko!"

"It's not like that, Sandra..."

The karateka took two steps toward Marcos, interrupting him with visible fury.

"Shut your lying mouth, faggot, because I saw it all! You don't have to explain anything to me!" And moving her neck and shoulders as if preparing for a fight: "I thought you were with me because of love, not perversion. Now I understand: you're with me because I'm a black belt in karate, because I work out hard, because I love my defined muscles, because I'm strong and I like being strong. You were going to use me for your sick fetishes, you psychopath!"

Marcos relaxed. He even smiled a bit.

"I don't know where you got all this nonsense from, Sandra. You must be out of your mind. Look, go home and..."

"You son of a bitch!" Sandra interrupted, yelling. "I'll go home after I break you! You like getting beaten by women, don't you?! Well, now you're going to get it properly. I won't give you a few slaps like that cow. You're going to get beaten by a black belt!"

"Go to your house, you slut!" Marcos shouted, clenching his fists. "Or it's me who's going to beat you up!"

Sandra let out a brief, nervous laugh, tightening her abdomen and assuming a fighting stance.

"Sandra, you're not okay, go home, cool down, we'll talk tomorrow..." Marcos said, in a conciliatory tone.

Before he finished the sentence, however, the karateka unleashed a fast, precise, and powerful seiken chudan-zuki - a punch to the stomach. Marcos screamed in pain. And he woke up. Leaning against the wall, he realized he was fully erect.

Dona Irene entered the small building, drawn by the loud grunt of her prisoner.

"Well, well, well... Was the young man having an erotic dream? Were you dreaming about me, handsome? Did you like getting beaten by this old lady?" And before his penis could retract, Dona Irene grabbed it and began to masturbate him. "Ah! Let's give a happy ending to this, my dear..."

Marcos looked at Dona Irene's pronounced biceps as she skillfully manipulated his erection, giving him great pleasure. The image of his girlfriend's defined muscles in the dream and now the tense biceps of his captor, strained by frantic masturbatory movements, seemed to awaken an arousal in him that was previously unknown. The contours of Dona Irene's upper muscles conveyed the same sense of power that Marcos had seen in Sandra's body in the dream scene. The difference was that the woman in front of him was real and wouldn't disappear at the end of the dream. He was genuinely being pleasured by an athletic, powerful, and strong woman—and all of that now excited him. So pleasure took over. And Marcos relaxed, allowing himself to surrender to this discovery. When Dona Irene skillfully massaged his prostate, the trainer ejaculated in a delicious orgasm that sent shivers from his scalp to his calves.

[elliebi001]

Thank you very much; an outstanding story; has everything I enjoy reading.

[MuscleWoman]

Thank you!

[dennio123]

Absolutely brilliant story 👏

[MuscleWoman]

Thank you!