Mrs. Irene

[MuscleWoman]

Despite the dead of winter, the day dawned hot and dry, as is common in the tropics at this time of year. It was time for cardio. He got on the treadmill and pressed the button, starting with a brisk walk. In a few minutes he was warmed up to run, which he began to do at increasingly faster speeds. He stayed like that for fifteen minutes, slowing his steps to a jog and then speeding up again. And he continued in this alternation for an hour. When he stopped, his body was dripping sweat from every corner. Once again, he had pushed his limits. And that made him happy, in addition to the pleasurable feeling that the endorphins gave him. After a month confined to that small gym, Marcos resigned himself. It really seemed impossible to escape from there. But what made the situation unbelievable was that his tormentor was a woman almost sixty years old! Who would believe him if he told that story? However, there he was, with a collar around his neck attached to a chain that was in turn tied to a steel cable that ran across the room. His head was completely covered by a leather mask that was closed at the back with a padlock. There were holes for his eyes, nose and mouth, but the mask was so tight that he could barely move his jaw. Speaking or shouting was therefore very difficult for him. The best he could do was grunt. Uselessly. No one seemed to hear him.

As she was obsessed with bodybuilding, Mrs. Irene rarely left him alone in the private gym where she worked out – and where the fifty-year-old woman began to manage Marcos' exercise programs, starting on the fourth day of his captivity. Intense and well-planned exercises that maintained the former MMA fighter's excellent physical condition. The freedom of his movements, however, was cautiously progressive, revealing the care taken in her planning. At the slightest attempt at resistance, Mrs. Irene would beat up her former trainer. "Learn to obey me," she repeated.
The day he saw her legs free from the chains, Marcos immediately began to kick her with all his strength and masterly precision, hitting her full in the torso. The impact was so strong that she was thrown against the opposite wall, knocking over the rack of dumbbells. Marcos was sure he had knocked her out, although he didn't know what he could do at that moment, since her arms were still chained to the wall. He grunted in despair, even though he knew it would be useless. After long minutes in that situation, the ex-fighter saw Irene move, slowly getting up. Her abdomen was marked by the ex-champion's foot. In fact, she had felt the blow. But she smiled.
"Good boy. That's how I like it. If you weren't so good, I wouldn't have captured you. I don't want a weak man." She stood up straight, finally, and began to stretch as she spoke. – But you still don't understand that I can face him and dominate him. I have as much physical strength as you, Marcos. And I'm preparing to have more.

After stretching, she approached him, looking into his eyes. The trainer prepared another kick. But Mrs. Irene was incredibly quick, grabbing Marcos' ankles and pulling them up. The former trainer of the fifty-year-old woman, knowing the strength of her legs, tried to kick the woman, but she stretched the man's body, holding his ankles. Marcos was rigidly stretched, with the chains tautly attached to the wall and his ankles held with a strength unthinkable in a woman of that age. The straining intensified to such an extent that the former fighter, moaning in pain, thought his arms would be ripped off. Tears flooded his eyes, and he couldn't even scream, because he was still wearing the sadomasochistic restraint in his mouth. The torture seemed to have no end, although it had only lasted a few minutes. Suddenly, the stretching stopped and he only felt the thud of his body hitting the ground.
The torture, however, was not over. Dona Irene jumped on the man's chest and began to deliver a series of powerful punches to his face. Until he, defenseless, fainted. She was exhausted. Her abdomen was still throbbing and she feared she had broken a rib. The herculean effort to knock Marcos down and keep him stretched out was so intense that Dona Irene could not get up. Still sitting on her former trainer's chest, she looked at his bloody face. With the drop in adrenaline and the cooling of her body, Dona Irene began to feel the pain in all her muscles. Her knuckles were injured by the punches she had delivered to Marcos's handsome, masculine face, now deformed by bruises and swelling. With a slight groan, she stood up and looked at that athletic body at her feet. And then he smiled.
When he regained consciousness, Marcos was in the same position, with his face in pain and his vision distorted by the blood and swelling in his eyes. But his hearing was clear and attentive. Dona Irene remained there, sitting on a stool, visibly tired. She stared at him.prisoner with severity. His breathing seemed short, panting.
- Have you noticed that I don't use a weapon? My weapon is my body, Marcos. Strength. A lot of strength. I was able to stop your kick and knock you down by pulling your ankles. I stretched you in those chains until you cried in pain. Strength, Marcos, a lot of strength. The more I have, the more I want. And it's with it that I'm going to make you mine. You're already mine. You just don't understand that. Yet. - Mrs. Irene pauses for a long time, as if catching her breath. - I've been training like crazy. To break you, Marcos. I'll show you that every time you try to escape.
This speech didn't intimidate him, although at that moment he wasn't in a position to think much. But in other later attempts, using his now free legs, Marcos was harshly punished. In one of them, Mrs. Irene almost broke the former fighter's left knee with a karate chop. The worst part is that the lonely lady seemed increasingly powerful. In fact, since she trained in the same space where Marcos was confined, Mrs. Irene had been maintaining a slow but solid and constant pace of increasing the intensity of her exercises, especially the strength training ones. Her discipline was enviable. Although not very good, her self-taught karate training showed excellent control of her body and a great understanding of the blows. The last time he tried to attack Mrs. Irene, she knocked him down with a single and infallible seikei tioku zuki. "The next time you try to fight back," she threatened, "you'll become a punching bag for my karate training." Marcos thought she would keep her promise, even though he hadn't done anything, when Mrs. Irene installed a kind of clothesline with a steel cable, crossing the roof of the outbuilding. After being seriously beaten by the "old woman" over the course of thirty days, the athletic trainer was convinced that there was no point in knocking her down with his legs. He needed his arms too. And he pretended to comply when, one day, she announced:
"I'm going to release your wrists and tie your neck to a chain that will run along the cable, up there, understand? That will free you up to use almost the entire gym. I want you strong, conditioned, and in shape," and Mrs. Irene winked at Marcos with a mischievous smile. The man felt a certain repulsion at the gesture.
The new situation really did give him more mobility. But, on the other hand, he suffered from the discomfort of the tight sadomasochistic mask that covered his entire head. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't take it off. Resigned, Marcos began to obey Mrs. Irene, strictly following the program she had drawn up for him. The dumbbells were wisely stored inside a steel cabinet, from which they were only taken out for training. Ropes and other objects that could be used as weapons were removed. And Mrs. Irene removed the door to a small bathroom with a toilet, allowing Marcos to use it – of course, always under the embarrassing supervision of his wife.
That morning, therefore, after finishing his run on the treadmill, during which he had relived all these memories, the former MMA champion sat patiently, waiting for his kidnapper to start another training routine. With her usual punctuality, Mrs. Irene burst into the room, full of her impressive energy. This time, however, she was wearing a loose white karate kimono that hid her impressively defined muscles. Around her waist, a white belt. Without any ceremony, she went straight to Marcos and applied a shuto uti, which he managed to block in time. "That's it, champ, let's train," she whispered, with a paradoxical sexy tone that he couldn't understand.
Although without belittling his opponent, Marcos saw his chances of escape increasing, since now he had free arms and legs. Although karate was the martial art he was least proficient in, he was sure that he could resort to other modalities to get away. He chose to respond with a very Brazilian option: a capoeira move, the "meia-lua de frente", a kind of "slap with the leg". Despite the speed and force with which the blow was coming, in a fraction of a second Mrs. Irene grabbed Marcos' right leg with both arms and kicked his left leg, knocking the man down. "Are you out of practice or scared? I've barely started learning karate on YouTube and I've already knocked you down, man", she assessed, with ironic superiority. "Get up!" she shouted.
Marcos decided to apply another tactic: the boxing one, taking advantage of his extraordinary reach. The chain jingled frantically while the trainer jumped with his hands guarded, studying his opponent. In an explosion, Mrs. Irene didn't give him time to react: an avalanche of quick and precise blows pierced his defense, forcing him to retreat until his back hit the wall. It was a massacre. That Mrs. Irene finished with a spectacular mawashi zuki, hitting Marcos' chest. A sad groan escaped from the mask's mouth hole, as he hugged his own chest and bent his knees, curling up on the floor.

With cinematic slowness, the woman untied the white sash tied around her waist, letting it fall to the floor, and opened the top of her kimono. Underneath it was just a white top. And the abs that Marcos saw her sculpt daily. Without taking her eyes off her victim, she untied the drawstring of her pants and let them slide down to her heels, squatting in front of the fallen man. Spreading her knees wide, she spat on the fingertips of her right hand, calloused from training, and slipped them into the tight white underwear that she was wearing, indisputably masculine.

"Don't you dare move," she began, in a whispering voice, while caressing her clitoris. "I'm better than you, who are a former MMA champion, a gym trainer, a strong, muscular, young guy..." As she spoke, Mrs. Irene had spasms of pleasure at what she herself was saying. The words came out with the effort of someone trying to delay orgasm. – I lift weights... I lift more and more weights... I do karate... I do boxing... I run... I have six-pack abs... – Her movements inside her underwear were becoming frantic. And her breathing was quickening. She spoke through clenched teeth. – I have biceps... My arms are strong... Very strong... I hit you... Marcos... More than once... Because I am very strong... I know how to fight... I am a woman, I am strong, I know how to fight... Better than a man... – Between sentences, panting, she moaned on the verge of an orgasm. While she masturbated with her right hand, Mrs. Irene held Marcos' jaw with her left. – You don't believe me... I am stronger than you, big man... I will prove it to you... I will beat you up a lot... You don't believe me... I know you don't believe me... I am... very... very... strong...
Suddenly, she stopped masturbating. Marcos stared at her, stunned. The woman's eyes were glazed over, staring at him. He felt panic. Suddenly, she stuck her right arm between her thighs and her right arm behind her former trainer's neck. Like a weightlifter, she kept her knees bent as she pulled Marcos' body to her chest. With a start and a cry of effort, she stood up, lifting the man. The 98 kilos of the former MMA fighter were turned to the left shoulder of the fifty-something woman, 30 centimeters shorter than him. He took advantage of the opportunity to strike her head and knee her in the back. Dona Irene staggered around the room while Marcos elbowed her in the face. She held him firmly by the waist, holding him as if she were carrying a bag of coffee on her shoulder. With her free hand, and with the same strength, she returned the punches she received, not always hitting her opponent's head. The chain jingled nervously. The steel cable seemed about to snap. Marcos felt that it was about to give way and intensified his struggle. With her face bleeding from his blows, Mrs. Irene gathered all her strength and threw him against the wall. The impact was so intense that something seemed to have cracked in the wall. The noise of the fall to the floor was no less. Mrs. Irene's lips, swollen, were cut and bleeding. The several blows to her head were already beginning to show their damage. Marcos lay on the floor, unconscious. Exhausted, with her body aching from the enormous effort, the lady gathered up and slowly put on the two pieces of her karate kimono, as if in a ceremony. Finally, she tied the white sash around her waist. Drops of blood stained the whiteness of the garment. With her pronunciation impaired by the blood dripping and the swelling that was growing, and with her breathing still labored, she looked at Marcos, who was beginning to regain consciousness.
- I'm going to train a lot, man... You'll see... I'm getting ready... No chemistry... It's just training... Strength... We're going to fight a lot... You'll never get out of here.

[MuscleWoman]

Sandra rang the doorbell, feeling the refreshing wind of that paradoxically warm morning. The sky was very clear. The silvery light of the winter sun. She admired the small garden, so impeccable and green, indifferent to the dry season of the year. In the house, silence. She rang once more.
- Oh, my dear, that one lives holed up in there... You're going to have to insist a lot. - On the sidewalk, in front of the wall that separated her from the garden, was a short, fat lady with her dog. She smiled pleasantly. - She exercises all day long, over there in the outbuilding.
Sandra went to the wall and smiled at the eloquent lady with a maternal face.
- Nice to meet you. I'm Sandra. I wanted to talk to Mrs. Irene...
- Nice to meet you, miss. My name is Isolina. I've been Irene's neighbor for over thirty years. - And she lowered her voice, almost to a whisper. - I think that woman went crazy after her husband died, you know?
- Do you think so? Why?
– She spends the whole day stuck inside this house, working out... She carries so much weight that I hear her moaning. Every day. She even makes strange grunts from lifting so much weight, even late at night... To me, that's crazy, you know?
– Well, she went to my boyfriend's gym... It seems she was overdoing it so much that he even kicked her out...
– Well then... I remember, she told me. Your boyfriend's name is Marcos, right? No one can stop that woman... I've given her some advice, but she even turned her back on me... Have you ever heard anything like that? One day I told her not to try so hard. I said: "Irene, you're not a child anymore, what you're doing is for us young women". But she didn't want to listen to me. After that day she never spoke to me again. It's just "Good morning, Lina"... She calls me Lina... "Good night, Lina." And that's it. Her face is always straight. – Dona Isolina pauses, out of breath with her chatter. Sandra takes the opportunity to intervene.
- Then I'll insist. Maybe she has something to tell me about Marcos. You know he disappeared, right?
- Oh, my dear! Yes, I know. I saw it on TV... How sad, right? – Dona Isolina assumed a condolenceful expression, in a brief pause. – But he'll show up, you know? It's nothing... – Dona Isolina hesitated, not knowing what to say. – Sometimes people need some time, right?
Suddenly, the door to the house opened. It was Dona Irene, with a watering can for the plants. She stood still for a few seconds, looking at the two women at the entrance to the garden.
- Well, dear, I need to walk the dog... – Dona Isolina said, visibly disconcerted, hurrying to leave, without looking at her neighbor. – God bless you, okay? Good morning, Irene! – And she left without waiting for an answer.
Sandra quickly turned to Mrs. Irene, who threatened to close the door.
– Mrs. Irene, please, I need to talk to you. Do you remember me?
The fifty-something woman remained standing, with the door ajar and the watering can in her hand, dripping. A severe and suspicious look.

[MuscleWoman]

– I do remember, but I can't talk about it now.

Sandra took a few steps forward, to the threshold of the door. Mrs. Irene was about to close it.

"Mrs. Irene, I wouldn't like to call the police to have this conversation with you," Sandra bluffed. When she heard the word "police," a shadow of panic crossed Mrs. Irene's face. She hesitated for a few moments. Finally, she left and closed the door behind her. The conversation would take place outside, at the entrance to the house. Sandra felt a little uncomfortable with the situation. She tried to ease the tense atmosphere.

"Sorry, I don't want to bother you. I'll be quick. You have your routine, I won't disturb you. I know you really like sports."

"Yes," the fifty-something woman replied dryly.

"Me too." Mrs. Irene remained cold, with a hard look at Sandra, who was waiting for the "old woman" to ask her which ones. "I've always liked sports." – She continued, trying to remain friendly. – It's not to compete. It's because I really like it. – Another pause. Total silence. It was then that Sandra noticed spots on Mrs. Irene's face, which seemed slightly swollen. But she continued. – I do karate... – Sandra noticed some reaction in her interlocutor. She decided to advance. – That's right, karate... I'm a black belt. – Mrs. Irene looked at the girl with a bright look. "Bingo!", Sandra thought. – That's right, black belt. You wouldn't imagine it, would you? – And she smiled sincerely. – That's why I met Marcos. I've been training at his gym for about six years. – Mrs. Irene seemed amazed. – But he's never taught me. Marcos isn't good at karate. I think I could beat him... – Sandra smiled once more. – Can you imagine? A big man like that... getting beaten up by a woman...
Now Mrs. Irene was visibly excited. Her body moved discreetly under her loose sweatshirt. She wanted to masturbate right there, while the girl told her about her training routine. Sandra understood that she had won the lady's sympathy. And she continued talking.
- But I train almost exclusively with men. There are no other black belt women at the gym... It's actually good, because then I'm not afraid to hit them...
Dona Irene interrupted her abruptly:
- Let's go in.
The combination living room and dining room, with its unfailingly on television, was impeccably tidy and smelled nice. It looked like the home of someone obsessed with cleanliness. The TV was tuned to a sports channel.
- You really like sports, don't you, Dona Irene? Keep it up... By the way, I saw your gym membership. Marcos wrote everything down.
Dona Irene, who had left the watering can at her feet, was sitting on the edge of the chair, straight, her hard chest jutting out. She didn't even hear what Sandra had just said. Her eyes devoured the girl, whose voice was becoming increasingly distant, as if she were in another world. She looked at the visitor's pretty face. Her brown hair spilled over her bare shoulders, revealing her intense work at the gym. Sandra was wearing a tight white T-shirt with very short sleeves, which exposed her defined biceps, but not too much. Her tanned and moisturized skin spoke volumes about the care that this woman dedicated herself to. Perfect teeth. Small, elegant earrings. Caramel eyes. Very discreet makeup. Her sensual mouth highlighted by the equally discreet lipstick. Charmingly feminine gestures. But, at the same time, an air of haughtiness, determination, confidence, of... strength! Mrs. Irene never ceased to admire each discovery in the personality and manner of this young woman. Her gaze dropped to the neckline of her T-shirt, adorned with a heart-shaped pendant. From there to her breasts beneath the fabric, moving with her breathing. They were not large, but their sensual proportion and firmness were noticeable. Her torso was straight, without the slightest hint of flaccidity or fat. Mrs. Irene imagined, under her T-shirt, a "six-pack" abdomen that ended in a thin waist. Under her knee-length skirt, Sandra's thighs didn't look thick, but they were certainly quite hard, judging by her muscular calves – which indicated intense leg exercises. Mrs. Irene looked at her interlocutor. For the first time, she felt attracted to a woman.
"I'm learning karate," she said, finally.
"Really?!" Sandra was astonished, almost shocked. "At which gym?"
"I train alone." Mrs. Irene's voice seemed shaky.
"I know you used to do weight training with Marcos, right? I saw on your profile that he was your personal trainer."
"I train alone now. Weight training and karate..." Mrs. Irene's eyes swallowed Sandra.

[MuscleWoman]

– Impressive... – The girl was oscillating between admiration and disbelief. – Because of karate, I also do weight training. But not like you used to...
– I still do it – Mrs. Irene interrupted, sternly.
– Oh, yes! You train at home... You need a lot of discipline, don't you? Your record says that you never missed a single class. Impressive! And your progress? I've never seen anything like it, not even in girls my age!
– Do you like hitting men? – Mrs. Irene interrupted. Sandra was quite disconcerted.
– Huh? – Mrs. Irene separated her knees and placed her hands on them, in an almost intimidating posture. – I asked you if you like hitting men.
The visitor instinctively backed up on the couch and stuttered, shocked by the absurdity of the question and her insistence:
– N-N-No... I mean... I've never seen my training from that side...
– But you said you prefer to fight with men – the mature and lonely lady almost shouted.
Sandra, somewhat regretting the idea of ��looking for the strange fifty-something woman, recovered and decided to go on the attack, speaking without pausing:
– Look, Mrs. Irene, I don't want to take up your time. I'll get right to the point of why I came here: I'd like to know if you have...
– Give me a seiken tiudan zuki! – Mrs. Irene stood up and lifted her sweatshirt, showing off her enviable six-pack abs.
Sandra was doubly shocked: by the unreasonable request and by the woman's exuberant abdominal definition. The trainer's girlfriend stood up.
– Mrs. Irene, I just wanted to know if you know anything about Marcos. If you don't, that's okay. Get along with the police. – And she made a move to leave.

With indescribable speed, Mrs. Irene unleashed a seiken tiudan zuki that made Sandra fall onto the sofa, perplexed. The absurdity of the situation had shaken her more than that punch in the stomach. But there was no time to think. The polite and kind girl gave way to the expert karateka in time to block the seiken jôdan zuki that came next.

"Are you crazy?!" Sandra yelled, as she rolled to the left and stood up, in a defensive position. Mrs. Irene, however, was already attacking with a varied series of blows: uraken shômen uti, uraken shita uti, hiji uti, hiji uti oroshi. Sandra, experienced, knew how to avoid or block them all, but recognized that she was not facing a beginner. Losing her scruples, she mobilized her entire arsenal of blows. After all, she was a black belt.

Anyone passing by that house at that moment would think they were moving or throwing an untimely party: the noises of furniture being pushed around, muffled grunts and groans, the stamping of feet on the floor as if they were dancing. In fact, a quick and strangely silent fight was taking place in the living room. It didn't last more than two or three minutes. It was as if two martial arts masters were training. But with real blows. Although Sandra's technical superiority was indisputable, Mrs. Irene had an incomparable power in her blows. The few that she landed on the girl were cruel. Fearing injury, the girl tried to negotiate, while avoiding confrontation, walking around the room:

– Mrs. Irene... please... let's talk... I think you're nervous. Let's talk...
The mature lady, however, was relentless, demonstrating her extensive karate repertoire, this time with her feet: mae keague, uti mawashi, soto mawashi, kin gueri, hiza gueri. Sandra, however, applied a surgical strike to her opponent's kneecap – who fell, groaning in pain. Without wasting a second, the black belt jumped over the overturned sofa and grabbed the door handle, trying to open it. It was locked. At that very moment, she felt a strong, hard arm wrap around her neck, knocking her backwards. Mrs. Irene revealed herself to be a jiu-jitsu fighter – something Sandra had never learned. The young woman felt like she was trapped by a boa constrictor, and tried to pull those extremely strong arms off her neck. Mrs. Irene's steel legs crushed her torso, while the "tie" began to prevent oxygen from reaching her brain. "Help," Sandra tried to scream, but her scream came out muffled and powerless. The young karateka stopped struggling until she fainted on top of her hostess's body.
– Mrs. Irene... Mrs. Irene, are you okay?

[MuscleWoman]

– Huh?
– It seems that you are not well.
The athletic fifty-something woman sat up straight in her chair, recovering from the reverie that was exciting her. Her urge to masturbate was uncontrollable.
– Excuse me, my dear, it's just that I am so shocked by the story of your boyfriend that I am almost like this, a little spaced out. He was... I mean, he is such a good friend of my son...
Sandra smiled, sad and moved at the same time. She had been talking uninterruptedly for a few minutes, while Mrs. Irene remained erect like a marble statue, her eyes fixed on her. She even feared that the lady was in some kind of epileptic trance.
– Thank you, Mrs. Irene. You are very kind. But do you really not have anything to say about Marcos? Like... Something that could give us some clue... an indication of what happened. – Look, my dear, I only saw him at the gym and we only talked about the exercises, about my progress, about my diet, those things... I never noticed anything strange. After I stopped going to the gym, I sometimes saw him running here on the street, early in the morning. I don't really know more than that. – And she smiled sadly at her prisoner's girlfriend.
Sandra also sighed, desolate. And she stood up.
– Thank you and I'm sorry for taking up your time, Mrs. Irene. It's just that I don't know what to do anymore – her voice was choked, her eyes moist. – But I'm not going to give up...
Mrs. Irene gently hugged the young woman, stroking her beautiful face like a mother. Sandra held back her tears, feeling the roughness of the calluses of the woman who was lifting weights. As they walked towards the exit, the fifty-year-old said:
– Keep going, don't give up. You'll find him. Count on me, if I can help you.
– Thank you, Mrs. Irene...
– And don't forget to take care of yourself. You need to be well to handle all this...
– Oh, yes, I don't neglect myself... That's one of the things I owe to Marcos. He raised my self-esteem, you know? – Sandra wiped away two tears.
– Really? What a good guy...
– Yes – Sandra smiled through her tears. – He really encouraged me in karate.
– Really?
– Yeah, no one thinks about that first when they see a woman.
– Yeah, no one at all.
– I owe Marcos for being a black belt today.
Mrs. Irene gave Sandra a look that was both admiring and hot. Under her sweatshirt, her body was stiff with sexual tension. Her nipples and clitoris were crying out for a touch. The athletic fifty-something, however, didn't let her desire show.
– Later, I want you to tell me more. I admire women who break taboos, like you. – Oh, yes, come to the gym so we can talk. I'm there every day, morning and night.
– Every day?
– Yes, I train hard in karate and do weight training.
Dona Irene was about to explode. She wanted to grab Sandra right then and there.
– Well, I'll wait for you there, Dona Irene. Once again, thank you very much! – and, once again moved, she kissed the face of her boyfriend's kidnapper.

[MuscleWoman]

When she closed the door, Mrs. Irene didn't have the patience to take her clothes off calmly: she tore her sweatshirt in a mix of uncontrollable desire, haste and pleasure at the violence of the gesture. She panted as she reached for the slit in her underwear to reach her burning clitoris. The torn pieces were left behind on the way to the outbuilding. She walked with her legs open, moaning with the masturbatory stimulation. It was a walk somewhere between monstrous and comical, but one that undeniably exuded pleasure. She burst into the gym with such voracity that Marcos didn't even have time to prepare himself, already imagining another fight. But Mrs. Irene crouched down, grabbed the elastic of Marcos' underwear, pulled it down and stuck the prisoner's flaccid penis in her mouth. Using the technique learned in porn films and practiced on rubber dildos, the lady stimulated the ex-fighter's glans with her tongue and lips. The speed and skill of the fifty-year-old woman were so great that Marcos did not think about attacking her: a wave of pleasure immediately flooded him, and his penis hardened, proud and powerful. He had not masturbated for weeks, discouraged by captivity. Therefore, even though the situation seemed disgusting to him, there was no way to stop the pleasure she caused him. So he closed his eyes and let himself go. Suddenly, he felt Mrs. Irene's powerful hands on his buttocks and her shoulders passing through the inside of his thighs. She lifted him, dragging the prisoner's back against the wall, licking his glans frantically. With the woman's head between her enormous and powerful thighs, Marcos thought about crushing her. Sensing the movement, Mrs. Irene stopped the fellatio and screamed amidst the drool and slime that dripped from her mouth, in profusion: "Don't you dare, Marcos! Or I'll bite your dick off!" After four painful beatings, he learned not to underestimate Mrs. Irene's threats. Much better to ejaculate with her, he thought, than to be humiliatingly beaten by a lady in her late sixties. Then, resigned, he gave himself completely to the pleasure. Mrs. Irene looked like a beast. Marcos was stunned by the voracity and energy of that woman, who grunted, panted and flexed her neck with such vigor and speed that she seemed possessed by a demon. But not even that thought could block his pleasure. A few dozen more seconds and he was about to cum. The fifty-year-old woman didn't stop. On the contrary, she refined the movements of her tongue and lips even more so that Marcos finally reached orgasm. Which came, flooding Mrs. Irene's throat with a jet of semen, along with a moan from under the mask. The former MMA champion's body relaxed as Mrs. Irene gently lowered him to the floor, where she sat down, panting and coughing, spitting out saliva and sperm from her mouth. She was exhausted. She stretched out on the floor, like a crossfit athlete after a series of exercises. Her hard six-pack abs rose and fell rapidly. She remained like that for a few minutes, until her breathing returned to normal. She raised her head to see Marcos. He had put on his underwear and was sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall and his knees bent. The man was also looking at her. After stretching a little, Mrs. Irene sat up in the oriental style, with her hands on her knees, facing her prisoner. Her torso erect, her chest projected forward, her athletic shoulders aligned.
- I'm going to fuck your girlfriend.

[MuscleWoman]

Sandra felt a shiver as the hot water ran down her skin, running down the crack of her buttocks, kissing her anus and down her half-open legs. More than two months had passed since Marcos had disappeared without a trace. In that time, she had forgotten what sexual pleasure was. She loved masturbating, even with the regular sex she had with her boyfriend. She understood the two modalities as different pleasures that she liked to explore to the fullest. Including her homoerotic fantasies, which she preferred to keep to herself. She never told anyone about her attraction to Wonder Woman, whose movies she never missed. In fact, she watched some of them to get excited. It wasn't just the heroine's physical beauty. Sandra also got excited by the fight scenes. She found it strangely sexy to see that powerful and confident woman dominating her enemies. Maybe that explained her passion for martial arts, to the point of getting a black belt just for the pleasure of fighting, especially with men. In the almost ten years since she began training, she has been beaten by countless people. One of them was so relentless in a sparring match that she ended up hospitalized. Her parents forbade her from training again. Sandra returned, but without knowing about them, enrolling in another gym. It was there that she met Marcos. At first, he thought Sandra would give up soon, but he soon realized her stubbornness. So he began to encourage her. He became her personal trainer, preparing her body according to the demands of karate: flexibility, speed, agility, lightness and strength. The girl responded quickly to the double training of bodybuilding and fighting. In a few months she went from yellow to orange belt. At first, she trained exclusively with women. But as she rose in rank, the classes became smaller and more male. Until Sandra became the only female black belt in the gym, along with six men. It was very difficult to earn their respect. That is why she took her training so seriously. She was by far the most disciplined and diligent student. Marcos admired the rigor with which she followed her diet and bodybuilding program. "But don't make me look like a man, okay?" she warned her boyfriend-trainer. Sandra touched her clitoris, remembering him. For the first time in two months, she felt like masturbating, thinking about that athletic body and that hard, big penis that she loved to ride. So she spread her legs wider, put her right hand against the wall, letting the water run down her back, and with her left hand she began to touch herself. But her erotic moment was abruptly interrupted when she heard the laughter of two girls who were turning on showers in the stalls next door. Sandra had forgotten she was at the gym. She was more distracted by their laughter than embarrassed by the presence of the shrill girls. She picked up the towel, dried herself and went to get dressed. As she left the locker room, she was surprised to find Mrs. Irene standing in front of the door.
- What a nice surprise, Mrs. Irene! How are you?
- Are you okay, dear? You told me to come and I decided to come... I wanted to know if you had heard from Marcos.
A shadow of sadness covered Sandra's face.
- Gosh, Mrs. Irene, nothing. Absolutely nothing. It's been over sixty days.
- But don't give up, Sandra!
- No, never! Not even if I have to spend the rest of my life looking for him.
- He'll show up. I'm sure he's somewhere.
- Thank you, Mrs. Irene! You're a sweetheart...
- I'm so sad for you and for not being able to help you more...
Sandra didn't answer. She just lowered her head and wiped away a tear. Mrs. Irene hurried to prevent the situation from slipping into a funeral atmosphere.
- Look, you need to distract yourself a little, without forgetting what's going on, of course. But to give you more energy to continue your search... How about we talk about something we both like: sports? Do you have time?

Sandra was now feeling a bit down and unmotivated to continue the conversation.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Irene, but I'm feeling a bit down right now. I need to go home and rest a bit... Training was tough today."

Marcos's kidnapper adopted a tactical retreat, not without a hint of excitement that tempered her response:

[MuscleWoman]

– That's right... train hard... I love the tiredness after lifting weights... – Sandra stared at the athletic lady. Only now did she notice that she was wearing a tank top, showing off her toned arms. The fifty-something woman whispered: – What I'm about to tell you may seem a little crazy, but if I had the energy I have today... – With a mischievous wink at the girl, she added: – ...no man would be a match for me.
* * *
Sandra found it all a bit strange, but she couldn't help but admire the athletic lady. At first, she understood that she was talking about sexual disposition and libido renewed by weight training. But later, at home, in bed, Marcos' girlfriend thought about the ambiguity of the sentence: could she also be talking about competing with men? This thought was the trigger for Sandra to resume the masturbation she had interrupted in the gym bathroom.
In bed, her masturbation ritual was quite peculiar. After turning on the bedside lamp and undressing completely, she knelt on the mattress, with her legs comfortably spread – under which she always imagined a woman – and turned to the mirror in front of the bed. Seeing her reflection in that pose and situation fueled her homoerotic fantasies. Sandra adored her own body, still tired from the exhausting weight training and karate sessions that day. She had overdone her training in an attempt to forget Marcos's desperate disappearance for a few hours. But, at the same time, she felt good, beautiful and powerful. Then she admired her perky breasts with their swollen nipples, caressing and pinching them, while her other hand ran over her defined abdomen without exaggeration, until she reached her groin. Her fantasies began to flow.

That day, at karate practice, a newcomer showed up – the second black belt in the group. She came from another gym. She was short and stocky – but an excellent fighter, worthy of her belt. The two exchanged few words and almost no contact during training, but they met in the women's locker room. The newcomer – Kelly –, who was finishing getting dressed, was a "fake fat": the generous layer of fat hid her muscles, like a weightlifting heavyweight. Sandra noticed her hard and pronounced biceps, while the girl dried her short hair, in a masculine cut. Her back was extremely broad. The other karateka risked a conversation.
- You fight very well...
- Oh, thank you – and Kelly gave a friendly smile, contrasting with the seriousness of her concentration during training. Maybe she was very shy.
- How long have you been a black belt?
- About three years.
- And in karate? Has it been a long time?
- Not long. About seven years.
- Wow! You've evolved quickly...
- It's just that I've always done a lot of sports. I started karate when I was a child. I was chubby and my parents wanted me to lose weight quickly. I also did judo and jiu-jitsu, but only for a short time. Then, as a teenager, I discovered weightlifting. I became a state bench press champion, but then I suffered a serious injury... I ended up going back to karate. But I still lift weights. Not like before... I like being strong!
Sandra remembered the trigger that rekindled her desire to masturbate. In the shower, it was Kelly who was haunting her fantasies when she was interrupted by the noise of the girls. Now, however, with her hard, long thighs spread out on the bed, it was another female figure, vaguely similar to Kelly, who invaded her erotic reverie with the strength and haughtiness that characterized her: Mrs. Irene. Sandra resisted a little, because mature women had never attracted her. But it was as if the fifty-year-old woman was fighting with her, using terrible karate moves to defeat her. Sandra was already fantasizing, and let her imagination get the better of her, starting by recreating the end of the conversation between the two.

[MuscleWoman]

– Sure! The gym will be closing soon, but we can stay. For now, I'm helping out with the management. So sometimes I stay here late, checking the bills.

The pleasant chat then slowly went through supplements, diets, workout routines, sportswear and shoes, and weight training equipment, until finally arriving at martial arts.

"I'd like to be a karateka like you!" exclaimed Mrs. Irene, genuinely enthusiastic.

"Nothing is impossible, Mrs. Irene!"

The fifty-year-old woman didn't like the answer. It seemed like Sandra underestimated her potential.

"I train karate alone at home, following YouTube tutorials." – Sandra seemed perplexed, although she already knew about this solitary training. Mrs. Irene didn't let her speak, adding: "My technique is definitely bad. That's why I needed someone to train me. I want to get to black belt." – The young woman admired the mature woman's ambition. – Do you want me to show you what I already know?

Sandra stood there for a few seconds staring at the woman who seemed increasingly strange to her.
- Hmm... The gym is about to close...
- Okay, I'll be quick. Just so you can see if the old lady here has any chance... - Mrs. Irene winked at Sandra, smiling sympathetically.
The young woman ended up nodding:
- Okay, but only fifteen minutes, okay? Because I have to close everything before I leave.
The two of them went to the wing for martial arts. There were rooms separated by discipline. The karate one already had its doors closed and the lights turned off.
- Well - Sandra began, flipping the switch - do you know how to stretch and warm up?
- Sure - Mrs. Irene replied, in an almost disdainful tone. And she began to stretch with ease.
- Do you think you can do the demonstration wearing that sweatshirt? Won't it get too hot? If you want, we can leave it for the day when you're wearing lighter clothes.
- That was all Mrs. Irene wanted to hear. With an enigmatic smile, she looked at Sandra as she slowly slid the zipper down. The girl couldn't hide her surprise when the fifty-something woman took off her blouse, under which she was wearing a black sports bra.
- Mrs. Irene...
- What? - the lady asked, feigning innocence.
- I've never seen anything like it in my life...
- Oh, girl, nonsense. This gym is full of fit people. I only lift a few weights...
- No, no, no... You're an athlete... You have a body that would make many athletes envious...
- You really think so, do you?
- You should be on TV, showing off that wonderful body... Tell me one thing: what do you drink?
Mrs. Irene couldn't hide her irritation:
- Water, juice, healthy food and good sleep. No chemicals! I've never taken that crap that gyms sell...
- We don't sell anything illegal here, Mrs. Irene - replied Sandra, feeling offended. – I didn't mean that, I'm sorry... I'm speaking in general terms... – Mrs. Irene continued, restoring the friendly atmosphere. – Shall we go to the demonstration? We don't have much time, right?

Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Irene took off her pants – revealing yoga leggings –, bowed to the young woman, assumed a fighting stance and began to deliver the blows she knew. Sandra was impressed by Mrs. Irene's dexterity, balance and precision, who couldn't take her eyes off the young black belt. To impress her even more, she contracted her muscles, showing off their definition. Unlike the formal practitioners, however, the athletic woman struck silently, without the kiai. The force of her blows seemed to make the air vibrate. Sandra was now fascinated. There was still a lot to improve, but there was no doubt Mrs. Irene was far above any beginner.

When the fifty-year-old finished, Sandra burst into passionate applause.

– How wonderful, Mrs. Irene! You have to come to the gym now! I'm sure you'll be a black belt in a few weeks...
- Really? Aren't you kidding me?
- Imagine! You know the moves and have impressive control over your body. How wonderful! It's hard to believe you learned all this on your own.
- But it's true! I learned everything on my own...
- My God, you're a phenomenon...
- Thank you... I'm even a little embarrassed... Such a compliment coming from such a beautiful girl...
- You're beautiful, Mrs. Irene! - exclaimed Sandra, who felt a twinge of desire as she looked at that mature woman, standing there in front of her, with her hands on her hips, an enigmatic smile and a sculpted abdomen vibrating.
- You're beautiful, Sandra. I'm just a crazy old lady.

[MuscleWoman]

– No, really, you are very beautiful. Just look at those arms, that washboard stomach... My God! – Sandra herself could not believe that she had just praised, with so much desire, the athletic body of a woman of almost sixty years old.
– I think I am stronger than beautiful, Sandra...
The girl let out a small moan, before asking, waiting for the excitement of the answer:
– Why?
– I like the power of my muscles. – Sandra moaned, without hiding it. "She is one of mine", thought Mrs. Irene, who came closer to the young woman. – I like to feel strong. – She flexed her left bicep and hit it with her right hand. – No man intimidates me, Sandra. I can even be beaten, but first he will suffer at my hands.
The girl began to pant, disconcerted by her own excitement. Mrs. Irene, still with her bicep flexed, came closer and whispered: "You like it, don't you? I know you like it... Touch it, Sandra, because I don't think you'll ever see one like that again." Eager and trembling with excitement, the girl licked the marble-hard muscle that the fifty-something woman was offering her.
"Tell me more, please," the young woman moaned.
"I'm going to fight every black belt man in this gym. For you... And I'm going to beat them all up. For you... I won't leave a single one standing. For you... And I want you to see me defeat them one by one, broken by my blows. Because I'm strong, Sandra... I'm a woman..." The young woman interrupted Mrs. Irene's speech with a scorching kiss, while her hands ran over the rigid muscles of the athletic fifty-something woman's arms. It had been decades since the fifty-something woman had kissed like that. But she knew how to respond in kind. And so the two remained for long minutes. Until Mrs. Irene whispered in the black belt's ear: "Put on your kimono." Sandra immediately understood and ran out of the room with her training bag. Meanwhile, the "old lady" devoted herself to stretching, after setting up her cell phone in a discreet corner, with the camera on. Ten minutes later, Sandra entered the room, wearing her white kimono (smelling of sweat from the day's hard training) with her black belt around her waist, barefoot and with her hair tied in a ponytail. She locked the door.
Mrs. Irene kept her sports bra and leggings on. She looked at Sandra. She had never felt so excited. The young woman bowed to the lady, assumed a fighting stance, rang out her kiai and gave herself over to the exuberance of her black belt kata. The smell of her own sweat on her kimono excited her because it reminded her of the vigor of her training that day. Dona Irene took off her sports bra and leggings, spat on the fingertips of one of her calloused hands to masturbate, and with the other she began to pinch her erect nipples. Sandra, soaked in sweat, accentuated the power of her blows. Her spectator knelt down, put her hands behind her neck and contracted her abdomen, casting a flaming look at the karate fighter.
- Come on...
Sandra threw herself on her back under the fifty-something woman and eagerly licked the muscular lady's clitoris, from there moving to her anus and back to her clitoris, in an extremely pleasurable back and forth with her skillful tongue. Dona Irene moaned with disturbing sensuality and threw herself on Sandra's groin, ripping off her pants and then her panties, while keeping her genitals above the fighter's voracious mouth. It was Dona Sandra's turn to show off her skills. Putting her hands under the girl's firm, round buttocks, the fifty-year-old pressed the black belt's waist against her mouth and inflicted a real "massacre". The karateka, taking advantage of her martial artist's flexibility, spread her legs and held the tips of her feet with her hands, exposing her genitals even more to the sensual fury of the vigorous karate apprentice, who was now bringing Sandra to an unspeakable orgasm...
- Irene... Irene... Irene... - the girl moaned, cumming in front of the mirror.

[MuscleWoman]

As soon as she got back from her meeting with Sandra, Mrs. Irene went to check on her prisoner. This time, she approached the outbuilding silently. She had locked the door, but she could clearly hear, along with the jingling of the chain, Marcos's moans as he struggled on the pull-up bar. Those sounds excited her. Knowing that he worked out increased her desire for the pleasure of defeating an athletic man. And then using him to satisfy her. Then, to make him resume training so he would get stronger and then she would beat him and use him for her pleasure. And so on endlessly, in a cycle that seemed so virtuous to her... The woman's hand was already caressing her erect clitoris under her pants. She couldn't hold back a moan. The interior of the outbuilding fell silent. Mrs. Irene decided to go in. Marcos found the woman quite ridiculous, in that green tank top with purple sweatpants. Her arms, defined and solid like those of a gymnastics champion, seemed to not belong on that head. Her mahogany-colored hair did not disguise the age of her almost sixty-year-old face. It was a huge contrast with her upright posture, her chest jutting out, her muscular shoulders, her arms extended along her torso with her hands slightly open, as if she were ready for a series on the Olympic rings. He knew very well what her loose T-shirt and pants were hiding. Her strength training had intensified after she installed a sort of extension of her small gym in the tiny backyard. It was also the new space for her karate exercises. Which, along with weight training, had become her great obsession.

Marcos had had enough time to understand Dona Irene's obsessions, no matter how absurd they were. She was even convincing, justifying her purposes. A few days earlier, when she picked up the aluminum plate he had just eaten from (with his hands), the muscular lady sat on the stool, wearing the robe she wore before going to bed on the increasingly rare cold nights of the São Paulo winter:
"I know you think I'm crazy, Marcos. And I know you'll never forgive me for what I'm doing to you." She paused for a long time, as if she was waiting for an answer. "But you had the misfortune of crossing my path just when I was releasing the beast inside me." Suddenly, her gaze became cloudy, as if she were absent, in a trance, searching for a hidden memory. "I didn't tell you that my father really wanted a son. When I was born, he cried because my mother couldn't get pregnant again. He lost his only chance to have a son. No one needed to tell me that he hated that I was born a woman. It was obvious. He called me "Johnny," looking at me with contempt. – She let out a sad sigh and leaned against the wall. – He only bought me boy's clothes. And when I was seven, he made me help him with the heavy work on the farm. He was a handsome man, big, strong, and quarrelsome... – She said that last sentence with a glint of admiration in her eyes. – He ran that farm alone. I can even understand why he wanted a son. I discovered very early on that if I wanted to be loved by him, I would have to be the son he never had. And that the more I was, the more he would love me. – Her eyes filled with tears. – What nonsense! He never loved me! – Dona Irene held back her tears. But she couldn't help but let out a painful sigh, born deep in her soul. – I did everything a man could do in the heavy work on the farm: weeding, plowing, planting, harvesting, taking care of the animals... When I was fourteen, I was already carrying sacks of coffee on my back. I did everything for him to notice me. I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted to be big and strong like him. I cut my hair really short... I wore really loose clothes to hide my womanly body... I imitated the way he walked... I used to hold my breasts in a band when they started to grow... I even started smoking. When he found my pack of cigarettes, he grabbed me by the throat and stuffed them all in my mouth until I choked. When he let me go, I vomited everything I had and didn't have in my stomach. And then he started beating me. Slaps, punches, kicks... My mother screamed and banged on the locked door. I have no idea how long that went on. For me, it was hours. He tore my entire room apart, throwing me from one side to the other. I thought he was going to kill me. I was covered in blood. Before he left, my father whispered, very close to my ear: "You still have a long way to go before you're a man."

[MuscleWoman]

Marcos was moved by the story. Under the mask, two tears ran down his face. Sitting on the floor, with his arms crossed over his knees, during the story he even forgot about the mask and the chain, the captivity, the beatings, the more than two months there, confined in a small house by the woman who now moved him. But Dona Irene wasn't finished.
- It hurt a lot, but I understood the lesson. I didn't have to be a man. In fact, I didn't even want to be one. I just wanted him to like me. But he never loved me. He wanted a son, not me. So now it was up to me. He would have to put up with me. - Dona Irene shifted on the bench, stretching briefly. Marcos cringed, thinking that she would suddenly start beating him, like the other times, apparently for no reason. But she was just stretching her hard muscles to continue her long story. - He would have to put up with the fact that I'm a woman. I think my father didn't like women. He mistreated my mother a lot. He beat her. And after he beat me, he never missed a chance to humiliate me, because I let my hair grow, put on earrings and bought skirts, dresses and high heels. I continued working hard on the farm, without receiving a cent, just for the house and food. He gave me increasingly heavy tasks. It seemed like he wanted to finish me off. My hands were covered in calluses. He took me out of school before I finished high school. He said he wouldn't support a tramp. He started calling me a "transvestite". He said I was neither a woman nor a man. One day he introduced me like this, to a visitor: "This here is my pet freak." - She shed a tear. After a short pause, she moved her athletic shoulders in a circle, as if she were about to box, and assumed a haughty posture. - I was already nineteen when I started dating. When I brought my boyfriend home for the first time, he immediately said: "Be careful what you find between her legs, okay?". After the boy left, I found my father in the kitchen, looked him in the eye, and said quietly but angrily: "I am a woman, I am your daughter, I work as hard as you do, and from now on everything is equal." He smiled in the most disgusting way. And he slapped me so hard on the ear that I fell, hitting my head on the edge of the sink. He opened a wound on my forehead. I still have a scar. That was when I learned another lesson. If I wanted to be a woman, I had to fight for it. – Another pause. Another stretch. Marcos sensed the outcome. – I didn't know I wasn't like other girls. I was strong. Very strong. Inside and out. I found that out when the tractor wheel fell on his leg. I picked it up by myself. And then I picked him up. I carried my father, a 90-kilo man, all the way home while my mother called the ambulance. After that, he never humiliated me again.
Marcos stretched out his legs. He was tired of the position. He wanted to get up. Walk around that small space a little. Think about that story alone. But Mrs. Irene gave no sign that she was finished. She was the one who got up, this time to stretch completely. The former fighter let out a sigh, but out of impatience.
"Today I feel sorry for my first boyfriends. Because I discovered that they all looked like my father. Only they weren't him. And I had to show that to one of them. He wanted to have sex with me. I told him I didn't want to. He insisted. I told him no. Then he stuck his hand under my skirt. I slapped him so hard... Then he punched me in the face. And another one... I didn't know how to fight, but I rushed at him in a bear hug." Mrs. Irene was visibly excited. Her face was on fire. The arms reproducing the hug. – And he punched my head. Then I slammed him so hard against the wall that the guy passed out on the spot. – His face took on a sadistic expression. – I've never felt so good. – Dona Irene approached her spectator and sat on her titanic thighs. Her face was almost glued to her former trainer's. – Do you understand? I've never felt so good. I discovered the beast. And I learned to unleash it.

[MuscleWoman]

In the lower middle class neighborhoods of São Paulo, so-called "semi-detached houses" are common. Most of them were built between the 1930s and 1970s. Although modest – but dignified – they are solid, well-built, and usually have a small backyard, separated from the neighbors on the sides by a narrow and high wall. What Marcos and Dona Irene didn't know is that, that night, at that exact moment, Dona Isolina was hanging out the laundry on the clothesline in her backyard when she heard strange sounds coming from the lonely neighbor. She listened carefully. They didn't sound like Dona Irene's grunts while lifting weights. She had the impression that a fight was going on there. She heard fragments of shouted words along with the grunts of someone who was suffering. Sometimes they were grunts. Sometimes they were moans. The voice was male. But the screams were from the fifty-something neighbor, whose words Dona Isolina couldn't quite distinguish. Holding a shirt that smelled of laundry, she was torn. "What could be happening, my God?" she thought. "Could it be a robbery? Or has Irene found a boyfriend and is having fun?" She thought that perhaps she should call the police. After hesitating for a few seconds, she decided to take a peek. She grabbed a ladder from her outbuilding and, with difficulty and very afraid of falling, climbed up to the edge of the wall. Dona Irene's yard was deserted and dark, but light came in under the door of the outbuilding. Now she was sure that it was a fight. And a very violent one. She heard banging on the closed door, as if a body was colliding with it. Dona Isolina's heart started racing. And she ran downstairs as fast as she could. She ran upstairs, to her son André's room, who was stretched out on the bed, watching something on his cell phone, wearing only a pair of loose shorts.
"Son, run to Irene's!" shouted Dona Isolina, out of breath. – There's a big fight going on over there!
– A fight?!
– Run, son! No, no, go just the way you are!
Barefoot, and pushed by his mother, he hurriedly went down the stairs, opened the door of the house in desperation, jumped over the wall of the widow's little garden and rang the doorbell several times in a row. Until the sound reached the ears of the fifty-year-old woman, who at that moment was holding Marcos by the collar after a series of punches to his face. Kneeling, with his arms hanging down at his sides, he was bleeding from the holes in his mask. He seemed conscious, but defeated. He moaned softly. The doorbell rang incessantly. Dona Irene let her prisoner collapse on the floor and left, hurriedly, locking the door. "Coming! Coming!" she shouted, while putting on her robe.
– Dona Irene! – shouted André, while the "old woman" was still unlocking the door. – Is everything okay there?!
The lady opened the door a little, feigning sleepiness.
- What do you mean? Of course everything is fine... I was already lying down...
André was a young man with big black eyes and dark, curly hair. He was almost two meters tall. He was so thin that his ribs were visible.
- It's just that my mother heard some strange noises in your backyard. It sounded like a fight...
Dona Irene smiled sympathetically.
- Your mother was drinking, huh? – she said, good-naturedly. – There's no fighting in my backyard. Who would have thought of such an idea...
- Isn't there a thief there, Dona Irene? If you want, I'll go and take a look for you...
- No! – she shouted, furious, but soon lowered her tone, trying to compose herself. – No... It's fine. I'll go and see for myself. – She flexed an arm, felt her biceps under the sleeve of her robe and winked at the young man, smiling. – You know, this old lady here works out. If there's someone in the yard, I'll make sure.
André also smiled, but awkwardly, embarrassed by the gesture, which he found ridiculous in a woman his mother's age.

[MuscleWoman]

When she returned to the outbuilding, Mrs. Irene found Marcos still lying there, moaning. And she feared that this time she had overdone it.
After telling her her memories and sitting on her thighs, the obsessive bodybuilder clasped Marcos's head between her hands and violently slammed it against the wall. The former fighter had no time to react or prepare himself. He lost consciousness for a few seconds, and when he regained consciousness, still dazed, he was unable to defend himself from the series of punches to his face, which was protected by the mask. Marcos was moaning. His moans excited the woman, who screamed repeatedly: "Hang on!", "Where's the stud?!", "Where's the male?!", "Where's the strong guy?!", "Where's the champion?!", "Who's in charge here?!" Mrs. Irene dragged her former trainer by the collar and threw him against the door. Bloody drool was dripping from the mouth hole in the mask, and sad moans were escaping. The athletic fifty-something woman held the former fighter against the door and stood him up, while she threw the remaining chain onto the steel clothesline. With that, she was able to hold him up with one hand, which was pulling the chain, and beat him with the other, now mercilessly punishing his torso, while she repeated her screams. Until she heard the insistent doorbell.

For the first time since she had put it on, Mrs. Irene decided to remove Marcos' mask. A foul smell emanated from the piece. The man's masculine and handsome face was unrecognizable due to the swelling. Blood was running down his mouth. The woman examined it carefully. All his teeth were there. But there were cuts on his lips and the inside of his mouth. His gums were also bleeding. "Nothing serious," she concluded. "He can handle it better."

[MuscleWoman]

– I've said it a thousand times, Mom: the woman wouldn't let me in. She didn't even open the door properly.

André was at the breakfast table in the kitchen, a little impatient with his mother's insistence, who apparently hadn't slept well.

– But that's not possible! Am I going crazy? Because I could clearly hear the sounds of fighting, the screams, the moans... André, someone was getting beaten up in there!

– Mom, go over there and talk to her! I didn't see anything. She seemed normal. I think she was even sleeping. And the woman wouldn't let me in...

Dona Isolina leaned back in her chair, admiring her son, dressed in his work uniform. He was a good "child" – as she saw that skinny 22-year-old giant. At 1.57 meters tall, she felt tiny next to the boy she had adopted when he was just a few days old. She was overflowing with love for him.

After André left, Dona Isolina tidied the kitchen and went to see Dona Irene. That story needed to be clarified. Something had happened to the neighbor the night before.
"What's wrong, Lina?" the aspiring karateka asked, wearing the newly purchased white kimono with the door ajar.
"Irene, what's going on?"
"What do you mean?"
"I heard the sound of fighting and moaning in your backyard last night. What's going on?"
Dona Irene threw open the door. She planted both bare feet on the ground, with her hands on her hips. Her gaze was fulminating.
"Are you spying on me, Lina?! Do you know that's a crime?! I'm going to report you to the police!"
Dona Isolina had never seen her neighbor so angry and threatening. She felt intimidated.
"And now get out of here! You interrupted my training." And she slammed the door.
Late in the afternoon, Dona Isolina told her son about the scene. André was furious.
"What is that old woman thinking?!"
– Calm down, son, let's forget about this...
– How can we forget? That crazy woman mistreats you, humiliates you and gets away with it?! You're worried about her and that's how she responds? I'm going to go get some explanations.
– No, André! Leave Lina to her craziness...
But the young man had already gotten up, striding furiously towards the neighbor's house.
Ms. Irene opened the door a little with undisguised irritation. Sweaty, she was wearing a sports bra with leggings. The young man noticed the athlete's muscles that the woman displayed.
– What happened to you?! Why don't you leave me alone?!
– Look, Ms. Irene, you can do whatever you want with your life, but don't treat my mother like that...
– Or what, brat?! – Ms. Irene shouted, throwing open the door. From the bottom up, she stared at the giant 35 centimeters taller.
André didn't back down. – Or I'll be the one to report you to the police.

Mrs. Irene, ready to show off her fighting skills, turned her shoulders and then her torso, still staring at André. She imagined grabbing him by the collar and saying: "Would you rather be beaten up out here or in there?" And, without waiting for an answer, she would drag him inside and grind that mountain of bones with an avalanche of punches, elbows and knees. But she knew it was time to contain the beast.

"Listen here, kid, go back to your mother's skirt and tell her not to snoop around in my life anymore." – And she slammed the door.

André was outraged and started ringing the doorbell countless times. The door opened abruptly and suddenly, and a mae-geri knocked the young man onto the plants in the small garden. Mrs. Irene jumped on him, landing her feet between his shoulders. – I could beat you up right now, kid, but this is just a warning: leave me alone! If you or any other son of a bitch comes to bother me again, I'll show you what I'm capable of...
With a sharp pain in his ribs, André groaned and crawled backwards. He wanted nothing more than to get out of there. From the sidewalk, leaning against the garden wall, Mrs. Isolina watched the scene, open-mouthed.