Mrs. Irene

[MuscleWoman]

The day dawned cold.

Marcos had learned to tell time by the lines he drew with his fingernail on the bathroom door. According to his calculations, he had been confined for three months. His hopes had faded. He was certain he would die there. His body would not withstand the repeated beatings, no matter how much Mrs. Irene took care of his diet and physical conditioning. He exercised a lot, with or without her, who strictly applied a rigorous program to strengthen all of the ex-fighter's muscles. But he used the equipment available for most of the day. He had no choice, including to keep from going crazy. However, this was not enough to alleviate the anguish of loneliness and the prospect of spending the rest of his life in that room, exposed to the madness of a woman who only thought about defeating him, humiliating him, subduing him, breaking him. That was how he felt. The "old woman's" repertoire of perversions seemed endless. Nothing satisfied her. The last time she had come to show her "who's boss here", the woman had grabbed his underwear from behind and lifted him up, squeezing his scrotum and tucking the underwear between his buttocks, like a thong. And she paraded around with him like that, inside the outbuilding. The pain was excruciating. There was no way to react or defend herself: her arms were handcuffed behind her back. But it wasn't enough. While she did this, Mrs. Irene told her about Sandra. And about everything that was happening between the two of them.

After their first meeting, encouraged by her new black belt friend, the sporty fifty-something woman enrolled in a Kyokushin style karate class – the same as Sandra. She was placed among the beginners, but the following week they gave her an orange belt. Which soon proved to be insufficient. So she jumped to the blue belt and, after just over a month at the gym, which she started going to every day, she was already in the yellow belt. Dona Irene tried to find times that coincided with Sandra's training sessions, always at night, always trying to meet her in the bathroom of the locker room, always looking for an opportunity to be alone. She never managed to do so. Until a storm cut the power for hours, emptying the gym. The black belt stayed to close the establishment, after everyone had left. Dona Irene did not train that night. She was ready to step onto the mat when everything went dark. Dressed in her impeccable kimono, she sat in a corner of the room and waited patiently.
When everything quieted down, she saw the beam of light from the flashlight that Sandra was using to inspect the facilities, before closing them. She was startled when the beam illuminated the hieratic figure of the woman who had been dominating her erotic fantasies. Dona Irene, barefoot, stood up, put her hands on her waist, highlighting her yellow belt, and smiled.
- Hello, Sandra.

[MuscleWoman]

The sexual pleasure to which the two women gave themselves, almost without prior words, exceeded the sensuality and creativity of pornographic films because it was real and sincere. They allowed themselves what was socially forbidden, especially due to machismo. Neither of them had ever felt so free sexually from taboos and prejudices. A 29-year-old woman and a 58-year-old woman, together, finally allowed themselves to fulfill the repressed homoerotic desire of two women who knew they were athletic, powerful, and vigorous. It was an explosion of inventiveness, excited by the unusual capacities of their bodies, whose limits they explored intuitively. Each desperately wanted to feel the strength of the other. Each eagerly showed off her strength to the other. They did not compete. They simply fed off each other's reciprocal excitement.
Although Mrs. Irene was a titan, Sandra showed that her weight training was not just for "keeping in shape." He lifted the woman several times in bear hugs, falling with her onto the mat to try out new lying positions, before getting up once more to try out other forms of sex standing up. They would make any man envious of his most radical fantasies as a voyeur watching two women having sex. It was an explosion of energy and desire, in a voracity for shared pleasure that is very difficult for machismo to understand. At first, an unsuspecting person would think that, under the dim light of the lantern left on the floor, it was a fight. The screams accentuated the savagery of the scene. But no. There was nothing wild or abominable. These were two female bodies breaking the barrier of physical strength monopolized by men, and putting it at the service of erotic experimentation that was also denied to them by patriarchal culture. No, there was nothing absurd there. The two women had conquered the freedom to fulfill their fantasies without asking the men for permission – and even without them. Of course they got tired. And they needed long breaks to recover for another virtuous cycle towards the unfathomable limits of pleasure. Then they would lie side by side on the mat. Sweat dripping. A calm but contagious joy. The feeling of satiety and fullness after the shared orgasm. Until they began to get excited again, first with speeches that wandered through their most unspeakable, hidden and stimulating fantasies.

[MuscleWoman]

– I feel a volcano consuming me when I see you in a kimono and a black belt...
– And I run to the bathroom to masturbate every time I see you training, Irene...
– It's for you that I train...
– I want you in my class right away...
– I'll show you what I'm capable of...
– I want to see you fighting, Irene...
– I'll break all the black belts when I get to your class...
– I love your muscles... Your strength...
– I train to become stronger and stronger...
One had already found the other's clitoris while they exchanged compliments, requests and promises when Mrs. Irene threw herself on Sandra's thighs in a double biceps pose.
– I'll be the strongest woman you've ever seen, Sandra.
– I already am.
– No. I'll be stronger. I train all my muscles. Every day. Thinking of you...
Sandra began a series of sit-ups, nibbling, every time she went up, the swollen nipples of the muscular fifty-something's small breasts, who interspersed her speech with moans, now with her hands on the back of her neck, showing off her phenomenal abs to her partner.
- I lift... 20... on each... arm... I want... to reach... 30... by... the... end... of the year...
- Is that so, my goddess? – And Sandra interspersed her speech with nibbling, going up and down in her erotic series of sit-ups. – I like it. I want it. I want you strong. Very strong. I want you as a black belt. I want you, Irene...
Suddenly, the mature lady remembered Marcos. She had been at the gym for hours. She couldn't leave him alone for so long. She knew he wouldn't give up on his escape. Mrs. Irene stood up abruptly and went out, gathering up the pieces of clothing scattered on the mat. Sandra feared the worst.
- Was it something I said, Irene?
- No, no, my dear, I remembered that I need to be home... I forgot... – she tried to remember something plausible – ...the fish was out of the fridge. In this heat, it's dangerous for it to spoil...
Sandra wasn't convinced. She thought that perhaps the athletic lady had suddenly been overcome by guilt. After all, not even with Marcos, who was a virtuoso in bed, had the girl experienced so much boldness. And so much pleasure. It could have been too much for Mrs. Irene... But, when she realized that she had remembered her boyfriend, Sandra was the one who really felt guilty. The shadow of remorse fell over her. Mrs. Irene quickly left for the bathroom. The sound of the shower seemed to fill the entire gym. Such a drastic departure deepened Sandra's sadness, confused by the feeling that she was falling in love with the muscular aspiring karateka. It is obvious that Mrs. Irene was unaware of her partner's feelings, and above all of the confusion that had set in. For the kidnapper, everything had ended with the quick but hot kiss that the two shared when the "old lady" left the gym, leaving behind a scent of lavender that Sandra inhaled with longing. For Marcos, the story ended with the kiss. And with the loosening of his underwear.
- That's how I fucked your girlfriend, champ.
The prisoner squatted down to relieve the pain in his scrotum, but his underwear continued to divide his buttocks. For his macho pride, there could be nothing more humiliating. No less, however, than knowing about his girlfriend's sex with his kidnapper. Marcos felt shattered. And he gave in to the most desolate and overwhelming cry of his life.

[MuscleWoman]

– This isn't going to stay like this...
– Calm down, André.
– Calm down, Mom?! Calm down?! The crazy woman punches me in the ribs, almost breaking me, and you want to calm down?! Give me a break!
– And what are you going to do? Report it to the police?
– Of course!
– Who's going to believe that a man who's almost two meters tall was beaten by an old woman?
– But she's not just any old woman, Mom! She's a neurotic woman who works out all day and does karate... This woman is dangerous! Nowadays, there's no such thing as the "weaker sex" anymore. Didn't you see the Olympics? A bunch of women boxing, judo, karate, lifting weights...
– This is Brazil, André, not the Olympics. No one in the police will believe this story. You didn't break anything. That's fine. Now we'll forget about this and never talk to this crazy woman again. Leave her alone!
– Mom, didn't you see what she did to me?! Who can guarantee that she won't do it with someone else?
- It's not our problem. We'll stay quiet in our corner. Whoever wants to fight with her can pick a fight with her. I don't want any headaches for us. Forget about that woman!

[MuscleWoman]

André felt relieved when he finished registering the assault on the police website. It was really embarrassing to describe the violent blow inflicted on him by a woman in her late 60s, as well as the threats she made to him. "But the one who's going to get screwed is this bitch," he muttered, because he knew the police were obligated to investigate, no matter how absurd the situation seemed. "At the very least, she's going to be really embarrassed. I just want to see her face..." The most important thing, however, was that he was convinced there was something strange in that house. He didn't know what, but it was obvious that the "old lady" was hiding something. Could she be a drug dealer? A lady like that would be above suspicion...
In the house next door, there was no suspicion whatsoever that André had called the police. Mrs. Irene didn't even remember the episode. When she closed the door, after leaving the boy moaning in pain in the care of his mother, she was certain that she had frightened him enough so that he would never bother her again. While the young man was reporting her, she was busy answering Sandra's insistent messages – completely in love with the athletic fifty-something, as if she were a teenager experiencing her first love. Dona Irene made a point of reading them to Marcos – or making him listen to the scorching recordings of his girlfriend, reliving the night of pleasure they had shared. In the most recent session of this humiliation, the former fighter knelt before Dona Irene, with his hands clasped, crying and groaning, since the mask made it difficult for him to speak. She took pity on him. She knelt down and caressed that hard, tight leather mask that covered the sad face of the defeated man. But she didn't turn off the audio, which was playing a monologue by Sandra, recorded the night before:
– And not even Marcos had the strength to lift me like that, Irene... Putting my thighs on your muscular shoulders... Your strong hands holding my ass... Me holding your steel biceps... Feeling your strength as a woman... As a strong woman... Feeling your tongue deep in my pussy... Oh my... I'm masturbating here... for you, Irene...
The man remained kneeling with his hands clasped before his tormentor, begging. His shoulders were shaking in convulsive sobs. The woman stopped playing the audio and, in the oriental style of martial arts fighters, knelt before the kidnapped man. She was wearing a kimono with a yellow sash. Wearing it excited her. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her torso was straight. Her chest was projected forward. Her shoulders were aligned. Her hands were resting on her steel thighs. She was the very embodiment of power and self-confidence. – There is no way back, Marcos. As I told you, you had the misfortune of crossing paths with me. I feel sorry for you. I swear. I feel very sorry. – The former fighter cried painfully. – To get out of here, you will have to kill me, understand? You want to kill me, I know. I understand you. But the beast inside me will not let you. – The kidnapped man bent over, sobbing, touching the ground with his head. His shoulders were shaking. Dona Irene caressed the back of his neck. – Strength, boy, courage... – She whispered in his ear.

[MuscleWoman]

Nunes was the youngest investigator on the team, eager for a murky case that would satisfy his need for adrenaline or allow him to demonstrate his detective acumen. He had joined the police force more for the "taste of adventure," as he said, than for the salary, as well as the stability. However, when he was assigned to investigate Dona Irene's house, his first reaction was to burst into a torrent of curses. But he restrained himself. Any more aggressive stance would earn him more ostracism. "I'd better be content with the bone until they give me meat," he thought, repeating the resigned saying his father had taught him.
When he rang the lonely widow's doorbell, therefore, his expectations were insignificant. He assumed it would be yet another quarrel between neighbors, motivated by petty reasons, that would end in a reconciliatory barbecue between enemies, until they found another reason to fight. "People who have nothing to do...", he cursed, as he kept ringing the doorbell.
"Coming soon! Coming soon!" – Mrs. Irene shouted furiously. And she continued, even before opening the door, still shouting: – If it's you again, brat, I'll break your face!

When she opened the door a little, however, she found a man in his thirties, with dark green eyes, brownish hair cut close to his skull, a square jaw covered by the sexy stubble that accentuated his masculinity. Broad shoulders under an elegant gray blazer. He must have been about six feet tall. He was very convinced of his beauty.

He smiled politely, showing the gleaming results of the teeth whitening that had cost him more than half his salary.

– Mrs. Irene Angelucci de Oliveira?

– I'm not interested in buying anything, sir – she replied dryly, about to close the door.

– No, no... – Nunes, affecting good humor, accentuated his smile and charm, holding the door. – Actually, I'm a police investigator. My name is Afonso Nunes, but you can call me Nunes. – And he showed his credentials, renewing his dislike for his own name. Dona Irene turned pale. But she kept her haughtiness, opening the door wide. She was already thinking about what she would do with Dona Isolina's son.
- Yes?
- We received a complaint from André Luís Marques de Almeida. Do you know him? – Dona Irene nodded, impassive, with a nod. – He claims that, last night, you physically assaulted him, and then threatened to repeat the assault if he...
- He was bothering me...
- Bothering me?
- Yes, he came here late at night, with a story about a thief in my backyard... There was no thief... I was already asleep. He woke me up by ringing the doorbell like a madman. – Dona Irene tried a failed diversionary maneuver. – I think that boy had ulterior motives. – In the complaint, he says that Mrs. Isolina Tolentino de Almeida... Do you know her?
– She's his mother.
– That his mother had heard strange noises in her backyard. And that he had come here, at her request, to see if she was okay.
– Lies! – She yelled. Nunes stared at the interlocutor, indignant at her uncontrollable change of mood. – That kid and his mother were snooping around in my life!
– Do you confirm the assault and the threat, Mrs. Irene?
The muscular fifty-something woman hesitated for a few seconds before convincing herself that it would be more prudent to tell the truth.
– Yes.
With discretion and trained speed, Nunes examined the woman in front of him. Only then did he notice her extraordinarily athletic physique, displayed in the skimpy gym attire. Her sweaty hair betrayed the intensity of the exercises interrupted by the police investigation. The figure impressed the investigator, who was still uncertain about the true reasons for the attack.
- And the strange noises your neighbor heard?
- I don't know where Lina got that from. I didn't hear anything. I didn't see anything strange.
- Didn't anything disappear?
- No, nothing.
Nunes looked Mrs. Irene straight in the eyes. She answered him with a hard look. In the few seconds in which the silence broke through the distrust with which they studied each other, in a kind of ring where they were about to fight through words, the woman examined alternatives to take control of the situation, protecting her secret. The policeman was masculine and attractive - the kind that excited her. He could join Marcos... Or she could invite him to come in and surprise him with her karate, perhaps giving him a fatal blow. The idea of ��murdering a man - and a policeman - made her regain her cool. But the bureaucratic outcome took her out of that dead end. – Well, you will be summoned to appear at the police station for questioning and will be charged with the crime of physical assault. Article 129 of the Penal Code.

When she closed the door, she felt fragile for the first time since she had discovered her strength – physical and emotional. Her heart was racing. "My God, what am I doing?"

[MuscleWoman]

Sandra returned to the police station. It was the four-month anniversary of her boyfriend's disappearance, and the police had become increasingly sporadic and laconic in their communication. Marcos' parents had fallen into a deep depression, incapable of taking any action. She had scheduled an interview with the police chief to pressure him. After waiting half an hour to be seen, an investigator came to tell her that her boss had had an "unforeseen event" and could not see her. It was Nunes – surprised by the woman's beauty.
"But maybe I can help you?"
Sandra soon realized the handsome and presumptuous police officer's poorly disguised intentions, but she was more concerned with taking advantage of any chance, however remote, of making some progress in the search for Marcos.
"My boyfriend disappeared four months ago..."
"I know about the case," Nunes interrupted. "I didn't participate in the investigation, but I've been following everything. I'm sorry."
She gave him a sad look. That moved him and, in his eyes, made her even more attractive.
"But don't lose hope." He lowered his tone and moved closer to Sandra, smelling her citrus perfume. She felt his minty breath. "I don't want to criticize the work of my colleagues... but I think they're making mistakes..."
"What do you mean?" abandoning her sad, yet sincere, pose, she asked in a sensual whisper, staring at Nunes with a hot gaze. That was the weapon she had at that moment.
A little while later, the two of them were in a bakery next to the police station. The establishment was very typical of São Paulo's gastronomic culture. And, despite the noise that was also characteristic, the atmosphere was intimate. After half an hour of conversation, Sandra realized that Nunes would deliver much less than he promised. In fact, he could do nothing to investigate Marcos' whereabouts. At most, he would provide some news about the attempts to find him. However, now he was more intent on seducing her, and to do so he used his entire arsenal: his piercing green eyes, his wide smile showing off his perfect teeth, his muscular arms and torso – highlighted by the tight dress shirt, strategically chosen to show off his hard work at the gym – and his egotistical monologue about his adventures (enriched by his imagination...) as a police investigator, which he believed to be "an interesting and pleasant conversation". She decided to make up for lost time by playing with that cheap, almost vulgar seduction, which betrayed an insecurity that excited her more than the beauty of that presumptuous man, certain of being indisputably irresistible. Sandra decided to accept the game. And she played the role of the beautiful, naive and fragile girl succumbing to the heartthrob's overwhelming attraction – which fueled the police officer's excitement and his ridiculous mating dance.
Sandra and Mrs. Irene had not, until then, had another torrid encounter. The most they could manage was to exchange sensual glances during training and doubtfully erotic words in the crowded locker room. Which only intensified their desire for each other. From time to time, they would have virtual sex on their cell phones – mostly at the young woman's initiative. This clandestine relationship, however, was giving vent to the increasingly torrential torrent of domination fantasies that Sandra had repressed until she met the athletic fifty-something. It was what drove her, with increasing pleasure, to continue playing with Nunes. She no longer paid the slightest attention to the sexy cop's chatter. She was just calculating how to have him in bed, on that hot, dry afternoon, without the risk of having him in her life. It wasn't difficult. All she had to do was insinuate it and the chatter stopped. The conqueror had cornered his prey. Now it was time to take her to the slaughter. Soon they were in Nunes' modest and worn-out car, in contrast to the physical exuberance of the vain cop. They were soon caressing each other eagerly inside him, while he tried not to lose control of the steering wheel until he reached his favorite motel. They soon entered the huge suite with tacky decor, almost tearing each other's clothes. Soon they were naked. That was when he realized the woman he proudly believed he had conquered.
When she got ready to go to the police station, Sandra had chosen discreet and sober attire, more in keeping with her status as the girlfriend of a missing person. The clothes hid the athletic contours of her body, now revealed in their entirety to the fascinated eyes of the investigator, who had never seen anything like it among the women in what he called "his collection". Having that "fitness girl" at his disposal convinced him how irresistible she was.
"Hiding the gold, huh, babe?" he mocked, pointing at her his swollen penis. "Now give it to me..."
Sandra calmly bent down to rummage through her clothes scattered on the floor in search of an elastic band for her hair. As she tied them into a ponytail, she flexed her pronounced biceps as she admired Nunes' naked and excited body. She found it disproportionate: his legs were too thin compared to his large chest, broad shoulders and muscular arms. Between his thighs, his erect penis was nothing extraordinary – "But I can have a lot of fun with it", thought the black belt, deciding where to start. She liked his hairy chest and his "six-pack abs" – less defined than hers, however.
- Enough with the frills, girl... Let's get to the point... – and Nunes advanced on Sandra, who stopped him with a foot on his chest.
- From now on, I'm in charge, hottie.

[MuscleWoman]

– You should have seen his face! His eyes wide open... The guy couldn't believe it. I had already fantasized about doing like Cameron Diaz in the bathroom scene in the movie Charlie's Angels. Remember? Oh, of course, it's not from your time. I've already come a lot imagining myself in that scene: freezing my yoko gueri in the guy's throat. But this time it was real. Even I couldn't believe it. He squeezed my ankle with both hands and said, pretending he wasn't scared: "What's up, babe? We're just getting started... Save the violence for when the fucking is hotter...". I pressed my foot tighter on his throat and said: "Obey me properly and I won't hurt you". Then the guy got pissed: "What's up, girl?! What's up?!". And he couldn't take my foot off. Wow! I was so excited... I had trained my yoko gueri a lot that day. I was sharp. I had worked out my legs... Wow! I'm so strong! I held him against the wall for a long time. Then he tried to get violent. Poor guy... He grabbed my ankle and pushed me with all his strength onto the bed. I fell to the side and hit him in the face with a mae gueri. He fell and I jumped on top of him and screamed: "Dude, I'm a black belt! I've been training karate for fifteen years! Every day! And every day I beat up men bigger than you!" I wanted to burst out laughing... You have no idea what that cop's face was like! He was as white as a sheet of paper... Damn! That turned me on so much... Wow! But I held my nerve... I stood up very slowly, looking him straight in the eyes, put my hands on my waist and said: "Now you're going to get up, lie down here on the bed and we're going to have fun, okay?" My abs are ripped, you know. My breasts are beautiful, perky, firm... Wow! I'm so powerful! Either the guy was scared shitless of getting beaten up or he didn't believe the karate story and decided to check it out. I don't know. All I know is that he was there, all obedient, ready to serve me. And then he lay down on the bed with his legs wide open, like scissors, and started jerking off for me, holding the back of his neck with his hand. I put on a special show for him... I really showed off... I showed him everything I've got, without shame. I did some stretches and got on the bed, and stood on top of him... I work out my arms a lot, you know... Then I decided to show him the results. You have no idea! The guy went crazy! Crazy! He almost came... I didn't let him. Then I sat on his belly... Wow! The guy is a log... And what a chest! What a chest! Hairy, just the way I like it... But then I whispered in his ear: "Oh... so you like strong women, huh?" Then he nodded. The guy couldn't even speak. But I felt his hard cock hitting my ass. Bingo! Then I said: "So you've found the right person." The guy was already moaning. I realized that he was also turned on by me talking. Then I started describing my workouts. "I work out every day, man," I said. "Do you see this?" and I slapped my biceps. "I lift 15 kilos with just one arm. Every day." Wow! The guy was swallowing me with his eyes! Then I got even hornier. I told him about the series of 1,000 sit-ups I do, the ten kilometers I run on the treadmill, the pull-ups, the push-ups... I yelled: "I'm so fucking strong!" Then I started talking about karate, how awesome I am, how much I train, how much I like to feel strong and powerful! That no man can hold me back... That I like fighting with men, knocking guys to the ground... That everyone is scared shitless of my blows... I told him I can break three wooden boards with one blow... He moaned and looked at me with a look... Wow! I don't even know how to explain it... It was admiration, submission, astonishment... The guy's dick was pounding and he made a move to grab it to jerk off. I yelled: "No!" He even flinched, scared to death, poor guy. I turned around in the 69 position, put my pussy in his mouth with all my will and stuck the guy's dick in my mouth... Hmm... I missed licking a dick... I put my arms under his ass and lifted the boy's hips. The guy moaned like a whore. His legs spread like scissors. I also spread my legs wide, to make it easier for him... The cop was good with his tongue, you know? He was good at everything... He pinched my nipples while licking my pussy... I love that! You know... I'm in the physical shape of an Olympic athlete! I crushed the guy! He's never had a woman like me... Fit... Strong... Hungry... A black belt dying to fuck... Then I stood up and slowly lowered myself, showing off my thighs of steel. Until I sat on his dick. The guy was moaning so much... I've never seen a man moan like that... And what a delicious dick! Hum... When I felt him inside me, vibrating inside me... My pussy responded by squeezing that delicious dick. I screamed: "Don't cum!". Wow! He was so obedient... I tamed the beast. I mean, I showed him who the beast was there. Then he whispered: "Say more, say more...". The cop was really horny about that! So I started: "I'm the boss here. Please ask me". "Please, babe, say more[oh..." Then I stretched out my arms, closed my hands and slowly bent over. The guy's cock was throbbing inside me. I continued: "I'm just muscles... You didn't imagine, did you? Skinny girl... The fake skinny girl... There are only muscles here. Muscles of steel. Muscles that are worked out every day. Muscles like a karateka, a black belt." I'm ripped, you know. The guy almost exploded when I said, squeezing his cock with my pussy and showing him my biceps: "Even the sensei is afraid of me..." Then I assumed the seiza position, hugging his thighs with my legs. I had never felt so powerful... I could do whatever I wanted with that man. I had to control the beast inside me, because I wanted to... fight him! I wanted to put my black belt around my waist and fight that man... Fight naked, wearing only my black belt. And show him that he was completely defenseless, that I could put the stud to sleep at any moment. How hot!... I was the one who was going to orgasm, grinding on that delicious cock... He was pinching my nipples and moaning. He was going a thousand miles an hour. I screamed: "Don't cum! I want your cock hard until I cum!" Then I threw myself on top of my prey, my hard nipples hit the male's hairy and sweaty chest, I stuck my tongue in his mouth... I was all goosebumps with desire! I held the guy's wrists and stretched his arms, slamming my washboard abs against his... He felt how hard I was, made of steel... The guy couldn't take it and exploded inside me... He was roaring... I'd never seen a man cum like that. I was also at the peak of my orgasm. Instead of moaning, I let out the loudest kiai since I started doing karate... How hot! I stood up, put my dripping pussy in his mouth and said: "Clean it up!" He sucked me so well, even though he was exhausted, poor thing... He put that wonderful tongue to work again, turning me on again. I wanted more, but the stud needed to rest. And it was almost time for my workout. I wouldn't trade my workout for any man! My discipline is also made of steel, just like my muscles. I jumped out of bed and put on my panties. I didn't even want to take a shower. I wanted to smell my sweat and his on me. Holding my clothes in my hand, I looked at him. The man was lying on the bed, almost asleep. I got really close to him, grabbed that handsome, masculine face and said: "Don't you dare look for me". Then I put on my clothes and left without looking at the guy... I thought about you a lot, Irene. Really a lot. Thank you! You have taught me so much... That fuck was good, but it doesn't compare to ours... I love you, Irene...
When the recording ended, Mrs. Irene put her cell phone in her pocket, held Marcos' chin and said:
– Did you see that your girlfriend didn't even mention your name? It seems like she doesn't miss the sex she had with you at all. Accept that you are mine, Marcos. You are alone in the world. No one expects to find you.

[MuscleWoman]

Dona Irene stood up, panting. Her nose was bleeding. In her mouth, the taste of iron emanated from the bleeding gums. With great effort, she managed to make out her face in the mirror. It was deformed. She felt her cheekbones and felt the cut, which was also bleeding. She thought that perhaps she had broken a bone. Her neck hurt a lot. She coughed. More blood ran down her mouth. Her stiff muscles, with the drop in adrenaline, were now throbbing strongly. She tried to walk. Her right foot exploded in pain. She groaned, cringing. That was when she noticed her injured knuckles. In one of them, the bone was visible. Slowly, she walked to the bench she used for weight exercises. She sat down. She could no longer walk. She looked around. The outbuilding seemed empty. She strained her eyes and found a figure stretched out on the floor. Marcos was panting. He had decided to react. "It's all or nothing," she convinced herself. After five months of captivity, and considering the chances of being rescued to be remote, he gathered all his strength in training to recover his ability to fight against an opponent as strong and fearless as Mrs. Irene. Marcos feigned surrender and obedience, and showed that he was willing to train her in the modalities that he mastered – as she had been demanding. Often, however, the sparring turned into a real fight, as the woman lost control and gave free rein to her fetish for domination. He had already respected her since the first month of captivity, but now the fifty-year-old woman revealed that she was advanced in karate, which she continued to train at the kidnapped man's own gym. With the mobility he had gained inside that clandestine cell, however, and with the daily training with the kidnapper, Marcos believed that he could defeat her at some point. Her confidence – or presumption – grew to such an extent that, after locking the door of the outbuilding from the inside, she would free him from the chain – but not from the tight mask. Everything that could be stored was removed to increase the space for the fights and prevent anything from becoming a weapon in the hands of the captive. Dressed in a sports bra and mesh shorts, which exposed her intimidating muscles, she would then cover the floor to cushion her falls – and the class would begin.

The former MMA champion was starting out with jiu-jitsu. Dona Irene's physical intelligence was impressive. She had acquired awareness of every muscle, every limb, every inch of skin, so much so that learning the blows and movements happened almost instantly. If she were younger, the instructor thought, she would become a great athlete. Which does not mean that she was less powerful. On the contrary. Many young people would have difficulty matching Dona Irene. Within a few weeks, she was already subduing Marcos in a chokehold that sometimes brought her to orgasm, while he repeatedly touched his student's herculean arms, desperate, before he was strangled. It was also a warning. She was alert. And she would know how to defend herself.

When he decided to attack and dominate her, however, Marcos was ready to mobilize everything he knew about the disciplines he had trained in throughout his life, since childhood, when he had started judo. He was counting on recovering his courage to overcome Dona Irene's toughness and ignorance in the martial arts he knew well. He had no alternative. If he wanted his freedom back, and to put an end to this absurd situation, the trainer would have to literally fight for it. With martial patience, he concentrated on training while waiting for the most opportune moment to knock out Dona Irene. And that day, according to his estimates based on the marks on the bathroom door, arrived shortly after five months had passed since her kidnapping.

That day, she meticulously followed the preparatory rites for training. There was a certain air of joy on her flushed face, marked by age – apparently incompatible with her physical strength, her athlete's muscles and her fighting skills. She was wearing her usual top and shorts, which left no doubt as to her potential. When she finished arranging everything, she put her hands on her thin waist with clenched fists, looked at the arrangement, satisfied, and said, smiling, the words with which she invariably began training:
- Come and get your ass kicked by grandma, boy...
She didn't even have time to finish the sentence. Marcos surprised her with a side kick so violent to the face that the fifty-something woman fell, hitting her head on the padding. Marcos wasted no time: he threw himself on her and began to punch her mercilessly. The woman's head shook, bouncing against the floor and spreading droplets of blood everywhere. But she was still conscious. In fact, quite conscious. The fifty-something woman was sure that, sooner or later, he would try a sudden attack. Once again, Marcos's atavistic machismo had underestimated the woman's capabilities. The improvement in his conditioning, brought by karate, had not been included in his calculations. Furthermore, the former MMA champion had chosen to run the risk of seeing her use the moves he himself had taught her – and which the kidnapper soon mastered with mastery. That was why, while he desperately tried to knock her out with countless punches to the skull, Mrs. Irene managed to trap Marcos' torso with her legs and unbalance him, throwing him to the left. He could not resist the stronger muscles of a woman as strong as him – even though much smaller. She roared, with her mouth drooling blood:
– That's what I like!

Lying on their sides, face to face, the two initially exchanged several uncoordinated punches, but for Mrs. Irene, this lack of control lasted only a few seconds: from her arsenal of karate moves, she immediately chose the ura zuki. One was enough to stop Marcos's random punches, who writhed, certainly with a broken rib. In that fraction of a second, when he was vulnerable and defenseless, she went in for the massacre. With her colossal legs holding the man's hips, she thrust him backwards onto the ground. Mrs. Irene had regained control of the situation. Riding her master, she was thrilled with pleasure. The swelling that took over her face and the blood that ran down her neck, down the cracks of her defined abdomen, gave her pleasure. The pleasure of having knocked out a man who, in a last, desperate move, was preparing to knock her out. She felt indestructible and immeasurably strong. She looked at Marcos and repeated, clenching her bloody teeth: "That's what I like..." And she began to beat him. She roared like a wild animal. The blood from her face dripped onto Marcos' mask, already unconscious. Dona Irene only stopped when she noticed the knuckles on her own hand bleeding.
When, sitting on the bench, she contemplated the state of her opponent, she decided to show herself and him how capable she was of overcoming herself – and of being superior to a man. Trying hard to ignore the pain that spread throughout her body, the fifty-something woman stood up and, limping, left the outbuilding, locking it from the outside. A few minutes later, Marcos began to regain consciousness. He groaned softly. His head ached and he could feel the blood congealing in his mouth. He coughed. The pain from his broken rib came like a spear thrust into his side, which made him remember Jesus Christ agonizing on the cross. That was how he felt. Anyone listening to him would not know whether Marcos was moaning or crying. He felt desolate and absolutely alone. And he did not understand the reason for being subjected to such suffering that exceeded all limits. All that for having thrown the woman out of his gym?
That was when he heard Mrs. Irene unlocking the door. He held back his tears and moans, pretending that he was still unconscious.
"There's no point in pretending, Marcos. I heard your moans," she began, her pronunciation altered by the swelling in her mouth. She had bandaged some wounds and cleaned the blood caused by the violent blows that had disfigured his face. "I liked the fight. You fought like a man. I want to fight like a man." She avoided showing the effort of her blood-tinged speech and the pain that was ravaging her body, proving that Marcos was no ordinary opponent. This realization excited her. And the suffering gave way to the pleasure of her fetish. With her bandaged hands, she showed something to her prisoner. "You stood up to me. I like that. Now you have to be a man to face the consequences." With his eyes blurred by the swelling under the mask, he had difficulty recognizing what she was holding. Mrs. Irene brought the piece closer to her opponent's aching face and whispered: "Here's how it is: if you kneel, you have to pray." Only then did Marcos understand that it was a penis attached to a type of belt – what in Portuguese is called a "cintaralho", renamed as a strapon by the global sex toy industry. Panicking, he understood that the last barrier of his macho pride was about to be broken. But Marcos was so hurt, sore, exhausted and, above all, defeated that he couldn't put up the slightest resistance. He only groaned when Mrs. Irene turned him onto his stomach.

She kept him dressed only in his underwear or swimming trunks. That day, he was wearing a pair of white briefs, the color that the woman found most arousing, contrasting with the dark skin of her prisoner. Mrs. Irene tore the piece with a single movement, exposing the pronounced and muscular buttocks of that typical Brazilian mestizo. A sensual shiver ran down the woman's spine, making her forget even more about the pain. She put on the strap-on, lubricated it generously with intimate gel, squatted down and separated Marcos' long legs. Then Mrs. Irene knelt down, spread the man's buttocks and lubricated his anus with the same generosity. He made that sound between a moan and a cry again, this time more deeply. She placed her hands on the sides of Marcos' broad shoulders, brought her mouth close to his ears and whispered: "Stop moaning and hold on like a man." Then she placed her hard, strong torso on her victim's back – who moaned louder – and fitted her hips against his. With her left hand she reached for the silicone penis and gently ran it through the crack of the captive's buttocks, looking for his anus. Marcos contracted his buttocks. "Don't resist, it'll be worse," she threatened. He didn't give in. "Marcos, I've already broken a rib. I broke your face. I can beat you to death." The fifty-something woman paused. "What do you prefer?" The ex-MMA fighter's buttocks were still rigidly contracted. "That's right. There's worse than dying." Dona Irene knelt between Marcos' muscular thighs, keeping his legs apart, lubricated the tips of her middle and index fingers and inserted them between the man's hard buttocks, defeating his resistance, until she found his anal orifice. Firmly but carefully, she massaged Marcos' anus until she inserted her index finger deep inside. The mix of moaning and crying grew louder. Patiently, Mrs. Irene waited for him to calm down and feel some pleasure in the anal massage that she was masterfully applying to him. Little by little, he began to give in. His buttocks relaxed. "Good boy," she whispered, lying on top of him again. "It's going to hurt a little now, but I'll be nice," the woman said sardonically. And little by little, she inserted the artificial penis into Marcos. She reached his wrists and held them firmly on the floor. With her feet behind his knees, she also kept his legs tied. With his kneecaps on the floor, Mrs. Irene could leverage her hips for the rhythmic movements that began softly. He continued to moan. "Relax, Marcos, relax, it will hurt less... Trust me..." Little by little, he gave in, and the silicone rod entered his rectum. It wasn't the pain that was tearing him apart. It was the humiliation of being sodomized. And sodomized by a woman. And a woman who had kidnapped him and beaten him several times. Dona Irene, however, was also skilled in the arts of pleasure. The precision, care and confidence of her movements gradually overcame the man's last resistance. In a mixture of guilt and horror, Marcos began to feel pleasure. His focus was no longer on the pain that was running through his beaten body. It was anal pleasure. Waves of goosebumps began to run through him, from the back of his neck to his calves. His buttocks were relaxed to receive Dona Irene's fake penis, which, with the back and forth motion of her hips, thrust him higher and higher. The sound of the woman's thighs and steel abdomen hitting his buttocks, thighs and lower back no longer excited only the kidnapper. The kidnapped man was enjoying not only anal pleasure, which was now spreading to other areas of his body. Suddenly, he felt an erection growing, pressed against the floor. He raised his hips to free her, which made penetration – and anal pleasure – even easier. The moan was no longer of pain. Dona Irene noticed the movement and reached for Marcos' penis. She found it hard as a rock. She put her powerful right arm under the captive's belly and lifted him up. He understood. And got on all fours. With increasingly fast and intense movements of her hips, with which she almost removed the synthetic phallus completely, Dona Irene began to masturbate Marcos with the expert technique that he knew well. Rarely had the ex-fighter experienced so much sexual pleasure. His whole body shivered. The only thing he begged for, deep down, was for her to not stop and to let him cum. This time, that was exactly what Mrs. Irene wanted. "Cum, cum for me...", she moaned in his ear. Marcos' orgasm was total. His ejaculation flooded Mrs. Irene's hand and spread across the floor. While he was still squirting semen, she said slowly: "Now you are my whore."

[MuscleWoman]

Mrs. Irene proudly folded her brown belt and put it in her gym bag. Even though she had been absent from classes for almost a month, avoiding anyone seeing her with the marks from her most recent fight with her prisoner, she felt ready to resume her karate training at Marcos' gym, whose whereabouts had been unknown for six months. Except for her, of course. The athletic lady was in her son's old room, which she had transformed into a sort of closet for her vast sports wardrobe. An outfit suited to each sport. She had five karate kimonos, as she alternated between wearing them and washing them. She was obsessed with cleanliness. In Brazilian culture, this is a sign of dignity – the feeling she most cultivated, convinced that she truly deserved it. So, as if in a religious rite, she took the chosen kimono in her hands and smelled the lavender that perfumed her – as she called herself – "champion's uniform." Dressed in a sports bra and leggings, the widow calmly put on a cotton T-shirt and then her zubon and wagui. She put on her sneakers, looked at herself in the mirror, fixed her hair, stretched the fabric over her body, picked up her bag and headed to the gym. Parading through the streets dressed like that was another form of pleasure that Mrs. Irene had discovered. Her unmistakable age produced an exotic contrast with that fighter's outfit – at least for those who recognized the outfit. In her fantasy, wherever she went, she imagined men belittling or mocking the pretension of that mature woman proudly showing off her adherence to a sport for young people. Her pleasure was more in knowing how powerful she was as a karateka and bodybuilder – at the same time that all this potential was hidden under the loose and shapeless pieces of the kimono. "Nobody knows what I'm capable of", she repeated to herself. That day, when she arrived at the academy, her colleagues from the most advanced karate class welcomed her with their usual friendliness – especially Sandra, who tried to contain her enthusiasm, and except for Kelly, who immediately gave her a fierce look. Dona Irene did not notice the hostility, answering countless questions about her sudden and unexplained disappearance – which she excused with a fake rheumatism crisis. When training began, however, she noticed that Kelly insisted on being her opponent in the sparring sessions. Worse, the girl's blows were blatantly aggressive, exaggerated even by the standards of the kyokushin style. The fifty-year-old preferred to respond in kind, but hoped to understand the reason for so much gratuitous violence.

When the training session ended and everyone was heading to the locker rooms, Kelly grabbed the sleeve of Mrs. Irene's wagui – who was eager to talk to Sandra, equally anxious to repeat the torrid night they had had in that same room. Mrs. Irene turned her head to the young and burly karateka, already irritated by the unusual gesture.
- I need to talk to you, Mrs. Irene.
- I have nothing to say to you, nor to hear from you, young lady.
- But you're going to have to listen...
- No one gives me orders, young lady! – Mrs. Irene was filled with hatred for Kelly's insolence, as if the uncalled-for violence during training wasn't enough.
- Listen here, don't you ever dare lay a finger on André again or...
- Or what, gas cylinder?!
- It was one of the most frequent and humiliating insults Kelly received in her childhood and early adolescence, at the height of the bullying. This was the trigger for her to fire a seiken jodan zuki at the widow – throwing her almost two meters away. Falling on her back, dizzy, with a bleeding nose and coughing, Mrs. Irene saw the lapels of her wagui grabbed by two small but very strong hands, and she was lifted to her feet. Another seiken jodan zuki. This time, however, the widow managed to block it.
"My turn, my dear," said the brown belt to the black belt while, in a split second, she grabbed the lapel of Kelly's wagui with her right hand and returned the two seiken jodan zuki with her left. The girl did not have time to react or anticipate the blows. Mrs. Irene's agility surpassed her. Always in a split second, the fifty-year-old, realizing that the young black belt had not yet recovered from her dizziness, knocked André's girlfriend down, who fell on her back. – Jiu-jitsu class, my dear – he announced, and assuming the appropriate position, he quickly applied an impeccable armbar. Completely ignorant of the techniques of that fight, Kelly felt her arm being pulled with incredible speed, trapped between two legs that seemed to be made of steel and that passed over her chest and neck. Kelly's instinct made her mobilize the only weapon she thought she had available: physical strength. She pulled her arm, in a seemingly unequal fight with the widow – who put all her strength into trying to break the girl's arm, such was the mature woman's fury. Clumsily, Kelly rolled to the side of the pulled arm and managed to get to her knees. With a new impulse, she stood up, with Mrs. Irene wrapped around her arm, now hanging upside down.

The former bench press champion took another step forward: she lifted her opponent's body up to shoulder height and slammed it to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Like a boa constrictor, Mrs. Irene continued to hold on, trying to stretch Kelly's arm. Holding on to the desire to avenge her boyfriend, the young woman repeated the movement. Nothing. Mrs. Irene redoubled her strength. The pain was now excruciating. Kelly went for it all or nothing: she lifted Mrs. Irene as high as she could, above her head, certain that the height would increase the violence of the impact. This time, it worked. She escaped the blow. But not from Mrs. Irene, for whom winning that fight had also become a matter of honor. Kelly was already retreating, recognizing that she would not have the technical conditions to defeat the athletic lady.
"Come here..." the fifty-year-old groaned as she stood up. "I don't get hit by a man... I'm not going to get hit by a woman!" – And she grabbed the girl's back, who already had her hand on the doorknob. André's girlfriend fell backwards, with Mrs. Irene ready to apply a fatal rear naked choke. Kelly's instinctive reaction was to try to free herself from the strangulation. Mrs. Irene, who was squeezing her opponent's torso with her legs, increased the pressure on her arms. Panting, she whispered in her karate colleague's ear: – You don't know who you're messing with, girl... – The young woman tried to punch the widow's head, but her punches lost power. Any more and she would pass out. Kelly grunted something in despair. Mrs. Irene eased her grip. Greedily, the girl sucked in air with her mouth, as if she were emerging from drowning. The fifty-something woman pushed her aside and knelt next to the panting karate fighter. Also out of breath, Mrs. Irene stood up and said: "I'm not finished," and walked to the door, which she locked, returning to her opponent lying on the floor. "Get up." Kelly remained motionless, barely catching her breath. "Get up!" the lady yelled. Slowly, the young woman stood up. Mrs. Irene undid the knot of her brown belt and threw it to the floor. "I'm going to take your black belt."

What followed was a humiliatingly cruel scene. Kelly resisted bravely, now in a modality she had mastered, with the energy of someone who was 23 years old—although tired—and with a lot of physical strength. But Mrs. Irene was on equal footing in terms of technique and physical conditioning, being even lighter and more agile with her body strengthened by intense and disciplined weight training—and composed almost exclusively of lean mass. The fight was long, by official karate standards, because it was not a championship. Mrs. Irene had decided to literally rip Kelly's black belt away.

The widow dominated the fight in all the rounds, which she herself set the duration of, each one lasting about five minutes. At one point, during one of these brief intervals, the girl knelt down and murmured, with her nose bleeding and her entire body aching: "Enough, Mrs. Irene, please..." Just like with Marcos, the athletic widow did not let the pain of the blows Kelly had landed on her show. She stood up straight, with a haughty air, her closed fists resting on her waist, as if she were ready to spend the rest of the night there, fighting. She gave her opponent a sarcastic smile.
"Get up!"
Kelly obeyed, and repeated:
"Enough, please..."
"I could spend the night here, beating you, you gas cylinder. But I'll spare you. I mean, I'll spare you if you obey me." André's girlfriend looked at the fifty-year-old woman with pleading eyes, and said nothing. The widow continued. – Who's the best fighter here?
– You... – the young woman murmured.
– Who?
– You – Kelly spoke, loud and clear, completely convinced.
– And who's the black belt here?
– You, Mrs. Irene.
– Do you have another one?
– No, ma'am.
– Then why are you wearing one?
Tears began to run down Kelly's rosy face. Mrs. Irene took a step forward. The young woman stepped back.
– Don't even think about resisting – threatened the fifty-year-old. – Look at the state I left you in. All bloody... – She took a step back and looked at her opponent. – Your face is broken by my seiken jodan zuki. You're actually strong. You have muscles under that disgusting fat of yours from someone who lives eating junk food. – A brief pause in the verbal beating. – I enjoyed fighting you... But you were very presumptuous, gas cylinder. She thought the old lady here wouldn't be able to handle it. I didn't hit you anymore so I could leave a little for your skinny, nosy brat. – She brought her face close to Kelly's, who started crying uncontrollably, and jabbed her shoulder with a finger. – I could cripple you, you know? – And, with a ritual slowness that accentuated the meaning of the gesture, Mrs. Irene began to untie the knot of the young woman's black belt. She stared into the girl's tearful eyes. – It seems like there are only cowards around me... Why doesn't everyone who challenges me have the balls to sustain the challenge? Didn't you challenge me? Now take it, girl! – Tears, runny nose and blood ran down Kelly's small, trembling chin, who shook her powerful weightlifter's shoulders in a pitiful convulsion of crying, while Mrs. Irene continued to slowly remove the black belt. When she finished, the widow held the sash in one hand and with the other grabbed the lapel of André's beloved's wagui, pulling her close. "And don't forget to tell this detail to your boyfriend." With a small push, Mrs. Irene pushed Kelly away and, once again facing her defeated opponent, with the same slowness tied the black sash around her waist. The girl made as if to leave. "I'm not finished yet." The firm voice of the fifty-something woman, in a deep tone, sounded almost masculine. She held the powerful shoulders of the former weightlifting champion, forcing her to kneel. Kelly began to cry convulsively again, expecting another beating. But under the wagui, Mrs. Irene untied the string of the zubon, which fell over her heels. Then she pulled down her leggings and, under them, her panties, lifting the long wagui to waist height, without taking off the black sash. She flexed her legs slightly, impressing the young woman with her muscles, who, even more humiliated, understood everything. "Do it right," the widow said, opening her legs a little wider, exposing her excited clitoris, which Kelly began to lick. "Good girl," moaned Mrs. Irene.

[MuscleWoman]

After seven months of clandestine imprisonment, Marcos had gone through several phases, in a sequence and nature that were perhaps unforeseen by those who study the psychology of kidnapped people. The strangest and most shameful thing for him, however, was the ambiguity between fearing and wanting to be penetrated again by his kidnapper.
For a man raised in such a macho culture, and in a sport that emphasized masculinity, worshiping strength, violence, resistance and the ability to subdue an opponent, this ambiguity was simply terrible. And to acknowledge it – even if it was just an ambiguity – was to admit something that is unacceptable for a Brazilian male: the pleasure of being penetrated. Such an idea had never crossed his mind, because only "faggots" – as male homosexuals are insulted in Portuguese – and women could desire something similar. He loved to "eat his girlfriends' asses" – as he boasted in conversations exclusively between men. No woman – not even Sandra, so bold in bed – and much less a man had dared to touch his anus, the orifice through which all the masculinity of whoever let him penetrate her would drain away. Now, however, Marcos went over in his memory the sensations he had experienced during the rape. Yes, rape – a realization that tore him apart. He cried several times after finding the inescapable name of what Mrs. Irene had done to him. And even though he had never subjected a woman to anything remotely similar to forced sex, Marcos told himself, in countless reiterations of a promise, that, once freed from captivity, he would never disrespect and would never allow anyone to disrespect the will of his sexual partner or any other woman. Which accentuated the paradox: he had enjoyed not only the anal pleasure itself, but the fact that he had been forced, and forced by a woman – a stronger and older woman who fought with greater skill than he did. He admitted, confused, that he had discovered the pleasure of feeling vulnerable, weak, defenseless and passive. "How can I like this?" he thought. "Am I a faggot?" He remembered the hard, muscular, dense torso of that woman against his back, with her small breasts pressed against them. He had never felt a woman's breasts like that. A pleasurable shiver ran down his spine when he remembered the strength with which Mrs. Irene held him, and the masterfully rhythmic movement of the strap-on passing through his anus and massaging his prostate. Marcos began to feel an erection – and was surprised by this reaction. "But what difference does it make?" he thought. "Faggot or not, what difference does it make? I'm stuck here... I'm never leaving here... What difference does it make?" And he relaxed, sitting on the floor with his legs bent and his arms stretched out on his knees. A little later he put his hand in his underwear and took out his semi-erect penis. "What difference does it make?" he repeated, now remembering the outline of his kidnapper, who showed off to him every day during her long and careful weight training sessions. He remembered Dona Irene's impressive muscular definition, the result of a discipline as tough as those muscles. She was not a hypertrophied woman. She was not a heavyweight bodybuilding champion. Far from it. With a pathological obsession, Dona Irene had sculpted a well-defined and proportional musculature, from her shoulders to her calves. "And a strict diet," she would say in her monologues, while she worked out in the outbuilding. In fact, during the exercises she spoke as if he were not there. The widow had created for herself the speech of a personal trainer – Marcos soon understood this. He looked at his erection: it was rigid as a rock. He then began to mentally repeat the words of the mature lady's imaginary trainer: "The goal is two thousand sit-ups. A day. No slacking off!" "Come on, Irene, another five kilos in those arms!" "Drink some water!" "Another hundred push-ups! Don't complain!" "Do you want strength? Then lift weights!" "Let's beat that goal! You can double the number of those pull-ups!" "It's ten kilometers on the treadmill and ten on the street!" The sounds of the weights and then the punching bag, the kimono now with the black belt, the leggings showing off her firm, perky buttocks, the beautiful biceps that grew with the arm exercises, her fighting skills, the flexibility of her legs and arms, the bold stretches, the impressive "six-pack" abs, the physical strength... All of this suddenly became sexy to Marcos when he thought about the body and physical abilities of the invincible tormentor who had raped him.

[MuscleWoman]

Sandra had been avoiding Mrs. Irene. She limited herself to a few conversations in the dojo. She was quite upset with the fifty-year-old woman, who had also stopped looking for her outside the mat. It seemed like they barely knew each other. Marcos' girlfriend had noticed that the widow and Kelly had been alone in the training room one night a few weeks ago. After a quick shower, Sandra returned to the room and found the door closed. She heard sounds of fighting inside. "Or are the two of them fucking?" she wondered. This second hypothesis made her jealous. "How could she leave me for that fat brat?" Sandra listened carefully. The dull thud of bodies on the mat and the sound of blows, mixed with moans, convinced her that the two of them were having a torrid night of sex that she would like to repeat. "No way," the black belt muttered. "Have fun!" And she left.

In the following days, however, she found Kelly's disappearance strange. She didn't see her anymore, not even at the dojo or the gym. Traumatized by Marcos' disappearance, Sandra looked up the girl's cell phone number in the girl's profile.
- Kelly? Hi! This is Sandra... - On the other end of the line, she noticed a tense, insecure young woman. - Are you okay, my dear? You disappeared... I don't see you at karate anymore... You were doing so well... Did you give up?
On the night of the humiliating beating that Mrs. Irene had inflicted on her, Kelly saw her suffering prolonged at every stage until she got home. She didn't have the courage to use the gym's locker room and bathroom. Dressed in her blood-spattered kimono, she washed her bloody and swollen face in the filthy fountain in a square near the gym. She felt completely helpless. But she didn't want to call André, much less her parents. She was afraid that her fragile boyfriend would try anything against the woman who had just beaten her. She also felt ashamed that, even though she was a black belt, she had been defeated so overwhelmingly by a woman older than her mother. Kelly washed her mouth greedily, trying to get rid of the taste of the fifty-something woman's genitals and the memory of that scene: grabbing the back of the former bench press champion's neck, Mrs. Irene pressed the girl's mouth against her vulva, exactly as Kelly did with André. It was impossible to resist that force. When she reached her climax, the athletic widow freed herself from the karateka, who threw her to the ground. Mrs. Irene gasped for a few seconds, coming back from the orgasmic spasm and, once again, aimed deep into her victim's eyes. Without losing sight of her, she put on her panties, then her leggings and finally her zubon. She smoothed the fabric and adjusted the black belt she had taken from Kelly. She took a deep breath, with her hands on her waist. – If you want to beat me on the mat, girl, try to learn karate, because I just showed you that you don't know how. – Dona Irene smiled sardonically. – And before you disappear from my sight, gas cylinder, pay attention to what I'm going to tell you: don't you dare go to the police. Your skinny boyfriend is my neighbor. If the police show up at my house, first I'll beat that kid up. Then I'll come after you, I don't care where. And try to make up a good story to explain that broken face of yours. I don't want anyone bothering me with questions. – She held Kelly's chin, who was now kneeling. – I liked your little tongue in my pussy. At least you're good for sucking.

[MuscleWoman]

Sitting on a bench in the square with her face covered by her hands, the memory of that last word triggered once again the painful tears of the karateka who had her black belt ripped off by a much older woman – and less experienced in this martial art. At that moment, she wanted to disappear into the world, disappear into the anonymity of the crowd, take the first bus to somewhere far away. But she couldn't move. Or stop crying. With the sleeve of her wagui, she wiped her tears while she called André.
When Sandra called her, Kelly had been recovering from the beating for a little over a week. Rescued by the young man, when she arrived home with him, she went straight to her room, claiming it had been an accident during training. To her boyfriend and parents, she said – without mentioning Dona Irene's name – that she had had intense and dangerous training that day, when they would be experimenting with more fatal blows. She had accepted the risks, and the result was that face disfigured by swelling and an apparent fracture in her nose. The story convinced them, since something similar had happened a year ago, but they still ended up taking the girl to the emergency room – not without a long speech from her mother, begging her daughter to switch from martial arts to swimming.

The tests did not indicate serious trauma. Accompanied by André, however, she slept that night in the hospital, as a precaution. Which prolonged the impact of the defeat that Mrs. Irene had inflicted on her: she was hospitalized because she had been beaten by an athletic, physically very strong woman, skilled in karate and jiu-jitsu – and whom the young Kelly, a former weightlifter, a regular bodybuilder and proud of being a black belt, had believed she could defeat with a simple blow, intimidating "that bitch" who had dared to attack her beloved. But the widow was not only a ruthless fighter. She was cruel. And perverse. Sadistic. The girl, curled up in the hospital bed while her boyfriend snored in the armchair next to her, trembled with fear and shame. She would never reveal to him the sexual violence she had been subjected to. In fact, she would never tell anyone what had happened in that dojo, to which she had no intention of returning.
Sandra noticed the long silence of her karate colleague.
- Hello! Kelly? Can you hear me?
- Oh, yes, yes, I am...
- Are you okay?
- Yes, yes, I am. You know how it is, sometimes we lose our senses...
- That's right, that's why you have to be careful. You shouldn't have chosen Mrs. Irene to train with. That woman is a beast! She's much more dangerous than she seems – and Sandra gave a discreet laugh. On the other end of the line, silence. – Next time, call me for extra training. I swear I'm much more gentle! – And she laughed again. – When are you going back to training?
- Me? Well, I think... Well, I don't know yet – lied the karateka that Mrs. Irene had turned into a former black belt. – As soon as I'm whole again, I'll let you know.
Sandra never heard from Kelly again.

[MuscleWoman]

Born in the Recôncavo region of Bahia, Augusto moved to the megalopolis of São Paulo alone when he was still a teenager. He moved in with his cousins ��in a favela, where he found an NGO that taught karate to children outside of regular school hours. With the sport, the organization hoped to "offer a better future" for them, as its slogan said. Thus began his career as a karateka. At the age of 21, he was already a state champion in his sport. To survive and pay for his degree in physical education, he taught martial arts at two gyms and gave occasional classes at a security company. One of the gyms was Marcos', where Augusto discovered Sandra's talent. He soon learned that she did not want to pursue a career as a competitor or professional athlete. "But I'm not going to take it easy on you," he said when he started training her. "I'm not asking you to take it easy on me, I'm here to see if you can make me a karateka," she challenged him. Augusto – or Mestre Guto, as he liked to be called – didn't believe him. She thought it was just the arrogance of a "hot, spoiled girl" with nothing much to do in life. And she decided to test the limits of that young woman, until she gave up.
When she enrolled in karate classes, Mrs. Irene knew about this story. More than getting close to Sandra, the main reason that led her to seek out Master Guto's classes was the reputation of being unbeatable that the sensei loved to proudly flaunt with his third dan black belt. After beating Kelly, the widow became increasingly excited to find a man who was on her level – and in that dojo, the fifty-year-old saw no one, other than Guto, capable of challenging her. Not even Sandra, her most notable disciple. It is true that the dizzying speed with which Mrs. Irene changed belts, until she reached the brown belt, caught the master's attention. With almost twenty years of experience in martial arts, he had never seen anyone progress so quickly and with such mastery in karate, especially considering the woman's age in her fifties. What was even more strange, however, was when, from one day to the next, the mature karateka showed up wearing the black belt that, without anyone else knowing, she had taken from Kelly the night before.
"Hey, Mrs. Irene, are you attending another gym?" Sandra asked, intrigued, as soon as the woman entered the dojo under the surprised gaze of everyone, especially the master.
"No, of course not..." Marcos's kidnapper replied, maintaining an air of mystery.
"So where did you get that black belt?" Guto asked, in a reprimanding tone.
"Right here."
"But how? There was no black belt exam here..." Now it was Geraldo, a millionaire's bodyguard, indignant.
"Calm down, guys," Guto reassured. "Let's understand what's going on here." Mrs. Irene, I know you are a great fighter, one of the best I have ever had – a hint of envy stabbed Sandra. – But you can't wear a black belt until you take the exam...
With her perfumed and impeccable kimono, the fifty-something woman held the belt around her waist with both hands, looked arrogantly at the master and smiled.
– And what if I tell you that I deserve this belt even before being tested?
Guto found his older student's insolence childish. He smiled with commiseration, certain that the woman had gone crazy.
– When the belt exam is, you will take it. For now, you are a brown belt. Take off that black belt, please. – And she immediately turned to the class. – Come on, everyone, enough talking. Let's train!
The sensei's obvious disdain for Mrs. Irene's speech triggered an uncontrollable fury in her. But before she could attack the master, Sandra discreetly stopped her. He noticed the movement, but he gave a condescending look to the presumptuous disciple, who looked him in the eye with terrible coldness, while untying her belt.

The training was nothing different. As always, Sandra and Mrs. Irene – the only women – stood out from the male group, made up of ten men. Their superiority was notable, Guto recognized. But he had decided to punish the older fighter – who trained without a belt – for her disrespect, keeping her as the group's lone brown belt for a long time. When the training ended and everyone was leaving, however, she crossed the sensei's path.

[MuscleWoman]

Guto was a very dark man, not very tall or overly muscular, but strong, imposing and well prepared by years of professional training, until he reached the high level he was at in karate. At 31 years old, as a competitor, he was feared on the mat, to the point that opponents would abandon a fight with him, even before it began. This was the athlete that Mrs. Irene was blocking at that moment.
"Don't ever talk to me like that again," she began, bluntly.
Sandra was leaving last, slowing down her pace precisely to talk to the widow, when she noticed that her colleague had approached the sensei. Believing that they would have a peaceful conversation, she closed the door – and remained in the hallway, attentive, also to prevent anyone from interrupting the understanding between master and disciple. Suddenly, she heard the click of the lock: someone had locked the dojo from the inside. And then she began to recognize the sensei's kyai. "My God, they're fighting!" moaned Sandra, excited at the thought of seeing Mrs. Irene facing a champion and fearing the damage he could do to her. The black belt strained her ears. The blows and falls on the mat were audible, but Sandra didn't recognize Mrs. Irene's voice. It seemed like the fifty-something woman was fighting in complete silence. The fight lasted several minutes, until the strong impact of a body against the door made Sandra scream, banging on the door: "Irene! Guto! What's happening?! Open up!" Second impact – this time stronger. Now she could clearly hear the voice of the mature karateka: "Fight like a man!" Third impact. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. "Stop, for the love of God!" Sandra heard the sensei yell, his voice almost tearful. Sandra continued banging on the door and screaming. There was a long silence inside the dojo. Until she heard someone unlocking the lock. The girl burst into the dojo, pushing open the door behind which Mrs. Irene was standing. Lying on the floor, with his face bloodied and severely disfigured, was the three-time state champion, third dan black belt and sensei of that dojo – whom Sandra was desperately trying to help. Also quite bloodied and in pain, but upright and proud, the athletic lady bent over her opponent with difficulty – and ripped off his belt. Guto groaned. She looked at her colleague, who was now somewhere between fascination and panic, and left with the black belt in her hand.