Mrs. Irene

[MuscleWoman]

– Do you want to feel it?
He nodded. After nine months of captivity, Marcos had adopted the ritual of touching Dona Irene's marble-like muscles after her daily exercises in front of him, in the outbuilding. At that moment, she had finished a series for her upper limbs. And she showed off her biceps, stressed by twenty-kilo weights on each arm. The kidnapped man shivered as he ran his fingers, under the skin of almost sixty years, over the contours and hardness of those muscles whose power had just been reinforced. He knew well what they were capable of.
– You know, Marcos, it took me a while to understand that I didn't need to become a gorilla, a mountain of muscles to be strong. When I started bodybuilding, I thought I would have to take a lot of drugs to gain mass, to become a monster. I always thought that exaggerated musculature was very ugly. That's not human! It's no wonder those very large women, bodybuilding champions, are always taking steroids. Dona Irene stood up and stood in front of the mirror, admiring her own body. Now 59 years old, there was not a single muscle in her that could be exercised that had not been carefully prepared in her meticulous and disciplined routine of lifting weights, running (on the treadmill and in the street) and stretching.
- Not me. I like being like this, well-defined, with almost no fat. No drugs. Just effort. Lots of effort. Food. Rest in the right proportion. There is no woman in the world like me. Not even athletes. I am more than a black belt. I am more than physical strength. - And turning to Marcos, who was looking at her with fascination: - I am a very dangerous weapon, you know.
He knew. Not only because he had felt all of that in his own body, in the fights in which he was invariably defeated – including in boxing, which she had been training along with karate and jiu-jitsu –, in the repeated beatings and, now, in the sexual relations in which that woman was able to lift him in the most unlikely positions, subduing and penetrating the former MMA champion – who had discovered pleasure in being the fifty-year-old's sex toy, although not in the situation of a clandestine prisoner. It was not, therefore, only because of all of that that Marcos recognized that woman as a weapon. He had witnessed how lethal Mrs. Irene's physical strength and fighting skills could be.

What seemed to be another peaceful and sad dawn, while he slept in captivity, was interrupted by the sound of two thuds on the cement floor of the small backyard. Marcos listened carefully and heard whispers between two male and apparently young voices. They were thieves, for sure. Upstairs in the house, Mrs. Irene was also awakened, this time by the sound of someone forcing open the kitchen door. It was a warm night, and she was sleeping wearing only a pair of men's boxer shorts. She got dressed as soon as she jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen, already convinced that they were burglars. But she decided not to react immediately. She stood in front of the door and waited for the break-in. When they managed to break the lock, the two boys were startled by the figure standing in the middle of the room, motionless. At first, they thought it was a short, athletic man, until one of the boys shined his cell phone flashlight on Mrs. Irene. It was from that moment that Marcos began to hear muffled screams and the scraping of furniture being pushed around haphazardly. They were definitely fighting in the kitchen. For days, Lucas and Clayton – two young men who had just left their teens and had always lived in poverty, with police records for petty thefts – had been "watching" the widow's house, observing her routine and how often she visited. And they realized that she didn't receive anyone. They didn't understand that the loose white clothes she wore when she went out were a karate kimono. They had no idea what that outfit was hiding. And the terrible secret she was hiding. They just thought she was a lonely old lady, perhaps a bit exotic. But all she had to do was take advantage of her early morning sleep to steal anything that might have some value. Who knows, maybe she kept money or jewelry at home, like many lonely old women? Unarmed, and trusting in the deep sleep – or in the senile deafness – of the lady, they decided to check what valuable things she had in the house. If the "old woman" woke up, they would easily overpower her – they assumed, confidently. With T-shirts tied over their heads to hide their faces, they jumped over the back wall. It was the two blows that woke Marcos up.

[MuscleWoman]

It all happened in a matter of seconds. When Clayton shone his light on Mrs. Irene's body, confusion set in between the two boys. They didn't know if they were looking at a man or a woman. Her face was that of an "old lady", but her body was that of a powerful 100-meter runner. Her small breasts on her muscular chest led them to believe they were looking at a "traveco" - Brazilian slang for "transvestite". The karate fighter and bodybuilding enthusiast, however, had already gone on the attack, grabbing the waistbands of the long, loose shorts that the skinny boys were wearing. She lifted them up. Clayton's cell phone shattered on the floor. Surprised by the speed and strength of the movement, the two screamed, with their shorts squeezing their testicles, which they both tried in vain to protect. "You'll never steal from here again," she said with cold calm. And she let them down. The relief lasted two seconds, because now the fifty-something woman grabbed them by the throats. "Time for a lesson." They both struggled with desperate gestures of someone who was drowning. Their grunts were ineffective attempts to call for help. Realizing that they were about to faint, she let go of their hands and tore off the shirts they had taken off to cover their faces. They weren't exactly skeletal, but they were quite thin. She felt a little sorry for them both.
"Madam... ma'am... We didn't know..." Lucas began, coughing. "I promise you... I'll never steal again... Let us go..."
"I'll let you, of course I'll let you." Mrs. Irene assumed an air of mocking compassion. "But first, let's have a talk," and she grabbed his testicles, without squeezing them. They both screamed, in panic. "Shut up, kids! If you scream one more time I'll crush your balls!" The scene would be comical if it weren't tragic. With her hands holding their scrotums, under the threat of a strong squeeze, Mrs. Irene made the thieves walk with their legs half open, in steps that resembled children, holding on to the steel arms of their tormentor. They moaned and cried softly, repeating pleas for mercy and promises that they would never steal again.
"I know you'll keep stealing. But you'll learn not to steal here anymore," said the woman, as she led them to the backyard. "Open this cupboard and get a roll of duct tape," she ordered the trembling Lucas, who was sobbing and sweating profusely. The karateka and now also boxer squeezed his scrotum. The boy screamed. She squeezed harder. "Stop screaming or I'll rip your balls off... And I really will!" Pierced by the pain that made him shrink, with great difficulty he reached out and grabbed the roll. "Now cover your friend's rotten mouth." – Lucas hesitated for a split second, but obeyed.

[MuscleWoman]

After this operation was repeated on Clayton, she grabbed them by the neck again. "You have no idea what a mistake you made. I sent a third-dan black belt to the hospital!" Lucas and Clayton had no idea what she was talking about, but they understood that it was something very serious. "Beating up kids like you is easy!" They were both in a panic. "You've never seen an old lady like me, have you? Well, just look at what the old lady is capable of doing..."
More than a virtuoso in martial arts, Mrs. Irene loved to experiment and demonstrate her own physical strength. In the extremely difficult fight with Guto, in which she was almost defeated, the athletic widow summoned the beast that she had tamed within herself, after being hit by the master's violent blows: with such an excellent opponent, she knew that her technique would not be enough to overcome him. For the fifty-year-old, this was not a noble dispute to see who had mastered karate better. It was all about proving to that man that she, a woman, was a bundle of muscles more powerful than he, the unbeatable karateka. Indifferent to ethics or the rules of martial arts, at a certain point in the fight when Guto delivered a soto mawashi, Mrs. Irene grabbed the black belt's ankle – who looked at her in astonishment, unable to anticipate what she would do. Always very aggressive, fast and agile, she lifted the sensei's foot as high as she could and stuck her muscular shoulder between the champion's legs, crushing his testicles. He groaned. Mrs. Irene's powerful hands grabbed the karateka's wagui, front and back, and she threw it at the door, as if it were a battering ram. Her strength was so great, and everything happened so fast, that Guto was unable to hit his opponent enough to stop her: in a split second, he was being thrown against the door. "Fight like a man!" she yelled, as she threw a series of punches at the athlete's face, now on the ground. He managed to kick her, throwing her backwards, but the herculean lady got to her feet faster and brutally pushed him against the door: she wanted to knock her down using his body. She went for the third attempt. Throwing herself at the black belt's waist, Mrs. Irene threw him against the door. The impact was so strong that the solid wood cracked. Guto, with his face badly bruised and bloody, and perhaps with a fractured shoulder, could only say "Stop, for the love of God!", while Mrs. Irene picked him up on the ground. "I'm not finished," she whispered in his ear, lifting him up on her shoulders. The sensei defended himself as best he could, but he was in pretty bad shape: after three such violent and painful collisions, not even his excellent physical fitness was able to save him from that massacre. However, with an extraordinary effort, Mrs. Irene now threw him against the door for the fourth time. He fell unconscious. His tormentor grabbed him by the waist again, dragging him to the center of the dojo, where she would beat him for a few more minutes. The fifty-year-old woman's face was also injured. Drops of blood – hers and his – stained her very white "champion's uniform". This infuriated her even more. Her desire was to throw Guto against the door from the mat. Since she could not achieve this feat, Mrs. Irene gave up on beating him and, once again, put the black belt on her shoulders. It was not easy. She was exhausted, and had suffered some very hard blows from her athletic opponent. Her body was beginning to give in to the pain and fatigue. "Go, Irene!" she shouted to herself, eagerly. "You're made of steel, woman..." Carrying about eighty kilos on her shoulders, she approached the door and threw the sensei against it for the fifth time. The position and distance were not favorable for the throw. It was as if a sack of potatoes had been dropped at the foot of the door, but not against it. The greatest impact was the body falling to the floor. Semiconscious, Guto groaned, but was in no condition to react. Panting, Dona Irene once again grabbed the collar of the master's wagui and dragged him, this time to a much greater distance. "I'm going to kill you, you bastard!" she growled.

[MuscleWoman]

She put his back against hers, holding his arms, leaned toward the door with the sensei's head hanging in front of her, gathered all the strength she had in her legs, accustomed to pushing 300 kilos, and took off in a murderous sprint: either she would break the door with Guto's head or crush his skull. Dona Irene trusted too much in her power: the half-dozen staggering steps lost strength as she reached her target and, when she reached it, they both fell, sprawling on the floor. The impact against the door was strong, but not enough to hurt the black belt any more than he already was. All the while, which lasted no more than a few minutes, Sandra screamed behind the door, pounding on it. Getting up with difficulty, Dona Irene dragged Guto to the center of the mat, preparing a seventh attempt to break the door using his body. She gave up out of exhaustion, not intention. She used the strength she had left to open the door and make it seem like the sensei's defeat had been easy.
These memories flashed through her mind as, in a matter of seconds, she looked at the two boys and decided what to do with them. "They're so skinny," she said. "But they need to be taught a good lesson."
"Time for boxing practice!" she announced. And she let them go. The two of them wasted no time: they ran to the wall, trying to jump over it. Mrs. Irene even laughed at their desperately naive attempt. "You fools..." And she pulled them by the waistband of their shorts. They shivered. Before the pull crushed their testicles, she let them go. "And don't you dare take the tape off your mouth!"
Lucas and Clayton pressed their backs against the wall, terrified. Mrs. Irene assumed the typical boxer's stance, preparing for the start of the round. Fists raised, bouncing quickly and smoothly, she aimed first at Lucas' eyes. Completely defenseless, he received the first blow, announced by the athletic lady:
- Jab! - The now boxer's bare hand hit Lucas' jaw, who groaned in pain. - Do you understand what a jab is?
Clayton burst into tears, foreseeing his suffering.
- For you, a... hook! - The blow was fired at the boy's liver, who curled up in pain, howling with his mouth closed. Now seated, with their backs still against the wall, they both hugged their knees, trembling and groaning. Mrs. Irene grabbed their wrists and lifted them. - If I catch you two here again, I'll show you what karate is. - They both just groaned softly. - Turn around! Hand on the wall! - The groans grew louder, mixing with a grunt of terror. But Lucas and Clayton obeyed. Mrs. Irene pulled down her shorts and appreciated the volume under the faded and cheap speedo-type briefs the boys were wearing. "You guys are skinny, but you have nice asses..." she whispered in their ears, squeezing their buttocks, which increased their muffled screams of panic. "Look how they fill out those cheap underwear you're wearing... Hmm... I like that, you know? Firm... Fresh... Juicy..." And with each word she lightly slapped both of their buttocks. She took a step back and contemplated them. In the sky, the first rays of morning helped her appreciate them. They were a little taller than she was. And less scrawny than the widow imagined. Clayton especially seemed to have the thighs of someone who played a lot of soccer. "You there on the right! Do you play soccer?" He nodded, turning his face back. "Face against the wall, kid! I didn't tell you to look!" – Mrs. Irene was putting on the strap-on. Their bladders couldn't handle the pressure of fear and urine soaked their underwear, running down their legs. The fifty-something karateka watched the scene while lubricating the erotic instrument and putting on surgical gloves. Their fragility increased their desire. The beast was about to erupt. Seconds later she tore Clayton's underwear while holding Lucas' head against the wall. The boy's buttocks were exposed, exuberant, to the woman's appetite, who dug the crack between his buttocks in search of his anus. – I'm going to teach you the right path to pleasure. – Without the slightest mercy or delicacy, she inserted the artificial penis into the young man and kept him there, motionless, for minutes on end.