My female boxer knows

[MuscleWoman]

I enjoy waking up alone in bed. In fact, I love it! More than love, it turns me on so much... My dick gets hard, and I feel an intense urge to jerk off. But the best part is not masturbating. Because she knows. She knows everything. Damn, she knows! So I lie there in bed, hard, waiting for her to come back all sweaty.

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Never fails. Rain or cold, she quietly gets out of bed so as not to wake me, and I pretend I'm still asleep. Six in the morning sharp. Never fails. What discipline! That also turns me on so much... Just feeling her getting out of bed so carefully makes my dick hard.

Then I wait for two hours. That's right: she runs for two hours! Two hours running in a park near our house. Ten kilometers! She runs ten kilometers in two hours with those strong, long legs, wearing those side-slit shorts to make it easier to move. I have a fetish for those shorts, and she knows it. Sometimes I go to the drawer where she keeps them and take one out to smell, caress, press against my face. And I imagine that beautiful, perky, muscular ass, as strong as those legs, filling those shorts... Under the shorts, her panties. Always white. Always the same style. Speedo. Like those swimmer briefs, you know? Pure cotton. It has to be 100% cotton. I'm obsessed with that style! She knows, of course. I also smell, squeeze, bite, and rub them on my face, imagining where those panties have been. What a privilege! I'm even jealous of them, going where only I should be able to go and rub...

But I get my revenge on the shorts and panties because she comes back all sweaty, standing at the doorway, hands on her waist, still breathing heavily, that beautiful straight, dark hair tied in a ponytail, her breasts hidden under a sports bra that also kills me with envy and jealousy... Then she says something like, "Wake up, sleepyhead." Or "Good morning, my love." Or even "Time to get up, love." Or simply "Love." But when she says, "Your boxer is back," I know the sex will be wild. We always have sex when she comes back from her run. In fact, we have sex almost every day. With its ups and downs. I won't lie. It's always good, but it's not always amazing. But when she says, "Your boxer is back," I know she's turned on like crazy.

And then... Well, then she pounces on me like a beast. In fact, she is a beast. She becomes a beast! Once she came back so ferocious that she didn't even have the patience to take her clothes off: she ripped everything off, growling like a lioness, tearing off the sheets and ripping my boxers to shove my rock-hard dick into her mouth... And how eagerly she did it! Wow! I had to make a huge effort not to cum because that was just the beginning. The beginning until the knockout.

Knockout. She's a boxer. No, not a professional. But she's a boxer. First and foremost, a boxer. When people ask me what my wife is or does, I feel like saying, almost drooling with desire: "A boxer. My wife is a boxer." It turns me on to say "Boxer." It turns me on to say: "My wife boxes. And she's not a professional. She boxes because she likes it. My wife is a boxer because she loves boxing." Do you think that's a bit crazy? Then you don't understand me. When people say, "That woman is a fighter," everyone thinks that person is hardworking, facing all kinds of difficulties to survive or just live. Mine, no. Mine is a boxer. Because she loves it. And because she loves me. Of course, I don't tell anyone that. That she loves me, yes. But not that I'm turned on by her boxing, by being the husband of a... boxer!

She knows. She knows everything. That's why she doesn't just do boxing.

It's funny how we met. I lie about it. In fact, we both lie. Because if we told the truth, no one would believe it. She saved me, you see? It starts there. How does a woman save a man? Immediately, everyone thinks she pulled the guy out of drugs, crime, poverty, or illness. It was none of that. I'm a white, middle-class guy with a decent salary. I've never been through any real hardship. She saved me from a robbery. A serious robbery. The guy was armed, ready to kill me. He was going to kill me, yes. It was close. So I'm not exaggerating when I say she saved my life.

I already knew her. By sight. We didn't talk. But we flirted discreetly. We went to the same gym. She more than me, of course. I always thought she was beautiful. An athlete's body, you know? It was more than just a nice, lean, "fit" body. But it wasn't like those steroid-pumped women with biceps half a meter long... No, it wasn't that either. It was like a middle ground. There aren't just pumped and toned women. There's a whole range of gradations between the extremes, right? She was more like an MMA fighter, like Cris Cyborg. But prettier, you know? And taller. Almost six feet. More elegant. Muscular but not exaggerated. A strong, solid, sculpted body. What a woman! She looked like a bundle of muscles. Pure lean mass... And that energy! She did the exercises with such discipline and grit that... Man! I got hard just seeing her walk into the gym, wearing those really short shorts and a tank top. She was afraid to show off that amazing body... Well, many times I ran to the gym bathroom to jerk off because that woman drove me crazy! I was capable of grabbing that hottie right there if I didn't jerk off...

But it never went beyond that. A few exchanged glances, some discreet, sensual smiles. And that's it. I kept looking at that body I could never touch. I had to be content with that. Or else I fantasized about possibilities to console myself. Maybe she had a boyfriend. Or was even married. What man wouldn't want to date that woman? Or what woman wouldn't give an arm to fuck her? Is she a lesbian? When I thought that, I even went soft. It was a way to justify my frustration for something I hadn't even tried. Out of pure cowardice.

Until it happened.

[MuscleWoman]

The gym was downtown. That's right, the city is São Paulo. The largest city in South America. Full of problems. One of them is safety. I admit I'm not paranoid about it, even though I know we're always at risk. But I don't like to live in a constant state of panic. Of course, I take some precautions. But I never overdid it. That's why I left my car parked on a little street behind the gym. Some people told me not to do that, to pay for parking next to the gym—which charges an arm and a leg for an hour. I refused to spend a fortune on parking because the state can't guarantee my safety or the safety of my property, etc., etc., etc.

Well, here the story gets very predictable. It's the typical dumb Hollywood or Netflix action movie plot. I don't know how people fall for that nonsense... But here we go! The dark, deserted street, you walking with your gym bag slung over your shoulder, distracted and tired after an hour of working out that left a nice feeling in your body. Then you're opening your car door when, out of nowhere, an armed robber—really!—demands you hand over everything, including the car keys. You're still processing the completely unexpected and violent approach, you feel the gun's tip digging into your ribs, you see the guy isn't joking, when suddenly... she appears! Yes, she appeared out of nowhere too, and surprised the guy from behind, first with a chokehold and then with a flurry of punches that didn't even give him time to react. It all happened so fast... Suddenly she was on top of the robber, pounding his face. He was going to be unrecognizable. Worse, she was going to kill him! I had to go after her to try to stop her. "Enough! Enough!" I shouted. "You're going to kill him!" Of course, the guy was screaming too. And so was she: "Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!" Soon people showed up and helped me pull her off the guy, who by then was already unconscious. Yes, it took three or four men to get her off the robber. She wasn't a woman... She was a beast! Then the police showed up, and there's a whole story about a court case where she was acquitted, etc., etc., etc. Self-defense. I paid for the defense. Well, not me. A good lawyer friend did it all for free. But she doesn't need to know that...

Of course, we started dating! Well, it wasn't that obvious. It was slower than I wanted, with a lot of hesitation on her part. I didn't understand why. It seemed like she had some resistance or fear. I thought she thought I was somehow repulsed by how violent she had been with the robber, by what she had done, with so much violence. Yes, I was scared, but... Well, I'll explain that later. Until one day I decided to be honest: "Why are you avoiding me?" The question didn't surprise her. "Because every man always ends up running away from anything serious with me." I was indignant. "I'm not 'every man.'" She looked deep into my eyes, with those killer brown eyes that only made me more turned on. "And I'm not just any woman." I already knew that. She paused dramatically, making me think the worst: a serious transmissible disease, involvement with some criminal organization, being part of a billion-dollar corruption scheme, international human organ trafficking... "I'm a boxer." The revelation seemed a bit unusual, but it relieved me. "It's not what you're thinking." I was thinking she was a professional fighter—which was quite rare, but not absurd. There was even a successful movie about it that won an Oscar and everything. "I'm a boxer because I love fighting. Boxing organizes my life. It's not work, family, or religion. It's boxing."

I was trying to understand exactly what this woman meant. The words were easy to understand, but what was behind them? "I like having the body I have. And I only train with men because you guys think only you have the right to the power and strength I seek, understand?" No, I didn't understand. Was it some new crazy kind of feminism? "You think I'm crazy, don't you?" Of course, I didn't have the courage to say anything. She adjusted herself in the chair and assumed a professorial stance to explain this, let's say, "philosophy" of hers, which I'll summarize in the next paragraph.

Boxing is a life philosophy for her. A philosophy of the body. The fighting, strong body. I'll try to simplify it. She would only feel free and complete if she knew how to fight and be strong, understand? Literally. That is, she would only feel like a free, emancipated woman, in control of her own life, if she knew how to fight and built a strong body. Strong, really. With muscles and strength to do what is normally expected only of men, that is, with the strength of her own hands, arms, and legs, to lift, twist, pull, push, run—usually, in place of and for women, always convinced that muscles and physical strength are "men's things." "So, you like lifting weights and throwing punches," I summarized. She laughed. Bingo!

Here's the explanation I owe you. I like muscular, athletic, strong women. If you're reading this, you like it too, right? So you understand me. You understand why my dick got hard just seeing that goddess walk into the gym. The other men didn't care. At least they didn't have the same desire for her as I did. They were more interested in the big-assed, thick-thighed, big-breasted women with exaggeratedly feminine curves. Not that she was flat as a board. No. But her breasts weren't big. And they weren't small either. They were just right, you know? Guys are obsessed with huge breasts. Not me. Same with her ass and thighs. What really mattered to me was her musculature. Wow! She was all defined, ripped, toned... I don't know what you call that type of body that seems to have no body fat and is all muscle! It looked like she exercised every muscle that could exist in the human body. I think you could study anatomy on those deltoids, biceps, triceps, abs... Abs! Man, that was a genuine six-pack harder than pure steel! I was obsessed with that six-pack! In that gym, there was nothing like that, not even among the men. And the weights she lifted, pulled, and pushed, grunting and sweating, almost made me cum in my shorts. Sometimes I had to stop my workout and distance myself from her so I wouldn't embarrass myself: my dick turned into a log, fighting to get out of my boxers. She didn't overdo the grunting: the weights were huge! At least for me, they were unthinkable: 95 kilos on the deadlift, which she repeated about five times. But what impressed and turned me on the most was seeing the marks for the bicep exercises: 25 kilos! While the guys were looking at ass and tits, I was looking at the biceps—my big fetish. Then I'd see that well-defined muscle contract, about 30 centimeters in circumference. I know that's small for a lot of people who are into hypertrophy. Not me. It seems like the number that really turns fetishists on is 40 centimeters. Hers were proportional, like her breasts. And above all, strong. Very strong. And they were part of a fully muscled, proportional body, without excess. It looked like she had been sculpted.

Now comes an erotic detail that you might not share with me: when she told me she was a boxer, and that it organized her life, I almost had a stroke. Because my fetish isn't just about admiring or adoring the musculature of an athletic woman. Between us, I don't find it the least bit amusing to just feel biceps, triceps, quads, traps, abs... I think it's kind of ridiculous to stand there with that dumbfounded look, squeezing legs and arms as if... Well, never mind. To each their own fetish. What matters is that mine included fighting. No, I don't like to fight or get beaten or suffocated by a woman's muscular ass or thighs. I like fighters. Women who practice some martial art, you know? I even made up a name for this aspect of my fetish: "operative strength." I know it's a bit silly, but it's the best way I found to explain what turns me on about muscular women—or "athletic," as I prefer to call them, to avoid the FBB stereotype.

So, I like women whose strength manifests beyond muscles, you know? It's not just "demonstration" or "feats of strength," but something that goes beyond weightlifting and push-ups. To sum it up in a few words: I'm turned on by athletic women who practice fighting. Now you understand why I almost had a stroke when that goddess told me she was a boxer? She didn't say she "trains boxing," only. She is a boxer. That is, she made boxing a life philosophy. Can you understand what that means for someone with my fetish? I was over the moon with happiness! So happy that I was completely paralyzed, looking at her with frozen eyes and a silly smile on my face. Her expression was one of confusion. Then she started to get irritated. "What's so funny?" she finally asked.

Here it's all predictable too, and I'll spare you the details: I told her everything you already know, and we got married.

And here I am, in bed, hard, waiting for my boxer to come back from her 10-kilometer morning run, maintaining that body that drives me completely crazy. And her too. She also goes crazy with my craziness. The meeting was so perfect that I'm absolutely sure there's no marriage like ours on the entire planet. What man would have the courage to marry a woman who says boxing is her life philosophy? Well, I not only had the courage, but I also encouraged her. I think that's what made her fall in love with me. I'm far, very far from being the most handsome man in the world, but I think I have my own beauty and even a special charm. She definitely thinks the same. But that's not what attracted her. What made her completely crazy about me was knowing that I want her exactly as she is: athletic, strong, and... a boxer!

When we started dating for real, she soon took me to the gym where she trained boxing. It was a completely different place from where she worked out. It was in a distant neighborhood, on the outskirts of the city. I found it strange when we took the road to one of the poorest neighborhoods in São Paulo. "Where are you taking me?" I asked after half an hour of driving. "Calm down, babe, we're almost there." I loved being called "babe" by her. Then we stopped in front of a warehouse on a very busy street. The place looked a bit run-down. It seemed like a very old gym, but neglected. The old iron gate creaked as we entered. From inside came the typical sounds of a boxing gym: punches, jumps, shouts, grunts. She walked in naturally, with her gym bag slung over her shoulder, greeting everyone. She hugged and kissed one or two.

She was the only woman. The only one. There were about a dozen men, most shirtless. But none dared to give that beautiful woman in black leggings and a tight yellow tank top a lustful or covetous look. I think her arms intimidated them. Soon I found out that wasn't it. Or rather, it was. But not because of their size or definition.

While she was changing and warming up for the sparring, I chatted with the coach, who greeted us with a somewhat enigmatic expression. He seemed surprised or astonished. This time, however, there was nothing predictable at first. Unlike the old, pot-bellied coach in American boxing movies, in front of me appeared to be someone who could be a competitor: a guy with broad shoulders and big biceps, in his early 30s, brown, masculine, with short curly hair and a thick beard... The sexy type who would be successful anywhere. He started wrapping his hands with those bandages that boxers wear under their gloves. He was wearing boxing shorts, boxing shoes and a very tight T-shirt. Now the guy seemed to be looking at me with a certain mocking malice, like "I know what you're into, man". I wondered if he didn't share the same fetish with me.

A little while later he was warming up too, while I wandered around the gym. The walls were covered in old, dusty photos, perhaps from the 1960s to the 1980s, of former fighters and students of the club, and old posters advertising fights. Everything was very dirty. The walls were worn and marked, crying out for paint. The equipment was no less old and worn. There was no air conditioning. The heat was almost unbearable. I couldn't understand how she, a seemingly typical white, middle-class woman from São Paulo, had chosen that poor, run-down gym, in a neighborhood on the outskirts, frequented only by men – almost all of them black. I was amazed by what seemed to me to be a lack of prejudice.

Later I learned that the answer was stepping into the ring at that moment: she and the trainer were going to spar. It seems that the fight was expected or at least highly respected, because everyone stopped to watch. I know you already know: it was a massacre. Yes, she massacred her own trainer. Until then I knew nothing about boxing. My biggest fetish was and continues to be for Japanese martial arts. But when I saw my boxer crushing her trainer, I simply fell in love with this sport. That day, however, I only understood that she punched the guy in all directions, with incredible speed and with a force that would certainly have broken all his bones, if they hadn't both been well protected by vests, leg guards and helmets. With what I witnessed there, I was sure that she would have killed the assailant, if they hadn't gotten her off him.

Of course, that night ended in a epic fuck, with her smelling of sweat and leather. And, while we were fucking, all I could do was repeat, like a madman: "Boxer... Boxer... Boxer...". Man! The woman did whatever she wanted to me! I don't know where she got so much energy. I thought it had all been left there in the ring, on top of the poor trainer. But no, she was like a powerhouse. As soon as we got to her house, she started taking off my clothes and hers and throwing me against the wall. I had never had sex like that, standing up, with the woman taking the initiative, controlling the movements, adjusting her pussy to fit the cock... Then I realized that she had pushed me down a pull-up bar. The woman had a pull-up bar in the living room! Of course I was going crazy with all that... I would never have imagined that a woman could do something like that, even in my wildest fantasies. With her hands on the bar and her body pressing mine against the wall, she fitted our hips together and... had a party! My rock-hard cock went in all the way while I felt those muscles that she had hardened even more by beating the coach. We never have enough words to describe an orgasm. Maybe because describing it is impossible. I even prefer not to describe that one, because that would be to diminish its dimension, its intensity, its wonder, its delight... But in it I understood what she was: a woman who did not depend on men, or their permission, to have pleasure. If my orgasm was indescribable, hers was twice that, if you know what I mean.

When we relaxed, still standing, hugging each other, sweating profusely and enjoying the after-cum, she whispered in my ear: "The coach was my boyfriend." I looked at her with a mixture of astonishment, disbelief and strangeness. What did she want to say to me like that? "Today I settled things with him." I'll skip the description of my reactions and insecurities, the broken sentences, my machismo trying to impose itself, and get straight to the point.

It's easy to assume that the two met because of boxing. It's not worth saying how. But he told her that he had inherited the gym from his father, that it had been his grandfather's, etc. etc. etc. Since they were dating, she started training there. Of course, no one took my boxer seriously. And the coach didn't give a damn about this "boxing philosophy" thing. He wanted to have an athletic, white, "rich" babe to pose as a stud for the gym students, have a lot of sex with the fit white girl and, after he was satisfied, give her a good kick in the ass. In fact, within a few months he was already dating someone else. It's obvious that he didn't know who he was dealing with. The sparring match I witnessed was the fulfillment of a promise: she said she would make him kiss the canvas of his own ring, in front of the students. The guy didn't believe she would be capable of that, and when she showed up there, he was sure she would beat up my boxer. Poor guy, he really didn't know who he was dealing with.

How could I not fall in love with this woman? How could I not get a hard-on, waiting for that body here in bed, knowing what he's capable of? My boxer knows.