The fight [MF, CNC, violence]

He was one of the assistant coaches at my gym. He wasn’t my main coach, but he’d done pads with me many times, he’d done a lot of conditioning work with me, and he’d been in my corner for a few of my fights.

I’d been crazy about him from the beginning. I loved his strength and his wiry frame, muscular but not muscle bound. I loved his sharp jaw and his stubble. I loved that he was so tall he made me feel small. Tall girls almost never get to feel small. I loved that he was relentless and uncompromising but was always having fun and so always made it fun. I loved that he seemed to find me hilarious and could barely stop laughing when he worked with me.

He seemed pretty keen on me too. I think he liked that I was completely fearless and gave it my all, but that nothing came naturally to me and I was never going to be that good. I think he liked my slightly awkward outside style, trying to keep my opponent at the end of my long arms, and often failing. I think he liked that while I loved being in shape – loved the feeling of being able to run flat out for minutes without losing my breath – I also loved the finer things in life and so while I was lean and toned I was never going to have a fighters’ body. My stomach might be washboard flat but I’d never get my fat percentage low enough to get a six pack, I’d never be gaunt or butch. I think he loved my giant tits, which were probably the biggest impediment, sometimes literally, to me ever becoming an elite fighter.

We’d worked together for four years. To begin with I’d tried everything I could to seduce him – flirting like mad, stretching unnecessarily in front of him, finding any excuse I could to pull off my t-shirt… I was shameless. But he had a girlfriend and to his credit he never looked like straying. By the time they broke up I had a boyfriend and while I definitely had him in mind as a backup, and definitely flirted with him more than I should, he was respectful of that too. When we broke up he gave me a bit of space and time, but I could tell from the way he looked at me that something had changed. I was being hunted.

Once I was ready I turned the flirting up to 11. He picked up on it immediately, responding in kind. But to my slight surprise I found that I was enjoying stringing him along too much to make a move, or allow him to. I don’t remember exactly where the conceit came from, maybe from some bullshit in one of my main coach’s pep talks, but somewhere along the way we developed this dynamic where I was this warrior woman, and would submit to no man. “You have not defeated me, so you cannot have me” was the not-so-subtle gist of much of our flirting.

One of the other girls won a regional title and we all went out to celebrate. I dolled up, we had shots, we chatted and danced, I spent most of my time with him. I was fighting to control my breathing pretty much the entire time. Finally while we were dancing up close on the dancefloor he drew me in for a kiss. Instinctively, before my brain even had time to recognise what I had done, I put my finger up to intercept his lips. “You have not defeated me, so you cannot have me” I said. The subtext had become text. I still don’t quite know why I did that. But I loved it. I loved the confusion and annoyance on his face.

It kinda killed the night though, neither of us quite knew where to go from there. It had suddenly become a bit weird. I don’t really remember what happened next but the night sort of fizzled out. But I thought about that exchange. A Lot.

Back in the gym a few days later everything seemed refreshingly normal. We worked out hard. We flirted like mad. Afterwards he came up to me and asked me if I’d like to go for a drink some time. I smiled, this time knowing exactly what I was going to say “You have not defeated me, so you cannot have me”. He laughed. “Ok so we spar and once I whupp you we can go for a drink?” he said. Some vague plan, some buried fetish within my head, suddenly took on clearer form. “A vanquished foe wouldn’t presume to tell a conqueror what he can do with his conquest” I said, shocking both him and myself. After a pause he said “Ok, I’m in to this. But I feel like we’re on dangerous territory here, so I’m going to need you to tell me exactly what we have in mind”. I though about it, drew a deep breath, and then said it. “I like you, I’ve always liked you, and I know you want this. But I want you to earn it. I’m a warrior. Make me submit. You pick the rules, then lets fight. And if you can make me surrender … well then I’ve surrendered. Unconditionally. I’m yours. My body is forfeit”. “And If you win?” “A vanquished foe wouldn’t presume to tell a conqueror what she can do with her conquest”.

We set up the bout for a weeks’ time, on the night of a day when the gym was closed (he had a key). I’d wear 8lb gloves and a headguard. He’d wear 16lb gloves. We’d fight two minute rounds until one of us threw the towel in. I decided to try and distract him by fighting nearly naked – aside from my wraps and gloves, my head guard and my gum shield I was just wearing a sports bra I nearly burst out of and a pair of small running pants. As I got changed I was shaking, and it took me three times to do my wraps the way I wanted to. I always get pre fight nerves, but there was something else going on here too. Butterflies doesn’t really begin to describe it. Usually I try to visualise winning the fight, but here I wasn’t really thinking about victory, just resistance. My plan was to hold out for as long as I could, but my plan didn’t really have an end.

I stepped into the gym and immediately gasped. He was warming up on a heavy bag and he was beautiful. He’d had the same idea as me, and he was just wearing his gloves and a loose pair of boxer shorts, as in the undergarment, not boxing shorts. His muscles glistened with a gentle sweat. He looked like a god. He behaved differently as well. Quiet, almost sinister. The happy friendliness was gone. He shot me a smile but barely uttered a word as he led me into the ring, started the clock, and touched gloves.

Round one.

The fight was over as a competitive contest in the first exchange. He came in with a swift combo which was faster than anything I’d ever faced, winded me with an uppercut to the stomach and knocked me down with a left hook to the ear. He hadn’t even hit me that hard, just hard enough for me to know that I was waaay out of my depth. He let me rise to my feet in my own time, and then went easy on me for the rest of the round, allowing me to get my wind back, and occasionally clowning me with feather punches to show that he could. To be honest the round was a blur, I was purely trying to stay upright, to survive. At the end of the round I want back and squatted in my corner, staring with glassy eyes at the adonis opposite me and trying to work out what the hell I had let myself in for.

Round two.

In round two he pulverised me. He came in close and unloaded combos on me for the full two minutes. He avoided my stomach and my head, I realised afterwards he didn’t want me to get dizzy or nauseous, but he tenderised my ribs and arms like they were a joint of french beef. I tried every trick I knew – hugging, hiding behind my jab, trying to wrap him up. But he was just too good for me. He beat me the fuck up. What made it more sinister is he didn’t utter a word while he did it. He didn’t even seem to be breathing hard.

Between rounds I looked over at the man I now knew for sure was about to fuck me and realised he was smiling. He didn’t seem out of breath.

Round three.

In round three the taunting started. He put his hands behind his back and told me he wasn’t going to throw this round. He told me that this was my last chance, and that I needed to attack because if I didn’t then next round he was going to make me his cumrag. His voice was measured and I could tell that he was barely tired. His masterful footwork easily evaded my clumsy attacks and he danced around me, infuriating me. Even more annoyingly, I could see that something was growing in his boxers. Defeating me was clearly so easy for him that he’d already started to think about the next bit. In truth I hadn’t, I’d been too obsessed with the fight, but between rounds as I looked over at this beast that was besting me, I realised that I was about to get fucked. Very hard indeed by the looks of it. I was kind of too shellshocked to think much beyond that.

Round four.

I normally only fight three round fights, and so this was the deepest I’d ever gone. I’d also never been so outclassed in a bout before, and normally when I’m even slightly outclassed the bout is soon over. So I’d never been so tired, my arms had never been so heavy, and I’d never been so unable to defend myself. He started to knock me down. He didn’t want to concuss me so he mostly used his footwork to get me off balance, then encouraging me to the floor with the gentlest of hooks. The first couple of times I got up, slowly and more tiredly each time. The third time I didn’t get up immediately, but just lay there at his feet, utterly spent. He smirked at me, and using his gloves by his thighs wriggled out of his boxers. A cock, which was probably quite large to begin with and from this angle looked absolutely enormous, sprang out almost at full mast. He stood over me, naked and perfect. My conqueror. Deciding what to do with his vanquished foe. From somewhere deep inside me primal rage rose up. I leapt to my feet, and charged him, my arms whirling and windmilling like a dervish. He laughed, and still naked, still aroused, stepped around my fanatical assault and sat me down with a swift combo to the gut. I collapsed to my knees. Stinging tears, purely of pain, welled in my eyes. I looked up and saw he was again looming over me, his cock not far from my face.

It was hopeless. I was defeated.

I spat out my gumshield and, there being little alternative, sucked his cock.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/fm4zcj/the_fight_mf_cnc_violence