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Old 18-Sep-18, 07:21
tanukialpha tanukialpha is offline
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Default Girl Trouble

1. Taken for a Ride

“He sure is a hunk,” said Leticia. “Just look at those muscles.”

“Uh huh,” said Shayla, eyeing the man like a predatory cat as he hustled around the gym conferring with his assistant coach and shouting instructions to the team in preparation for the first away meet of the season. “Smooth as hell, too.”

The man the girls were ogling was Columbia High School’s head wrestling coach, Mark Wood. At 5’10” 210lbs, the forty-two-year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed, former high school and college wrestling star possessed the chiseled physique of a much younger athlete. A large framed photograph featuring him in a singlet and charging wrestler’s stance from his glory days as state champion graced the school’s hall of fame, elevating him to the status of a local sports celebrity. The Coach’s explosive energy, good looks, and take-charge attitude excited the girls.

His reputation as a ladies’ man and his frequent interactions with young females caused Wood to guard against any appearance of inappropriate physical contact with students, preventing even innocent hugs from lasting too long. But Shayla and Leticia had lately noticed him leering at their fellow cheerleader, and his son Anthony’s girlfriend, Cynthia. Cynthia was every schoolboy’s wet dream: a fresh-faced, perky extrovert with lustrous blonde hair, radiant smile, and voluptuous breasts. Despite the hectic preparations, they noticed the coach still found time to approach her from across the gym.

“I’m glad you’re coming tonight,” he told her. “It’ll be a shut out.”

Cynthia smoothed her hair. “You know I wouldn’t miss it, Mr. Wood. Watching Anthony destroy other boys really gets my juices flowing,” she giggled. “He has big shoes to fill, though.”

She placed her hands on her hips and stretched. “Thanks for letting us borrow the Tahoe,” she said, holding a full head-to-knee bend in her short plaited skirt. Wood’s core tightened and his glutes involuntarily twitched in response to Cynthia’s intentionally provocative maneuver.

“No problem. I’m riding with the team for support anyway. Going to the lake afterward?”

“Yeah, it’s beautiful at night this time of year. Wish you could come.”

Cynthia turned her head up to catch a twinkle of arousal in the coach’s eye. “But I’m sure Anthony wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“Neither would my wife,” Wood laughed. “Friday nights are for R&R.”

“Mmm, I know. Rock ‘n Roll, right?” She met the coach’s broadening grin. “Your walls aren’t exactly soundproof, you know. From the sound of it, Mrs. Wood’s a lucky lady.”

Shayla and Leticia couldn’t hear the flirtatious banter from their distance, but they understood perfectly the coach’s aroused body language and crude glance at Cynthia’s ass as she pranced away.

“He like to pounce on her right there front of everybody,” said Leticia.

Shayla shook her head. “Cynthia is too childish for that man. Imagine if Anthony found out his Papa be drooling over his bitch.”

Shayla was a big, bold, experienced girl; a powerful gymnast, powerlifter, and all-around track and field athlete with a jaw-dropping body, a voracious sexual appetite, and a knack for having her way with men. She’d fantasized about seducing a coach since junior high when their strong physiques first caught her eye. She sensed that in spite of his age, his being married, his cock-sure attitude and moral posturing, Wood’s unruly sex drive made him as vulnerable to her wiles as any of the horny schoolboys whose hormones she exploited daily for her amusement.

Here, with his firm pecs rippling through a Snuggled t-shirt, steely quads swelling under fleece cotton shorts, chock full of overweening pride and dripping with lust, was just the type of manboy whose conquest she craved. During the week leading up to the meet, Shayla enlisted her fellow cheerleaders in a scheme to ensnare the coach in her aggressive approach to the battle of the sexes.

“We gonna do this?” asked Leticia.

“Um hmm,” said Shayla, “I’m getting wet just thinking about it.”

As the team was getting ready, Leticia and Shayla slipped into the weight room where the coaches always double-checked for stragglers before leaving. Their friend Tracy lured the assistant coach out of the building to ensure Wood would be the one to come in. Shayla got onto the leg-curl machine and started pumping out reps in her tight rollovers, knowing the sight of her sculpted thighs would hit Wood’s animal brain like a slap in the nuts. When he opened the door, Shayla executed a single rep with the whole stack, causing him to do a dumbstruck double take. Wood knew few of his boys could handle that much weight, but he stifled his amazement and moved to rush the girls out of the gym.

“What are you doing here, ladies? We’re--”

"Ouch! I pulled a muscle!" Shayla yelped, as she let the weights fall with a loud crash.

“Ladies--”

“Ow, ow, I mean it, Coach. It hurts baaad! I might’ve torn something.”

As Wood hurried over to Shayla, Leticia, suppressing a smirk, said she’d tell the bus driver to wait, then ran out leaving the coach alone with Shayla.

“Ah, aah, this can’t be happening,” Shayla moaned as she twisted off the sweaty seat. “Come on. Help me up, Coach.”

Wood extended his arm toward her. “You shouldn’t be using that much weight. You probably pulled a muscle. Can you walk?”

“Uh uhh, Coach. I need your help.” Jumping straight into her game, Shayla leaned hard against Wood’s body, wrapped her sinewy arm tightly around his waist, and let her long fingers fall strategically on his abs. She bent her right knee up, grabbed his left forearm with her free hand, and bounced on one foot. “Help me out to the parking lot so I can go with y’all to the meet.”

“Are you kidding? You’d better take it easy tonight. Go home and put that knee on ice.”

“Nah, Coach, I’ve got to go!”

Wood felt Shayla’s solid heft as he assisted her across the gymnasium. Her intense body heat penetrated his shirt and made him perspire as she dragged her weight, stopped and started, and dogged their progress with intermittent gasps of feigned agony.

“Do you realize how bad this could be for me?”

“Sure I do. Pulled muscles are no fun.”

“I mean, I can’t have my leg messed up right now. I pushed 950 in powerlifting and hurdled 400 in under a minute this week. I can’t take any time off from training at this point in time.”

“400 meter hurdles in under a minute?”

“Uh huh. Come watch me compete this spring.”

“If you can do what you say you can do,” he said skeptically, “I’ll sponsor you.”

“Ooh, Coach. Imma hold you to that,” she chuckled.

Wood had seen Shayla around school, had heard her boisterous voice in the halls, and knew she was lettered, but they had never spoken. Before he had a chance to wonder about her sudden interest in him, she fixed him directly in the eye, her big browns swallowing his baby blues, and slowly unfurled a Cheshire-cat smile.

“Thank you sooo much, Coach. You’re a sweetheart,” she purred in a husky voice. “By the way, that weight is easy for me.”

Uncomfortable with being called a sweetheart and disturbed by Shayla’s tenacious grip, Wood was anxious for one of the other cheerleaders to return and take over. “Where’d your friends go?”

“Akilah’s getting the car. They be waiting outside.” As they made their way to the door, Shayla strategically brushed her calf against Wood's, sending a tingle of excitement up his bare, hairy blonde leg. When they finally emerged into the cool evening air, the bus had already left. In its place, spewing smoke from a battered tailpipe, was a burgundy red 1987 two-door Buick Regal sedan packed with cheerleaders.

“Where the hell is the bus?” Wood roared. “I can’t believe they left!” He glared at Leticia. “Didn’t you tell them to wait?”

“Yeah, Coach. I told them you were helping Shayla, but I guess they thought you were going to drive yourself,” Leticia said, knowing full well his son Anthony and Cynthia had taken his car to the meet. She had in fact convinced the bus driver to go on ahead. The side door of the Buick opened, the driver tilted her seat forward, and a hand from the back seat waived them in.

“No worries, Coach” said Leticia, “you can ride with us.”

Wood surveyed the parking lot and saw that everyone had left. Leticia got into the back seat and climbed onto another girl’s lap to make room. She leaned forward and patted the empty seat, signaling him to enter. Thinking the gesture was for Shayla, Wood turned to offer her a hand. “Here, I’ll help you get in.”

“That’s okay. I can manage alright by myself now,” Shayla said as she limped off the curb and headed around toward the other side of the car.

Leticia got Wood’s attention. “Come on Coach, we don’t want to leave you out here in the cold in those shorts.” Wood looked around, and seeing no alternative, threw up his hands and got in. Before he was settled, Shayla bounded back around the car, jumped in and landed like a pile of bricks on his lap.

“Ah, come on! What do you think you’re doing?” he barked. “You can’t sit on me!”

Shayla and the other girls shrieked with glee. “No? Sure looks like that’s what I’m doing.”

Wood’s chagrin changed to anger. “Get off right now!" he yelled, trying to push Shayla off his lap and out of the car. Before he could uproot Shayla – whose one hand in the grab handle and the other planted firmly on the ceiling of the cab secured her solidly in place like a structural pillar -- the driver snapped her seat back, slammed the door shut, and hit the gas so hard the tires screeched and the car lurched. They sped through the parking lot and out into the street, hurtling over a speed bump with a violent jolt.

Furious at being hustled by the girls, Wood tried to shove Shayla and Leticia over, but they braced themselves together and, much to the brawny man’s surprise, wouldn’t budge. The sheer density of Shayla’s back astounded him when he pushed against her. Her thick lats expanded confidently in response to his pressure, spreading much wider than even he as an experienced trainer could have imagined from evaluating her relaxed posture. Trapped under her hard body, Wood realized she was more muscular than most of his male wrestlers. He now believed the weight she’d been curling was easy for her, and begrudgingly gave up the idea of removing her from his lap by force.

Shayla grinned brazenly. “Ah now, Coach. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. In case you don’t know, this my girl, Leticia, and that’s Deedra, Tracy, Glease; and that’s Akilah driving like a bat outta hell. My name’s Shayla, but you can call me ‘Tifa, cuz I’m your Queen.”

The veins in Wood’s neck popped out with rage. He bared his teeth and roared, “What’s going on here? Is this your idea of a prank?”

It was a twenty-minute drive to the meet. Akilah cranked up the car’s powerful sound system, blasting out hip-hop music that mixed with the girls’ raucous laughter and cackling banter into a thunderous cacophony. A subwoofer in the trunk pulsated low frequencies through the backseat and rattled Wood’s chest like a bass drum. “Turn down for what?...Turn down for what?” boomed the rapper.

Distracted by the noise and confusion, Wood didn’t fully comprehend the girls’ intentions until they began pumping their arms and wildly seat-dancing to the music. He immediately stiffened in response to Shayla’s gyrations, but she locked her feet in a grapevine around his calves and bore down on him like a hydraulic taffy-pulling machine. He tried to shift his hips sideways to evade her, but she countered, overpowered his legs, and commandeered his lower region with gymnastic precision, rocking him side to side and back and forth at will.

Over the next thirty miles, Shayla twerked Wood's privates into a throbbing mass, and whooped victoriously as he struggled helplessly beneath her. At first, the other girls pretended not to notice the effect Shayla was having on the coach, but they were soon laughing uncontrollably at the look of jaw-jutting distress on his face.

Wood felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, but it was no use trying to answer. He leaned forward and shouted into Shayla’s ear, “How old are you?”

Shayla cupped her hand around the Coach’s ear and shouted deafeningly: “Eighteen. I’m not jailbait like Cynthia, baby!”

Wood winced from the pain on his eardrum. “Don’t be a smart ass, and don’t call me baby! Do you understand the trouble you’re in?”

Shayla merely flashed her pearly whites in response. She and the other girls ignored Wood for the moment and shouted back and forth between themselves.

“Go girl! Ride your pony!” cheered Glease.

“I’m makin’ mashed potatoes outta this oompa loompa. Can you believe it? He’s not wearing underwear!”

“Shame on you, Coach!”

“He a free-baller.”

“He a waxing gibbous yet?” said Tracy, appropriating a lunar term they’d learned earlier that day in science class.

“He more like a full moon now.” Shayla looked pleased. “Ooh, he big!” she exclaimed with big eyes. “I can definitely work with this!”

“Looks like you got your man under control” said Leticia. “I didn’t think it would be so easy.”

“Oh yeah – it’s just another beatdown in meattown. He likes it though,” said Shayla. “At least that’s what his body’s telling me -- forget what his mouth be jabbering.” Shayla slowed her pace and directed her eyes back to Wood. She elbowed his muscular chest, then twisted around, grabbed his chin in her hand, and yelled piercingly into his other ear. “Relax hot stuff! Nobody outside this car gonna know.” She grinned and looked around to the others, “cuz we’d all be in some shit, wouldn’t we?”

“Uh huh,” they replied in unison.

“Especially you, Coach,” said Shayla, squaring him in the eye. “You under my jurisdiction now, baby.”

Wood started to ball his fist to punch Shayla, but quickly realized his disadvantage. He questioned his ability to handle the girls together in such cramped quarters, and knew an elbow to the head from Shayla alone would be devastating. He relaxed his fist and resigned himself to riding it out and dealing with the girls back at school.

Flying down the freeway, they caught up with the team’s bus and pulled alongside. Tracy rolled down her window and waved to the guys. One of them slid his window open. Wood leaned over and was mortified to see his youngest son Patrick shouting something from the bus window. Tracy yelled back in response. “What you say? Is your dad with us?” She turned to give Wood an ironic smirk, then shouted back to the bus, “Yep, he show is!”

Akilah hit the gas as the girls high-fived and shrieked uproariously as they zoomed away.

“Why the hell did you do that?” Wood cried as he slumped down behind Shayla to avoid being seen. Savoring the coach’s torment, Shayla and Leticia locked hands and swung their arms together with renewed vigor in time with the music. Shayla drilled down on Wood’s cock like a jackhammer. She reached down with both hands and grabbed his balls through the front of his shorts and rode him like a gymnastics horse. He groaned painfully as his testicles were crushed between Shayla’s iron grip and the hard leather seat. “Oh fuck, owww!” he shouted.

Despite his legendary resilience, Wood was getting the wind knocked out of him. His hips and lower back were creaking and cracking from the relentless force of Shayla’s hefty rear end bouncing up and down on him. Horrified by their unbridled nerve, and maddened by the power his abusers held over him, he felt himself morphing from a vibrant force of nature into a faltering old man, like a time-lapse video, before the young girls’ mocking eyes.

Shayla stopped short of bringing Wood to an orgasm, but when they arrived at the meet, the head of his battered, circumcised penis burned with the alarm of imminent ejaculation, and an enormous erection strained the front of his shorts.

The car skidded to the curb with the stereo still blasting. When they opened the door to get out, everyone within a hundred yards turned to look. Shayla jumped out and performed a stunning double back flip on the lawn. Wood, heart pounding, ears ringing, bolted up the walkway in search of a restroom.

Unbeknownst to him, the host team were gathered for a pre-meet talk in a classroom whose windows looked out on the front of the building just forty feet away. Some of the boys nearest the window heard the commotion and watched the disheveled man exit the car from under a steamy cheerleader with a large bulge between his legs and snickered in amazement as he disappeared around the corner of the building. Seeing the boys laughing in the window, Shayla shot them a mischievous smile, cocked one hand on her hip and twerked suggestively in time with the music booming from the car.

After realizing who and what they'd seen, word spread quickly. By the start of the meet, the whole host team were referring to Mark Wood as “Coach Boner.”

Last edited by tanukialpha; 20-Sep-18 at 00:40. Reason: Indentations not working
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  #2  
Old 18-Sep-18, 18:36
sluger sluger is offline
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Default Re: Girl Trouble

Loved this one, good work
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Old 19-Sep-18, 04:18
jahampanah jahampanah is offline
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Default Re: Girl Trouble

Great story tanukialpha .. well written ..
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Old 28-Sep-18, 02:32
tanukialpha tanukialpha is offline
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Default Girl Trouble : Part 2

2. The Meet

Wood found an empty restroom and sat in a stall with his head between his hands, his cock still stiff and throbbing. His body screamed for release but his pride wouldn’t allow him to masturbate. Clutching his short-cropped hair, he burned with shame at allowing himself to be overpowered and molested by an eighteen-year-old girl. He pulled down his sweaty shorts and boxers and gasped when his swollen corpus spongiosum hit the cold rim of the toilet, and felt a single drop of semen issue in one continuous strand from the tip of his penis to the tiled floor. Drawing on years of practice delaying orgasms for his wife, he closed his eyes and relaxed to avoid shooting his load. Looking down, he noticed his thighs were chafed from the pounding they’d taken, and soaked with perspiration. Even more extraordinary to him than Shayla’s Amazonian strength was her sweltering body temperature. It was as if she had a continuous fever of 105 degrees. He suddenly felt the need to crap. Considering the pounding his intestines had received, it was a wonder he hadn’t shat himself in the car. As his feces plopped into the water, Wood’s tension dissipated and his erection subsided. Washing his hands, he heard the commotion of his team arriving outside in the hallway. When he came out of the restroom, Wood met his assistant coach, Don Bales.

“Mark! What the dealy? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I had an emergency with one of the cheerleaders.”

Patrick came up carrying his father’s jacket and gym bag from the bus. “Hey Dad, what happened? Did you get my text?”

“Sorry, my ringer was off. One of the girls needed help just as we were leaving. By the time I got there you guys had already left, so I rode with the cheerleaders.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it when they pulled up to the bus. Man, that music was loud. Those girls are pretty wild,” said Patrick, little knowing the degree of his understatement. “Here, you’re going to want these,” he said, handing his father his things. “It’s getting cold out.”

Anxious to avoid further discussion, Wood turned and went in search of his counterpart, Poly High’s head coach, John Manners. “Gotta find the Big Cheese. I’ll catch you guys in a few.”

As Wood hurried away, Patrick turned to Bales with a look of confusion. “I thought we weren’t having cheer for wrestling.”

“That’s right, we didn’t want ‘em. Sudden case of school spirit maybe.”

“I can’t believe dad didn’t make them turn down the music.”

Sagan Polytechnic High School was located in an upscale suburb a world apart from Columbia High’s impoverished inner-city environment. The Poly Tech Bobcats were proud and arrogant, but Wood’s Panthers ripped them apart every year, much as the actual animals would do in the wild. Better trained, stronger, and more aggressive, the streets had given his boys grit, and their resentment of the Poly kids’ privilege drove them to dominate their highborn opponents with the zeal of barbaric marauders.

It was Wood’s favorite dual meet, a morale booster to kick off the season. He was anxious to see the line-up of the soon-to-be-humiliated Poly-Anna’s, as he called them. Now at ease in his element, Wood shoved the cheerleader incident to the back of his mind and resumed his usual swagger as he came upon his rival team’s coach. Extending his hand with a sarcastic grin, Wood hailed Coach Manners airily, “Hey John, how’re your sissies looking this year?”

“Hey, buddy,” said Manners, taking Wood’s sturdy press in stride. “Well, aren’t we the role model of good sportsmanship for our aspiring youth,” he kidded. “Anyway, be on your toes because I think you’re in for a surprise.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure one of your apes will be going home dragging his ego along with his knuckles tonight.”

The corpulent Manners eyed the mannish physiques of the Columbia boys shoving past in the hallway and wondered which one would square off against his prized battler. “It’ll make the thrashing bearable,” he said wistfully.

“Ha! I’ve been waiting for a challenge from your motley crew for years,” said Wood. “I’ve always considered what my guys do to your team to be child abuse.”

“Rape is more like it,” Manners laughed. “But be prepared, big guy -- keep the tissues handy.”

”Okay, John. We’ll use them to wipe up the snot your ladies leave on the mat after my men beat it out of them.”

Dressing, weigh-ins, groom-checks, warm-ups, all went smoothly. A crowd filled the bleachers. Poly’s announcer and cameraman went through sound check for their YouTube video. Apart from an occasional surly glance at Shayla and the other cheerleaders mulling around the scoring table, Wood directed his full attention to the meet. He shouted directions, argued with officials, and got pumped up as his kids ripped through their opponents. Seven straight pins gave them a stunning lead.

Wood’s sons Anthony and Patrick were the team’s top wrestlers in their weight classes. Possessing their parents’ outstanding athletic prowess, good looks, and outgoing personalities, they were naturally popular with girls. Anthony left behind a string of crushes and conquests going back to sixth grade before settling into a steady relationship with Cynthia. Patrick was still a virgin whose tormented hormones were marshalling for sex with his new girlfriend, Rebecca, a gamer girl with multiple piercings, stacked bracelets, and heavy eyeliner whom he’d met at the pool two weeks earlier. Rebecca, no virgin, had already given Patrick a few blowjobs as a preview to the exuberant intercourse he could expect from her later that evening. She sat anxiously in the bleachers, primed to park at the lake, bust out a condom, and do the full Monty in the back of Wood’s SUV while Cynthia and Anthony walked the beach. Patrick had saved up all week in anticipation of the event, blasting his intense workouts to extremes to suppress his overwrought libido.

Wood saw his wife Angela and a tall blocky woman with a buzz cut walk into the gym and sit down together in the bleachers. He didn’t recognize the woman, but assumed she was one of his wife’s assistant coaches at the high school where she coached girls’ basketball. His wife arrived from practice, still dressed in coaching sweats, just in time for Patrick’s first match.

Patrick annihilated his opponent, a tall muscular senior named Fletcher, in a soaring one-sided blitz that more resembled a pro wrestling exhibition than a high school match. Patrick threw, laterally spun, gater-rolled, and then body slammed his hapless rival like a rag doll, finishing him forty-five seconds into the first period. Blood spurt from the boy’s nose onto the mat, and he was laid on his back with the wind knocked out of him for three minutes while the coaches and officials appraised his condition and cleaned up the mess. Patrick savored the woots and fist pumps he received from his teammates. They hailed him as "The Beast."

“Way to wreck and maim!” his father roared.

Outwardly affecting modesty while inwardly swelling with pride, Patrick gave Rebecca only the slightest grin when he looked out to see her excitedly stamping her feet and shooting him thumbs-ups.

Spectators witnessing the Panthers’ ruthlessness for the first time were shocked by the unseemly aggression, and shouted angrily at the coaches and referee to intervene. Manners, accustomed to this ritual, treated it as a kind of rite of passage for his tender fledglings. In truth, he privately enjoyed the licking Columbia gave his team, as he himself was a Columbia alumnus, had known Wood since elementary school, and had a powerful man-crush on him since adolescence. As far as he was concerned, his boys would simply have to suck it up.

Anthony’s first opponent in the 190lb class was a grisly red-haired colossus with gorilla-like traps and an overhanging brow named Mulcahy. The two powerhouses gave the crowd another riveting show of teen athleticism. Anthony pulled out the stops, using a chicken-wing to drive Mulcahy’s porcelain-white face hard into the mat. He worked the boy’s head mercilessly back and forth to disorient him, then flipped him over for a neck-crushing head-in-arm pin.

Though penalized for unnecessary roughness, his sons’ dramatic performances thrilled Wood. “Now that’s what I call a beatdown,” he told Anthony, patting him on the back.

Assuming the routed Mulcahy to be Manners’ vaunted battler, Wood lit up and shouted in his rival’s direction: “Yeah! We smashed King Ding-Dong! Now who’s going home dragging their knuckles?”

Subsequent matches went similarly, Wood’s Panthers putting away one opponent after another, killing Poly, 75-21.

Wood caught Angela’s eye. He could tell from the way she was biting her lip and stroking her water bottle that she was getting worked up. He knew wrestling beatdowns aroused her, especially when her sons were the ones dishing them out. Horny from the ride with the cheerleaders and energized by his team’s easy success, Wood was raring to go balls deep with her after the meet.

The final match of the evening pit Poly’s Moshgan Seraki, a girl without a match at her weight, against Patrick. Wood sighed. He was opposed to boy-girl wrestling in the first place, let alone bumping a girl up a weight class to face a heavier, stronger male opponent. Although a girl had won the state championship against a boy in the lowest weight class the previous year, he regarded the inevitable loss of points to be too costly to allow females on his teams. He regularly discouraged girls with stories of injuries and gropes; and once had Anthony toss a persistent female around roughly during tryouts to make her quit. He grabbed Patrick’s arm. “No holding back, son. Really let her have it.”

Moshgan, fifteen like Patrick, was already a formidable junior MMA fighter. In training from the age of seven, fast and flexible, she joined wrestling in junior high and quickly sliced through her opponents, male and female, like a hot knife through butter. At 5’4” she stood three inches shorter than Patrick, but faced him with absolute confidence.

After the whistle, Patrick came in strong, intending to promptly overpower and pin her. He went for a low single-leg takedown, but she spun around and got his right arm between her legs. She knew she could have finished him right then within ten seconds if MMA arm bars were allowed in high school wrestling.

Upside down and on his back, she wrapped her arms around his waist while he tried to peal her off by her ankle. He spun and lunged down on her, but she got under his elbow, came out the back, locked her torso around him, and grabbed his leg from behind for leverage. Patrick muscled around and tried to spladle her, but she controlled his leg and twisted out. They scrambled until the last few seconds of the period when Patrick finally tilted her hip to the floor for a takedown.

Shocked at being unable to pin her in the first period, Patrick doubled down for the second. Starting from neutral position, he shot for a double-leg takedown. She countered and was on his back again with her weight on his neck, preventing the muscular boy from standing. She broke one leg free and, as he tried for another single, put one arm over, pushed forward, and forced him down to the mat for two points.

Patrick’s teammates hooted, Poly fans cheered, and Wood stared in disbelief.

Catching a second wind, Patrick popped out from underneath, picked one, then both, her ankles, pulled her in and consolidated his position for an inside cradle. He seemed to have her trapped, but she miraculously twisted out again, reversed, and went under him. Patrick sprawled heavily on her back, but she threaded her arms around his extended leg and nimbly tossed him over her shoulder with a high crotch throw. Patrick desperately muscled a furious snowplow breakdown and arm bar on her as the second period buzzer sounded.

Wood was sickened to see his son outmaneuvered by a girl. He looked out and noticed his wife sitting in the Poly section, the blocky woman cheering for the girl in a bellicose voice that made his own good set of lungs sound weak: “Come on, Moshgan. Rip his head off!” she boomed. Wood shuddered. What AC would advocate so loudly against her head coach’s son while sitting right beside her?

“Focus, keep control, stay low,” Wood told Patrick, seething with exasperation. “I will kick your ass if you let that little cunt toss you again.”

Overwhelmed by her speed and unpredictability, his opponent’s sex was the furthest thing from Patrick’s mind. Tied at the start of the third period, Moshgan started in top position. Instead of thrusting forward, she veered to one side and with lightning speed punched Patrick’s arm upward, tilted him to one side, stepped over his head, and dropped with her leg on his throat, forcing him down onto his back, slamming his head to the mat. She secured his right arm by putting her weight on it with both hands, bent her calf behind his head, and brought her other leg under her foot to lock Patrick in a disqualifying, but inescapable, figure-four head scissors. From that point on, it was all Patrick could do to withstand the unrelenting force that took control of his head and neck. She stretched out, reached over to capture his other hand, and nailed it down. She arched her back to apply pressure on his cervical spine, and drove his scapulas flat into the mat. Patrick flailed helplessly in what seemed like an endless purgatory before the ref stopped the match. Red-faced, Patrick barely maintained his composure long enough to stand for the decision, then rushed past his teammates out of the gym.

“Whoo! That’s my girl!” the large woman bellowed, high-fiving the man sitting in front of her. She turned to Angela beaming from ear to ear: “That boy just got his ass whooped!”

“He sure did,” replied Angela, “and he’s my son.”

Patrick ran to the locker room. Looking down, he was horrified to see that his penis had gone commando during the match. He furiously pounded a locker door with his palms, leaving a dent in the metal. Realizing he’d be teased worse if he didn’t get back in the gym, he sprinted back down the hall and joined the line-up to shake hands with the Poly wrestlers. When they met, Moshgan’s eyes lit up, not in the prideful way he expected, but with the distinct gleam of animal attraction. He went to talk to her after the line-up.

“You’re amazing,” he said. “But why did you throw the match like that?”

“Well, I knew you were going beat me,” she said with a hint of irony. “I couldn’t let that happen now could I? Besides, what’s a few points the way your team was killing us.”

Moshgan’s modesty disarmed Patrick as skillfully as her grappling had done. Moshgan waved to her cheering section and grabbed Patrick’s hand, “Come meet my trainer, Ms. Brantner.”

As the kids approached the bleachers, the big woman muted her zeal in consideration of Angela. “You rocked, girl,” she said, engulfing Moshgan in a hug. “Nice job, Wood,” she said, addressing Patrick. “You practically killed that Fletcher boy.”

Angela smiled at Moshgan and gave Patrick a big hug. “Really great attitude, son. I’m proud of you.”

Rebecca approached, eyeing Moshgan suspiciously, and took Patrick’s hand.

Wood walked over brusquely carrying his gym bag and jacket. “Hey Angela, I’m riding home with you tonight. I told the kids they could take the Tahoe to the lake.” He turned to Patrick, “Awesome job on that Fletcher kid, Pat.” He locked eyes with Moshgan and hesitated, fumbling for words. “Pretty impressive, young lady,” he said finally. “I’ve never seen -- a girl wrestle like that.”

“Oh, boy,” said Moshgan curtly. “Daddy’s hurt his son got whooped by a girl. Don’t cry big man; don’t get your panties in a wad.” She gave Patrick a sidelong glance. “His aren’t!”

“Don’t be so cocky, young lady. You still have a lot to learn,” replied Wood, frowning, a little startled. “Like not to use illegal holds.”

“I just had the urge to do that. I like getting guys head’s between these quads.” She flexed an indisputably thick quad through her singlet. “We’d love to have your big strong boys come down to the gym sometime to show us how it’s done,” she teased. “But then, I’m pretty sure it would be the other way around.”

“What are you talking about? We just wiped the floor with your whole team!”

“Except for me, that is, if the memory isn’t too painful for you. But I’m talking about Alpha Girls MMA where I train with Ms. Brantner.” She gestured toward the big woman. “We’d take you guys down, big time.”

Wood puffed out his chest and scowled. “Where do you come off with that snotty attitude?”

“Coach Boner,” Moshgan thought, glancing down at the front of Wood’s shorts. “Come down and spar with us,” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “We’ll see who has an attitude.” Moshgan turned back to Patrick. “Let’s swap numbers before I vomit.”

Realizing the futility of arguing with the combative girl, Wood took a deep breath and waited for his wife to extract herself from her circle of new acquaintances.

Rebecca was upset by Moshgan’s rudeness toward her boyfriend’s father, and when he swapped phone numbers with the girl right in front of her, she dropped Patrick's hand in disgust and walked away.

Angela changed the subject. “Mark, this is Sergeant Brantner. We met in the lobby when I arrived. Officer Brantner teaches martial arts at the Police Academy.”

At 6’4”, the woman’s height, thick neck, broad shoulders and strong features immediately put Wood on the defensive. She towered over him with an intimidating look in her wide, hard-hewn face that made her appear even larger than she was.

“Ah ha,” said Wood, extending his hand, “your student was just--”

The woman’s crushing grip brought him up short.

“Coach Wood, your reputation precedes you,” she interrupted. “Coach Manners tells me your Panthers slaughter his team every year -- so I couldn’t believe what I was hearing just now. Rather than recognizing Ms. Seraki’s outstanding ability, you let tonight’s one significant exception upset you? Don’t you think that was a little out of line?”

Brantner exchanged glances with Moshgan. Wood tried to extract his hand, but she held him fast.

“As she was saying, we’d love to have your boys come down to Alpha Girls sometime. Girls progress faster grappling with males, and the boys learn a lot, too.” She gave Wood a menacing smile. “As you’ve witnessed, properly trained, girls can be even tougher than guys. Shame on you for not letting girls on your team.”

Angela saw her husband’s discomfort but agreed with Brantner. “She’s right, Mark.” Seeing Brantner had her husband literally in her clutches, Angela tried to further diffuse the situation: “I’ve been telling him to get with the program. He’ll come around.”

Brantner smiled warmly at Angela, then addressed Wood again sternly: “I’m sure he will. But this is neither the time nor place. We’ll talk soon,” she told Wood, finally releasing him from her pulverizing grasp.

As the women parted, Moshgan turned to shoot Wood a sarcastic pout.

Wood was bewildered by how he’d been pranked by cheerleaders, back-talked by a bratty girl, and upbraided by her massive female trainer, all within a few short hours. Adding insult to injury, Shayla and the cheerleaders danced, waived, and blew kisses as they filed past. “Poor Mr. Wood. Yo’ boy got punked,” said Akilah. Shayla caught his eye with a wicked smile. “See you Monday, Coach. Have a nice weekend!

Manners met Wood on his way out and took him aside. “What did I tell ya? Isn’t Seraki a firecracker?”

“Hellion, you mean.”

“Man, I knew you’d be shocked, but I’m sorry she did that to your boy. I was a little surprised to see how easily she handled him.”

“Hey, she threw the match like an idiot,” Wood shot back bitterly, “gave us points.”

Manners rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why she did that. She competes in MMA, but she knows that move’s been banned for, what, five years now? She was in my summer wrestling camp and never lost a match; which is how I knew she’d wipe the floor with any one of your boys. Anyway, I hope Pat’s okay.”

“Yeah, he’s fine. He won all of his matches and we kicked your butts as usual.” Wood turned wearily to join his wife. “I gotta go.”

“Yeah, take care. By the way, Seraki’s got a mouth, but otherwise she’s cool.”

“Whatever,” said Wood.

During the drive home, Angela commended Patrick’s maturity to her husband. “He took it like a man, unlike you.”

Wood grunted as he cycled randomly through radio channels. “He was just tired from his previous matches.”

Angela bit her tongue. She could see her son was bursting with energy and had given it his all. Moshgan had unquestionably outmatched him.

Wood eyed her ruefully. “Why did you take that crazy bitch Brantner’s side? I could have slugged her.”

“I don’t think that would have been wise. Judging from her size, the fact she’s a high-level martial arts instructor, and a police officer, she’d have cracked your skull one minute and arrested you the next. Besides, she’s right: you’re a chauvinist pig. It’s outrageous how you had Anthony rough up that girl during tryouts. Word gets around, babe. It’s only a matter of time before you get hit with a lawsuit. You promised to change things, but still no girls on the team.”

“There weren’t any girls qualified for wrestling this year.”

“Bullshit. You have lots of awesome female athletes at Columbia – more than at West Hills, for sure; and we’ve had female wrestlers for years. One of your cheerleaders there tonight was built like a bull. I don’t think she’d have any trouble mixing it up with the boys. In fact, she looks like she could pick some of your wrestlers up and twirl them over her head. Really Mark, never underestimate a female.” Wood was silent for the rest of the way home.

Anthony drove Cynthia, Rebecca and Patrick to Wendy’s to pig out. Everyone congratulated Patrick on his victories and avoided the subject of his final match. Rebecca was angry with him for giving Moshgan his number, but she believed their lovemaking would erase any feelings he might have for the girl. But afterward, alone in the parking lot, Patrick told Rebecca he was too tired to go through with their plan.

“I just can’t tonight,” he said.

“Is it because that smartass girl beat you?”

“No, of course not. Anyway, she didn’t really beat me.”

“You know you’re amazing, right?” she said, thinking that despite his words to the contrary the Seraki girl had thrown her buff boy-toy around like an inanimate object, and his ego probably just needed a boost. She made a kissy face and slid her hand down the front of his jeans. “I want you to be my Beast tonight.”

“Stop acting like Marilyn Monroe or something. The meet took a lot out of me is all.”

Rebecca was incredulous. “Is it because you’re not ready for a serious relationship?”

“The fuck?”

“Because if it is, babe, don’t worry; I just want to pop your boy-cherry and fuck your brains out.” She tried to kiss him, but he turned away.

“Like I say, I’m not feeling it right now.”

“Okay. I’m done stroking your ego,” said Rebecca walking away. “Go fuck yourself.”

Patrick’s phone burped (his alert sound was a belch). It was a text from Moshgan:

“Hi!”

Last edited by tanukialpha; 30-Sep-18 at 00:57.
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Old 25-Oct-18, 04:37
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Default Girl Trouble : Part 3

3. Doggy Style



Angela’s signals during the meet hadn’t prepared Wood for the intense arousal his wife exhibited when they got home. Without saying a word, she led him by the hand straight upstairs to the bedroom, set the space heater on high, started yoga music, turned off the lights, and immediately commenced kissing him and peeling off his clothes. Letting her sweats and undies fall to the floor where she stood, she worked him up with a quick hand job and pulled him into bed.

“How--“

“Shhhhhhhh. Not now,” she said.

Angela always demanded a lot from her husband in bed, but that night she put him through a kind of tantric crossfit challenge, one rigorous position after another in rapid succession: face-off – clit tonguing -- flatiron – fingering -- stand and deliver – glans tonguing -- 69 – reverse cowgirl; keeping him on-task, bringing him to the verge, backing off, returning his attention back to her, changing positions up under and over in the high room temperature she enjoyed from years of hot-yoga -- tongue and finger – doggy style -- nipple sucking – waterfall – face-sitting -- butter churner -- non-stop for an hour and a half. When he couldn’t take any more, she brought him to a heart-pounding finish.

“Damn,” Wood panted, “What’s got into you? I don’t remember—" he gulped for breath, “you being this way since we were -- ha! – just married.”

“Oh baby, that was just a warm-up. I’m so horny I could eat you whole. My little muscle man’s getting a workout tonight, isn’t he?” she purred, kneading his sweaty chest with her palms. “Let’s get some food in you and—" she slapped his meaty ass, “get these buns back into action.”

Wood knew his protests would be useless. He hobbled wearily downstairs to the kitchen, his sweaty muscles gleaming from the moonlight coming through the living room window, and sluggishly consumed a half bucket of cold Kentucky Fried Chicken and a mug of coffee at the kitchen table. When he returned, Angela was sitting in lotus position on the bed. Collapsing beside her, he looked up into her eyes and noticed her distant, lost-in-thought expression.

“What’s up?” he said.

“I keep replaying the image of Patrick crumpling muscle boys like they were cardboard, then getting completely rag-dolled by that girl.”

“Don’t tell me you’re as embarrassed as I am?”

“I’m not embarrassed for him; I’m embarrassed you acted so butthurt in front of Moshgan and her trainer.”

“How do you know that gnarly dyke anyway?”

“We arrived at the same time and started talking in the lobby. I just met her tonight.”

“Really? You seemed like old friends.”

“No. I know she was curt with you, but we hit it off. She told me she served with the Marines in Iraq, moved here I think she said eight years ago, joined the police department and teaches martial arts at the academy. And she runs that Alpha Girls MMA program for women she was talking about. Incredible woman. You should see the brochure -- hold on I’ll get it.”

Angela turned on the nightstand light and slipped off the bed. Wood watched her long toned thighs and tight ass swell and contract as she padded gracefully across the carpet. He contrasted her lithe femininity with Shayla’s man-powerful limbs, and felt lucky to have her. Angela retrieved the brochure from her bag and settled back beside him.

“Check this out.”

Angela pointed to a photo of Brantner in a spaghetti-strap tank top that revealed enormous arm, neck and shoulder muscles.

“Holy crap,” said Wood, stunned.

“She puts most men to shame, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, because she has more testosterone in her than Mr. Olympia. Disgusting.”

“‘Alpha Girls Academy: 'The buck stops here.’ She holds multiple black belts and teaches ‘Kickboxing, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, Muay Thai, Aikido, Wrestling, Powerlifting, Bodybuilding,’ and runs a ‘Survival Boot Camp for Women.’”

“A feminazi boot camp, no doubt.”

“Now, now. She gave me her business card and invited me to watch her break in some new cadets on Monday.”

“Be careful. She’s probably hot for you.”

“Can you blame her?” Angela teased. “Jealous of another woman, babe? That really turns me on.”

“Seriously. You saw how aggressive she is. I think she’s got roid rage.”

“Awe, intimidated by the big strong police woman are you?”

Angela unfurled her legs and slid down to embrace him.

“Come on baby, I want to try something new.”

Wood fell reluctantly back into his wife’s arms prepared for another round of ructious intercourse. She rode him, pulled away, shifted positions, reversed on top into a 69, worked his cock to the brink with her tongue, then suddenly wrapped her thighs around his neck and trapped him in a vice-grip head scissors like the one Moshgan had done on Patrick. Wood grunted in surprise. Before he could escape, Angela reached and pulled one leg back with her hand and cut off the circulation to his head. He instinctively kicked up his knees and managed to roll off the bed, but Angela rode him to the ground, landing with all her weight on his neck. Purple in the face and on the verge of passing out, Wood gurgled, “lemme go!”

“Whoohoo! I did it!”

She slowly let up and released him.

Wood moaned. In all of their years together, Angela had never tried wrestling with him.

“Who’s your daddy?” she teased.

“Are you crazy? What’s got into you?”

“Ha! I wanted to see if I could beat my legendary wrestling champ, and I did! Let’s make this a regular thing. Teach me how to wrestle!”

“No way. I didn’t think your legs were that strong.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I’ll be gentle next time.”

“What’s it going to be ‘next time’, whips and chains?”

She helped him back into bed while massaging his neck.

“Well, don’t you think we could spice things up a bit?”

“You mean put me through the ringer? You already run everything: Doctors, investments, bank accounts, condo, you name it. It seems like the only thing I’m good for any more is sex.”

“Oh, boohoo. You’re a stud of a husband and father of two amazing sons. Whatever it was to begin with, I believe your insecurity is now less about your stupid sexism and more about aging. You’ve just got to get back in shape, lover boy. Our Friday romps have slowed from a gallop to a trot recently. No more letting yourself go.”

“What do you mean? I’m in excellent shape!” Wood flexed his seventeen-inch bicep for proof.

“Yeah, big physique, big muscles; but I kill you in endurance. Run with me mornings again and I’ll give you a real workout.”

“You know I can’t keep your pace. You’re back home and showered by the time I hit the driveway.”

“My point exactly.”

Bristling, Wood changed the subject.

“You actually enjoyed seeing your son get beat by that girl, didn’t you?”

“She gave an impressive display of female power, for sure.”

Wood thought again of his ordeal with the cheerleaders.

“I’m having a hard time with female power lately,” he said, rubbing his neck. “You could have seriously hurt me, you know.”

Angela puffed through her nostrils. “I would have snapped it in two if I didn’t have some important use for you tonight,” she joked. “Hang on to your balls, honey. I’m going to blow your little mind.”

She reached over and turned off the light.

“I’m tapped out,” Wood groaned dejectedly. “I need some downtime.”

“I'll give you some downtime. Maybe I’ll ask Sgt. Brantner over next Friday to soften you up for me.”

“You’ve definitely losing it.”

“We could tag-team you. Oh come on, I know my stud muffin has more in him for me than that.”

Angela coaxed Wood onto his stomach, propped her back against the headboard, and encircled his head with her thighs. She lifted his head up by his hair, bent his neck back, slid her pelvis under him, and placed her vagina above his chin. He responded to her moist earthy odor, turned his mouth to her snatch, and licked Angela’s labia up and down, side to side, tickling her clit at intervals with his tongue the way she’d trained him to do. She palmed his temples like a basketball to guide his head and tongue precisely to her hot spots. She teased his ears with her fingers, alternately pinching and caressing to signal her level of excitement. After a few minutes, Wood’s penis was hard again.

He pulled himself up into a cross-legged position, and lifted her onto his lap. Angela flushed. “Oh, baby,” she moaned, “you’re so strong.”

Wood knew his wife liked cowgirl position. She used it to control his pace and depth of penetration, and to focus the head of his penis on her most sensitive parts. She squeezed his shaft hard with her vaginal muscles – a skill she mastered to the point of holding a pencil. It drove him wild when she bore down on his thick shaft like a python. The veins in his arms and shoulders dilated, his neck expanded, and his big thighs quivered. Testicles throbbing, Wood stood, forcing Angela’s backbone over the headboard and against the wall, knocking down the Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife print hanging above their bed. Moaning and gasping in time with his thrusts, Angela lost control and allowed him to explode. “Oh shit!” she exclaimed. She clamped down on him, but it was too late. Beyond the point of no return, she stroked his semen out in spasms, carefully torturing his burning glans with her pussy while she milked him dry.

Exhausted and drained beyond his limits, Wood slid down on the sweat soaked sheets and limply spooned his wife. Still tittering with arousal and disappointed with her husband’s performance, Angela extricated herself from his heavy arms, got up, stopped the music, turned off the space heater, shoved the picture off the sheets onto the floor, and slipped back into bed.

“Well, Mister Big-Nothing-Burger,” she sighed, “I guess that was your best shot.” She reached behind him, gently stroked the back of his head, whispering, “but what am I going to do with you now, little man?”

With sore neck and battered ego, Wood felt his heart rate gradually subside, and quietly sank into oblivion.

Last edited by tanukialpha; 26-Oct-18 at 21:47.
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Old 27-Dec-18, 00:09
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Default Girl Trouble : Part 4

4. Jake’s Place

The flow of her chestnut-colored hair as he undid her Lycra slicker and threw off her headgear; her firm breasts and erect nipples pressing against his chest as he pealed her singlet down; her velvet-soft skin; the cherry-vanilla taste of her tongue; her warm vagina enveloping his penis – suddenly vanished as Patrick awoke with the jarring memory of his head slamming into the mat under the force of Moshgan’s powerful legs. Soaked in semen, he’d shot his load in the most intense wet dream of his life.

On the sunny Saturday morning after the meet, Patrick ran, rode two busses, and ran again four blocks to the skatepark where he found Moshgan performing breathtaking rock and rolls and backside hurricanes at the skate bowl.

“Hi, loser!” she yelled, teetering her board on the edge.

“Wow,” said Patrick, mesmerized by the sight of her thewy quads, hams and glutes poured into a pair of short faded-blue Daisy Dukes and her tight six-pack rippling below a black workout bikini top.

“I, uh – so you do skate!” he stammered.

“Why else would I be here?” she smirked. “Hold on while I smoke this wanker.”

Moshgan was battling a tall lanky shirtless guy with wild curly hair. His stature gave him impressive momentum, sending him flying a foot in the air off the edge. A couple of regulars cheered him on. Not to be outdone, Moshgan matched the boy, trick-for-trick, and circled him aggressively, unnerving him off his wheels. Then she jumped up and off and then back onto her board while rolling down the wall, ending at the other side with a victorious hand-plant. Lanky stopped and joined the others to watch her finale: a 720 spin off the edge – two complete turns in the air over the wall.

“Damn, she ripped you a new one!” one boy exclaimed in a raspy voice.

Lanky approached Moshgan. “Nice hippie and 720. You did that like a pro.”

“Nah,” she said with the same sweet grin she’d given Patrick after kicking his ass. “I’m so out of practice.”

The boys were eyeing Moshgan in amazement, boners growing, attempting to make conversation, and trying unsuccessfully to look cool.

“Screw these wankers,” she told Patrick. “Let’s bounce.”

Patrick walked fast to keep up with her as she rolled down the walkway toward the pro shop.

“How’d you get so good at wrestling? Coach Manners isn’t exactly Cael Sanderson.”

“I don’t know,” she laughed. “I don’t like to lose.”

“Nobody likes to lose, but you’re the best wrestler on your team.”

“I can hold my own,” she smiled. “But Coach Manners is cool. He came to my last MMA tourney.”

“You compete in MMA?”

“I’ve been collecting medals and trophies since I was nine. I used to play basketball and soccer, but I like kicking balls on a more personal level, so grappling is my life now.”

“Ah, so that’s where you learned those moves. That huge lady we met last night is your MMA trainer?”

“Yeah, Ms. Brantner. She was a Sergeant in the Marines.”

“She looks like a Marine alright. Why was she dissing my dad so hard?”

“Because your dad’s a misogynist dick.”

Patrick was broadsided. “Why? Because he was pissed about that figure-four?”

“He was bent out of shape because I’m a girl – pretty much the definition of 'misogynist dick'; which I already knew going in. Screw the points -- I humiliated you just to piss your misogynist-dickhead dad off.”

Patrick rose to his father’s defense. “He’s a great coach – he just doesn’t think girls should wrestle guys. He’s not a misogynist.”

“Yes he is! Mary’s a trainer at Alpha Girls, and graduated from Columbia four or five years ago. She told us that when she was there she was MVP on the girls’ swim and softball teams and wanted to try out for wrestling. She talked to your dad and he tried to discourage her but she wouldn’t buy it. She stood her ground and refused to leave his office until he agreed to let her try out. He grabbed her arm, lifted her out of the chair, and removed her from his office by force.”

“Huh? I can’t believe he got physical with a girl.”

“Seriously? He had your brother rough up a girl in tryouts to make her quit.”

“Oh yeah, I know; that wasn’t cool. Yvette, right?”

“Yep. Big bro pretzeled her while your dad looked the other way. She said she cried so much she would have gone back and shot them if she’d had a gun.” Moshgan tipped off her board and took it in hand. “She joined Alpha Girls right after that. She’s a senior now like your brother, so she’s been training for two years. I’d like to see him try to do that to her now.”

Moshgan saw Patrick was skeptical and gave him a withering look. “She’d do damage to your shitgibbon brother, for sure; and your dad wouldn’t stand a chance against Mary, either.”

Patrick flushed defensively, but was too perplexed to argue. “So Ms. Brantner knows all this?”

“Everyone at Alpha Girls knows. Your dad and bro are crusin’ for a brusin’. Ms. Brantner wants to get them down to the gym for a lesson in manners.”

Patrick’s familial pride finally got the better of him. “My dad and brother are frickin’ beasts. No way girls could beat them!”

“That’s what guys always think. You have to learn the hard way. Before school started I asked Coach Manners if he’d bring a few kids from summer wrestling camp down to Alpha Girls for practice. But he brought his varsity guys instead. Big mistake. We were going to go easy on the camp kids, but when the swaggering dickheads from Poly showed up, we decided to go hard on them.”

“Your girls grappled Poly Varsity wrestlers?”

“Just four of them. Coach Manners stopped it before we could roll with the others.”

“Who’d you wrestle?”

“I didn’t; which was a good thing because it would have made the relations with my teammates even more awkward than they already are.”

“Well, the ‘Poly-Anna’s’ are terrible anyway. You can’t expect them to do MMA without training.”

“Ms. Brantner wants us to grapple guys, so she gets coaches to bring their wrestlers. We always start with a round of freestyle, four matches at a time, and they always leave with sore bodies and bruised egos. Right away an eighth-grader, a Samoan girl named Teuila, body-slammed this sixteen-year-old Poly boy. He was shocked and made the big mistake of swearing at her; so she responded by coming down like a bag of cement on his face with her ass. She ground his head into the mat so hard I thought she’d break his neck. That’s when Coach Manners jumped in. He ran over and grabbed Teuila‘s wrist to pull her off. You should have seen the look on his face when she wouldn’t budge! She may be fourteen, but she’s big and strong as a bull. He flinched when she finally stood up and made like she was going to hit him. But she just gave him a dirty look and walked away.”

“What was Ms. Brantner doing during all of this?”

“She thought it was funny and let the other girls finish giving the dudes some elbow-cracking armbars before making them stop.”

“Holy crap.”

“She trains us to go hard or go home.” Moshgan softened her tone and stared affectionately at Patrick. “I was surprised you turned out to be such a babe. Before the match I thought you’d be an ass like your dad and I’d want to hurt you. I’d decided in advance to throw the match just to fuck you up. But now I just want to fuck you!”

They sat down at a concrete bench at the side of the walkway.

“Okay, now.” she said. As their eyes locked they held hands and leaned in to kiss.

“Damn,” Moshgan said after a minute, “you’re a great kisser!” She caressed his forearms and squeezed his biceps. “And I love these mighty guns!”

When they got to the pro shop two scrappy boys were standing near the entrance.

“Hey, that looks like your board,” one said to the other. He walked up to Moshgan frowning. “Yeah, let’s see it. Is that yours?”

“Nope. I found it at the bowl.”

The boy examined the bottom decal. “Yeah, it’s mine alright.”

Moshgan handed it to the boy and shrugged at Patrick with a half-turned smile.

“Bullshit! What do you mean you found it at the bowl?” The boy held the board at his side and waved his free hand agitatedly in the air. “I left it at the table over there--,” He gestured toward a picnic table by the concession stand, “—not at the bowl. I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t see you walking around with it.”

Moshgan looked amused. “Why would I bring it here if I wanted to steal it?” She grabbed Patrick’s hand and led him into the shop. “Ask the guys at the bowl if you don’t believe me.”

The boys noticed Patrick’s muscles bulging through his t-shirt, so they backed off and shuffled away toward the bowl to investigate.

“Hey dude,” Moshgan greeted a shadowy, buff, thirty-something guy at the counter wearing a white bucket hat and a t-shirt that read “ape shall never kill ape.” He handed her a gym bag from behind the counter. “Wish you’d come around more often,” he said to Moshgan, giving Patrick the once-over. “This your boyfriend?”

“Yeah, this is my himbo. Patrick, meet Mr. Dufus, aka Jake -- the monkey man who took my virginity.”

Jake choked down a laugh. “Damn girl, don’t be saying that. What’s he gonna think?”

“I mean--” Moshgan searched for words, “he taught me how to skate. You know, for the first time?” She looked at Jake and laughed.

She grabbed a red and black nylon sweat suit from the bag, bent forward and pulled the pants up slowly over her shorts, giving the men a heart-stopping view of her shapely hamstrings.

“Looks like you’ve been working out, Mosh. A lot,” said Jake.

“Sure have.” She flexed her bicep.

“Damn, girl -- just beautiful.” Jake practically drooled. “You going to Boardr AM this year?”

“Nah.” She pursed her lips, slipped the top over her head and shook out her hair with obvious delight. “I’m tearing the boys apart on the wrestling mat now.”

Patrick didn’t like the way Moshgan was flirting with the man. As they turned to leave, Jake leaned with his palms on the edge of the counter, the veins popping out of his muscular forearms, and winked suggestively. “You kids have a ball.”

The scrappy boys accosted them again on the walkway, now joined by Lanky and his raspy friend.

“He saw you jack my board,” said Scrappy, pointing to Lanky.

“I saw you with it at that table over there,” affirmed Lanky, pointing to a pine picnic table plastered with decals.

“So you were checking me out? Wanker!”

Now emboldened, four against two, Scrappy stepped into Moshgan’s path as the other three faced off with Patrick. Moshgan put down her bag and shoved the angry boy.

“Come on punk,” she taunted. “Ready to swallow some teeth?”

Scrappy fell back in surprise and spread his hands palms up. “Hey, what’s up with that?” he said.

This would have brought the situation to an end had Patrick not gotten the sudden urge to push through and deck Scrappy with a single punch, landing him on his back on the grass with a heavy thud.

Moshgan gasped with joy. “You KO’d that pussy. I’m definitely going to fuck your brains out!”

While the other guys were frozen in shock, Scrappy propped up on one elbow and adjusted his jaw. Seeing his pals weren’t coming to his defense, he decided to stay down and avoid another attack. “What the hell, man, why’d you do that?”

Raspy chimed in: “Dude, that was totally uncalled for.”

Jake came hurrying out of the shop. “What’s going on here, guys?” he said, crouching down to check on Scrappy.

“Ah nothing,” said the boy, waving a shaky hand. “Bro’s a hot-head is all.”

“Girls,” said Raspy. “Nothing but trouble.”

Jake turned to Moshgan: “Sorry Mosh, you and himbo better split. We’ve had enough trouble with the cops lately.”

Moshgan shouldered her bag. “Yeah, we’ve got somewhere to be anyway.” She squeezed Patrick’s hand and led the way out of the park.

“What was that all about?” asked Patrick. “Jacking his board was crazy.”

“Look who’s talking; you coldcocked him! But honestly, if you hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have known how much I wanted to fuck you. Actually, I already did, but that settled it. I could have knocked him out myself but you were such a little hero to step up like that.” She gave Patrick a long tongue kiss. “I’ve got the key to Jake’s place -- let the fucking commence!”

Jake’s place was a small converted garage in the backyard of a home a few blocks from the skatepark. His cluttered abode resembled a rummage sale of scattered tools, weights, bicycle parts, skate parts, dirty clothes, guitars, books, newspapers, vinyl record albums, scraps of paper, receipts, empty beer cans, DVDs -- strewn everywhere. Moshgan had spent many decadent afternoons there with Jake smoking weed, listening to punk rock music, watching surfing videos, and having sex. It was true the aging skater punk had been Moshgan’s first and only other lover. He’d given her an advanced course in sex that none of her friends could ever have imagined from their own trifling experiences with immature boys.

“This guy needs a housekeeper,” said Patrick.

“Jake’s a free spirit. I mean, who else would let us use their place like this?”

Moshgan raided Jake’s stash of weed and lit up a bong. Despite frequent opportunities to indulge, Patrick had always declined. “You’ve got to try this,” Moshgan insisted, “it makes sex redonkulous.” It didn’t take her long to persuade him. Already head over heels and horny as a dog, Patrick obeyed Moshgan like a hungry puppy.

They toked and drank Pabst Blue Ribbon while listening to the Circle Jerks Wild in the Streets on Jake’s vintage turntable. Coughing violently from the smoke, Patrick stood and started to sway.

“Oh man, my head’s spinning.”

Moshgan slipped his t-shirt up over his head and massaged his pecs and shoulders. “I know how to make you feel better.”

She led him to the bedroom where they stripped. Still queasy, Patrick had trouble getting the condom on, and even more difficulty bringing his cock into action. Moshgan giggled, then grabbed and shoved the head of his dick into her as best she could. She pushed him down and rolled him onto his back, then rode him while licking his face like a dutiful St. Bernard. Despite his confusion, Patrick achieved an erection and quickly shot his load. Moshgan grabbed the base of the condom between her thumb and forefinger, squeezed and slid it up and off, forcing a final spurt of milky-white cum. Snuggling next to him, she dangled the slimy condom before his eyes like a hypnotist’s pendulum.

“Now you’re getting horny, very horny,” she said in a sepulchral voice.

Patrick groaned. “I’m sorry that was so fast.”

“No worries. We’ll get you going again.” She tied off the top of the condom to prevent it from spilling and tossed it to the floor. “You spewed quiet a wad there.” She patted his testicles with her fingers, making him flinch. “Now, these are the kind of balls I like to bounce.”

His first time wasn’t how Patrick had imagined it would be. Gone were the romantic cherry-vanilla visions of his morning wet dream. Getting him gooned on weed and beer and taking his virginity just one day after meeting was testimony to Moshgan’s powerful allure, but she was a lot nervier than he’d expected a girl to be – especially one his own age. Though he tried not to show it, he felt intimidated by her greater experience and complete lack of inhibition. As she tickled the underside of his balls, he caressed her body and marveled at the athletic firmness of her back, her tight ass, and the rounded contour of her thighs.

“Ooh, now we’re getting somewhere,” she said, noting his growing arousal. “We’ll definitely get this going again.” She straddled one leg over him and said, “and again,” sucking his neck, sending shivers of excitement through his body, “and again.” Without warning, she rammed her index finger up his nostril and wiggled it violently, then pulled it out and stuck it into his mouth. “Here ya go, lover boy,” she teased.

“What the--” he shuddered and shoved her away.

She laughed, dismissing Patrick’s bewildered gaze. “God I love these pecs!” She lulled him into a sense of false security by sucking tenderly on his nipple, and then suddenly bit down hard.

“Owww, stop!” Patrick turned away, massaging it; but before he could regroup she reached behind and gave him a wedgie with his own ball sack.

“Aaah -- aahh!” he sputtered.

This predicament was harder to escape. She put him in a playful choke hold with her free arm, pushed him down onto his stomach; and crushing his balls with one hand, humped his ass with her pelvis.

“Wha – at – ah - are you - oo do -ing?” his voice jerked in time with her frenetic thrusts.

“You’re so funny!” she laughed, releasing his balls. “Jake’s not half as--” she stopped and put her hand over her mouth.

“Fun?” Patrick searched Moshgan’s dark eyes. “So it’s true. You had sex with -- that guy!”

“Oh, um.” She gave him a conciliatory kiss; then, changing the subject, she gaped and pointed at his rekindling boner. “Oh look at that!”

Patrick momentarily overcame his jealousy as Moshgan slipped on a fresh condom. With renewed determination, he flipped her onto her back and dove into her like a charging bull.

“That’s more like it!” cooed Moshgan.

When he started to come this time, Moshgan clenched his lower lip between her teeth, bridged up under him with her legs and back, and lifted his body clear up off the bed with hers. “Damn you’re strong!” he exclaimed. Feeling less like a charging bull and more like a child’s teddy bear, he grabbed her shoulders to keep from sliding off and pumped furiously. Moshgan churned her hips back and forth, lowered him down to the mattress, then bridged him back up and down like a female rollercoaster, shouting shrieks of her own orgasmic pleasure until she slowly relaxed, uncoiled the rigid arch of her back, and brought their bodies down to the creaky mattress with a final round of rapid pelvic grinds. Then she leveraged her ankles behind his legs and milked him one last time.

“You like that?“ she asked afterward, lighting up the bong again.

“You’re amazing.”

“Dead lifts and thrusts,” she chuckled. “But you have a real donkey-kong down there, boo. I’m sorry I said anything about Jake, but you’re truly the bigger man.”

From showering with other boys since grade school Patrick knew that he was well endowed, but he couldn’t stop grinning when Moshgan told him his cock was bigger than the older man’s.

“Longer and thicker,” she added.

“Cool,” said Patrick proudly. “I’ll let him know next time I see him.”

“Oh boy,” she laughed. “But you know it’s more about the prize than the size, right?”

“So I’ve heard. Was I good?”

“You’ve got potential,” she grinned, ”but I wish I had two of you so I could keep one working while the other one rests.”

She put the bong down and grabbed Patrick’s lower lip with her teeth again and crawled backwards, making him follow her across the bed on his knees, guiding his chin to the sheets for a final surrender.

“Eh - ee - ohh, god dammit,” he pleaded.

Spilling off the bed, Moshgan released Patrick’s lip and got up to get another beer from the refrigerator.

“How big is your family?” enquired Patrick.

“It’s just me and my mom now.” Moshgan sat next to Patrick with one leg dangling over the side of the bed. “My father was killed in Iraq when I was five. He was a special ops fighter in the Iranian military. Ms. Brantner knew him when she was there, and she personally executed his scumbag murderers with her own hands. She came to Tehran to give my mom the news, and got us asylum in the U.S.”

“That’s incredibly sad.”

“Right? But hey, tough times make tough girls. Ms. Brantner convinced my mother to let me train, and that opened up a whole world to me. By fourth grade, nobody in my class, boy or girl, could beat me in a fight. My mom used to be overly protective of me, but after watching me take apart one boy after another in MMA, she knows I can take care of myself. If it weren’t for Ms. Brantner I’d be shut up in a bedroom back in Iran instead of here riding your baloney pony.”

Patrick felt queasy again and went to the toilet to vomit. While he was bent over the bowl on his knees, heaving from the confluence of beer, pot, and energetic sex, Moshgan walked over and massaged his traps.

“’Coach boner’ -- like father like son.” She reached around and caressed his limp phallus.

He wiped off his lips with toilet paper, turned and wrapped his arms around Moshgan’s waist.

“That’s seriously weird,” he said. "Why are you still talking about my dad?"

“Some of the guys were snickering and calling him ‘coach boner’ last night. Is he a notorious horn-dog or something?”

“Nah. When he was younger, but not now. I mean, women have the hots for him because he’s an athlete and stuff, but he doesn’t go around hitting on them. Mom would kill him.”

“I don’t think your dad wears underwear and he’s pretty hung down there – I noticed the bulge in his shorts. Maybe that’s why?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you just ask them?”

Moshgan looked distractedly into the bedroom and noticed the time on the clock radio next to the bed. Freeing herself from Patrick’s embrace, she hurriedly scooped his Under Armour boxer briefs off the floor and tossed them to him.

“Hurry up, get dressed,” she ordered. “Jake’ll be home soon.”

Last edited by tanukialpha; 28-Dec-18 at 04:29.
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  #7  
Old 28-Dec-18, 12:18
mez261uk mez261uk is offline
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Default Re: Girl Trouble

Another great addition to the story. It's nice to see that Pat is not upset by Moshgan's superiority in the wrestling, but it would be cool to see her use a little more strength on him.
Coach Wood, on the other, hand doesn't seem to like the idea of girls being able to beat the boys. I guess he'll get a first hand demonstration at some point. I hope it's Shayla the cheerleader.
Thanks for this story, and keep up the good work.

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Old 28-Dec-18, 15:59
tanukialpha tanukialpha is offline
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Default Re: Girl Trouble

Thank you. I very much appreciate the feedback and encouragement.

Shayla’s a strong character; she’s unstoppable.

Moshgan’s domination of Pat is playful because she really likes him; but she certainly puts him through his paces in bed — especially considering it’s his first time — both sexually and with drugs and alchohol.

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Old 01-Jan-19, 03:07
tanukialpha tanukialpha is offline
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Default Girl Trouble : Part 5

5. Police Academy

Invigorated after her Monday morning run and charged with anticipation, Angela drove downtown to the police academy to observe Sergeant Brantner’s martial arts class. She arrived ahead of schedule at the old three-story, brown-brick, former bicycle factory that served as the academy headquarters, and strolled wistfully through a winding labyrinth of tiled corridors to Brantner’s office.

Angela found her door open, the massive woman sitting magisterially behind a large oak desk dressed in a bleached white gi. Angela’s awe of the Sergeant’s imposing figure redoubled when she rose to greet her. Brantner offered Angela a strong gentle hand and the same warm smile she’d shown her at the meet.

“Ms. Wood, so glad you came,” said Brantner. “Your son was quite the little soldier on Friday.”

“Thank you; Please call me Angela. Pat was a gentleman, but it was your student Moshgan who stole the show.”

“She usually does; but it’s a testament to your boy’s strength and skill that he lasted as long as he did.”

“Pat is strong, but he doesn’t usually manhandle his opponents like that – especially that first boy. Not to be mean, but the staggered look on that kid’s face almost made me laugh.”

Brantner locked the office door behind them and conducted Angela down a long corridor to the training room. “Lopsided matches may be unusual at high school meets, but when wrestling-team boys freestyle with the girls at my gym, pretty much all of them leave with that staggered look on their faces.”

They passed through high double oak doors into the martial arts room. Several men and a few women dressed in police academy t-shirts, street shorts, and athletic shoes were casually talking around tumbling mats rolled out across a wood floor. The stark morning light flooded the room through large divided windows, blinding the occupants whenever they looked in that direction. Brantner motioned Angela toward a metal folding chair set off to the side, walked to the center of the mats, and clapped her hands loudly.

“Alright everybody,” Brantner’s voice resounded like a canon, “I’m Sergeant Jane Brantner. Welcome to Basic Martial Arts.” She shifted her weight cagily between feet and glared for a brief moment at each individual in the class as she spoke. “To make the most of our time together over the next five days, I’m going to push you harder than you’ll think I should, and some -- especially you men – aren’t going to like it at first. But what you learn here may save your ass someday, so -- warning given -- suck it up and take it like the little bitches you are.”

Some took this as a joke and laughed, but Brantner’s powerful voice and fiery eyes put the cadets on their toes. To begin, she led them through a series of grueling stretches that demonstrated her own remarkable flexibility which none of the cadets were able to come even close to matching. Then she asked if there were any military veterans in the group -- and after receiving no affirmative response said, “Okay, let’s begin.”

Brantner spotted the biggest man in the room and called him to the mat. “I’d say you’re about my size: 6’3”, 260?”

“Pretty close,” he stammered, cowed by the Sergeant’s coarseness.

“Speak up,” she bellowed like a drill-sergeant.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s correct,” he responded, clearing his throat diffidently.

“Okay, never mind. Get off the mat,” she commanded, and looked around for a heartier candidate. “You, Black Beard.” She curled a beckoning finger at a bearded man with a big-muscled chest, hairy arms, burly shoulders, and a half-sleeve tattoo on his bulging left bicep.

“Up here, pronto!”

As he came within a few feet of the Sergeant, she signaled him to stop. “Okay, attack me head on,” she said. “Just rush me and do your best to take me down.”

When he charged her, Brantner instantly grabbed his arm and effortlessly threw him down. “That’s not an attack,” she barked, noting the man’s aggravation. “Don’t wee your shorts, little boy. Let’s try it again. Put some muscle into it this time; give me everything you’ve got.”

The man crouched and lunged this time in earnest, straight at Brantner’s throat. She brought him down again, put him in a standing arm bar, controlled him with a hand grab, and bent his wrist back with a loud crack, eliciting a shrill cry. The cadets gasped in surprise; but everyone, particularly Angela, was amazed by how easily Brantner controlled the burly man. She kept him on his knees, applying pressure to his wrist while she explained the mechanics of the hold, the correct leg position, and the importance of staying relaxed during its execution. When she finally let him up, he massaged his wrist and scowled threateningly.

“Awe, Bluto, don’t be mad,” she scoffed. “I’m finished with you for now; you’ll have many more reasons to despise me as we go, believe me; so save it for later.” She waved him off curtly: “Now! Off the mat!”

A murmur of shock and disapproval arose among the cadets as the man wobbled back to the group cursing under his breath; but they all came to immediate attention when Brantner clapped.

“Do any of you have any fighting skills at all?” she demanded.

“I have a Brown belt in Jiu-Jitsu,” said a stout bald man with Popeye-huge forearms and calves.”

“Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”

When he came at her, Brantner quickly caught his hand, bent his arm down over hers, and, manipulating him like a marionette, stopped to explain the hold without releasing him: “break and make an angle; pull his hand like this.” The man’s face contorted miserably with each move.

“Now you have complete control over him.”

Brantner walked him on his knees in circles around the mat. “He goes wherever I want.” She ignored the man’s grimaces and toyed with him: “Come on; try to escape any time now, ‘Brown-belt,’ then forced him facedown on the mat with a torturous arm-lock.

This was what Brantner called the first day’s warm-up. Over the course of an hour, she took the men down (never the women) and assailed them with arduous holds; stopping to give detailed explanations of the techniques while holding them captive for extended periods of time. For the second hour, she divided the cadets into pairs and had them apply the holds they’d learned. By the end of the session, the cadets were astonished by how much they’d absorbed in the short span of a few hours. Brantner’s aggressive combination of verbal intimidation and physical bullying succeeded in ingraining advanced fighting skills faster than any dojo they’d ever trained at. Popeye-arms said her class made Gracie seem like summer camp.

“How about that?” Brantner asked Angela when class was over.

“That was incredible–“

Angela was cut short when Bluto stepped up and ambushed Brantner from behind, putting her arms in a solid-looking standing double chicken-wing. Planting his feet firmly, he bared his beard-fringed teeth and growled, “Let’s see you get out of this one lady!”

“Are you serious?” Brantner laughed. “This is going to be a painful lesson for you!”

The cadets watched in awe as Brantner straightened, planted her thick legs like steel girders and flexed her broad back, dwarfing the man; then pulled and locked his arms tightly in hers to prevent any possibility of escape. She spread her shoulders, leaned forward slightly, and lifted his feet off the ground to demonstrate her tremendous physical advantage over him, and then set him back down with a menacing chuckle.

“In a real-life, I’d rip you in half,” said Brantner – a statement that seemed more literal than metaphorical -- “but this is an excellent instructional opportunity.”

Brantner walked the class through each move deliberately as she executed them: “place your right foot behind his left, rotate your hips, and drive your weight through him.” The man was instantly thrown off balance. “Grab his wrist like this, pull down, and slide through. Butt his nose with the back of your head.” The man was then punished with a restrained head butt. As he reached for his nose, Brantner slammed him down onto his back and popped his sternum with her elbow just hard enough to produce a short, reflexive grunt from within his deep chest cavity. “Do that just because you can,” she laughed.

“That was slow-mo so you could see what I was doing.” She looked down at the man massaging his sternum. “Get up, big guy” she boomed. “Let’s try it again, full speed.”

A fellow cadet helped the shaken man to his feet. When they repeated the maneuver, he turned his head aside to take the butt on his temple instead of his nose, and backed away to avoid being slammed to the ground a second time. Brantner grinned at him as he bowed respectfully to her and rechecked his nose.

“See? You learned something,” she said with a grin: “Never take two head-butts in a row!”

Brantner turned to the others. “We’ll turn it up a notch tomorrow. Class dismissed!”

“As I was saying,” Angela continued as they were leaving the training room, “it’s incredible how suddenly it’s become the age of the alpha female. Moshgan beating my son; you taking down a room full of macho men – that he-man may as well have been a child the way you handled him.”

“Women are surpassing men in every way now, but I’ve always been bigger and stronger than the boys. In grade school I sent would-be bullies home in tears; when I was an MP I handled men twice as tough as any of those creampuffs; if a jarhead got out of line, I’d slam his face against the wall so hard his front teeth would fall out.”

“You sure are hard on those guys.”

“I bust their balls, but it’s for their own good,” said Brantner. “But leave me alone with that macho-man for an hour, and he’ll come out a changed man. The interrogation room is my playground.”

Angela was both impressed and appalled by Brantner’s disregard for the civil code she was sworn to enforce.

“Sounds like the law of the jungle.”

“It is a jungle. These cupcakes would never survive out there. They come in, dicks swinging, thinking they’re tough because they lift and have taken some cushy self-defense classes -- maybe’ve had some scuffles. But some of the ladies at Alpha Girls could beat their asses from one end of the gym to the other without breaking a sweat. At least cadets come out knowing what tough is. And they do come back to thank me. Last month an officer came to my office, hat in hand, saying how grateful he was a technique he learned here recently saved his life. He thanked me profusely for his wife and young daughter. I told him jokingly to get down on his knees and kiss my boots – and he did!” Brantner chortled. “Now that’s gratitude!”

Arriving back at Brantner’s office, she shut the door, lowered the blinds, and changed out of her gi. The sight of the woman’s massively muscled body floored Angela when her jacket came off. Much more arresting than her picture in the Alpha Girls brochure, as impressive as it was, she looked as impenetrable as a marble statue, yet flexible and agile as an Olympic gymnast. Angela was a substantial 5’10” 160 lbs, but the sergeant made her feel petite, even more so disrobed than clothed.

“My god, you’re huge!” Angela blurted.

“I won’t lie: I juice. In addition to Crossfit and martial arts, I’ve been pushing heavy iron for twenty-five years and run two or three marathons a year. Gotta stay pumped for this job.” She flexed her baseball-size bicep. “But I’m not all just brawn: I’m a chemist, weapons expert, I’ve climbed Everest twice, speak four languages, and I’ve mastered six martial arts. When it comes to chemical weapons, I can lecture an Ivy League professor under the table, then turn around and KO a heavyweight boxer faster than he can cry mommy. But I’d rather show than tell. I’ll get dressed and we’ll have lunch. Please; have a seat.”

Angela sat in the slat-back wooden chair in front of Brantner’s big desk.

“My husband would freak if he saw you in action.”

“If I slammed my hand down on my desk like this,” said Brantner, spreading her fingers and walloping the desk with a loud bang, “I’ll bet that pretty-boy hubby of yours would jump three feet in the air.”

“I suppose he would,” gulped Angela. “But Mark’s isn’t just a ‘pretty boy.’ He hasn’t progressed mentally since college, but he’s a good father and a decent husband. He was an elite athlete in his day you know, and he’s still in excellent shape for his age.”

Brantner pealed down her gi pants, revealing a pair of tree-trunk legs that made Angela’s husband’s seem scrawny in comparison. Transfixed at the sight of Brantner’s slab-muscle thighs, Angela muttered absently, “And he does come in handy, if you know what I mean.”

“Men were made to serve women,” said Brantner. “Judging from his arrogance, I’d say your husband hasn’t gotten the memo.” Brantner removed her sports bra and briefs. In spite of all her years of being around girls’ locker rooms and showers, Angela blushed as she watched the massive woman undress.

“As a matter of fact, I did get the better of him on Friday after the wrestling meet. I got him in that hold Moshgan used on Pat, and I actually made him submit.”

“That’s a start,” Brantner chuckled. “Nice going.”

“I’ve always handled the money; Mark doesn’t have any idea about managing our affairs. Until recently he’s had a very strong libido and been reasonably virile.”

“Ha! Compared to my hormone-flushed libido, his ‘virility’ would be like a drop in my ocean,” said Brantner, thrusting her hips sexually.

Feeling the conversation getting a little too racy, Angela started to get up. “I’ll wait outside,” she said.

“Hold on,” Brantner insisted while continuing to strip. “I’ll speed it up.”

Angela felt the blood rush again to her face at the sight of the woman’s dark nipples and areolas the size of dekopon topknots on immense pectoral muscles. Brantner’s breasts transitioned smoothly from the underlying muscle, which stretched and flexed between gargantuan shoulders in thick sinewy bands, producing, to Angela’s amazement, an androgynous eroticism she had never experienced before.

Brantner spread her gi on the desk and folded it carefully, allowing Angela a glimpse of her waxed pubes and protruding clitoris, the enormous size of which further increased Angela’s distress. She turned her eyes away to the landline phone on the desk, to the cracks in the ceiling, to a photograph of Brantner in military fatigues towering over Middle-Eastern male soldiers congregating around a battered dusty jeep; then to another photo showing the sergeant with her arm around the shoulder of a buff woman with a bald fade haircut wearing a short-sleeve pullover.

“Is that your partner?” Angela nodded toward the photo.

“No, just a friend. I’m single,” she said significantly, coming to within inches of Angela’s knees. Angela’s heart skipped a beat, and in near panic imagined herself knocking over the chair and racing to the door; but she relaxed as Brantner moved away to a closet at the other side of the room. Feeling foolish but relieved, Angela’s heart continued to thump like a bass drum as she watched Brantner’s rugged physique flow tightly into a crisply starched, navy-blue police uniform. Brantner pretended not to notice Angela’s embarrassment.

“Moshgan shouldn’t have mouthed off to your husband like she did. I tell my girls, when they upbraid a male they need be able to back it up. She hands out a sharp tongue-lashing, but she’s no match for your husband.”

Angela was taken aback by the idea of her husband in an altercation with the young girl.

“Moshgan? No! She’s just a kid and he’s a grown man.”

Brantner’s expression turned gravely serious.

“True, but don’t underestimate my girls. One of my fourteen-year-olds can easily handle an average adult male, especially taken by surprise.”

“I know Mark wouldn’t stand a chance against you.”

Brantner cracked her knuckles, as if relishing the thought.

“I’d break every bone in his body. But he’s a powerhouse among coaches these days: So many I’ve seen lately, like John Manners, have double chins and potbellies. At least you keep your man in shape.”

“What makes you think I keep him in shape?”

“It’s obvious from the way you maintain yourself. No woman in your condition would have a schlubb for a husband.”

Brantner buttoned her shirt, straightened her badge, put on her duty belt with a holstered service revolver, tied her shoes, and placed her policeman’s hat under her arm. “Thanks for waiting, Angela,” she said, motioning toward the door. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes, I’ve worked up an appetite.”

“Good, because I could eat a horse.”

Last edited by tanukialpha; 02-Jan-19 at 10:56.
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