Sarah was a ruthless head of department. She was scathing if a member of staff was late to work, contemptuous of bad grammar and spelling, and painfully sarcastic if anyone complained about anything. 

Yes, she was disliked; but she would retort that she wasn’t there to be liked. She was there to produce good results for the boss. However, such a person can cause mutiny, and the staff were certainly that when they went to the pub after work one evening. When they were discussing what they should do about her – complaints to the general manager got them nowhere – one bright spark nominated a colleague, Dave, to speak to her after work the next day.

"Why me?" Dave asked, none too happy.

"Because you’re the most senior one of us," the bright spark answered, which convinced everyone (except Dave).

Sarah listened to the complaints with condescending amusement the following evening, stinging Dave to add:

"Yes, that’s another thing – you have a patronising attitude."

"True."

"Sorry? Dave asked, puzzled.

"You heard," Sarah answered. "Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You do a bit of MMA in your spare time, so do I. Let’s book the ring in the gym for Saturday afternoon. If you win, I’ll mend my ways. If I win, bollocks to you. How about that?"

"Agreed."

Sarah certainly enjoyed her superiority, whether in the office through its hierarchy, or now in the ring, standing as she did about an inch taller than Dave. It wasn’t a pretty face, thought Dave, which could account for her need to feel superior. On the other hand, she was certainly smiling now, enjoying the prospect of a fight. She had a great figure, her white leotard (with "Sexy Girl" emblazoned over her beautiful breasts) seeming to advertise it.

She opened the bout with a right jab, which Dave ducked under. Trying again, she fired a right kick, broadside on, to his head, which he defended with his arm. It gave him a rather painful wrist, but it could have been a lot worse. 

He lunged with a left, but Sarah nipped to her side out of danger. It also presented her with a wide-open target, since he was stretching in follow through beside her. "Sexy Girl" cracked him on the jaw with a right hook. He stumbled with the force of the blow, and she smashed him into the ropes with a left uppercut. They failed to hold him up and he landed on his backside.

In the office, Sarah would lambast a colleague for the most minor transgression and follow it with an insult. She fought in exactly the same way. She had punished Dave imperiously for his lapse in leaving his side exposed, so now came the insult. She waited for him to half sit, then held onto the top rope with both hands and squatted over his face. Her rear pushed his neck against the lowest rope.

But sexual stimulation seemed to get the better of her. She turned to face him, brought him up to his knees and kissed him. Or was it just a ruse? Because she thrust him over the bottom rope, so that he had to support himself on his hands just inside the ropes. Holding onto the top rope again, and facing the same way as Dave, she squatted once more to head scissor him. Her thighs squeezed his neck and face while the rope grazed his throat.

When she had exhausted him, she hooked his legs over the lowest rope so that his head and shoulders were on the mat. Although it revived him, as it does if you do that for someone who has just fainted, she spoilt the recovery by reverse head scissoring him. 

Holding onto the middle rope, she knelt astride his head and set her powerful thighs to squeeze the revival out of him. He clung onto her wonderful round bottom (usually one of the only things about her that cheered him up if he managed to steal a furtive glance at it in the office), but it’s doubtful if either of them paid it much attention. By this time, the scissor had become a face-sit, pure – or rather, impure – and simple.

Sarah certainly believed in making use of the ropes. Holding the top one, she swung her legs up (naturally with Dave’s neck stuck in them) so that her feet pointed upwards, inside the ropes, while her upper body was outside them. This put Dave in a position that resembled those illustrations of apes progressing from crawling to walking, with him at round about the middle stage. Now sitting on the lowest rope, Sarah again set her thighs to squeeze the will to live out of him.

She pulled him towards her, so that his head was buried in her bosom (the only other thing that cheered him up about her at work).

But she couldn’t keep still for long. In a variation of a flying head scissor, she now held the middle rope, facing upside down, and once again engulfed the now standing Dave in her thighs by the neck. They held him so that his face was rammed hard against her sex. 

But even she couldn’t remain upside down for long. She could now be said to have invented a "swimming head scissor", because it looked as if she was swimming. Holding the middle rope, she had Dave on his knees, still with his neck trapped in her thighs. She locked it there by crossing her ankles behind his head. Once again, he clutched her firm-yet-pliant bottom – ironically, something he and the other office men once dared each other to do, but with no takers. (Losing your job would outweigh winning a bet.) 

Dropping Dave onto his back, Sarah placed him so that his legs dangled over the side of the raised ring. Holding the middle rope, she continued the face-sit by squatting over his face. This had the bonus for her of being able to glance down and see just how much of a bulge she had created in his shorts. Her reaction was not unlike her office response to someone producing a particularly good piece of work: a quiet acknowledgement of a good effort. She even smiled.

Still, he mustn’t get above himself, just because he’s got a hard-on, must he? She hung him by the throat over the lowest rope. Holding onto the top rope (they’re going to need a new set of ropes if she carries on like this, thought Dave), she pushed his head with her foot. The effect of the bottom rope being forced hard against his throat was similar to that of a choke hold, and it wasn’t long before he was gasping for breath.

At last, Sarah relented. At least, she partially relented. She had him on his back now, still under those accursed ropes. She hung the back of his neck over the lowest rope. Squatting outside the ropes, while holding the middle one in her left hand against the small of her back, she engulfed his face in her sex once more. Dave clung onto her thighs for no particular physical reason, because she kept his face where it was with the palm of her right hand. Perhaps it was just an instinctive grab for some sort of feeling of safety. Occasionally, instinct tells you to do something after the brain has given up.

In an echo of her earlier "hold", Sarah placed her unfortunate opponent on his knees and pushed him down with her foot on his face, so that the back of his neck was jammed against the lowest rope. He now had burns all round his neck, caused by friction against the unrelenting material of the rope. But that was the least of his concerns. Yet again, his breathing was severely restricted. He felt faint and wobbly, with her remorseless pushing of her foot against the grim reply of the rope coming the other way.

Sarah seemed to know just when he was going to collapse. She would relinquish a hold moments beforehand, to make the fight last. Keeping Dave where he was, with the back of his neck against the lowest rope, and upside down on his hands and knees, she held onto the top rope with her left hand and squatted over his face once more. It was time to turn her attention to his manhood.

He shuddered when her right hand roughly groped his cock and balls outside his shorts. He and the other office men had often speculated what their tyrant of a department head must be like to know sexually. Each one outwardly opined that it must be like sex with robot that had a computer for a brain (while privately salivating at the prospect of a strict woman in control). Now he was finding out.

As his mouth and tongue went to work, she helped herself to his most intimate parts. He yelped as strong fingers squeezed his balls. She was fascinated, obsessed. Smiling, she probed, pinched and mauled, all outside his shorts.

But she got them down eventually, and Dave sighed the sigh of a man tormented to distraction by a woman, who at last consents to pull his shorts down and feel him, skin on skin. (Even a virago like Sarah has to play the tease when she feels like it.) She scrunched his balls in the palm of her hand, delighted at his reactions, some of them bordering on panic.

But she still had a fight to win. Suddenly letting go of him altogether, she waited just long enough for him to stand up, then swung herself at him from the top rope and kicked with both feet at his chest. When her boots landed with an unpleasant hollow sound, Dave went "Oooooffff!" and involuntarily ran backwards, only to be pushed back by the opposite ropes.

Sarah’s right fist was waiting for him. It sailed into his high cheekbone, making a similar sound to that of her boots, moments earlier. It stunned him, while pain throbbed around his face, so she launched a big boot-style left kick at his chest. Pivoting on her right foot, she was able both to land a severe strike to the same area she had only recently hit and see his reaction. Which was satisfying in the extreme. The big boy of the class thought he could complain to teacher, did he? Not so big now, is he? 

Indeed not. His face was a picture of misery and suffering, his mouth open wide in pain. He fired a desperate, despairing left at her; she leant back and hook-kicked him beside his left knee.

Dave’s leg went "dead", but Sarah gave him no time to come to terms with it. In she came at him, swinging an angled right uppercut at his jaw. His head jerked up and to the side, following the path of her punch, and he gritted his teeth, trying to come to terms with this latest blow to both his face and his self-esteem.

At work, if someone made a mistake, Sarah had a knack of referring to it subsequently, while ostensibly talking about something else, reigniting a recent wound. So now, she hammered a left cross at exactly the same spot on Dave’s jaw, as he was about to turn back to face her. It was a firm, sturdy blow, and he let out a suffering wail as her fist struck home. 

But it was nothing to the howl of agony he let out when she kicked him in the balls. Her right boot landed with a hideous "slap". Any man watching would have sympathetically winced, as the departmental disciplinarian punished her wayward subordinate in her own brutal way. The whole gym echoed to Dave’s cry, as he dropped down to the mat clutching his wounded manhood.

Sarah peered at him for a moment, as if she was observing the odd behaviour of an animal at a zoo. Then she stood and posed, flexing, with one foot on the prone man’s back.

"So, we’re all back to normal then, Dave," she dictated to the hapless male under her foot. "Let me have that sales report Monday morning, and for God’s sake, don’t waffle this time."

She left him slumped on the mat and waved, grinning, to an imagined audience of thousands.