Update: 10.07.2020

 

W-632 "Waitress vs driver"

      Categories:  Mixed wrestling     

                          

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Gallery size: 200 Full HD pictures

Mixed wrestling, 200 pictures 1920x1080 (FullHD), partially CFNM, no blood.

"The suplex, in its various forms, requires concentration, coordination, adaptability, and strength, especially in the legs. It renders your opponent –"


"Will you shut up? If you want to read, do it quietly."


Rachel was sick of her husband Rob’s new hobby, wrestling. She had encouraged him to get fit, complaining that he was putting on weight. He was a lorry driver, fond of fried food and sweet things, and played darts in the pub at the weekend. It was, she said, a very unhealthy life, and he needed a hobby to give him some exercise. He now grinned.


"Well you kept on at me to get a hobby, and now I do this amateur wrestling at the weekends. It helps me get a thirst up for when I go to the pub!"


"I know you’ve got a hobby now," Rachel wearily conceded. "But do you have to keep on about it?"


"What about you with your music and movement?"


"Aerobics."


"Whatever. I have to put up with giggling females in leotards every Wednesday nights –"


"Oh, that must be awful for you!"


"I’m just saying that you’re as obsessed with your hobby as I am with mine. At least reading bits out of the manual isn’t as obtrusive as music, and women careering about the living room with the furniture all moved to the sides. Why can’t you use the gym?"


"We do, on Tuesdays."


"But you must admit, I am fitter since I’ve been wrestling."


"Yes, all right, and you had to do something with your unhealthy job."


"Whereas of course a waitress is a picture of fitness."


"She is. She’s on her feet most of the day and half the night, darting about between tables, taking orders, running out with food, taking crap from staff and complaints from customers, and having to smile all the bloody time!"


"Saint Rachel of the Crown Hotel," Rob mocked, peering at his booklet.


"But seriously, it’s not a lot of fun for me, if you keep going on about wrestling. What do I have to do, to stop you?"


"The day you can beat me in the ring, I’ll stop."


"Oh don’t be so ridiculous!"


Rachel angrily went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. But she started to think. Perhaps Rob’s light-hearted suggestion wasn’t so ridiculous after all. What she said about her job was true enough: a waitress who was on her feet from 8 to 12 hours a day, was going to be fitter than a lorry driver. Her legs would be much stronger too. The aerobics helped as well. Lastly, it would be satisfying to beat him. It would be easy enough to switch from aerobics to wrestling classes, because her gym catered for both. She was a quick learner as well. She nodded to herself, as she thoughtfully stirred her cup. Yes, the match was going to start right now, in her own way. He liked sweets didn’t he?


"Rob?" Rachel called through to the living room.


"Yes?" 


"I’ll be a little while, I’m making chocolate brownies." 


"Yay!"


Rachel smiled to herself as she hacked off an enormous chunk of butter. Really, the amount of butter and sugar these things take to make! Dear, dear!


One of his wrestling magazines was on a cupboard (he was also irritatingly untidy). She picked it up and opened a page at random:


"’The cobra clutch affords immediate advantage to the executioner, and renders the opponent …’ who writes this stuff?"


Rachel trained hard for 6 months. As well as swapping activities at the gym, she stopped the home aerobics and went to the gym for more training on Wednesday nights. At first, she was horribly stiff, and it felt quite uncomfortable at work; but after a few weeks she got used to it. She had competitive matches with other women, and faired quite well. 


It boosted her confidence too. At work she lost patience when the stuff were trying to reason with a drunk, aggressive customer. She elbowed her colleagues out of the way, seized the astonished man in a half-nelson, and frog- marched him out. Diners were then treated to the sight of the ladylike waitress, in a smart shirt and skirt, repel an attack from him, and then throw him over her shoulder so that he landed most painfully on his back.


She was ready. She sent an anonymous, "mystery" challenge to Rob at his gym, which had him puzzling for days. He accepted, and to Rachel’s annoyance, did some training, and stopped eating sweet things. Very well, she thought, I’ll tire him out instead. Using the minimum of effort herself, she brought him to sexual exertion every night before the match, and sometimes during the day as well. 


Rob stood in the ring and waited for his challenger to appear. Applause in the back rows, signalled "his" approach. But exclamations of surprise had Rob confused. When the figure strode into his view, he gulped. His mind was a jumble of emotions. Anger mixed with incredulity. What was Rachel’s game? To conceal his bewildered state, he attempted a bit of swagger. After Rachel entered the ring, he did some strutting; he showed off his biceps, while staring at his wife. She in turn looked impassively back. The worst of it was, she was wearing the pale blue leotard that always aroused him, emphasising the superb curves of her breasts and bottom. But anger soon got the upper hand with Rob. How dare his wife challenge him! She was trying to humiliate him! Very well then …


He slapped her face, back-handed, hard. There were roars of disapproval from some in the crowd. Rachel was stunned and surprised, and almost knocked off balance. Before she had recovered, Rob attacked her with a right-handed clothes line on her upper chest. On the ropes now, Rachel was desperate. What she did next was in no wrestling manual – she punched Rob’s groin, with the ferocity of someone who knows it’s their last chance. Some in the crowd nearby laughed at the instant change of expression on Rob’s face, from resentment and determination to surprise and pain; and Rachel gained precious time to recover.


"A punch in her husband’s balls affords immediate satisfaction to the wife, and renders the husband totally fucked," she murmured quietly, so only Rob could hear. He just wretched in pain. 


"What’s wrong?" taunted Rachel, "I thought you liked getting a blow from me," as she grabbed his head, and powered her left knee into his forehead.


Rob fell on his back, and Rachel performed a mirror image, hooking her legs round his, and forcing his right leg into a figure four lock. Rob yelled as his leg was hauled at an unnatural angle.


"Feel how strong a waitress’s legs can be!" She mocked, cranking up the pressure, while Rob writhed, groaned, and swore. "A man who sits in a lorry all day is no match for an active waitress, is he? IS he?" Rachel insisted, exerting still more pressure on his right leg.


"No," Rob wailed.


At last she eased off, briefly acknowledging applause from the crowd, while Rob lay helplessly, haplessly, moaning in pain. She womanhandled him over, as if he were a bag of rubbish, so that he lay on his front. She crouched astride his ribs, linked her hands under his chin, and yanked him upwards in a classic camel clutch. Rob’s back was forced into a grotesque angle, while pain scorched his spine, ribs and neck. Rachel was a perfect combination of strength, balance and poise in the hold. Inaudible noises came from Rob as his chin was hauled ever higher, away from his body on the canvas. The back of his head felt the pliant loveliness of her breasts, and he thought, "However did we come to be doing this?" As if she read his thoughts, Rachel placed her hands on his face, and pulled his head back more firmly against those breasts, meanwhile wrenching him agonisingly in the "wrong" direction.


The strength ebbed out of Rob’s body. Rachel sensed this, and rolled over so she lay under his back, hooking his arms in a full nelson and trapping his legs under hers. She was forcing his neck in the opposite direction from the camel clutch, inflicting pain on its remaining unaffected tendons and sinews. Meanwhile her feet exerted pressure on his still painful groin.


Rob went limp. Rachel calculated that he was as good as unconscious, released the hold, and moved to pin him by the chest to obtain the three count. But he had deceived her. While she was still working to consolidate the pin, he swung his legs up violently and propelled her in a backward somersault. Grabbing her hands as she flew, he stood up and lifted her onto his shoulders in a back breaker. 


Rachel cursed her over-confidence, and her under-estimation of him. She forced herself not to panic. His left hand held her under her chin, his right by her left thigh. But he neglected her arms. Her elbow now thundered into his temple.  The blow disorientated him; she escaped the hold, landed on her feet, then leaped into the air to deliver a flying right kick to his head.


Rob was momentarily deafened because her foot landed on his left ear. He could hear roaring, but nothing else, as he sank first to his knees and then onto his back. Rachel now made herself fall backwards heavily, aiming her elbow at his chest. Bulls-eye! Rob struggled to breathe.


Rachel speedily turned so that she was lying across him. Hauling his right leg into the crook of her left arm, and his neck into the crook of her right arm, she moved to work him into a combination of pin and cradle hold. Astonishingly, given the punishment he had received, Rob managed to escape by kicking his left leg out. Rachel reached over to grab and stop him, but all she got was his shorts. She whipped them off anyway. This was war, and she would now do anything to gain advantage.


Perhaps it worked, because she was on her feet before Rob, and waiting for him to stand. Angry at the loss of his shorts, he blindly charged at her; she repelled him forcefully with a left kick low to the stomach. He doubled back in pain, and Rachel followed up by turning away from him, hooking his neck in her arms, and slamming him onto the canvas in a neck breaker.


Many in the crowd winced as Rob could be seen to bounce off the canvas. Rachel seized him by the neck again onto his knees, and forced him into a sleeper. What with the pain in his chest, the kick to the stomach, and the recent neck break and slam, Rob passed out with this latest assault. This time he was not "putting it on", and Rachel let him go, to slump onto his back. She smiled broadly while the crowd cheered.


It gave her a little time to recover some energy too. Seeing him stir some moments later, she sat on the canvas, grabbed both his thighs, and manipulated his body so that his head was facing down between her legs, on the canvas, and his backside pointing into the air. It was an ungainly sight, but it inflicted severe pain on his neck, back and thighs.


Possibly the humiliation was too much for Rob, or perhaps it was the pain. But he managed to swing enough weight onto his back, so that the momentum carried Rachel down with it. He now broke free and stood up. But Rachel wasn’t going to let the advantage slip away from her. She sensed victory, and it inspired her to even greater effort.  She leapt at his back. Hooking her hands around his chin, with her knees in his back, it was her turn to use momentum, to propel them back down again and inflict a severe back breaker on him. As Rob groaned, she slipped out from under him, and brought her right knee down on his face, connecting savagely with his left eye.


Rachel once more attempted an ambitious pin/cradle, grabbing his neck in her left arm, and his right thigh in her right arm. Perhaps it was one of the moves she hadn’t perfected, because Rob was again able to escape. But he had been slowed down considerably by her punishment, and once again she was on her feet waiting for him. He struggled to his feet – and was met by a cruel right kick in the groin. Rachel, like the crowd, was amused because he now had an obvious erection, presenting an even better target.


Rob staggered and swayed. Rachel jerked his head between her thighs and forced both his arms back, hooking them in hers, in a superb pedigree.


"So losing to your wife turns you on, does it?" she taunted. "From now on, instead of aerobics Wednesday nights, I’ll just beat you up in the living room. What do you say?"


He might not even have heard though, because the pain again gave him a roaring sensation in the ears. His neck and shoulders couldn’t take much more. They seemed to be engulfed in some molten liquid.


Now what was she doing? He was once again off his feet, his arms still secured agonisingly by hers, his neck still trapped in those hypnotic thighs. In fact it was a reverse neck breaker that she held him in, but technicalities were becoming irrelevant. (Oddly, too, the closer he got to defeat, the more his erection seemed to increase.)


The scene now resembled slapstick comedy. Rachel stood Rob up like a statue, turned away from him and, cupping his chin behind her, dragged him round the ring as if he were a rather heavy piece of furniture. Then she turned him to face the same direction, and repeated the action, before slamming him to the canvas.


Not letting up for a moment, she hooked his neck in the crook of her elbow, yanked him half up, then crashed him back down on the canvas again, in a brutal piledriver. She rounded it off with an elbow strike on his head.


She stood by her slumped husband, grabbed him by the hair, and partially raised him, before up-ending him into a head scissors. She secured him by holding his thighs. 


When you have carried trays loaded with plates of food in both hands, you learn to balance, and her waitressing experience paid dividends, as she held Rob in the air, his neck squeezed in her thighs.  Adjusting the hold, she moved him so that his legs pointed upwards, and she now held him by the stomach.


Grinning wickedly, Rachel curled the fingers of her right hand around his mighty erection. With exquisite timing, she executed a variation of the piledriver, still with his neck sandwiched between her thighs, while her hand brought him to orgasm at exactly the moment he hit the canvas for the last time. 


Rob shuddered several times, as his amused wife looked on. When his eruptions ceased, she held him by the chest on the canvas for the three count. This time there was no doubt: he was out cold. The crowd roared with delight, as Rachel raised one arm in triumph, while she pointed with the other hand at the mess (literally) of her husband.
 

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