The Femdom Gym

Every now and then, a man needs to be sent to the femdom gym. His wife notices the giveaway signs – thinking for himself, perhaps even diverging from her viewpoint – and she books him an appointment. Once there, he must face one of the feared female wrestlers for a "resubmission session". He must be naked, while she is clothed, and because she is an expert in unarmed combat, the result is always the same – he leaves totally humiliated and subservient to the female sex once more.

Morgan had been tiresome at home lately. His wife had tolerated it for a while when he complained about always being the one who had to do the washing up and the general chores; but when he dared to suggest that, with 12 pairs of shoes she didn’t need another one, that was too much. It was none of his business how many pairs of shoes she possessed (or how much they cost).

When she dropped him off at the gym, he was in a rebellious mood. That was good. The women had to earn their money, and what was the point of sending a man to the femdom gym who was submissive already? The lady who was scheduled to wrestle him back to sense was "Evil Yvette". (They all had names like that, and when Morgan asked sarcastically if he could call her "Evil" for short, she turned her lip up and promised herself that he would get a personalised beating from her, not a mere professional one.)

These women were chosen for three "qualities", in no particular order: sexual attractiveness, if not outright beauty; a mean disposition; and prowess in wrestling. Yvette possessed all three, but it was the first of these that Morgan was acutely aware of, right from the start.

As they stood facing each other in the ring, she noticed with satisfaction the way his eyes seemed to devour her large breasts encased in her tight blue leotard. She nudged them against him – it never fails to disconcert a male opponent, as they taught all would-be resubmission wrestlers from the start. She even invited him to squeeze her bottom, as this was the closest he would ever get to enjoying her sexually. She was satisfied to hear him whimper with appreciation as he did it.

Yvette broke away and stared at Morgan. He stared back, then they locked up. Both were restrained, not giving too much away at first. Then gradually the pressure increased. Balancing well on their feet, each one would push a little harder in turn, probing the other’s stamina, only to be met with resistance. 

When Yvette noticed the veins beginning to stand out on Morgan’s forehead, she sensed he was close to breaking. She subtly exerted steadily increasing pressure. Stretching from her heels to her fingertips, she made him stumble. Instead of retreating in good time, Morgan’s male pride made him stand his ground until the incoming tide of Yvette’s strength had him staggering. He felt himself going down, and grunted with effort to stem the relentless, remorseless power forcing him to the mat. 

Yvette stared down into his eyes. He looked away, only to gaze at her breasts, swinging a little with her quickened breathing. It didn’t help that they were now level with his eyes. His knees bumped painfully onto the mat; then Yvette’s boot banged excruciatingly into his balls. He wailed and dropped onto his backside. Yvette kept hold of his wrists and stood over his head, facing away from him. She forced him onto his back and stared down into his eyes once more.

"Surprised are you, moron (sorry, Morgan)?" she sneered. "You shouldn’t be," she answered for him. "Of course I was able to bring you down. All the women here are very well paid because of their strength, and we delight in overpowering idiots like you." 

Still gripping his wrists, she knelt so she was straddling his head. She enjoyed the sight of him struggling for breath while she face-sat him. 

"Because you have been an idiot, haven’t you, moron?" she continued. He made some incoherent sound in an attempt to reply, because he was engulfed in her flesh. 

Getting up, she stretched over him, supporting herself on her hands while she faced the ceiling, then placed her thighs around his neck. She didn’t exert any pressure with the head scissor yet, but chose to continue with the psychology a little longer.

"Do you know where a woman’s greatest strength is, moron?"

"Definitely not her brain," the rebel in Morgan replied.

"Cheeky bastard, you’ve done it now, my lad," she hissed. "A woman’s greatest strength is … HERE." Yvette concluded by demonstrating with a constriction of his neck in her thighs.

Morgan tried ineffectually to prize himself free, but his hands were no match for her legs, especially in the position she had put him in. As he was unable to move his neck, his eyes were fixed looking up and along her body: first at her trim waist, then her hypnotic breasts, rising and falling while she applied herself to the task of gripping him in her powerful thighs. 

Changing position so she sat across him while maintaining the head scissor, Yvette locked his left arm in the crook of her left arm for good measure. She raised her right index finger, predicting that she would soon knock him out for the first fall. Scores of men succumbing to her wrestling skills provided her with the signs of their imminent collapse. 

But as it turned out, Morgan had more resilience than most, so she dug a little deeper into her armoury of scissors. (She was very proud of that armoury; indeed, some of her colleagues would go to her, begging her to teach them some variations.) 

So now she lay on her back with her legs in the air, crossed over at the ankles, with Morgan’s neck lodged – wedged – in her versatile thighs. She locked his arms behind his back, then applied herself to the task of pulling him towards her by his wrists while pushing him away from her with her thighs. His bones, nerves and tendons in his back, neck and shoulders creaked and complained as she exploited the ugly position she had put him in. At the same time, her thighs steadily restricted his oxygen intake by gradually increasing the power of the scissor. 

Nope, he still wouldn’t pass out. Never mind, she had more scissors to work through, and it was quite rewarding to work on an opponent who didn’t give up in the first hold. On the other hand, she had weakened him, so she was able to haul him onto his front, to apply what she called her "sun lounger scissor", because her position reminded her of relaxing on a warm day out in the sun.

Quite what Morgan’s position made him think of, we can only guess. Sitting back on the mat, Yvette supported herself on her left hand, while her right arm locked Morgan, on his front, around his waist. She crossed her legs just below the knees, with his neck stuck once more in her thighs. Again, she used them to do two things: to pull his neck up, camel clutch-style, and to squeeze it in the scissor.

"And round we go!" she cried, spinning him up and over within her thighs. "Whoosh! It’s better than a fairground!" 

She had used the scissor to turn him into another ungainly position, on his knees with his backside in the air and his neck inevitably trapped in its usual place. 

Next came her "push up scissor". Resting on her hands, as in a push up, Yvette turned 45 degrees at the waist to encase his neck once more. The push up pulled him up by the neck, while his manhood was pushed painfully against the mat. His stifled moans and odd sounds showed how effective this hold was. 

She tried out her "spring scissor", so called because she used her hands and arms that supported her behind to spring her opponent while she scissored him. Propping herself on her hands, she formed the letter "T" over his body, then sprang him up and down a little to increase his discomfort. After a while, though, she chose to concentrate just on the scissor and amuse herself watching his agonised face and pitiful attempts to free himself. 

Recently, the scissors she adopted had required a lot of dexterity from her. Now she chose a more leisurely one (for her, at any rate). Still sitting across him, she supported herself on her right hand while scissoring him in her crossed legs. It’s funny, but the scissor which required the least amount of effort from her was the one which finally did for him. But then, the effect of them on him had been incremental, and he finally passed out.

Yvette stood over her slumbering opponent and pointed at him, saying "At last!" to herself. But it didn’t take him long to come round, and he gamely started to get up, angry to have been defeated by a girl.

"What, up for more already?" demanded a rather surprised Yvette.

"Bloody right, bitch!" Morgan fired back, moving to grab her. He failed and she warily awaited his next move.

He struck furiously with an attempted left body punch. She swerved out of its path, then went the other way to escape his right, which passed over her shoulder. As he followed through, she seized his head in both hands and banged her left knee into his stomach.

"You want to fight this way, do you?" she demanded, as he coughed and wheezed. "Okay then," she added, driving her other knee upwards into his chest, "I like a bit of good-fashioned old street fighting myself," she finished, after setting his chest on fire.

Morgan, full of equal amounts of pain and rage, hurled his right fist towards her face; she shouldered it away and drove her left fist, hard and low, into his stomach.

"I love my job!" Yvette crowed, her fist sending waves of numbing pain throughout his middle.

"You’re not normal … ah, SHIT!" Morgan yelled as she hook-kicked him on the right jaw. Her boot overlapped onto his neck, stunning him. 

In a way, Morgan was right: she wasn’t normal. None of the women were who worked at the femdom gym, and they were paid very well for not being normal. Their job was to humiliate a man and to destroy his independent spirit; if they enjoyed doing it, so much the better.

Yvette took advantage of Morgan’s stunned state. Pivoting on her right foot, she kicked back with her left into his temple and ear, compounding his condition and driving him backwards onto the ropes.

She pinned him to them with a second back kick into the stomach. She got him higher up than her previous punch to the stomach, so fresh waves of pain travelled downwards, to overtake those which were just beginning to subside.  

"Remember what I said about a woman’s greatest strength being in her legs?" she asked nastily, while emphasising the point with a super kick hammering upwards into his head. But the question may well have been lost on Morgan, who was thoroughly dazed by the onslaught. Dazed and downed, in fact, since he tumbled in a heap onto the mat.

She was on him instantly, her left fist drumming into his right side. He instinctively rolled round to protect it, instead catching one to the jaw. It put him flat on his back, a sitting duck of a target. 

Yvette helped herself. Standing over him, she hurled her left fist into his jaw, spinning his head to the side. All fights in the femdom gym are filmed, both to advertise the gym to women who wanted to discipline their husbands, and as a warning to wayward men. The camera picked up Yvette’s sexy round bottom swaying slightly as she bent down to deliver the punch. As a bonus, the camera to the side showed off her beautiful breasts too, pointing down at her victim. "What a great advert!" thought the gym owner later, as she viewed the footage.

"Thinking of going somewhere?" Yvette asked Morgan as he stirred on the mat, pushing him back down with her left boot. When he got up a second time to a sitting position, she kicked him mercilessly in the chest, and the back of his shoulders hit the bottom rope. 

"I think I’ll join you," she told him. Holding onto the top rope with both hands and facing inwards, she sat on his face, both to finish him off and for a little self-indulgence.

But there wasn’t much time for that, because Morgan passed out. Well, after what he had endured, it’s not surprising! He came round slumped against the bottom rope in a corner. Yvette stood ominously with her right boot on his manhood.

"So, any more cheeky remarks to make about women?" Push went her foot.

"Ahh, no."

"Are you sure?" she demanded, with a harder push.

"Ahh, please … Yeeeessssss!"

"Good, and don’t let me see you here again," she finished, walking abruptly away.