Mixed wrestling, 300 pictures 1920x1080 (FullHD), completely CFNM, some blood exists.

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It was a well-known policy at Guantanamo Bay to use female soldiers to guard terrorist prisoners. These prisoners had a fundamentalist view of women. Many had multiple wives, and they expected women to dress "respectfully" (that is, cover up with even their eyes obscured); nor were they expected to express opinions, or indeed speak unless they were spoken to. Detainees regularly witnessed female officers giving orders to lower-ranking male soldiers. It was done to instil the fact of their defeat and capture into them, and to sap their morale.

One female police cadet, Andrea, aspired to become a member of the elite Special Forces, and she now found herself at the camp. She had passed every test and exam so far, and in an interview with her assessor, was now assigned her last task: she was to fight a prisoner, known as "Prisoner X", literally to the death. She now sat and regarded her assessor who was talking to her.

"This prisoner is on death row. He’s a mass-murdering scumbag, and he’s going to be executed anyway. You are to fight him, and if you win, shoot him with this revolver. If he wins ..."

"Quite."

"You don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to," her assessor assured her. Your record as a police cadet is an unblemished one, and you could walk into a good job with the police any time. But if you want to become a member of the US Special Forces, you have to do it. You are entitled to 24 hours to decide."

"I’ve already decided, thank you, and I understand what this all means. I’m ready to do it now.

"Good. Here’s the revolver. It fits nicely into your tunic. It’s your assignment, and from now on you must do everything as you see fit. No options or advice will be given by me. Good luck. Dismiss."

"Prisoner X" was in a wire mesh cage, supported by steel pillars. Outside the cage was a locked perimeter where guards entered from the rest of the camp, and Andrea appeared in this, wearing a small handbag on her shoulder, and carrying a stool. She put the stool on the floor and sat on it, crossing her long, shapely legs. She opened the handbag and brought out a small make-up kit, which she opened and began to use. She was starting the fight in her own, subtle, way.

"Good morning, Mustafa."

"That’s not my name!" he yelled.

"But it’s what the women all call you here. It’s a bit of a joke, because in English it sounds like ‘Must have a’, and then they end it with ‘Wank’, because you’ve been without sex for so long."

"Filth! Offal! Scum!" shouted Mustafa, gripping the wire mesh with both hands and shaking the cage so that it made a noise like artificial thunder in a theatre.

"I suppose you think we American women are strange," Andrea mused, applying eye liner.

"I think you’re all whores!" he spat.

"But apart from that," she added gently, "I mean we like our equality with men, but we still like to be feminine. Which is why I enjoy making up my face."

"You mean to seduce someone by doing it! Who are you trying to seduce?"

"Certainly not you," she regarded him with distaste, before attending to the other eye lid. "No, we do everything on equal terms with men here."

"It’s wrong, it’s evil!" Mustafa shouted, going a little horse, and giving the cage a bit more punishment.

"Nonsense. It’s empowering. We work with men, we train just as hard as they do, and sometimes we even fight men on equal terms."

"I would not fight a woman! I would beat her though."

"If she let you. But going back to what I was saying, you probably find it odd that here am I claiming to be able to fight a man on equal terms, while making up my face like a girl in a beauty parlour."

"I vomit at such an idea!"

"Delightful. Oh, lovely! Bright red nail varnish, my favourite! Now, take your 4 wives, for example."

"What about my wives?" he demanded.

"We have them in the US now."

"No! They will never succumb to torture!"

"Don’t be silly, we don’t do that to innocent people. No, we’ve done something far more deadly to you."

"What?"

"We’ve given them their freedom, and they’re each of them training to earn an independent living."

"Noooooooo!" Mustafa howled, once more gripping the cage and shaking it. Suddenly he winced and looked at the palms of his hands. Andrea glanced and noticed a few spots of blood on the floor of the cage. So much the better if he was carrying a slight injury before the physical fight started; but better still if it could be a major one!

"Three of them have burnt their burqas, and the fourth has cut it up into squares. She says they make very good dusters and polishing rags."

"Never!" Mustafa gripped the cage yet again, and grimaced at the pain of his cut palms. He withdrew them and proceeded to kick the cage; Andrea watched with amusement as he now hopped up and down on his left foot, while nursing his right.

"Well that’s done," she concluded, regarding her nails with satisfaction and blowing on them lightly. Now, just a couple of warm-up exercises …"

"Why?"

"Oh, didn’t I tell you?" she asked, turning away from him, "You and I are going to have a fight." She bent down and touched her left foot with both hands, then swapped over to the right foot. "I’ve been looking forward to it."

But Mustafa was too intent on staring at her as she bent down and (deliberately) waved her bottom at him, while she touched her toes. She looked superb in her uniform! It was a navy blue police leotard, with dark tights and matching blue-and-white boots. She now turned round and did a few upper body exercises, so he could see her large firm breasts, tightly encased in her leotard, responding as she moved her body and arms both left and right.

"Guards!" she ordered, and in came six female soldiers. Two of them went to the far end of the cage, while four opened its gate. "Come on Wank," one of them said, as four strong hands gripped each of his arms and marched him backwards to the waiting two guards, who locked his wrists to the mesh.

Andrea now entered the cage. One of the four women glanced at her, and she nodded, looking away; the soldier traced her finger along Mustafa’s cock, making him roar, before they marched out of the cage. "Wash your hands," instructed Andrea.

"Yes ma’am."

The two soldiers at Mustafa’s end of the cage released his wrists and joined their colleagues at Andrea’s end. They locked the cage gate and marched out of the perimeter.

"There," pronounced Andrea. "It’s better with just the two of us, don’t you think?"

Mustafa raised both fists and declared, "Very well, American whore, since we are to fight I will destroy you!" He roared a call to fight, glaring at Andrea with the bulging eyes of a fanatic. He looked as if he had the strength of a fanatic too. But Andrea was unmoved, and regarded him with displeasure.

"My God, your breath stinks," she observed, frowning. "There isn’t one redeeming quality to you, is there?"

With another roar, Mustafa launched into a flying kick. Andrea leant back, and avoided it; but Mustafa, quick to adjust, swung a huge uppercut, which Andrea again dodged by leaning backwards. She noted that although he wasn’t particularly accurate, he was dangerously strong. Defence was all very well, but if she misjudged …

Now he tried a standing kick with his left leg. Again Andrea swerved out of the way, warding it off with both forearms. This time he followed up with a straight right, which she blocked with her right arm. Now was her opportunity: with Mustafa still following through, she pivoted 180 degrees on her left foot, and back-kicked him savagely on the chin. It shot him backwards, and onto one knee.  Lithe as a panther, she spun into him while he was still reeling, hauled his right arm into an arm bar, and elbowed him in the stomach. He roared in pain.

Despite the fact that he was in pain, Andrea’s next, sudden move stimulated a different sensation in Mustafa. Still with her back to him, she inserted her left thigh between his legs, her upper thigh rubbing against his naked cock. He hadn’t known a woman intimately for months, and now those secular, satanic tights caused static, sexual, electricity to course through his body.  Whether that was her intention or not, it facilitated her manoeuvre by distracting him, and she had him up and over in a controlled throw, setting him up expertly for her favourite anaconda hold. She liked it because you could torment your captive and, with the crook of your elbow locking itself under their chin, they couldn’t answer back.

"You hate being overpowered by a woman, don’t you, Wank?" Andrea gripped Mustafa’s neck and head, with his left arm painfully trapped and his right arm helpless. "It’s all wrong to you, isn’t it? You think the man should always be dominant. Well I’ll tell you a secret – I love overpowering a man! I love dominating him! I enjoy it in sex too – but I wouldn’t with you, because you’re repulsive. There’s nothing better in sex than the woman going on top and making the man submissive!"

At length she relaxed the anaconda, and threatened to twist his neck. This was a mistake, because no matter how skilled she was, she would have to rely on more than her own weight to hold him down. Doing a sudden push-up, he surprised her and she fell to her side. He was on her instantly. Lying across her, he held her throat with his left hand, and her waist with his right. 

"You vile, filthy whore!" he shouted, glaring at her and gripping her jaw so it was her turn not to be able to speak. Now he pinned her, still across her on all fours. His voice rasped into her face (and his breath really did reek), "You talk about being dominant in sex. Well as I’m conveniently naked, you’re going to know what it’s like to be dominated! And as you’re already lying on your neat, round, pretty arse … Aaaagggghhhh."

He had made a similar mistake to Andrea. So intent was her on threatening her, and of his imminent rape of her, that he forgot to maintain his hold. She saw her chance. She violently spun her body round, forcing Mustafa off balance, stood on her hands and her right foot, and let him have her left foot full in the face.

It propelled him backwards, but it had the disadvantage of placing him on his feet while she remained crouched and vulnerable. He towered over her, preparing a huge left kick. As he launched it, Andrea did the splits, ducking underneath it, and elbowed him sharply in the balls, eliciting an agonised gasp from him. He stumbled in agony, falling to his knees; she jumped up and grabbed him in a head lock. She had his right arm and his neck trapped between her two arms, with her hands locked together. The pain shot like molten lead through his body. His mouth opened in a cry, but he could make no sound. She now turned, so that it became a dragon lock – pretty much the same as before, but with him facing away from her. His head was still locked, his right arm effectively in a half-Nelson, and his left arm helpless.

He was sliding involuntarily from a kneeling position onto his front, when Andrea violently jerked him onto his feet, forcing him into a dragon suplex. Both his arms were secured in right-angled stretches from his body, while his neck was locked horizontally. In an inspired piece of wrestling, she now shifted both their weights, working him over her body to complete the hold and throw. He was lifted off his feet backwards, and landed agonisingly on his neck and shoulders.

Effecting this move requires great strength in the calf muscles, and relies on speed to prevent the initiator, bearing the weight, being overwhelmed herself. Although Andrea engineered a perfect example, it took all her strength, because Mustafa was considerably heavier. Despite the pain he felt from it, he had been the passenger and not the one bearing the load, so he recovered more quickly from it. Sensing her weakening, he forced himself free, grabbed Andrea’s back through her legs with his left hand, her head in the crook of his right arm, and picked her up, aiming to body slam her.

But he was himself more weakened than he had thought. Andrea was light, but it took much more effort than it would normally have done to get her off the ground. He was shaking and unsteady, and his back, neck and both arms were already suffering pain; and Andrea was swiftly recovering. She pulled both their bodies backwards, then jerked forwards, as if she were diving. While Mustafa struggled to remain on his feet, bearing her weight, she attacked his eyes with her fingers, then swinging downwards, struck his jaw with her right knee, while her right hand grabbed his balls. He was forced, howling, onto his knees, and she maintained the pressure by sitting on his shoulders, and grabbing his chin with both hands in an improvised camel clutch.

When at last Andrea decided to let go, Mustafa sank onto his front. From her sitting position on his shoulders it was easy for her to change to a reverse head scissors, placing her hands either side of his body. She now employed her powerful, dangerous, feminine thighs, encased in those shimmering tights. The veins stood out on Mustafa’s forehead as her strong legs squeezed his neck. He began to choke and cough. This gave her an idea. There he was gasping, but he was facing away from her, and it was a waste. She wanted to humiliate him, so she swung her position round, and crossed her legs over his neck, so that his face was forced upwards to her sex.

Mustafa struggled, and uttered some sort of protest, which the lightly-clad flesh suffocating his face rendered inaudible. Very well, thought Andrea, we’ll try something else. Still hooking his neck with both her legs, she brought him up to his knees, worked him over onto his right side, released him, and kicked his face, then momentarily pinned his head to the floor with her foot.

Andrea moved to stand up, but Mustafa recovered much more quickly than she had anticipated. He was furious because of her sexual humiliation of him, and vowed vengeance. They faced each other, he on all fours, she kneeling, rather like cats. He lunged forward to grab her, and she responded with a back-handed slap to his face, promptly following it up with a return one. His head jerked obligingly at both stinging, burning blows.

First to her feet, Andrea kicked him with her right foot behind his left knee, before he had fully stood up. Bringing that foot back down, she now adroitly swapped legs, and back-kicked him in the face, as nimble and dainty as a ballerina, but as brutal as the seasoned fighter she was. He was so dazed by this that she had all the time to steady herself after it, and resume the onslaught with a frontal right kick to the chin, grabbing his right arm to perfect her aim. 

While Mustafa was still recoiling from that, she brought her left foot into play, bulldozing it into his stomach. He staggered, gasped and choked. Andrea stood back for a moment and watched him swaying. She had won, she knew that. She had been in enough fights, professionally and otherwise, to know when her opponent was beaten. The question was how to finish him off? The lady smiled and clenched her fists. No man can stand the thought of being knocked down by a woman’s punch, can he? Very well then …

Andrea struck him with a left hook. Mustafa grunted in pain, seemed as if he was going to topple over for a moment, but somehow remained on his feet. She was proud of her next punch. It took her back to the happy, carefree days of her street fights, away from all the formal training sessions and coaching manuals. It was a glorious straight right. The full-breasted, long-legged policewoman, in her leotard and tights, made the mass murdering terrorist cry with this punch. Through his tears he caught a blurred glimpse of a pretty, carefully made up face, as a polished red thumbnail flashed past his face encasing a fist.

But he was still on his feet. Andrea took a couple of steps back, and then leapt towards him, punching with her left as she went. She got him in the right eye, but that didn’t matter now. The point was that he was down on his front, and not going anywhere. She unzipped the pocket on her tunic and took out the revolver. Without saying a word, she despatched the terrorist, completed her final test, and got the job.