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Update: 07.10.2016

B-429 "Lifted and ballbusted"


           
Gallery size: 220 Full HD pictures


Mixed wrestling, lift and carry, ballbusting, 220 pictures 1920x1080 (FullHD), CFNM, no blood.

 

It was bound to happen eventually, people said after the event (as they always do). Ever since Sierra took up her husband, Derek’s, interest of wrestling, a rivalry had grown between them. At first he had encouraged her, and felt gratified that she joined him in his hobby. But she took to it so well that she started to embarrass him. Whereas he trained about twice a week, she wanted to train every night. Plus she was so competitive, always eager to have a bout. She became the women’s champion, but Derek hadn’t a hope of being the male champion. True, there were fewer women members of the club than there were men; but even so it rankled with him.


To make things worse, some of the other members of the club sensed some fun here, and liked to "stir things up" between the two of them. As usual, this increased when they went drinking.


"So how does it feel, Derek, being married to a wrestling champion?" Ian, the club’s irritant-in-chief asked him loudly one night, in front of all the others after several beers.


"I’m proud of her," stated Derek, trying to conceal his true unease.


"It must hit a bit of raw nerve, though, doesn’t it? I mean, bearing in mind your record and average?"


"No, not really," he lied. "It’s easier to excel at women’s level than men’s."


"What do you mean?" demanded Sierra, indignant.


"Well, we have about half the number of women members to male members, for a start."


"I know that," she persisted, "but why do you say ‘for a start’? The difference in numbers should be the only reason for success in women’s wrestling."


"I say ‘for a start’ continued Derek, growing truculent, "because men’s wrestling is more demanding."


"It is when you’re as unfit as you are!" she countered, glaring at him.


"Steady," one of their number, Josh, urged. "We don’t want to get thrown out of the pub."


"Why not settle it in the ring?" asked Ian, really hoping they would.


"I’m up for it," declared Sierra.


"All right, so am I," added Derek, "and to make it easier for you, I’ll carry a handicap."


"I don’t need you to do that," insisted Sierra, "So I’ll wear heels for my handicap. What are you going to do?"


"Fight nude!" urged Jackie, one of the women wrestlers.


"All right, I will!" Derek stated firmly. (The things people say when they’ve had a drink!)


*****


The club’s committee didn’t like it, as matches had always been strictly segregated, but there was such a clamour for the fight to go ahead that they were carried along with the tide. The event quickly sold out, even though it had been put on at extreme short notice, to avoid club members taking sides and causing bad feeling.  


"There’s no such thing as bad publicity" politicians tell us (when something embarrassing about them has been published), but the committee hated all the gossip and speculation in the local media. They were relieved when the fight came, although they feared the outcome. This could not be said of the crowd, who couldn’t wait for the action to start. Many of them had been drinking, which "lowered the tone of the event even further" according to the club secretary.


A roar went up as Derek entered the ring. He posed, raising his fists to cheers, and a little cat-calling from certain quarters, notably female. Then Sierra climbed through the ropes, and the cheering was even greater. There were some gasps too, because all she wore was a long sleeve fishnet leotard over a frilly black bra. She pointed at her husband posing, and laughed. This earned her more cheers, especially from some women.


"Ooh, what a big strong man, and I’m only a defenceless little woman!" she announced derisively to the crowd, who loved it.


"Now I’ll show you some real muscle!" she stated, changing tone, and walking up to Derek, whereupon she flexed her formidable right arm. Her bicep strained the flimsy material of her sleeve.


"It looks good, yes," Derek spoke for the first time, but I need no sleeve to exaggerate my muscles. Yours is false."


"Try it and see," Sierra invited him, and she swung her left fist suddenly into action. It cracked him massively under the jaw, and his feet left the canvas. The crowd as one sat up straight and stopped talking, while he met the canvas again with his shoulders.


Derek grunted at the pain in his shoulders – and then he was in the air. Sierra had swooped down on him and scooped him up. Kneeling, she held him upside down and above her, as if she was going to slam him. She rose, supporting his weight on her shoulder, while he flailed helplessly in the ether, bringing laughter from the crowd.


The indignity of it! She had him in a fireman’s lift, and marched around the ring, parading him to the (mostly) cheering crowd. Strutting around as she did, it was as if she always fought in elegant high heels. Derek roared in pain as she altered the hold to a backbreaker over her shoulders, one hand through his legs and the other one around his neck. His body was forced into an unnatural angle, and his spine was put under dangerous, agonising, pressure.


Now what? She was moving him back over her head, before holding him like a baby in front of her. She braced, steadied, then threw. Her husband sailed through the air, before crash landing on his back for a second time. The crowd, especially the women, yelled their appreciation, while a few men sat glumly silent.


Sierra stood over her husband, shouting at him to get up and flourishing her fists as if she was only just getting warmed up. She may have been, but she had inflicted some damage, and Derek rose to his knees and put his head in his hands. He sat, playing for time, but she was having none of it. Grabbing his hair she pulled him upright, turned him to face her, and kicked.


A dainty, feminine, high heeled shoe slammed into his balls, making a sickening slapping sound as it did, while the lights danced on the polished, ladylike, red nails encased in the expensive evening wear.  Once again Derek’s feet left the canvas, and the arena echoed to his yelp of pain. 


That was it. He landed on his feet, almost delirious with pain, and decided to flee. Boos and jeers arose as he made a run for the ropes. Sierra set off after him and pounced as he reached them. She landed on his back, piggy back style, engulfing him in her firm grip. Then she altered her hold and position to face him, while exerting ever-growing pressure around his ribs with her powerful arms. Derek’s head shot back, and those in the crowd facing him could see the pain on his face as she constricted him, though this time he made no sound. Then she lifted.


"She’s not, is she?" whispered a man to his male neighbour.


"If she is, it would make up for the kick he got earlier," the other replied.


Sierra had Derek sat on her shoulders, so that her face was level with his groin. From some angles it certainly looked as if she was making sweet amends for her earlier groin kick. But no. She slammed him on his back, and the arena could feel the vibrations as he landed. They were still subsiding when she picked him up again, marched to the very spot where he had made a dash for the ropes, and propelled him over them. She celebrated as her husband tumbled to earth, embarrassingly just in front of the front row of the crowd. 


"Get back in there!" someone shouted above him, as he struggled to his feet. He had no choice because his dressing room was on the opposite side of the stadium, and he couldn’t pick his way, stark naked, through a few thousand people.


"Here, let me help you," Sierra offered sarcastically as Derek reluctantly climbed through the ropes. She had him off his feet again for a few moments, then put him down in front of her, and for a second time brought her left fist into play. Her punch – another devastating uppercut – had him back down on the canvas again. With an effort, he got to his knees using the ropes in front of him, but she gave him no respite. One hand went through his legs and grabbed his balls while she raised him on her shoulder.


"Aaaagggghhhh!" shouted Derek as her hand went to work on his balls, to be joined by her other hand on his cock. He was sitting on his wife’s shoulder, while she fingered, probed and manipulated; one moment giving pleasure, the next inflicting pain. Then it was more marching round the four sides of the ring, firemen lift style, for the benefit of the crowd (and the further humiliation of her husband).


This wasn’t just humiliating, it was degrading, insulting. She held him above her head as if she was going to slam him, but thought better of it, and chose to exhibit him some more for the crowd. Women stood and cheered, while men looked away, or even shuffled out if they were near the exits. Some women "whooped" as Sierra had Derek suspended briefly in just one strong, reliable hand above her. Then she turned him over, using both hands, and made it look as if he were gliding over her head.


She held him like a baby again; she hooked him behind, over her head, and had him stretched out. At last, she let him down – and kicked him, high and rising, in the face. If he hadn’t been so stunned already, it would really have hurt. As it was, it was just one more wound to add to the countless ones – physical and mental – that she had already inflicted. 


Kneeling behind her beaten husband, Sierra now punched him in the balls through his legs. Now that was more than just one more wound! There were calls of "Stop the fight", followed by jeers and threats if anyone attempted to, as Derek first groaned then wailed.


"Oh come on, that’s too much!" the club secretary protested, as Sierra kept her punch "pose" in place, and lifted him literally by the balls, on her arm with her fist upraised in an unofficial victory salute to the crowd. She turned 360 degrees so everyone would get a view. After that she turned him to face away from her, still carrying him, and reverted to tormenting his manhood with both hands while her arms supported him by his legs.


Letting him down finally, Sierra kicked again. This time a dainty, exclusively priced, high heeled shoe smacked into his balls. She smiled as her husband cried out in pain, arms outstretched. But she kept her foot in place and, reminding the crowd that her legs were as strong as her arms, pushed with her foot under his balls, and his feet yet again left the canvas.


On landing, she assaulted him from behind, punishing his balls once again through his legs. Whether it was pain or force – or both – Derek fell. Once again Sierra was on him. She turned him over, and treated her hands to his balls. (Usually this would be written the other way round, but on this occasion the pleasure definitely belonged to the woman.) Even one or two of the women began to say "Enough", as she lifted him off the canvas by the balls. To show she could still do it, she raised him above her head again, keeping one hand on his balls.


Ultimately came the slam which people had expected, it seemed, a long ago. Sierra stood over Derek, seemingly broken, and acknowledged the crowd’s cheers and applause. But astonishingly he got up, and defiantly swung his fist. But it was only a gesture because he had no ability left to fight, and Sierra kicked him dismissively, contemptuously, in the balls one last time.


Now he was destroyed without a doubt. She stood with her foot on his beaten balls, fist raised in the traditional manner, and gloated at his defeat and her victory. The crowd joined her in approval, praise, and relief in some quarters.