Mixed boxing, 310 pictures 1920x1080 (FullHD), partially CFNM, no blood.

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Women’s equality has advanced greatly since the 1960s, ‘70s and ‘80s. The first "burn your bra" crusaders (because they had nothing to put in them anyway) "progressed" to the women who wore dungarees and tried to look like lumberjacks in the ‘80s. To be a young man in those days wasn’t much fun – the girls were encouraged to wear dirty khaki, have their hair cropped short, and look as if they’d just crawled out from under a car’s engine, if they wanted to be "liberated". 

Now, it is much more subtle – indeed, feminine. Instead of looking like some brick layer early in the morning after he’d drunk a gallon of Guinness the night before, women have rediscovered the art of competing with men while looking like women. It invariably yields greater rewards. If some heap of a person wearing overalls challenges a man over something, he’ll probably set out to prove them wrong. But if a pretty lady does it gently – well she’s almost certainly going to win. So who has the greater liberation? The abominable, sweaty pile in denim, or the demure, trim woman with the soft approach?

This has been proved true in every human activity. Even boxing is no exception. Take Italy’s Andrea Isabella Maldini, "The Gladiatrix", for example. She had been brought up in a poor quarter of Naples. She was the youngest child among five brothers, and she learnt to fight from an early age – she had to. Children, especially siblings, seldom make allowances when they want to dominate. As she was strong-willed, the only way to contest it was to fight. On the other hand, Mama always insisted on her learning traditional feminine skills, and how to look pretty with enough cheap material and a needle and thread.

Indeed, so well did Mama teach her that she got a job in a dressmaking shop when she was 16. She moved into a small flat above the shop, and produced marvels for women and girls. But the Mafia got to hear about the business doing well, and they sent an enforcer round to demand protection money. Andrea recalled her childhood days, and sent him back to the Mafia limping, wounded, and with no money. They despatched another enforcer, a known bruiser. He returned with his face all puffed up, and in various shades of grotesque colours. He, too, came back penniless. They left the shop alone after that.

The neighbours thought it no end of a joke, and some suggested Andrea try her hand at boxing. There was much more money in it than dressmaking (though the Mafia was interested in that as well), and women’s boxing was still quite a novelty. So, at just 18, she left the shop and took a flat in a different part of the city where the night life was. She was a natural at boxing, and soon became the local women’s champion (though there weren’t many of them).

Unofficially she began to challenge men. She loved fighting them! It was so different from fighting a woman. They just didn’t know how to act. Most of them decided they should "go easy", and she found the best thing was to belt them good and hard while they were still in that frame of mind. She discovered how important it was to look good too. She loved the leotards that were available for women. If you beat a man, she learnt, it’s that much more humiliating for them if you look desirable. She had to buy a bigger wardrobe, since she went leotard shopping the way other women go handbag or shoe shopping.

News came of the Mixed Championship, and of Tanya "The Man-Tamer", so Andrea’s club set up an unofficial mixed championship for Naples. Many a man left it embarrassed! Then, in the boxing underworld, word got around that Mark "The Hitman" Anderson was trying to make a comeback after his defeat to Tanya. She herself was in temporary retirement from boxing, and the mixed boxing headquarters moved to Naples, where it was growing in popularity. Indeed, with Tanya out of contention for the time being, the title of Mixed Boxing Champion passed to Andrea, due to the amount of men who left the gym sore, dejected, and determined to move out of the neighbourhood. 

It was clear to Mark that if he really did want to get back into any sort of boxing league, he would have to win the Mixed Boxing Championship title first. A challenge was sent to Naples, and accepted.

The whole district was alight with excitement! Hitherto the championship had been a semi-official and local affair. Now, a recognised former professional male boxer was travelling from England to challenge the local girl for the title. Needless to say, everyone supported the local girl, especially the women. Many men still found the concept of women fighting men difficult to come to terms with. 

Andrea and Tanya were in regular contact, and Tanya resolved to travel to Naples to support her, with a few other members of the women’s club.

"Let’s have a look at you," insisted Tanya, entering Andrea’s dressing room just before the fight. "Lovely! Look as if you’re at a fashion parade, and fight as if you’re in the roughest backstreets."

"That’s where I learnt to fight."    

*****

"Are you nervous, Tanya?" Pamela asked her, as they waited for the contestants to appear. "You’re fidgeting."

"I’m always nervous when one of my friends is in a match. As for you, Pammy" - Tanya glanced reproachfully at her – "you’re giving me grey hair with yours coming up. Anyway here comes Mark. I can’t make up my mind – would you say he was strutting or swaggering?"

"Arrogant sod, isn’t he?" replied Pamela. "We’d never guess you had him in tears."

Mark certainly seemed full of confidence. It didn’t reflect the muted applause he received. He paraded up and down the ring, and certainly looked in good shape. Even Tanya and Pamela grudgingly conceded that.

"Bellissima!" the crowd began to roar, "Bella!" Tanya, Pamela and the girls craned their necks, and saw feminine confidence now. Andrea seemed to glide towards the ring. She waved attractively to some followers, and then joined Mark. When they were both ready, the referee introduced them. Those in the crowd facing them noticed Mark wince and Andrea smirk when she announced, "Defeats, one" for Mark. Naturally Andrea mentioned it when they exchanged a few words before the fight began. 

But the crowd didn’t have long to wait. The ref signalled for it to begin and stood aside. All conversations stopped abruptly; the contestants adopted a fighting stance, and began to circle each other. Mark struck with a right; Andrea deflected with her right arm. Then she was in at him with her left, and a jab caught his right eye. It was hard enough to make him recoil, and his eye was likely to trouble him after that. If she got it again, he’d be in trouble. He responded with a right cross, but she’d seen it coming and ducked underneath it.

Andrea darted back up while he was still following through, and stung his mouth with a left hook. The crowd heard the smack of her glove as it made contact. But Mark seemed to draw inspiration from it, and replied with the same punch, to the dismay of most of the crowd. Still, Andrea was resilient, and replied with a right uppercut. Mark did more than just recoil from this. For a moment he almost lost control and fell. His back arched and he staggered, searching for concentration and stability. 

Fortunately for him they returned, and he fired back with a punishing right hook. He certainly was in good shape. When he struck it was frighteningly powerful, and he had Andrea on the ropes with that blow. One more like that should finish her off, he thought. But she barged into his train of thought, and his stomach, with a low right. It was the perfect defensive riposte, and it drove him back a couple of paces. The ref called the end of the round.

Tanya breathed out hard. "I thought he had her there, for a moment, didn’t you?" she asked Pamela.

"Yes. I’d rate her right to his stomach from off the ropes the punch of the match so far."

"So would I. But I’d be happier to see her throw some more attacking punches."

The next round began in a similar way to the previous one. After some probing on both sides Mark attacked, this time with a right uppercut. But there was little thought or timing behind it, and Andrea avoided it easily. He tried again; but his straight left bounced off Andrea’s protective left glove. Similarly, his subsequent straight right.

"It’s good defensive stuff," commented Tanya, "and he’s using up a lot more energy than she is. All the same, if one of those punches got home … here we go again, and the same with his left."

A left hook from Mark fared no better. In fact the ref signalled the end of the round with not one punch having landed. Many in the crowd began to be distracted. To be fair, both Mark and Andrea were dissatisfied - he’d just hit out and missed all the time, and she had been restricted to responding, while never taking the initiative. 

For the third consecutive round, Mark opened the attack, and this time he broke through. A left jab momentarily stunned Andrea; he exploited his advantage and followed up with a solid right cross. Andrea retreated to stop herself from falling. While she was still trying to recover, she was struck by a left hook. She tottered towards her left; then a right hook had her lurching in the opposite direction. 

In the crowd, Tanya shook her head – then raised her arms as Andrea replied with both fists, her left coming in at Mark’s kidneys, and her right homing in on his jaw. She drove home the assault on his kidney with another quick left.

Mark struck again. He misled Andrea with a right feint, while with his left he punished her kidney area. She was in the corner now, doubling up. Tanya bit her knuckles in distress, and her anxiety increased as Mark successfully repeated the stroke with his right. 

This time there was no effective defence. Mark pressed home his advantage with a left hook; then a right cross had Andrea on the canvas. Tanya, Pamela and the girls sat in silence, as indeed did much of the crowd. The ref started to count. About half the crowd hoped that Andrea wouldn’t get up before 10, not because they wanted Mark to win, but because they didn’t want to see her hurt any more. Among them, privately, was Tanya. But up she got, nevertheless. She collected her senses and mastered the pain stoically, the epitome of defiance as she waited for the next round to start.

She didn’t have long to wait, and Mark came out full of bounce after his successful previous round. He went straight for the kidney area again with his left, scoring significantly. But Andrea fought back, and caught him a nasty one on his right ear with her left. Then she spun her right into action, and a hook caught Mark in his left eye, making both his eyes now vulnerable. He responded with a straight left to Andrea’s abdomen. The crowd couldn’t be sure if she had doubled up or absorbed it – but all doubts were dispelled as she crashed home a right cross at his jaw. The first cheers of the match arose from the crowd. The local girl was attacking!

First a left hook, then a right cross had Mark in trouble. The gloved fist roared in his left ear, instantly distorting all other sounds, before muffling them. But he wasn’t going to relinquish the match without a contest, and he scored well with another left hook. However Andrea fought back savagely to retain the initiative. A full-throated cheer erupted from the crowd, as she delivered what can best be described as a good old-fashioned punch in the eye. It owed far more to a past spent around the docks of Naples than it did to boxing tuition days, poring over the Queensberry Rules. Her right fist landed plumb in his left eye, rendering it useless for the rest of the match, while the other one was damaged.

Inspired by the cheers, Andrea now smacked home a left cross, bang on his chin. Doubts went through Mark’s mind as he stepped back. He’d worked hard, and had got his confidence back. How was this happening? God that hurt! She’d just struck low at his stomach with her right. Now she was in again with her left.

What the-? An uppercut came as if from nowhere, and Mark questioned out loud how this could be happening after all the work he’d put in. Andrea’s reply, that he should have stuck to fighting men, brought laughs among the women who could hear, and more cheering and encouragement. Her onslaught wasn’t just relentless, it increased in intensity. With apologies to ABBA, some female voices began singing "You are the punching Queen!"

Now a cross. Then an alternating one. Next a stomach blow. After that the chest. Mark was on the ropes.

"Dagli un pugno!" shouted one woman above the others.

"Very well," thought Andrea, and she did just that, causing Mark to land unceremoniously on his back.

"Grazie, bravo!" yelled the woman.

"Well when in Rome, or near enough," said a grinning Tanya to her friends, "join in!"

Andrea raised her arms in triumph, but Mark denied her that particular moment of victory. He struggled up and assured the ref that he wanted to continue. "Very well," thought Andrea, resolving to despatch him forthwith.

A dead straight left rocked him backwards. Then a right bludgeoned him further. Andrea even taunted Mark, getting him in a clinch, by calling for him to beg her to finish it now and put him out of his misery. All pride gone, he complied. Some men in the crowd began to shuffle and stir; others even left early. She now just picked the vulnerable points that she had already punished: the chin, the kidneys, back to the chin… Mark even struck back a couple of times, and even his detractors had to admire his spirit, but his was a forlorn case now. Andrea simply absorbed his efforts, that had no real bite to them by now. A flurry of hooks, an uppercut, crosses, then a last savage right hook, robbed the hapless man of his senses and consciousness. He was counted out.

It had become a tradition for the victorious female to humiliate the defeated male, and Andrea was nothing if not a conservative. So off came Mark’s shorts. To female laughter it was revealed that, sure enough, he had the "defeat boner". Just to emphasise her supremacy, Andrea first of all punched him while he was on his knees, in case he got other ideas. Then she dolloped the humiliation on by the tablespoon! She made him kiss her champion belt and her boots. After punching him some more, she insisted on (or invited?) a kiss on her arse.

A flying punch despatched him onto the canvas one last time, before a ritual grovelling, best described in the pictures.