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Mixed Battles
Deathmatch
Product Details
Бренд:
Hardcore
Уникальный код:
F-931
Mixed fighting freestyle, 350 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), completely CFNM, bloody action.
Elite military forces have their own rules and rituals. They are far removed from Army discipline. On the other hand, much more is expected of each individual soldier. So while they may be spared what many felt to be the monotonous routine of the parade ground, they are expected to cover long distances in inhospitable terrain, then fight at the end of it. Among the essential rations are always “pep” pills, for when they have had precious little sleep over several days.
Mercenary elite soldiers don’t even have the distant restraint of any country’s laws of engagement. Misfits from their own countries’ Armies, they are little more than armed criminals. One such unit was operating in deepest jungle, with their “HQ” in a clearing. They were about to undergo their most grisly ritual: the deathmatch.
If a soldier performed badly on active service and put his comrades in danger, he had to fight the likeliest recruit into the force, naked, as in the days of Ancient Greece. Against all the rules of civilised standards, the fight would be to the death. There was a practical reason for this: the unit couldn’t afford for one of its soldiers to leave and take its secrets with them.
Private Johnson had given away his unit’s position on a raid, by accidentally firing his rifle while they were crossing a bridge in the dark. So now he had to face Recruit Amy in the ring. Women didn’t have to fight naked. They could wear what passed for a uniform.
In Amy’s case, this was a camouflage leotard, although it did little to camouflage her large breasts. She designed it herself, to distract and disconcert a male opponent. A generous gap in the material plunged as low as the top of each areola, encircling a granite-hard nipple, excited at the prospect of combat. Modesty was only just obtained by the thinnest of intimate covering, while at the back there was virtually nothing to cover her tight, round buttocks.
“You’re late,” she accused Johnson, as she waited for him in the makeshift ring, leaning against a corner post. “Don’t you know it’s bad manners to keep a lady waiting?”
“I’m sorry ma’am,” he played his part after climbing into the ring, and kissed her proffered hand.
“Well now,” she said, stroking him under the chin. “You’re the idiot who let off a shot and gave our position away, aren’t you? By the end of today, I’ll have your place in the unit and you’ll be dead.”
“Bit over-confident, aren’t you?” Johnson replied as they bowed to each other. “I mean to keep that place,” he affirmed, raising his fists in sync with Amy.
He fired a right cross, but she was up instantly to block it. She swayed out of the way of a left body shot, long auburn hair waving (in direct contravention of formal Army rules). She stayed close enough to seize his arm in her left hand, and pull him into a back punch to the face, her smart MMA glove affording him no protection at all.
Keeping a hold of his left arm, she swung him round by it until he fell on his front. Then she knelt over him on one knee, and twisted the arm behind his back. His comrades could hear his cries beyond the jungle vegetation that separated the ring from “HQ”.
Amy manipulated that arm mercilessly before kneeling over his shoulder, hauling it up between her legs and locking it, half-scissoring his neck in her right leg for good measure. She smiled down at her cursing opponent.
“It should be every man’s dream,” she mocked, “having a woman above him, taking charge, and working away at his body! What’s the matter with you? Are you gay, or something? No wonder the others want you out of the unit!”
She felt him go limp. Pain and lack of oxygen, thanks to the scissor, had made him pass out. She stood up to stretch her fine limbs; then, seeing him stir, told him to get himself up.
“Well, aren’t you the fighter, just?” she taunted, hands on her broad hips, while he showed her his fists defiantly. “Whatever is a girl to do, faced with such a terrifying opponent?”
Johnson swept a right hook; she met it with her right arm, smiling at his wasted effort. She pulled herself back out of aim of an attempted left cross and responded with a chop to the neck. As he was still following through with the attempted punch, her unexpected blow to his neck knocked him down on his side, so she stamped on his right thigh, deadening that leg.
Amy dropped onto the downed man and wrapped her left arm around his neck in a choke. Next, kneeling behind him, she worked the choke into a sleeper, both arms imprisoning his head. Once again, she was draining him of oxygen. He felt giddy, even on the mat; then he felt … nothing.
Amy knelt beside him, checked his pulse and made sure he was still breathing. The fact is, her remorseless training had given her such strength that she could kill a man with the humblest, most basic of holds. But Johnson wasn’t dead, just unconscious.
Once again, seeing signs of movement in him, she was keen to resume the combat. She lifted his head with her foot. He got the message and started to get up, unpleasantly aware how much she had weakened him.
“Ah, dear, did she knock him out again, then?” she gloated, while he got painfully to his feet. “Well, if you will insist on playing with the big girls, what do you expect?”
Actually, it suited Johnson if she did spend a bit of time on the psychological stuff. He needed all the time he could get to regain his strength. He got up and faced her warily at the opposite side of the ring.
“Nervous?” she asked, when he failed to attack.
Yes, he was. The sight of her, with her lazy, easy confidence was, in its way, as frightening as that of a fanatical terrorist wielding a machete. She exuded pride and power. And danger.
“Come on,” she teased, “Come to Mummy! I don’t bite (well, except in fun).”
He launched a furious kick at her. Pivoting on his left foot, he kicked up with his right, broadside on. It came within a whisker of catching her face. For a moment, even Amy was disturbed at the closeness of her escape, as she took improvised action to avoid it. She was ready for his next one, however, and warded off another broadside one with his left, aimed at her body. She had even recovered her composure enough to remark that his feet needed a wash.
On the other hand, he had found some inspiration from somewhere, and when she attempted a right kick, he batted it away with his arm. The only trouble was, it was a feint, and she chopped his neck again while he was still congratulating himself. It stunned him, so she seized his ears as if she was trying to pull them off. His only defence was to grab her bottom with both hands. It was the worst thing he could do, because it distracted him and infuriated her.
She forced him down to his knees by his ears, then gouged his eyes with her thumbs. He howled, vainly trying to pull her writs away. When she withdrew, Johnson was temporarily blinded. He made an appalling mistake by getting to his feet; but then he couldn’t think straight because of the searing pain and his blindness. Too late did he understand his mistake when Amy kicked him in the balls.
Johnson lurched forwards. His hands reached protectively to his balls, so she put him in a headlock and banged her right knee into his stomach. Being fit, he had worked hard on making his stomach impervious to attack – but nothing could withstand that. While he was trying to absorb the pain, he got her left knee in his balls.
Then the right one. Amy had received imprisonment for fighting like that during training for the Army; in her present unit it was merely considered a way of defeating your enemy. Because that’s what these two were, rather than opponents.
Johnson was incapacitated. Normally, he might have been able to evade Amy’s next move. Now he didn’t even know it was coming. She gave herself room, then sprang from her right foot for a flying left knee to the balls. Leaping into the attack once more, she scored the bullseye. Johnson sank, wailing, to the mat.
As he lay in the foetal position, Amy went for his body with her boot. When he tried to get up, she switched to his head. He fell onto his front, but her kicking and stamping continued, targeting his face and neck.
At last, she relented – at least with her feet. Dropping to her knees, she pulled him up by his wrists for what is best described as a kneeling head scissor. Just letting him feel the potential power of her firm thighs, she proceeded to squat over his shoulders, trapping both his arms in her legs in a type of full Nelson, meanwhile pulling him up by his ears.
Amy moved down his body until she sat on the small of his back. Grabbing him under the chin with both hands, with his arms now stuck between the tops of her thighs and her rib cages, she improvised a camel clutch while keeping the effects of a full Nelson.
Not content with this for long, she left the work under his chin to her left hand, while gouging his eye and nose with her right. True, this was to be a fight to the death. But she seemed to relish inflicting the maximum amount of pain on the way there. Why not just kill him, when she got the chance to, and win the coveted red beret of the elite unit there and then? Oh no, she wanted to enjoy herself, in her own way, before that.
Stretching her feet out in front of him, and pulling him up by the hair, Amy switched to a front head scissor. Yes, she had recently given him a taste of what to expect from her legs, and now she went full throttle with them. Crossing her feet over, she squeezed his neck with those wondrous thighs of hers.
This was all very well, but she wanted to see his face, and she wanted him to see her face. So she used the scissor to flip him onto his side. Supporting herself on her right hand, and looking down at him, she head scissored him from side on. As he struggled to breathe, Johnson looked up and saw her smiling down at him. Even as he felt his strength ebbing away, he thought it just wasn’t right that someone with such a pretty face, framed in feminine auburn hair, could be capable of inflicting such misery.
But then she grew tired of seeing his face. It reminded her of an annoying young man she used to beat up about once a month before she joined the Army. What was his name? Todd, that was it. Oh no, not that little creep; turn round Amy! She sat beside him, propped up by her right hand again, and scissored him from behind. It wasn’t going to take much more before he passed out anyway. Sure enough, she felt him go limp.
She stood over him and savoured winning the third fall in a row. That’s the way you treat a man, she thought. Yes, but she still hadn’t won the ultimate prize, and she was soon tapping his face with her boot to bring him round. When he stirred, she grabbed his hair and pulled him to his feet. When she judged him to be fully awake, she hurled him into a corner and banged his head against the post.
It didn’t quite knock him out, but it dazed him and he slumped in the corner, only just held up by the ropes. Amy stood and looked at him, hands on hips, like an avenging ancient warrior Goddess.
Once more judging Johnson to have recovered just enough to be able to stand freely, she gripped his shoulder and led him to the middle of the ring, smiling slightly at the thought of what she was going to do next. He didn’t have long to find out. While he was still trying to gather in his senses, she smacked him in the ear with a left hook. He staggered and stooped, momentarily disorientated again, so she was able to punch downwards. She got him on the jaw with a blistering right cross.
Anyone with a slight squeamishness would surely turn away at what she did next. She kicked him in the mouth, drawing a copious amount of blood. Buoyed up by its obvious success, she fired her other, left foot at his jaw, drawing more blood. It threw him against the ropes, so she pinned him there with a super kick. Pivoting on her left foot, she kicked back with her right, catching his chin. Back in the clearing, the soldiers of the small unit exchanged knowing glances as they heard his cry of agony.
Only Amy heard the next sound, however, a long sigh of despair as he slid down the ropes, to end up slumped on the mat with the bottom rope propping him up by his arms. She stood and regarded him for a few moments, like a craftsman pleased with the progress of his work.
Then she was grabbing him by the hair again. She raised him to a crawling position, then kicked him in the balls from behind. The sound of his howls drifted towards the men in the clearing, and they all silently guessed correctly where he had been injured. Amy squatted over him while he was kneeling, clutching his balls, then snapped her legs shut in a standing head scissor, ominously holding his head in both hands.
Ominous, because only one of them could emerge alive from that ring, and she had him at her mercy. At the given moment, she twisted her hands and he was no more. She stood over him and was celebrating her murder when the commanding officer appeared, holding the prized red beret.
Amy saluted, accepted it, and placed it on her head. Then the two of them left the ring with its corpse, as nonchalant as if they were walking away from bus stop.
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