Pleasing the Marquis 1

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Бренд: Rules for losers

Уникальный код: W-959

Mixed wrestling, 230 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), no nudity, no blood.

“What I’d like, Henri,” the Marquis de Sade said to his manservant, “is to see a fight. Wrestling, I think.”

“I think that can be arranged, my Lord, but these places are not safe …”

“No, you don’t understand. I could not possibly go into the underworld of Paris where these things take place. I want you to go there and recruit two fighters to perform here for my entertainment. You can make a ring in the great hall, and I can watch from the gallery above. It is conveniently screened, so they won’t see me.”

“Very well, my Lord,” the unthinking Henri replied. “I will search out two men …”

“No, you don’t understand again,” de Sade told him impatiently. “I want to see a man and a woman wrestle.”

“My Lord?”

“Don’t tell me there aren’t secret places where women fight for show?”

“I believe such places exist, my Lord, but women fight other women, not men.”

“Then offer a lot of money, Henri. That usually works. But the woman must look good. I don’t want any ugly old boot here. As for the man, find someone who loses a lot. I want to be properly entertained.”

“Is there anything else I can arrange for you, My Lord?” Henri asked in his imagination, as he set off for the seedy area of Paris, “An eclipse of the sun, perhaps?”

Several days and several franks later, Henri presented de Sade with Hortense and Jean, and they were ideal. Jean looked a bit vacant, with a silly wide-mouthed smile. But Hortense looked cunning and dangerous – and beautiful. De Sade’s eyes boggled at her large breasts, which looked as if they were going to burst through her thin grey leotard. When she turned round, he sighed with pleasure at her naughty round bottom. She was just how this debauched fetishist liked his women.

“Fight!” he called out to them, sitting back to enjoy the spectacle.

Hortense and Jean squared up, then circled, Jean still wearing a vacant grin. They locked up and began testing the other’s strength. Hortense gripped Jean behind the shoulders; he ended up with his hands on her backside.

“Grab her arse, man!” called out de Sade. “I would!”

“You dirty bastard!” she hissed at Jean, locking his neck in the crook of her left arm and threatening him with her right fist. It was a clever tactic, because instead of hitting him, she suddenly rocked backwards and took him down with her, earning a “Bravo!” from the enthusiastic de Sade.

Hortense now had Jean’s neck locked between her arms and left leg, with his backside protruding upwards, much to de Sade’s distaste. Jean’s first wail, as she applied pressure on his neck, cheered the strange spectator up though. She pulled his neck down until it was pillowed against her breast. While this may have provided some comfort and distraction, he couldn’t ignore the growing pain of his neck and spine while she further bent his body to her will.

Hortense was a skilled, innovative grappler, thought de Sade (who knew a lot about inflicting pain). Sitting behind her opponent, she locked his right arm behind him through her legs, while her left leg wedged his right shoulder down. Her right leg kept him in place by hooking itself under his right leg. For a sheer tangle of limbs, the hold resembled an octopus.

She suddenly released him, but giving him no time to recover, head locked him in her right arm while lying over his neck. This had the advantage of putting further pressure on his neck and back, as well as restricting his breathing.

Hoping to lock his left leg above him, Hortense didn’t quite succeed, and there was some rather confused grappling. De Sade squinted through his opera glasses. The pair of them rolled around on the mat, grunting and cursing each other, each searching for advantage.

It came to Jean. Holding his shapely opponent from behind, he in turn head locked her. They were both on their sides, with their bodies tight against each other. De Sade shouted out obscene suggestions to Jean, whose manhood was forced against Hortense’s rear. Far from objecting, she tried to rub up against Jean to distract him, while trying to prize his arm off her neck.

She finally escaped by rolling, catching him unawares. She had him flat on his front and snapped her thighs shut around his near, left arm to lock it. She pulled on it with her thighs.

This was a new experience for Jean. He’d suffered many holds in wrestling, but he was unprepared for an opponent to use their legs on him in this way. Did all women wrestle like this, using their legs in preference to their arms? He had to admit it was very effective, as his arm seemed to burn from his shoulder to his fingertips.

But she did bring her arms (or rather hands) into play. Keeping his arm locked in those dangerous thighs, she grabbed him under the chin with both hands and started to heave it upwards, while pressing herself against the small of his back to push his midsection down in a cross face. Apart from the raging pain in his spine, neck, shoulders and ribs, he thought that her breasts seemed to be everywhere. Her left one dug into his back. It was maddening. Was she doing it deliberately, to torment him? First, he’d felt one against the back of his head, and now this. It was a form of cheating, he thought grimly.

“She’s doing it again!” he mused bitterly, when she put him on his front and lay over him, crucifix-style. She kept the fire going in his left arm by maintaining her thigh lock, but she also locked his right arm by lying over it, with both her breasts prodding his shoulder. She seemed to be using them just as much as she was her legs and arms, but in a subtle, incidental way. Think about something else, Jean, or they’ll be the undoing of you! The pain in both arms would be a good place to start, especially as she was now twisting his right one. He winced and let out another yelp, to de Sade’s delight.

Hortense finally released his arms. But she went back to torturing his neck and upper body. She sat on the small of his back and whipped her arms around his neck to headlock him. Using her linked arms, she once again tugged his neck upwards while pushing down on the small of his back with her body weight, as in a camel clutch. (And yes, her breasts were poking him in the back of his head again. It wasn’t fair - women had two extra weapons to deploy.)

Was that a rib cracking? It sounded like it. They’d hurt for weeks, if not months, he thought miserably, while he struggled to escape. He tried to dislodge her choking headlock with his left hand, but both its position and the damage inflicted on his arm by his busty opponent rendered it useless. The muscles in his stomach ached as if he’d been punched there; his spine was creaking; his neck was straining and then there were his ribs. There was no chance of that degenerate fool of a host stopping the fight, either.

Hortense seemed to enjoy inflicting pain as much as he enjoyed watching it. Kneeling beside Jean, she had him on his side and forced a leg arm lock on him. His right arm and leg were trapped in the crook of each arm, while she used her knees to push him in the back. Moreover, the angle that she had both limbs trapped at bent them unnaturally, placing great strain on his elbow and knee. She made sure that her victim faced de Sade, so he could see the look of excruciating pain on his face. He held up his hand, as if he’d had enough. But if he had, Hortense and de Sade ignored it.

Whether de Sade had any knowledge of the art of wrestling, or whether he just enjoyed the agonies it produced, we don’t know. But he applauded Hortense’s next hold. It was certainly her most ambitious one yet: a bow and arrow. Lying on her back, she doubled her legs up, with the unfortunate Jean lodged over her lower legs on his back. She held his crossed over ankles in her right hand and his neck with her left, pulling down on both, while again pushing up with her knees.

The hold was worth de Sade’s applause, because it required great strength and balance. The screams that Jean let rip proved its effectiveness. But it was dwarfed by Hortense’s next hold – a bridge. First, she forced Jean onto his back. Then, hooking his ankles in the crooks of her arms, she doubled him over so that only his head and shoulders were on the mat. Using him as support, she placed her feet quite wide apart on the mat, facing the ceiling, and hauled him upwards from his ankles, bending his back and legs to breaking point. De Sade’s shouts of approval met Jean’s yells of agony.

Seeming to push the pace now, Hortense bundled him onto his back and twisted his left arm around his neck. She made it look as if he was head locking himself. In a sense he was, except he had no choice in the matter. Her strong grip on his wrist meant that he was close to choking himself.

Seemingly dissatisfied with what she had done to his left arm so far, Hortense locked it in her thighs. Lying over him to his side, she wrapped her arms around his neck and imposed another cross face on him, from the opposite side to before. Her linked arms dragged him up by the neck while her body weight pushed down on the small of his back, while the firm muscles of her thighs seemed to be pulling his arm out of its socket. She smiled slightly at Jean’s shouts of despair and impotent fury.

But the smile vanished as she seemed to concentrate on her next hold. Lying over his back, she hooked his arms under her arms and pushed down with her hands on his neck. It was like a horizontal full Nelson. Molten lava seemed to flush through his neck, and his arms groaned with yet more strain being inflicted on them. She was right to focus on his neck, as no doubt de Sade could tell us, when that hurts so does the whole body.

Keeping the full Nelson going, Hortense whisked Jean up onto his side and scooped those versatile legs of hers underneath to head scissor him. The pressure on his neck was now extreme, since the scissor pulled it downwards while the full Nelson wrenched his shoulders upwards. A critic might say that she was trying to do too much with one hold; a supporter could well answer that it was working.

Forsaking the head scissor, she rolled them over half onto her back, where she kept the full Nelson going and this time combined it with a body scissor, with her thighs squeezing his middle. Jean was now honeycombed with what felt like hundreds of separate, yet linked, pains.

Clearly working to destroy any life in his upper body, she forced a highly unusual hold on it. Her position resembled a push up. She was on the mat from her knees downwards, while supporting herself on her hands. But her lower legs pinned Jean to the mat under his armpits, while his midsection was wedged against her thighs so that his body pointed upwards with his feet waving comically in the air. This did nothing to alleviate the suffering of his neck and shoulders.

What did alleviate it was Hortense changing holds. Building up to the finale, she held him by his lower legs in the crooks of her arms, then raised him in a giant swing. He was expecting to be sent dizzily flying onto his back. Instead, she just dropped him when she was ready, because she sensed it was time to finish him off in a surefire way – with her boot pressing mercilessly down on his manhood.

The original sadist roared his approval from the gallery as Hortense held her defeated opponent by the ankles and stamped on his balls. She then relentlessly pushed down on his manhood with her boot. She only left off when he begged her to stop. When she looked enquiringly up in de Sade’s direction for instruction, as the gladiators used to, to Roman Emperors, that twisted human told her it was enough.

“Bravo!” he called out to the young woman, celebrating with her boot on the defeated man’s face, while he lay groaning and clutching his wounded manhood. “You will both come back next week and box.”

“As your Lordship pleases,” Hortense smiled, holding up a finger as if to say, “One down, one to go.”