I'm not a fighter. But I pride myself on staying in shape--- great shape, I'd say. I actually like working with weights, but that BowFlex ---wow! I'm tight and toned, and strong. I look at myself in the mirror, and for the first time in years, I actually like what I see. My blonde hair is about shoulder length, and my 5'6” frame is perfect for my breasts---or, the other way around, I guess. I'm not bragging, but I know I'm hot. I worked hard to get this way, and I like it.

But like I said, I'm not a fighter. I can be a bitch, I guess, but I don't go looking around to start trouble. But I'm not one to walk away from it, either.

Like a couple of months ago. Without getting into too much detail, there was a showdown between me and my boyfriend's ex-fiancé in a hotel room one weekend. She surprised us, challenged me, and I ended up kicking her ass. Quite badly. I have to admit, I kind of liked it. No, I loved it. Beating the shit out of her, both of us in our underwear, while my boyfriend watched me destroy her. I wouldn't have fought if he had protested, even a tiny bit. You know the thing with guys---they love to see two girls fight---especially two hot ones. Anyway, when it was over, I was so turned on, I decided to wrestle with my boyfriend, who was also turned on to the max. I had barely broken a sweat kicking that skank's ass, and I was revved up. So we did, and I kicked his ass, too. Made him submit to me three times, the third time making him beg me to let him go. Yeah, I liked it, a lot.

So after that, I got kind of cocky. I guess self-confident is a better description. No---cocky. I had an attitude---I provoked. Not directly, but subtly, enough to push someone's buttons to the point where they were angry, annoyed, and wanted to get into something with me. Then, depending on my mood, I'd either oblige them, or infuriate them more by just simply moving on. It was power, and I loved it.

The first “incident” was with my boyfriend. After our initial skirmishes in the hotel room, I started pushing him. I'd tease him, remind him of how I'd kicked his ass, taunt him, all so he could challenge me again. He finally took the bait one evening at my place. I had figured this would be the night, so I had prepared---the “breakables” had been removed from the living room, furniture placed strategically to give us the most room to maneuver, and I had on my slinkiest, enticing underwear.

We had a couple of drinks, and I alternately sexually teased him and verbally taunted him. Anytime he'd say he wanted to watch something on TV, I'd say “no,” and change the channel; when he'd protest, my response would be something like, “Um, if you push it, I'll have to kick your ass again. We know who the boss is now, don't we?”

Finally, after a couple of glasses of wine, he had had enough.

“Fine. You want a rematch?” he asked. “My pleasure. Keep in mind that last time we were just playing, I didn't want to hurt you. I was going easy. But now I need to teach you a lesson.”

With that, he took off his shirt, kicked off his sneakers, peeled off his socks, and started stretching. He has a decent body, but could have used some toning. And I didn't want to mention that he was full of shit---he was giving it his all last time, and I still beat him. And that was after I had had a 30-minute battle with his ex. So if anyone should have had an excuse, it should have been me. But I remained silent, smiled, and started taking off my clothes, too. Slowly, to get him going, of course.

We were both in just our jeans now, and he was ready to go at it. But not me. I unbuttoned my jeans, and started to wiggle them down my legs. I could see he already had a hard-on just by watching me, but I pretended I didn't notice. I kicked them over to the side and looked at him disapprovingly.

“Well?” I asked as I glanced down at his jeans. “Scared?”

“Of you? Please .” And with that, his jeans came off. As he moved the coffee table out of the room, I couldn't help but think, teach me a lesson, huh? We'll see who teaches whom, my friend .

We met in the middle of the room, locked hands, and it began. We pushed against each other, and he obviously had the weight advantage. I let him push me back a little, then I broke the grip and let his momentum propel him forward. I greeted him with a lightning-fast headlock, simultaneously turning him around and bringing him down to my side. I locked my hands together and applied pressure. My biceps and triceps bulged, and I could see his face quickly starting to turn red as I squeezed.

He pawed at my upper arms, tried to claw at them with his fingers, but I just increased the pressure. Because of the firmness of those muscles, he had no chance for purchase, and his feeble attempts actually bordered on pathetic. I dropped to one knee, bringing him to both of his, headlock firmly in place. I jerked him forward a bit, and he lost his balance, so that I was essentially holding him up by the chokehold. Obviously, this applied even more pain to him, and he started to cough.

Whether this was an attempt to give up or just a physiological reflex, I didn't care. His taunt--- I need to teach you a lesson ---warranted total and complete defeat, topped off with some abject humiliation. Giving up would be on my terms, not his.

More stifled coughs, and I responded by dropping down even further, essentially lying on the floor, him under me, still in the headlock. My right breast hung down in front of his face, and in another kind of encounter, he definitely would have been aroused.

But at this moment, he had other things on his mind---like survival. I maneuvered a little so that my breast was right in front of his mouth.

“OK, now that you've been beaten, we can end this my way. Stick out your tongue and caress my nipple. Do it right, and I'll let you go,” I said, and squeezed a little more to get my point across.

“Grrug oo,” he gurgled, which I interpreted as an impolite refusal of my demand.

I shifted my weight a little bit, which added even more pressure to the hold. His eyes were half open now, face beet-red, breathing labored. His grip around my wrist was token at best, as the strength drained from his arms and hands. Just when I thought he was going to pass out, his tongue made an appearance, slowly coming out of his mouth, searching for my nipple, and his freedom. Of course, humiliation had become my goal, so I maneuvered slightly so that my breast was just a little farther away from his mouth. He stretched his tongue out as far as he could, finally found his target, and lamely started to lick it. I use the word lick lightly, as his mouth was so dry, it felt more like a tickle.

“OK,” I said, “I win. Again .” I released the hold, quickly got to my feet, and put my foot on his back, claiming victory.

“Get the fuck off me,” he grumbled as he massaged his throat, lying on his stomach.

“Make me,” I taunted, knowing that this wasn't over yet. I playfully kicked him in the side, pushed his head down into the carpet with my foot, then sauntered into the kitchen to get a drink. I returned with a Poland Spring, and he was sitting up, still rubbing his neck. He wasn't smiling.

“Give me a swig of that,” he demanded.

“Um, I'm the boss, remember? Get your own, and don't give me any orders, or I'll kick your ass again, little boy.”

“This is such bullshit. We end this now . You have the advantage because you're a girl, and I'm afraid of hurting you. But now, all bets are off.” He stood up, stretched a little, and motioned for me to come over.

“Well, I'm not afraid of hurting you .” I smirked. “Obviously.” I put down my water and walked over to him.

“So what are the rules now?”

“No rules,” he replied. “Anything goes. The winner is the one who makes the other one submit, or lose consciousness.” He smiled thinly. “I won't hurt you too bad. And who knows what I'll do to you once you're passed out…”

“Spare me,” I said, feigning a yawn. I raised my hands, inviting him to engage, and it began.

He made like he was going to grab my hands, but instead came close to me and shoved me in the chest, hard. I must have been pushed backwards about five feet, and my chest hurt. But no way would I let on that it did.

“Ooooh,” I taunted. “You're so tough.” And I walked right back to him, hands out in front me to avoid another shove.

He tried again, though, and I pushed his arms out of the way. As he regained his balance, I impulsively threw a punch. I hadn't planned to---it just happened, like a reflex. It hit him in the chest, and I think we were both surprised by the volume of the thud and the solidity of the blow.

He staggered backwards, regained his composure, balled his hands into fists, and came at me. For the first time since we had started doing this, I became a little bit afraid. I really felt like he was going to try and hurt me now. He was furious---and embarrassed.

He actually took a swing at me! Imagine that, hitting a girl! Well, he tried to, anyway. As his arm made the swing, I saw that his hand was open---obviously he thought better of punching me, and instead was going for a slap to the face. Not that it wouldn't hurt, but certainly wouldn't do the damage a punch in the face would do.

But it was a moot point. Because he had telegraphed his move so blatantly, I was ready for it. I grabbed his wrist before it connected with my face and wrenched it to the left, hard. Maintaining my grip, I twisted his arm, simultaneously moving behind him and jacking his immobile arm as far up his back as I could force it.

“Shit!” he cried out, and I smiled, knowing he was in pain. Again.

He tried to turn his body so that I wasn't in back of him, but I countered each time he did, maintaining the grip on his arm, and staying out of his reach. I kept twisting and pushing up. At the same time, with each counter-move, I edged us away from the center of the living room, towards the wall. Finally, close enough to do what I wanted. I thrust us both forward. The move surprised him, and he didn't have enough time to get his other hand up and in front of him to soften the impact. I shoved him into the wall, face first, hard . Still maintaining the arm lock, I pulled him away from the wall for a moment, then shoved him back into it again. Stunned from the first blow, he offered little resistance, and this time I was rewarded with a groan as his body made contact with the wall.

One more time? I thought. I took a step back, still maintaining the arm lock. He came with me easily, offering little fight. For a third time, I shoved him forward. This must have been the hardest, because the force of him hitting the wall actually hurt me , as my body collided with his at the moment of impact.

I pulled him back from the wall a final time, and using the arm I had been holding, spun him around to face me. Throwing any semblance of romance, or compassion, to the wind, I buried my fist into his stomach. The air rushed out of his lungs with an oooof, and he doubled over, holding his gut, gasping for oxygen.

I took a step back to weigh my options. I could put him in a headlock now, and that would end it, just like the last fight. Boring . I could clasp my hands and deliver a blow to the back of the neck, which would surely drop him. Possibly . I could deliver a nice knee to the face. Mean . Then I got it!

Getting behind him, I reached around, locked my hands in front of him, positioned my arms at the base of his rib cage, and jerked him upright. This weird sound came out of him as I did it, kind of like a long, painful sigh. Whatever, that was his problem. Having him straight up now, I squeezed, and my reverse bear hug began.

Obviously, he was still having trouble caching his breath from the gut-punch. This was the frosting on the cake, though. I squeezed his ribs with everything I had, waiting for that moment, that sweet moment, that would make it all worth it. But he made me work for it.

Squeezing so hard that my arms started to tremble, I lifted him off the ground and started swinging him from side to side. He had been trying to unlock my hands to break the bear hug, but it was clearly futile. As I lifted him off the floor, it happened. He screamed in pain! I smiled as I started to shake him.

His arms dropped, and they swung akimbo as I whipped him back and forth. It was like holding a big, sweaty, weak , rag doll, I thought. I chuckled at the thought, and then released the hug, propelling him into the center of the room. He landed in a heap, and instinctively rolled onto his side.

Now that I had once again clearly physically beaten him, the psychological victory was the goal. There would not be another fight. He was not enough of a challenge for me, and a fight without a clear psychological domination would only encourage him to issue rematch after rematch, which I'm sure I would find quite boring.

He was moving slightly on the rug, obviously trying to regain his breath and figure out how to try and overpower me. Yeah, keep thinking . So I had time. I slipped off my underwear and kicked them over to the side. I went over to him, knelt down next to him, facing him. His eyes opened wide, and I could tell he was confused.

“Oh, no,” I warned, shaking my head, “it's not what you think. You're obviously not man enough for me anymore.” Yeah, it was mean, but after all, it was time to humiliate him.

He was about to make some sort of comment, whatever, defending his manhood or some such rubbish, but I wasn't interested. Instead, I launched myself at him, rolling him onto his back, and very quickly pinned him, his arms underneath my knees, my crotch hovering over his face.

He tried to buck me off, tried to push his arms up off the floor, but all I had to do was lift my ass off his chest, putting full weight on to my knees, which, of course, cut into his upper arms.

“Aaaaagh!” he cried out again. Sweetness ! I looked down and saw---yes!---a tear in the corner of his eye. I wiggled a little, cutting my knee into his arm, sure that I was hitting bone, and the other eye teared up, too.

“Please, please , get off. I give. I give ,” he pleaded.

“You're pathetic. I'll let you know when this fight is over. By the way, weren't you going to knock me out and do nasty things to me?” To punctuate his helplessness, I wiggled again, eliciting yet another guttural cry of pain.

I straightened out one of my legs, and he immediately sensed some relief. Sitting on his chest, I quickly straightened out the other one, so now there was no pressure on his arms. But before he could take advantage of that position, I grabbed a handful of his hair, pulled his head up off the carpet, and closed my legs, trapping his neck between my thighs, and burying his face in my crotch.

I rolled on to my side, bringing his mostly flaccid body with me, and began applying a perfectly-executed head scissor. His hands went to my thighs as he tried to pry them apart, but of course that was ineffective. I locked my ankles and increased the pressure, and with my hand, again grabbed a handful of hair and pushed his face even deeper in my crotch.

“Well, here we are again,” I cooed. “Let's see, if you want me to end the fight, now you have to use that old tongue of yours again, but this time, let's make it a little more interesting than last time, OK?” As a subtle indicator of what I wanted, I twisted the handful of his hair that I had in my hand, and again pushed his face into me.

He was a quick learner, and I felt his tongue start to probe immediately. I let up on the scissor-pressure slightly. But although his face was buried in my crotch, and my thighs were locked around his neck, the positioning was off. So all he could muster was some feeble probing and licking. And as much as I wanted to get off right now, it was more important that I destroy any shred of ego he had left.

After another minute, I became annoyed. I pulled his head back a bit by the hair, and increased the scissor hold pressure around his neck.

“You can't even do that right,” I taunted. “You really are pathetic . I'll just take matters into my own hands from now on.”

Muffled pleas emanated from the face buried in my crotch, but they fell on deaf ears. It was time to end this.

Squeezing my thighs together with so much pressure that my legs started to tremble, I decided to knock him out. His hands pawed at my rock-hard thighs, to no avail. Gurgles came from him, obviously attempts at concessions. I looked down at him---the muscles in his arms rippled, and the ones in his back were straining. His body was covered in sweat, and for all that---all that exertion, those muscles, his cockiness, his size---he was totally at my mercy. This is what I craved---total domination, total humiliation. It was clear who was more powerful, who was superior---physically, psychologically. He had been reduced to a pathetic, overpowered, outmatched loser. By me . I smiled.

Finally, his pawing stopped, and I saw his arms start to go limp. Similarly, the muscles in his back relaxed, and I literally felt his strength flow out of his body. Cool . His flailing ceased, and I noticed his chest wasn't moving---he wasn't breathing.

Well, I certainly didn't want to kill him! So I unlocked my ankles and released the hold. His face was red, his eyes closed, but his breathing started immediately, albeit shallow. Interesting . I rolled to the side and kneeled over my defeated opponent. He was out, totally. What's this ? Well, not quite totally .

Yes, my overmatched opponent was sporting quite a hard-on. Way cool . And now I knew how this would end.

I scampered down to his legs, and peeled off his underwear, marveling at how the penis, at times, seems to have a mind of its own. Still desperately wanting to get off, and frustrated with his lackluster oral performance, I positioned myself over him, and, well, we don't need to go into the details.

Let's just say that as he started to regain consciousness, it was very clear to him that I was in total control.

He dumped me the next day. But my appetite had been whet. This was just the beginning.

The End.