Dona Irene (integral, part V)

[MuscleWomanBR]

The widow untied and partially opened her robe, revealing her naked body underneath. Despite the cold, she was undeterred. Once again, Marcos was presented with the sight of a well-defined female abdomen, a new experience for him in the body of a woman approaching her 60s. Her defined pectorals almost hid her breasts, and her torso was more reminiscent of an Olympic gymnast. Dona Irene licked her finger slowly, then used it to part her toned thighs and slightly bend her knees, tracing the groove that separated her abdominal muscles until she reached the top of her vulva. With her other hand, she pressed down on the nape of her neck, arching her abdomen and accentuating its definition. Using her ring finger and index finger, she parted her labia, allowing her middle finger to touch her clitoris. Her gaze devoured Marcos' masculine, athletic, and weary figure. Gradually, she increased the speed of her movements, pressing with her fingers and alternating between larger and smaller circles. Sometimes she decreased, sometimes increased the intensity of the friction, causing waves of pleasure that rippled through her skin. This continued for minutes on end, as she controlled her climax. The movements of her hand on her clitoris became progressively more vigorous. Her eyes began to roll back, signaling the onset of orgasm. She tilted her head back and parted her mouth, letting out increasingly loud moans. Dona Irene contracted her abdomen even more and stood on her tiptoes, exerting her muscular calves. A few seconds later, that mature and lonely woman with an athletic body let out a long and impressive orgasmic scream, while fluid gushed from her urethra and ran down her fingers.
For the first time, Marcos witnessed what he had only known by its English name on pornographic websites: squirting. And he responded to the scene with an equally impressive erection.

***

The next day, early in the morning, after running the same route that Marcos used to do every morning, Dona Irene entered the mini-gym with breakfast for the former athlete. The widow smelled like she had taken a good shower. The floral fragrance of the soap contrasted with the smell of urine that soaked the feet of the kidnapped man. With his body marked by bruises from the previous day's beating, barely covered by the woolen blanket on a cold night, and tired from the predictable insomnia caused by that situation, he gave a teary-eyed plea to the woman who was inserting the feeding tube into his gag.

"It's not overnight that you'll learn to obey me, Marcos," she began, without looking at him, while the coach choked and coughed, drooling the mush. "It will take time. You have a lot to learn."

As she made the man swallow a liter of that kind of soup, she looked at him with disgust:

"You stink. You're dirty with pee. What a sight! All drooling, like a senile grandpa. Who would have thought, huh? The champion was badly beaten by the fifty-year-old! And if I posted some pictures of you on the internet, in this state? Have you thought about it? Pictures of me putting you in a chokehold with this steel muscle. What do you think?" And she laughed, flexing her right arm challengingly. Then she removed the woolen blanket that barely covered Marcos and announced, assuming the maternal tone he already knew: "Now I'm going to give you a bath, remove this dried blood, treat these wounds. I'll make you handsome and smelling good, you'll see!"

Dona Irene left the cottage for half an hour, returning with a steaming bucket and an array of dressings, bath towels, and personal hygiene products. With a very soft sponge, heated in the water, she soaped the tired body of the former fighter, who responded with visible pleasure, closing his eyes as if receiving a loving caress. The pleasant and comforting smell of the soap rose to his nostrils. The massage and the hot water relaxed his muscles. For a few moments, he forgot about the captivity and smiled under the gag. It was the first time that Dona Irene had touched his body like this, feeling the contours and solidity of that well-worked musculature, which she admired so much. While it was something comforting for him, he did not react even when the sponge lingered on his buttocks and genitals. For her, it was exciting to explore every inch of that beautiful and sexy male body - her ideal of a sensual man, all hers now, she thought. Then, the widow climbed onto the stool and poured hot water over Marcos, not before applying shampoo to his dense black beard, well styled in the lumberjack style. Finally, she grabbed two huge, fluffy towels and began to dry him off.

"I bought this especially for you, big man!" said the woman as she carefully dried him off. Marcos felt a mixture of tenderness and disgust. Then she pulled out the chair in which he had been tied up the previous morning. "Now you rest, sitting here. There's a hole right in the middle of the seat, remember? That's where you'll pee and poop, got it? I put a laxative in the soup. It should take effect in a few hours. So spread your legs wide open." Marcos obeyed, suspicious. Dona Irene passed the chair through the formidable arc of thighs that his ex-trainer had formed, leaning the backrest against the wall behind him. Then she smeared her hands with balsamic oil. "Push your butt back and stick your cock in the hole." Once again, he did as she commanded, suffering in anticipation of the new torture that awaited him. "That's it! See? Now you can pee. I'll put a bucket underneath." But before he could change position, she grabbed the abductee's penis. Marcos groaned loudly, desperate, expecting another session of crushing his testicles. "Relax, stud," she whispered in a warm voice. "It's milking time. I'll give this big, beautiful cock a nice, satisfying hand job. One that even the most experienced whore couldn't give you." The calloused hands from bodybuilding held the instructor's genitals, completely exposed in the orifice, in simultaneous movements of caressing the scrotal sac and stimulating the head of the still-retracted phallus. "Relax, Marcos. I'll teach you what a well-beaten hand job is."

Later, Mrs. Irene burst into her home gym, carrying cleaning supplies.

"Let's make this little house smell nice," she began, indifferent to the stunned and desolate look Marcos gave her. "I need to train a lot, and I can't work out with this place smelling like urine, can I? I'll warm up while I clean."

The captive observed the woman. Despite the cold, she wore a tank top and sport shorts open on the sides. She wore a comfortable and expensive pair of sneakers specifically designed for gym training. Her movements were confident, firm, and agile. But what impressed him was her physique, which he could now examine in full and with time for the first time. It was not the muscular structure of a "bodybuilder," as Mrs. Irene herself seemed to believe she had achieved. Due to his profession, Marcos could almost automatically distinguish between body types and the development of their respective musculatures. Mrs. Irene's was incredibly defined and, at the same time, voluminous. But it had not reached the exaggerated proportions of heavyweight bodybuilding champions, as this lady probably wanted. She had reduced her body fat percentage on a scale similar to that of competitors and had almost doubled her muscle mass, forming a mesomorphic figure. However, this did not mean that she had become a "monster" - in the language of fitness enthusiasts. Beneath her well-hydrated and healthy skin, marked by maturity, solid and sculpted muscles contracted, evident as she scrubbed, swept, pulled, lifted, and carried with vigor and skill, moving in a disciplined manner, aware that she was cleaning and exercising at the same time, including stretching. The scene had a touch of comedy in the studied exaggeration of gestures. Marcos, however, was attentive to the woman's well-defined biceps and triceps and her prominent shoulders, which gave her a broader and more symmetrical appearance - and the impression of physical strength that this set provokes in those who observe it. Her back also showed careful work with this muscle group, which stood out under the tank top straps. The lower limbs were equally remarkable: well-defined and voluminous quadriceps, glutes, and calves were displayed in agile strides and quick squats that the fifty-something woman did around the room, cleaning everything with the traditional skill and obsession of Brazilian housewives like her. Soon, the mini-gym smelled of cleanliness, with the equipment gleaming. When Mrs. Irene finished, evaluating the service leaning on the mop handle, Marcos realized that, once again, for a few moments, he had forgotten his degrading condition as a captive recovering from the beating inflicted by that same female body that, consciously or not, was exhibiting itself to him. She was undoubtedly an athletic, vigorous woman proud of her own body and aware of her power. He had seen similar cases only on the internet, touted precisely because they were rare. Many, in his opinion, were products of what he called the "pharmacy" - anabolic steroids, creatine, caffeine, soy protein... Marcos could not say whether Mrs. Irene multiplied the results of her exercises by resorting to this chemical arsenal, but he had never seen a woman Mrs. Irene's age with such a strong and carefully defined musculature in person. The biggest surprise, however, was yet to come.

Mrs. Irene left with the cleaning supplies and returned shortly after, taking off her shirt and revealing a black sports top. Marcos recognized her impressive abdominal muscles, which he had already seen before, but now they were more noticeable without the tension and fear from before. Her ab muscles were truly impressive! With the precision of his anatomy classes in college, Marcos recognized the muscle groups that didn't need any effort to stand out in the admirable case of that torso: the rectus abdominis, the external obliques, the internal obliques, and the transversus abdominis. It was the perfect model of a "six-pack," which would cause envy in his most dedicated students. The vertical grooves that formed the sensual parallel lines in a "V" shape towards the groin were even visible. But that wasn't the surprise.

After meticulously going through a series of exercises that worked out every muscle group in her body, Mrs. Irene undressed with the same care, as if nobody was there, folding each piece of clothing very slowly. Marcos was horrified by her indifference and soon began to fear what might happen next. The athletic woman looked at him with the same menacing look he had learned to fear. With impressive skill, in a small and sudden leap, she grabbed the pull-up bars and threw her legs over Marcos' shoulders, pulling his head until it was wedged between her thighs. The former fighter was pulled from his position, stretching the chains to their maximum, while Mrs. Irene's body remained horizontal, holding onto the bars and trapping the man's neck. It was as if he were in a guillotine, with his chin resting on the fifty-year-old's genitals. He felt the sweat's dampness and the strength of her thighs, while contemplating, from an unusual perspective, the defined and tense abs that Mrs. Irene had just flexed more than five hundred times. She raised her head slightly, which further contracted her abdominal muscles, and aimed for Marcos' bulging eyes, who was trying unsuccessfully to escape that prison.

"That's what I train for. I don't want to compete. I don't want to show off. I want to fuck the men I chose. But with strength. With this strength. Can you feel it? I'm stronger than you, Marcos. You saw it. Now you feel it."

Suddenly, she released her prisoner's neck, stood up, put her hands on her waist, and faced the man once again.

"Fight with me," she said.

Marcos looked at her with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"Fight with me," she repeated, slightly irritated. "I'll let you go," she continued, still in front of Marcos' disbelief. "Try to get out of here. I'm naked, without any weapons. Just my strength. You're bigger and younger than me, an ex-MMA fighter, a gym instructor. I want to fight you. I want to know if I can beat you. Because I really want to beat you. But this time, without restraints. I want you to defend yourself. If you escape, you end my life. If you lose, I'll fuck you. A lot. You'll be mine."

Marcos nervously nodded as she spoke because he was absolutely sure that if Dona Irene did what she was saying, he could get out of that absurd situation and get rid of that woman's sick intentions. He already imagined himself at the police station, detailing the barbarities he went through, bringing the police to that den, witnessing the arrest of the old woman, vibrating with her life imprisonment and exposure in the media. Dona Irene would pay for everything after he gave her a good beating. He was determined to beat her up. "Self-defense," he argued in his rapid thoughts, only to realize that, no matter how athletic she was, she was a fifty-year-old woman thirty centimeters shorter than him and with no fighting technique. At the same time, the kidnapper's proposal seemed so absurd to him that Marcos only began to believe her when, after a brief exit, and still naked, Dona Irene returned with the keys to the handcuffs that held him to the chains.

The kidnapped man took a deep breath and didn't hurry as she released each handcuff. Years of training had taught him to wait for the moment to strike. When she released the last cuff on Marcos' left wrist, he threw a clumsy but powerful right jab at Mrs. Irene's face, causing her to lose balance. The former fighter took advantage of her unsteadiness to throw a second punch, this time with his left, hitting the woman's eyebrow and opening a wound. Mrs. Irene, slightly bent over, was visibly disadvantaged and disoriented, which was now exacerbated by the uppercut Marcos delivered with his most powerful fist, making the kidnapper's head snap back and her teeth clench. This sequence lasted no more than a few seconds, enough time for the trainer to evaluate that it was enough for him to open the door and escape, giving up on seeking revenge for the beating the old lady had inflicted upon him. That's what he did. But when he turned the doorknob, he found that the door was locked, resisting his vigorous tugs. Then he shouted, realizing he was still wearing the gag in his mouth. It was too late. Two strong arms embraced his waist, lifted his body, and threw him backwards to the ground. Beneath him was Mrs. Irene, who skillfully wrapped her legs around his ribs while choking him with a powerful rear-naked choke. Marcos swayed from left to right, taking advantage of the leverage of his long and powerful legs, trying to get free, and with his free hands, he mercilessly punched Mrs. Irene's face, who was choking his neck. It was then that he realized her strength. The MMA fighter knew that the situation was fatal: if she continued to strangle him like that, he would lose consciousness in fifteen seconds. So he intensified the punches to Mrs. Irene's head until everything began to darken.

When she realized Marcos had passed out, Mrs. Irene quickly dragged him to the chain wall and handcuffed him. She was exhausted, panting, sweaty, groaning. Her entire musculature hurt, but especially her face. The woman stood up and approached the mirror. There were welts in some parts of her body. Her face, however, was badly injured. Blood was flowing from her eyebrow and nose, as well as from one corner of her mouth. Her teeth throbbed. And a swelling was beginning to appear in her right eye. Mrs. Irene turned to Marcos, still unconscious, handcuffed and leaning against the wall. She moved in front of the mirror so she could see him in the background. Contemplating the scene, Mrs. Irene flexed her right arm, displaying her well-pronounced biceps, contracted her muscled abdomen, slightly bent her knees to force her thighs, smiled, and with her left hand, reached for her clitoris, indulging in a long masturbation session.

[MuscleWomanBR]

⚡ Support Saradas

Keep the archive alive with Bitcoin

1QDxcxUx8pnsZvauyVxTqaJrWkeNhQrPdK

Donate →