Dona Irene (continued)

[MuscleWomanBR]

The butt plug vibrated. Nunes discreetly moved his hips, as if correcting his posture in the chair. He faked a cough and continued:
- And then what?
- She arrived all soaked, with a bruised face, covered in bruises all over her body. She said the old lady stuck her head in the toilet and flushed it. She almost drowned my girlfriend!
The plug vibrated once more. Nunes contracted his sphincter as he stared at André and clenched his teeth.
- And why didn't she file a complaint?
- She didn't want to, doctor. If she finds out I was here, she'll kick my ass.
- She'll kick my ass?
- The police officer's eyes sparkled.
- Yeah, doctor... My girlfriend does karate, is learning jiu-jitsu, was a state bench press champion and is lifting weights again!
André couldn't contain his pride, but he had to control the erection that was threatening to show itself. Nunes' situation was no different, and he hoped that Mrs. Irene would press the plug's remote control once more.
- Interesting... It's not what you expect from a girl...
- Yeah, but if Kelly wasn't all that, that old woman would have killed her for sure.
- Yeah... Mrs. Irene isn't easy...
- Easy? Doctor, she attacked me, she hit Kelly twice...
- Twice?
- Yeah, the first time was at Marcos' gym, the one who disappeared.
- I know.
- Kelly went to get satisfaction from her, because of the attack against me. And then the old woman beat Kelly up! That day Kelly told me and her parents that it was an accident during karate training. But I didn't believe her.
- And she didn't file a complaint?
- No. I don't understand... She doesn't want to know anything about the police.
- Faced with Nunes' absolute silence, André decided to incite him.
- Doctor, you can't go on like this. I know the old lady sent the academy's sensei to the hospital. You need to do something, because she's going to end up killing someone!
- Don't worry, André. I know this lady well. I'll take care of her.
- Forgive my ignorance. I don't understand anything about this business of police, investigation, lawsuits, complaints. I don't even know where to start. I looked for you because I already know you. What am I supposed to do? Talk to the police chief?
- No, no, you don't have to! Don't worry, you did the right thing. I'll take care of it.
Nunes started asking for André's personal information and details of the incident, pretending to be filling out a police report.
- I have to fill out this report, because otherwise I won't be able to proceed with the investigation.
- Okay. But do you think she'll be arrested this time?
- If we can prove the assaults...
- Of course we will...
The investigator interrupted him harshly.
- No, the police are the ones who prove it! You're the informant and the witness. Stay quiet in your corner. When I need you, I'll look for you.
The plug vibrated. Nunes gave a small groan, which he tried to disguise with a fake cough.
"I think I'm getting a cold."
André left, apparently satisfied. The police officer had gained time. At night, sitting on the couch with his bare feet on the edge and his knees hugged to his chest, wearing only black panties and feeling the anal plug, he watched Mrs. Irene nervously walking from one corner of the room to the other. Suddenly she stopped.

[MuscleWomanBR]

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[MuscleWomanBR]

– I'll beat that kid up! – And she punched the air, as if the boy were right there, within reach of her unbeatable boxer's fists.
- One more attack, and I won't be able to protect you, Irene.
- I don't need any man's protection, Nunes – bluffed the woman, whose freedom would not survive a serious police investigation.
- We'll deal with that later. Let's deal with what matters, ma'am...
When he was dragged to the outbuilding and raped by Mrs. Irene, the last time he went to summon her, Nunes hid from himself the mix of pain and pleasure – especially pleasure – he had felt, feeling the strap-on invading his rectum. His desire now, therefore, was not only to be dominated by that woman – but to be penetrated by her. By her, not by anyone else. That's why, when the fifty-something woman arrived with the remote-controlled anal plug and explained what it was, the police officer immediately felt his penis stiffen and his sphincter contract eagerly and deliciously.
- You only take it out to shit. Make sure you keep that shit clean. Don't be a pig like every other man! I don't want to smell shit! Learn how to suck your ass. Other than that, only take it out when I tell you to - she ordered. - It's to prepare you for what's coming...
The conversation with André postponed the "what's coming" that Nunes could guess, because the woman arrived carrying a bag that he had never seen. The strapon was certainly there, perhaps along with other "toys". Furious and agitated, however, she didn't touch the bag again.
The fifty-something woman was wearing an elegant black dress with straps, tight at the waist, which revealed the contours of her athletic body, covering her legs up to the knees, and exposing her powerful, toned arms and shoulders – especially her biceps, which looked like they had just come from an intense weight training session. The thin and sexy pantyhose, also black, finished off that sudden feminine good taste, hastily learned from a YouTube tutorial. The only thing she couldn't stand was the high-heeled shoes, which she got rid of as soon as she arrived. Suddenly, she stopped her nervous pacing around the room, grabbed a chair, sat down in front of Nunes and faced him. In one hand, she held the remote control for the plug. Still looking at the police officer, the widow slid the straps of her dress, exposing her torso. Mrs. Irene's torso was erect and hard as a tree trunk. The intensification of her rigid and obsessive discipline with training made her abdominal muscles grow from six to eight panels, crowned by pectorals from which tiny breasts hung. Nunes noticed that her nipples were swollen – a sign of the mature karateka's excitement.
The muscles in her shoulders, biceps and triceps were well developed and defined, showing her constant work with weights on her upper limbs – which were far, far from the superhuman hypertrophy of the giants of female bodybuilding. There was more to it than just physical effort – and no pharmacological production of muscle mass. Above all, there was the conquest of a body that had been denied to women for millennia. It was not just about "getting in shape" or even "matching men". Dona Irene's entire body, her gaze, her gestures and her attitudes were those of a feminine identity that broke with what she had been taught about what a woman should be.
The athletic lady explored the limits of the strength of a powerful and free body that she herself had built. Physical strength. She was not interested in anything else. If this manifested itself in other aspects, it was a secondary consequence for her – or just a resource to seduce very rare men like Nunes. Dona Irene was not afraid to feel, think and say that nothing interested her more than being strong. Physically strong. But within the natural limits of her body. Without resorting to chemical shortcuts that would only convince her of her inability to conquer the strength that, with great dedication and an almost unhealthy selflessness, she pursued by literally exercising every muscle. The fights that she trained or practiced were the language of this conquered strength. In her masturbatory sessions, she had become recurrent in remembering the pleasure of destroying a door with her punches. Or remembering what she did and what she did with Marcos. Or even reconstructing the memory of Guto's humiliating defeat. She especially loved feeling male bodies succumbing to her martial skills and strength. The physical contact in the struggle with those bodies that had always felt superior to those of women, but that found in her a terrible obstacle to this presumption, gave her as much pleasure as sex. For her, in fact, "beating men" was just a form of sexual intercourse – just as "fucking" Sandra was the expression of the strength that allowed her to chose any partner, regardless of gender, just in the name of satisfying her pleasure.

[MuscleWomanBR]

Sometimes with words, sometimes without them, describing bodybuilding and martial arts training, narrating her two fights against Kelly – but omitting the several beatings of the kidnapped Marcos – and her torrid encounters with Sandra, Mrs. Irene remained seated, erect and proud, flexing her muscles for the police officer while she spoke of the power and the pleasure of strengthening them more and more. She ordered him to remain seated, with his knees bent, held by his hands and spread towards his shoulders. She wanted to appreciate the appetizing volume of those male genitalia squeezed by black silk lace panties. She devoured the image of that handsome man, excited and vulnerable, with a dubious look, somewhere between fascination and pleading – while she pressed the remote control, making the anal plug vibrate and Nunes' sculpted, hairy torso contract.
- I'm dying to give you a beating, Nunes.
He emitted small convulsive moans in response to the vibrations. – And I know you're dying to get hit by me again. But to get hit you have to learn how to hit. I don't hit weak men who don't know how to fight, who don't fight back. That's why I told you to work hard at the gym. The effects of it are starting to show... – She felt the stony consistency of the voluminous muscles in those arms, contracted by spasms of pleasure. She paused the vibrations and moved closer to him. – What's your judo belt?
Nunes was shaking and sweating, keeping his knees close to his shoulders. His speech seemed to be the result of extreme effort.
– Black belt, 3rd dan.
– Increase your training. I'm going to beat you up even though I don't know judo.
Dona Irene activated the vibrator. A long pause.
– But first, try to solve the problem with that kid.

[MuscleWomanBR]

Rushing to work to make up for his delay, André was happily surprised to see Nunes waiting for him at the gate of his house. Always elegant, the attractive police officer was leaning against his car, with his arms crossed and a friendly expression.
- What's up, doctor? Any news?
Nunes offered him a ride to the company.
- How is your girlfriend's training going?
- Oh, she's getting better and better.
- Better how?
- Better... She's making progress in jiu-jitsu and bench press. She's talking about competing again.
- So she's getting stronger?
- Yes.
The telegraphic answer was the password for the investigator to advance into the dark terrain of fetishism. André tried to change the subject.
- And the crazy old lady? Have you arrested her yet?
- You like muscular women, don't you, André?
The young man was clearly disconcerted and unable to say anything.
- I understand you. - Dramatic pause. - Me too.
The young man looked at the police officer, in a mixture of astonishment and relief, while he put his hands to his mouth, in a gesture of shock.
- Dude! I thought I was the only one, besides the anonymous foreigners on the websites!
- Yeah...
- I can't believe it... I never thought I'd find another guy like me...
- No man has the courage to admit this fetish in public. They'll think we're gay.
- Yeah! Only Kelly knows about my fetish. And now you.
- And what does she think?
- Dude! It's the perfect match! She loves to show off for me!
- Seriously?
Once again, Nunes hoped that Mrs. Irene would activate the plug, although he was afraid that his erection would show through his tight pants. His voyeurism, however, became stronger and ended up defeating any scruples, discretion or common sense.
- And come here, André. Does she show off her strength for you? Kelly's boyfriend hesitated a bit about exposing the couple's intimacy, but he thought it was important to build a bond with the police officer.
- Well... Yes, she does a lot.
- For example...
- She lifts me up.
- Lifts me up?
- Yeah, she puts my thighs on her shoulders, lifts me up against the wall and gives me a blowjob... - André squeezes his erect penis. Nunes does the same. - Doctor, she's a champion at blowjobs. She sucks me until I cum.
- How hot, man...
André gets excited.
- Yeah... She's really strong! That turns me on so much I can't even describe it... And when she sits on my dick... Doctor, she... She's the one in charge.
- I like that... I like it a lot.
- And you?
- Another dramatic pause.
- I... Well, I...
Nunes suddenly swerves the car and accelerates, taking a completely different path.
- What's going on?
- The investigator had assumed a stern expression, remaining silent.
- What's going on, doctor? This isn't the way I work. Where are we going?!

Silence.
- Get in this fucking car now or I'll...
- Shut the fuck up or I'll beat you up, faggot!

The vehicle entered an underground garage of an old and busy commercial building and began to descend several levels, until it reached a dark and completely empty floor that seemed to be closed off.
- Get down!
- Are you crazy, man?! I'm not going to get down, for fuck's sake!

Nunes unbuckled André's seatbelt and, from the driver's side, dragged him out of the car, keeping the young man kneeling at gunpoint. With his other hand, the investigator took his cell phone out of his blazer pocket and played the recording of the entire conversation the two had in the car.
- Listen carefully to what I'm going to tell you, faggot, because this is only going to be a one-time thing. Either you leave Mrs. Irene alone or I'm going to send this recording to your mother, your girlfriend, to the bitch who gave birth to her, because I know who her parents are. And if you open your mouth about this little conversation of ours here, I'll beat the shit out of you before I throw the shit in the fan. Pervert! You're a pervert! Do you understand me?
André remained silent, head down.
- Do you understand?!
The boy remained silent. Nunes slapped him, with all his strength, in the face.
- Answer me, damn it!
- Yes, sir...
Another slap.
- Then repeat.
The young man started to cry. Another slap.
- Answer me, damn it!
- Yes, sir, I won't say anything... I'm going to forget about this...
Fourth slap. Nunes presses the barrel of the pistol against André's forehead.

[MuscleWomanBR]

– Dude, you have no idea what I can do to you and your mother. There's nothing worse than dying, you know? I can make your life a living hell.
- Yes, sir – André cried convulsively.
Nunes puts away his gun, picks up the young man by the collar and leans him against the car. Almost twenty centimeters taller, the skinny André looks in panic at the investigator, who raises his powerful arms as high as he can. The young man's feet dangle in the air. The fury in Nunes' eyes was terrible.
- You still don't understand a damn thing, dammit! I'm a cop in this shitty country and I can do whatever I want to you, faggot! Because you're a piece of shit, a lunchbox delivery man who has nowhere to go. I can turn you in to the drug dealers saying you're a snitch, do you understand me? Do you know what the drug dealers do to snitches? I can make your mother disappear, dammit! I can make you disappear and no one will even find your ashes, you pervert! – For the love of God, doctor... I swear... I won't say anything, I won't do anything!
Nunes let go of André, who was crying miserably. The handsome police officer straightened his elegant clothes, approached the boy, as if he was about to hug him, and kneed him in the testicles. André bent over with his hands over his genitals, feeling a debilitating pain, moaning and crying. The investigator leaned close to his ear and whispered:
– Good boy.

[MuscleWomanBR]

She stood with the middle of her feet under the bar. Then, she bent over and gripped the bar with a shoulder-width grip. She bent her knees until her shins touched the bar. She expanded her chest and aligned her lower back. She took a deep breath, held it, and began to lift the weight. Her carotid arteries bulged. They looked like small ropes. Her cheeks were puffed. Her face was red. Her eyes were wide. A deep grunt of effort escaped her. A convulsive tremor took over her body until it stabilized, upright, lifting 210 kilograms and holding it suspended for a few seconds. When she lowered the weight, the impact caused a loud thud and made the ground shake. Her joy was immeasurable, but the exercise was just beginning: everything had to be repeated four more times, which she did with impeccable form, always under the supervision of her personal trainer.

When she caused the small earthquake for the fifth time, Kelly wanted to jump and shout with excitement. But her shyness limited her ecstasy to a wide smile on her still-red face. In one week, she had jumped from 180 to 210 kilograms in the deadlift. Her goal was to reach 250 kilograms in the next fifteen days. "I love you so much, my Greek god," she repeated in her mind, imagining the effects of this progress on her love and sex life with André: Kelly had been hiding these numbers from her boyfriend because she knew that simply mentioning them would excite him. And that excitement excited her. So, she kept them as a special seasoning for the increasingly steamy encounters yet to come.

Since meeting her boyfriend, Kelly had grown to love her own strength more and more. In fact, she only began to grasp the extent of her strength after André revealed his fetish for her. Until then, for Kelly, muscular power was both a result of and a tool for competing in weightlifting championships—which she considered just another sport, nothing more, nothing less.

Now, no. Realizing how strong she was felt liberating. Finally feeling loved and admired, she lost her fear of facing people and of not letting herself be intimidated by them. She grew to like her own body more and more, a body so despised by men and women who considered her "misshapen" or simply "ugly," "fat," "chubby," "stocky." A body she began to show off in short shorts and tank tops. She never missed an opportunity to use and demonstrate her emancipating physical strength. In jiu-jitsu training, she was feared for her throws like ippon seoi nage and uchi mata: during a sparring session with her sensei, she threw him to the ground with such force that he dislocated his shoulder. At home, she took on all the tasks that involved carrying, pulling, twisting, pushing, and lifting, outdoing her athletic father. But it was with and for André that she felt completely at ease, even talking about the sensations and transformations these sports provoked in her, while exploring and testing the limits of her body.

She had also lost her fear of her own libido. From André, of course, she found reciprocity. But whenever she finished an exhausting weight training session, like now, she would take a long shower, touching herself all over, feeling the calluses on her hands—sometimes bleeding. Her calluses excited her—just as they excited her boyfriend. They were the painful reminder of her Herculean effort lifting progressively heavier weights. Even that pain, however, fueled her desire. So she would masturbate under the shower, rubbing the calluses against her clitoris—which doubled her pleasure, because it was thanks to what they represented that the weightlifter allowed herself to masturbate and discovered sex with a man who loved her exactly as she was. She didn't regret a single orgasm achieved in the solitude of the shower stall at the gym. On the contrary, she especially remembered some of them, as her physical strength and flexibility allowed her to experiment with the most unusual positions. In one of them, with one foot on each wall, she managed to stay suspended above the ground for almost half an hour, while warm water ran down her abdomen and her hand worked frantically to thrust her into orgasmic ecstasy. This, however, did not diminish her sexual appetite. "There's always more for you, my Greek god," she whispered, resuming her masturbatory movements toward another orgasm.

It was with this spirit, between joy and glory, that Kelly hit the streets, her gym bag slung over her shoulder, jogging down the avenue toward the townhouse where André lived. It was a five-kilometer run that she insisted on doing as an aerobic exercise that would leave her sweaty by the time she entered his room. And there she would start another shower, this time accompanied.

This time, however, as she put the key in the gate, Kelly noticed that Dona Irene was leaving her townhouse. The two women locked eyes but remained completely still. It seemed as if their eyes were about to shoot lightning at each other. At the same time, both dropped what they were carrying: Dona Irene, dressed as if for a gala, was carrying a tacky handbag. Both took the same number of steps toward each other.

"Where, gas tank?"
"Wherever you want, crazy old lady."
Kelly caught the scent of a freshly taken bath that the widow exuded.
"When?"
"Now, if you want."
"Really, gas tank? Will I dirty my hand hitting those disgusting flabs of sweaty fat? I don't want to ruin my new dress..."
"And tacky! Where are you going with that hideous dress bought on 25 de Março Street? Are you turning tricks? You look like a hooker who can only service old, lonely perverts."
"Yeah, the dress is worth much less than a good beating on that giant ass of yours, you fat karate wannabe. I already took your black belt. I already shoved your shitty head in my toilet. Now I'm going to break you completely."
Kelly was wearing running shorts and a sweatshirt—which she began to remove. Dona Irene picked up her handbag.
"Not here, gas tank."
"Are you chickening out, old lady?"
"Calm down. All fat people are anxious. Come with me."
"What are you plotting, old lady?"
"Are you chickening out, gas tank?"
Kelly picked up her gym bag and followed the widow, who led her into the house and to the backyard. The athletic woman spoke loudly, so that Marcos could hear:
"Here we're alone, no risk of you embarrassing yourself by getting beaten by the crazy old lady for the third time."
The young woman had already gotten rid of her sweatshirt and shoes and was showing off her arms and trapezius muscles, which truly impressed Dona Irene, who pulled her dress over her head and removed her heels. Kelly burst out laughing when she saw that the widow was wearing boxers—not panties.
"Are you turning into a man, crazy old lady? Or are you a transvestite?"
The semi-nude body of the mature karateka—which Kelly had never seen so exposed—also impressed the weightlifter. Although not hypertrophied, her musculature was voluminous and evidently solid. Rarely had Kelly seen such an athletic and undeniably strong female body in person, one that exuded power, sweated determination, and inspired fear. For a few seconds, Kelly feared she had, once again, underestimated Dona Irene. Now, however, she managed to drown her insecurity in the ocean of self-confidence that the successive lifts of 210 kilograms had given her. And, with no chance of defense from her opponent, she already saw herself sitting on the very hard torso of the solitary muscular woman, ruining the makeup on that wrinkled face, whose excesses denoted the absolute ineptitude of the fifty-year-old in handling cosmetics.

"Help!" screamed Dona Irene, as her mouth filled with blood. "Help! Help!"
A loud thud was heard on the ground, as if someone had fallen on the improvised tatami in the backyard. It was Marcos, who immediately grabbed Kelly's torso, bending backward and throwing her. More agile and faster, he threw himself on top of her, immobilizing her with his knee on her stomach. The weightlifter, however, was not intimidated. She simply stood up, nullifying the strange and athletic masked man's move—now the target of a formidable knee to the testicles that completely incapacitated him. Fight over.

Kelly turned to Dona Irene, who was quite dizzy from the countless and violent blows she had taken to the head—whose swelling was beginning to show. She could barely see the young woman launching her broad and powerful shoulders, lifting and carrying her until she threw her onto the sofa, where the older woman groaned. Kelly ran to the backyard, where she found Marcos crouched and with a contorted face, leaning against the wall, trying to relieve the terrible pain in his testicles.
"Who are you?"
He just puffed, as the pain prevented him from concentrating on anything else. Kelly raised her voice.
"Hey, talk or I'll beat the crap out of you!"
The former fighter signaled for her to remove the mask he had worn to save Dona Irene from the beating. With some difficulty, the young woman freed him from what had been his second skin for two years. Still under the effect of the blow to his scrotum, with his breath held and his hands on his genitals, he simply said:
"Marcos."

THE END

[Dona Fell Friz]

Bravo! I want much more, but - bravo!

[MuscleWomanBR]

Thank you for your encouragement. It was very important for me to continue and finish this novel. I am seriously considering starting a series of short stories ("contos", in Portuguese). I don't know if "stories" would be the best translation into English for this genre of short narratives. We'll see.

[Zezepotoca]

Cara, que história épica, por favor continue, saudações brasileiras

[MuscleWomanBR]

Obrigado, meu compatriota! Estou escrevendo uma história curta agora.

[MuscleWomanBR]

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[MuscleWomanBR]

From here on I post the first chapters of "Dona Irene!, which I had not published before. This unpublished part does not represent any detriment to what has already been published so far.

"My ability and the strength of my hands have gathered all this wealth for me."
Deuteronomy 8:17

As the day ended, Dona Irene calmly began to close up the house. There wasn't much to close in this small, typical townhouse in the Brazilian metropolitan suburbs: the windows of the two bedrooms on the upper floor, the windows of the small living room and kitchen on the lower floor, with their grilles that simultaneously provided a sense of security and imprisonment. She then gazed at the impeccably clean and organized rooms of her modest, lower-middle-class home, which was somewhat comfortable but far from luxurious. A hint of loneliness and sadness briefly touched her eyes as she looked at the photos of her husband and son on the dresser, where the turned-off TV sat. At 54, Dona Irene had been a widow for five years. And four years ago, her son had emigrated to the United States, disillusioned with the prospects in Brazil. "I'd rather wash dishes in Miami," the young man had said when he decided to leave. Recently graduated in civil engineering from an expensive and mediocre private university, he had never returned. From time to time, he sent laconic updates, always devoid of affection. An only child, Dona Irene had never gotten along well with her husband's family. It seemed that only now did she realize how alone she was.

In truth, she wasn't entirely alone. And to understand this, we need to go back in time a bit.

A few weeks after her husband's sudden death, Dona Irene discovered that he had left a significant amount of money in financial investments, which certainly hadn't been intended to improve their frugal lifestyle. The discovery shocked her, because despite being a small family, the three of them had always lived spartanly. No luxuries, no extra pleasures, no comforts beyond the basic or essential. The most extravagant thing they allowed themselves was monthly dinners at the neighborhood pizzeria and trips to the beach every two or three years. Dona Irene had never indulged in the slightest vanity. On the contrary, she even humbly accepted used dresses and the few pieces of costume jewelry her sisters-in-law gave her, often with a hint of humiliation. Her hair remained dark because she dyed it at home. She did her own nails, though rarely. She cleaned, cooked, and did the laundry for everyone in the house. And she still found time to knit appreciated pieces, selling them to pay for the electricity, water, gas, and internet bills.

Sitting in the living room holding the statement from her husband's secret account, the widow felt a mix of perplexity, indignation, and doubt. The perplexity came mostly from not knowing what to do with the money. After all, she had grown accustomed to living with little. Above all, she had become used to the idea of simply waiting for old age to approach, saving to pay for her health insurance and face physical decline. It was then that her wandering gaze fell on the TV, which she hadn't noticed was on. It took her some time to understand what she was seeing. On the afternoon show aimed at housewives, she saw a much older woman displaying her muscles. The host repeated, with a touch of sexual excitement, his admiration for the elderly woman's defined abs. The woman, with a look that was both proud and haughty, didn't hesitate to show off her rigid, well-defined musculature, exposed thanks to her sports top and leggings, which accentuated her thick, sculpted thighs, prominent calves, and firm, pronounced buttocks. Dona Irene was shocked, however, when the wrinkled woman with mahogany-dyed hair began to demonstrate her strength. The host challenged her to lift thirty kilograms with her arms. The old woman smiled. "I always start with double that, just to warm up," she replied with a mocking look. "For leg exercises, I start with a hundred kilograms." Dona Irene was fascinated.

Still holding the bank statement, she was surprised by her fascination. She wasn't surprised. Nor shocked. Much less indignant or horrified. She was fascinated. She observed with attention the firmness of the gestures, the self-confidence, and above all the muscular strength of that body, which lifted increasingly heavier weights, to the delight of the audience and the host (who now seemed sexually aroused, with an embarrassing and unmistakable bulge in his pants). Dona Irene herself began to feel aroused. Sexually aroused. When she realized her arousal, she immediately turned off the TV. And, ashamed, she put away the bank statement.

That night, however, she couldn't sleep. The fascination with the muscles of the much older woman and the realization that the host had been aroused by the scene kept Dona Irene awake. Not only that. In the following days, she found herself asking her son how to access the internet on his computer. Although he found his mother's sudden interest strange, the young man didn't show much curiosity about her curiosity. He taught her how to search on Google and navigate websites. One lesson was enough. In a few days, Dona Irene proved to be an expert navigator, going straight to what interested her and discovering something she had never imagined. Something completely outside her imagination of beauty and female body aesthetics. Dona Irene discovered bodybuilding.

Of course, she knew what weightlifting was. Her husband had intermittently gone to the gym. And her son was "addicted" to fitness, which gave him a handsome and healthy body that Dona Irene discreetly admired. But she believed that muscles and physical strength were exclusively male attributes. Lifting weights and sculpting muscles was even repugnant for women, as she had always been taught. The female body could be firm, but never muscular, much less strong. Or superior to the body and strength of a man.

Seeing the woman on TV, Dona Irene suddenly felt some dormant or forgotten desire, because that woman had truly aroused her like never before. The attraction wasn't for the woman, however. But for the idea of being muscular and strong. Or strong because muscular. More than that, her desire now was to provoke in another man the same excitement that the old woman on TV had provoked in the host. Then Dona Irene remembered. She remembered that, in her adolescence and early youth, she had been a physically active woman. Born in the countryside, into a family of small farmers, she had often had to do heavy work in the absence of male labor. She even recalled that, when she met her future husband, he was astonished by the young Irene's defined biceps. The man even mocked the muscular definition of the woman, insinuating that perhaps she was a lesbian. The girl was desperate at the idea that she might have some masculine trait. And she did her best to hide, as much as possible, the muscles she had built more out of survival necessity than for appearance's sake.

Deep down, her greatest fear was not getting married. She felt very good realizing that she was capable of lifting, pulling, carrying, twisting, and pushing with the strength of any man her age. More than that. She felt powerful. Many times, Irene caught herself imagining the opposite situation, that is, where the initiative would come from her—and not from men. In her fantasies, she even saw herself subduing her boyfriend, imposing herself on him, threatening to beat him if he didn't obey her. Something unthinkable for a woman in the macho culture she was raised in. This led her to confess to the priest, certain that she had gravely sinned with such thoughts. The priest reprimanded her vehemently, threatening her with the fires of Hell and the loneliness of spinsterhood. Irene repressed herself, fearing the loneliness of life more than damnation after death. And she ended up getting married, always keeping herself very covered and quite subservient. The years that followed erased with accumulated fat the musculature defined by hard work in the fields. When, now a widow with a good amount of unexpectedly inherited money, Dona Irene realized this, a strange smile appeared on her face. "Why not?" she asked softly. And she typed into Google the words that led her to the sites where she found what she needed to fulfill her reawakened desire: to become, or return to being, a physically strong woman.

It wasn't easy. She herself resisted the idea, which seemed both bizarre and fascinating to her. But she noticed that her sudden interest in fitness didn't cause any surprise. On the contrary, her son even encouraged her, hoping that, with this, his mother wouldn't give him much trouble in her old age. So, in the first few months, Dona Irene focused on correcting her diet and sleep schedule, which was enough for her to lose a few pounds in a few weeks. In addition, she enrolled in the same gym her son attended. And she started with light exercises, "suitable for a woman of her age"—as the trainer announced. Surprisingly, however, Dona Irene responded quickly to the physical activities. And in less than six months, she had made remarkable progress that filled her with praise, enthusiasm, and self-confidence.

It was just the beginning.

After some more hesitation, Dona Irene asked the instructor to intensify her workouts and increase the weight of the loads. The request was met with disbelief, but the trainer decided to test how far this lady could go in her ambitious goal. He was sure she wouldn't last even a week with the new routine. To his surprise, however, Dona Irene not only held firm but, at the end of the month, asked for more: more weight, more intensity, more training time. In his entire professional career, the trainer had never seen anything like it. And he began to suspect that this woman was using some medication or drug.

In truth, she wasn't. It was pure discipline. And an iron will to become strong, as Dona Irene now admitted explicitly. "Do you think I can become stronger than you?" she asked Marcos, the trainer. He was a 35-year-old man, tall, with shaved hair, a thick beard, and very white teeth that contrasted with his sensually tanned skin. A masculine but attractive face, with a beautiful pair of seductive dark brown eyes. A former MMA fighter, he had graduated in physical education and opened the gym after realizing he wouldn't achieve the international stardom of other Brazilians in the sport. Hearing the question from his mature and determined student, Marcos smiled incredulously. "Of course not, Dona Irene," he replied, compassionately. "That's impossible. Look: I have much more muscle mass than you. And I'm a man. A man is always stronger than a woman." Dona Irene just smiled back but took those words as a challenge. "I'll show you, boy," she thought.

Months passed, and Dona Irene's progress in weightlifting began to draw attention. At the same time, Marcos began to worry, fearing that the lady's performance might result in some injury or serious illness for which he would be held responsible. At the gym, she had already surpassed the records of most of her younger male members. Marcos himself, at the peak of his muscular strength—maintained through continuous exercise and a strict diet—found in Dona Irene the only one capable of competing with him in the bench press. In his last meeting with the woman's son before he left for the United States, he revealed his concern. And he decided to take drastic action.

"Your mother was progressing very well, Roberto," Marcos began. "She lost weight quickly, got rid of her knee and back pain, and regained her flexibility. But I think what was just for maintaining her health is becoming an unhealthy obsession. She spends four hours a day here at the gym, Monday through Saturday. She doesn't miss a single day. I've never seen that, especially in a woman almost sixty years old! I think you should take her to a psychiatrist. What she's doing isn't normal."

"Well, at least she's keeping busy," Roberto retorted, somewhat impatiently. "I don't see any problem if she's enjoying it."

"But it's excessive. It could harm her..."

"Look, Marcos, I'm leaving for the States the day after tomorrow. The last thing I want is to create problems, especially with my mother. If she's not harming anyone and is even benefiting her own health, leave it as it is. Besides, the old lady is even getting hot, don't you think?" And he winked at the instructor, giving him a light pat on the shoulder as a goodbye.

Marcos, however, didn't want to risk his business. The following week, with Roberto already in the United States, he confronted Dona Irene as soon as she finished her exercises, after lifting fifteen-kilogram dumbbells fifteen times in each arm:

"Dona Irene, I'd like to be very direct and frank with you..."

"Oh, Marcos, don't worry... Next week I'll start lifting the twenty-kilogram weights..."

"It's not that, Dona Irene... I mean, it's exactly that! You've been increasing the loads at a rate incompatible with your age and..."

"But what's the problem? I'm not feeling any pain. On the contrary, now they've disappeared. And I can handle heavier and heavier loads..."

"Dona Irene, this isn't normal! Not even younger people can do what you're doing here. No one spends four hours a day in a gym unless they're an athlete. There must be something wrong..."

"What do you mean, 'wrong'?"

"Look, I have nothing to do with your personal life. And I don't even want to know if you're using any drugs or not, but the fact is I don't want to be held responsible for any harm to your health..."

"What are you talking about?! I don't use any drugs, I pay my gym membership religiously, I do all the exercises correctly, and you come with this nonsense?! No one tells me what to do! I'll do whatever I want!"

Dona Irene herself was surprised by the commanding tone of her speech and the unmistakable irritation in her voice. She was surprised, but she also liked it. Puffing out her now firm and defined chest, she stepped closer to Marcos, looking deep into his beautiful brown eyes, and declared:

"Are you afraid I'll become stronger than you, Marcos? Do you think I haven't noticed that I'm already lifting the same as you in the bench press?"

The trainer straightened his athletic body, indignant at the sudden insolence of the lady, and retorted:

"What you're saying is completely ridiculous! I have a business and a reputation to protect. I won't let my gym make the news because of your irresponsibility... Do me the favor of not coming back here! I'll refund the rest of your membership, and don't set foot in my gym again!"

Dona Irene glared at him for a few seconds. And she simply said:

"You'll regret this."

After Roberto said goodbye with a cold hug at the airport, Dona Irene returned home as quickly as possible. That very morning, she had received the last boxes containing the new equipment she had purchased for the small gym she was setting up. Her son had used the shed as a space to exercise when he couldn't go to the gym. And he had planned to sell the equipment before traveling. But Dona Irene bought it. And she kept it there, now expanding the resources she had been installing herself. It wasn't just physical strength that the lonely widow had been gaining. It was also the ability to decide and act according to her desires. So, now that she had money, she renovated the shed (at the back of the tiny yard) and turned it into a small, well-equipped weightlifting gym. She even covered the floor and, oddly enough (as a careful and suspicious observer might say), the walls.

Her internet research, which took up almost as much time as the exercises themselves, allowed her to emancipate herself from any public gym. By the time Marcos expelled her, Dona Irene already had her private gym almost set up—though she had planned to use it only on Sundays and at night, for supplementary exercises. The expulsion only motivated her further. So, as soon as she returned from the airport, Dona Irene went to admire her gym. Her son's old dumbbells, mats, bars, and weight plates were now joined by shiny new equipment, such as power racks for pull-ups and dips, leg extension and curl machines, a weight belt, a rowing machine, an exercise bike, a treadmill, a leg curl bench, and all the apparatuses for leg presses, calf extensions, pulleys, bench presses, and shoulder, bicep, and tricep development. On one wall, she installed a mirror. Seeing herself reflected in it, she observed her figure for a few minutes.

Dressed with the same sobriety and modesty as always, there was apparently nothing special about this woman nearing sixty, with her lips painted in subtle lipstick, her dyed and short hair, the even more discreet pair of earrings (inherited from her mother), her greenish eyes, and her fair skin marked by wrinkles that betrayed her age. At just over five feet two inches tall, slender and upright, Dona Irene would go unnoticed as just one among millions of other women of her age and social class, lost in the anonymity of a South American metropolis. In her cheap, unflattering dress that covered her arms to the elbows and her legs to the knees, Dona Irene saw herself in the mirror as "an ordinary woman"—she thought. "An ordinary woman?" she asked aloud. And she smiled sardonically.

Approaching the mirror, she began to unbutton her dress slowly. Over the bra that was now revealed, she felt her small but firm breasts. Her hands descended a little further, revealing her abdomen, her greatest pride: it was visibly defined, divided into six "segments" of muscle, giving her torso a sensuality she had never seen before. The thick layer of fat had disappeared. No sagging. If it weren't for the wrinkles marking her age, that abdomen could belong to a young Olympic gymnast. Dona Irene smiled, satisfied, and finished unbuttoning the dress, baring her thighs, the most powerful part of her musculature. She remembered the suffering, especially in the first months, pushing increasingly heavier loads on the leg press, an effort that caused sharp pains in her body, which had been sedentary for decades. But the suffering was worth it, she concluded, admiring those steel-hard muscles and twisting her legs to appreciate her toned calves. The grand finale, however, she enjoyed at length. Freeing herself from the dress, Dona Irene flexed her biceps and felt immense pleasure as they stood out, hard and powerful, on her arms. Somewhat awkwardly, she practiced poses typical of bodybuilding competitions.

In the months that followed, now free from the constraints of the gym, Dona Irene studied and applied everything she had learned from her explorations of specialized websites. In doing so, she discovered she was far more intelligent than she had assumed—or, more accurately, than men had led her to believe. She learned to balance her diet and exercise, her rest periods, and the weights she lifted, pushed, and pulled. Above all, she learned patience. Because it wasn't just about getting in shape, or even becoming the physically powerful woman she had been sculpting at Marcos's gym. Now that Dona Irene was in control of her development, her ambitions had grown. With a discipline that would make any soldier envious, the woman in her late fifties was building a strong body that would satisfy her sexually—but in an unorthodox way.

Repressed for decades, Dona Irene now intended to chose the men who would give her the pleasure she sought. A pleasure she quickly found in her online explorations. Beyond diets and exercises, the widow became a voracious consumer of wrestling sites (where women dominate men) and erotic videos of muscular women (simulating mixed fights or being worshipped by submissive males). And, very quickly, she began competing with herself in solitary orgasm championships—something she had rarely experienced with her husband—indulging in long masturbation sessions. Half of her wardrobe was now dedicated to an impressive arsenal of erotic instruments and products to enhance her pleasure: rubber penises, vibrators, kegel balls, anal plugs, candy, finger sleeve vibes, clitoral stimulating gel, and other clitoral stimulators. In her small private gym, she trained naked, admiring and arousing herself with her own reflection in the mirror. Often, she masturbated while exercising her biceps with dumbbells. But, at a certain point, something began to feel missing.

After a year of intense weightlifting at home and exhilarating solitary pleasure, giving vent to the most unusual fantasies and exploring previously unknown erogenous zones, Dona Irene wanted more. Or rather, she wanted what she had always wanted: to dominate a man not just in her imagination. And not just any man, but the one she desired. A male defeated by her physical strength. One who would be subdued by her muscular power. Who would feel in his body the might of her titanic musculature. Who would succumb to her. Who would serve her as her sex toys served her.

When this idea first flashed through her mind, Dona Irene caused a loud thud as she dropped the two twenty-kilogram dumbbells she was using to exercise her increasingly powerful biceps. And she began her longest masturbatory session, which stretched into the night, with successive orgasms achieved in the most unimaginable positions, thanks to the tone and flexibility of her powerful body.

After a year of intense weightlifting at home and exhilarating solitary pleasure, giving vent to the most unusual fantasies and exploring previously unknown erogenous zones, Dona Irene wanted more. Or rather, she wanted what she had always wanted: to dominate a man not just in her imagination. And not just any man, but the one she desired. A male defeated by her physical strength. One who would be subdued by her muscular power. Who would feel in his body the might of her titanic musculature. Who would succumb to her. Who would serve her as her sex toys served her.

When this idea first flashed through her mind, Dona Irene caused a loud thud as she dropped the two twenty-kilogram dumbbells she was using to exercise her increasingly powerful biceps. And she began her longest masturbatory session, which stretched into the night, with successive orgasms achieved in the most unimaginable positions, thanks to the tone and flexibility of her powerful body.

However, to subjugate the man she desired (handsome, young, strong, athletic), Dona Irene didn't plan to impose her muscular power abruptly. No. In her masturbatory fantasies, she demonstrated her physical superiority in every way. Not only did she demonstrate it, but she also experienced it, on the body of the man who excited her, the skills she had acquired beyond weightlifting. Slowly. With great technique. Prolonging the pleasure, as she had learned to do with her sex toys. That's why, in addition to lifting weights and sculpting her musculature, Dona Irene decided to learn how to fight. She became an avid consumer of martial arts films starring women, especially Cynthia Rothrock (although the actress's fight choreography seemed comically unrealistic to her). She knew by heart the hand-to-hand combat scenes from all versions of Charlie's Angels. And she frequently masturbated watching Catwoman defeat Batman. Unlike weightlifting, however, learning one or several fighting styles wasn't something she could do alone. Boxing and karate she could train on her own, albeit poorly. But Dona Irene found that insufficient. Just as she had become a bundle of muscles through diet, rest, and lifting heavy weights, the mature woman intended to become feared on the mat and in the ring. Kickboxing, taekwondo, hapkido, aikido, judo, jiu-jitsu, muay thai, capoeira... Her physical strength would leave the solitary confinement of weightlifting machines and finally impose itself on men in real fights, with male bodies made of flesh and blood—not pixels on screens.

That's why, as she calmly performed the ritual of closing up the house at the end of the day, Dona Irene wasn't exactly alone.

Although he had never made it to the UFC, as he had once dreamed, despite having won local championship belts several times, Marcos had never stopped being an athlete. After all, he owned a gym that offered not only weightlifting but also various fighting and martial arts classes. As one of the instructors, he needed to stay in shape and train as if preparing for a competition, even though he hadn't competed in five years. That's why, at sunrise, Marcos ran about six kilometers daily, using the long street where his gym was located as his track. It ended with a steep hill, which he loved climbing to accelerate and intensify his cardiovascular exercise. It was a quiet street, lined with semi-detached townhouses, their old gardens turned into garages, typical of lower-middle-class neighborhoods in São Paulo. On that tropical winter morning, Marcos started running while it was still dark. Despite the cold, he wore short black shorts with side slits, which allowed for freer movement of his long, muscular legs. He had on a long-sleeved hoodie, but the hood was down. He was well aware of the risk his dense, dark beard, shaved head, and tanned skin could pose in a country where any man with these features was often "mistaken" for a criminal by the police.

After a thorough stretch, Marcos took off down the deserted street, happy with the vigor he felt in his long strides and the power of his lungs, inhaling and exhaling in the cold of that routine winter dawn. Of course, he had no idea he was being watched. From the upper floor of her townhouse, Dona Irene saw Marcos pass by, heading toward the hill where the street ended. Having observed her former trainer's routine for days, she knew he would be back in twenty minutes, breathing heavily and sweating profusely. So, she went downstairs and stood in front of her house. The asbestos tiles covering the old garden had been dismantled by Dona Irene's vigorous arms. What had been improvised as a garage for decades, darkening the living room, had now returned to being a small, well-kept garden.

As soon as she spotted Marcos, Dona Irene straightened up in her loose hoodie and sweatpants, the hood pulled up, leaving only her face visible. Pretending to be about to leave, she opened the gate and exclaimed, feigning surprise:

"Hi, Marcos! Good morning! What a coincidence! I actually wanted to talk to you..."

"Good morning, Dona Irene!" There was a tone of genuine satisfaction in the former fighter's voice. Since he had expelled Dona Irene from his gym, he had never spoken to her again, nor had he even seen her. Deep down, he felt guilty about the violence of that awkward situation, though he was more concerned about his business's reputation. The fifty-something woman even seemed to have gained weight, surely from reducing the intensity of her fitness routine. But seeing her like this, willing to talk, made Marcos very happy. "Of course! Let's talk... What time works for you?"

"Now, if you don't mind."

"But aren't you on your way out?"

"Yeah, I also run here in the morning, but..."—and Dona Irene stopped herself, as she was about to say, "more than double your distance."—"But I can leave it for later. The important thing now is to talk to you. Don't you want to come in for some coffee?"

Marcos hesitated for a long thirty seconds, chewing his words until he managed to say:

"I can't, Dona Irene. I need to open the gym in twenty minutes..."

"But I'll be quick, Marcos! It's important, but it won't take long. And you can have your breakfast. My morning spread is perfect for an athlete like you."

Still hesitant, Marcos saw the small wrought-iron gate open and Dona Irene touch his arm, urging him to come in. Reluctantly, he took uncertain steps across the tiny, flower-filled garden, with the widow right behind him, repeating, "Come in, come in, it won't take long."

In the clean and simple kitchen, the four-seat table was impeccably set with the healthiest options for a first meal of the day. However, Marcos noticed the two cups, clearly indicating that Dona Irene had been prepared to receive him. His eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. Dona Irene, however, was quick, pouring the coffee and handing the cup to her guest without stopping her chatter:

"I know you're in a hurry, Marcos... So, I'll get straight to the point. Look, I want to apologize to you..."

"What are you talking about, Dona Irene! Don't worry! I'm the one who should apologize..."

"No, no, no, you were right. I was overdoing it, and it would have ended up harming me. You were professional, responsible. I was the one acting like a teenager. Imagine! I wanted to have the body of an athlete... An old woman like me..."

Marcos relaxed his jaw and sipped the coffee, relieved. The old woman just wanted to apologize, and she had surely been rehearsing this for days. A pang of pity pricked his heart. He even allowed himself a discreet smile as Dona Irene offered him the inevitable cheese bread:

"You can't miss this, even on an athlete's table, right?"

She kept talking while Marcos sipped the coffee, whose taste struck him as somewhat unusual. She reminisced about her son now in the U.S., her husband's sudden death, the hard times they had endured in that house, and then her discovery of weightlifting... The trainer continued to listen attentively, but something strange was happening. He was struggling more and more to understand what she was saying. Her chatter sounded increasingly nonsensical. And Dona Irene's image began to distort, blurring, as if out of focus. Some words jumped out, isolated and disconnected: "muscles," "lifting," "dumbbells," "reps," "biceps," "strength"... "What is this woman saying?" he thought. Marcos strained his eyes. It didn't help. He tried to say something, but his mouth felt full of a milky paste. Then he tried to stand up, noticing his movements were in slow motion. His last sensation was that of falling, accompanied by the sound of the cup shattering on the ceramic floor, not far from his ears.

First, it was a blue blur. Then, it gradually became clear, taking the shape of the rubber flooring typical of weightlifting gyms. For a fraction of a second, Marcos thought he was waking up inside his gym, strangely with his head hanging toward the floor. But soon he felt the pressure of restraints against his entire body and his mouth gagged with one of those typical sadomasochistic ball gags. He began to grunt, muffled by the erotic gag, his eyes bulging with a mix of horror and anger as he struggled to free himself from the ropes. Standing in front of him was Dona Irene, dressed in her gray sweat suit, her hands resting casually in her pockets. It was at that moment that the athletic former fighter, embarrassed, realized he was completely naked.

"You can scream all you want. No one will hear your grunts. And even if someone does, they'll think it's me, moaning on the weight machines. But as you can see, I've soundproofed the walls. So, you might as well calm down."

No matter how hard he tried, Marcos couldn't move. His entire body was tightly bound to the chair, his legs slightly apart. He soon noticed there was a hole beneath his buttocks, which increased his panic and frantic breathing. Dona Irene waited calmly for several long minutes until Marcos stopped struggling and grunting in desperation.

"Ready? Do you understand now that there's no way to escape? Do you realize you can't scream or speak?" A long pause followed as Marcos gradually stopped his futile attempts to break free, until he finally gave up. "Good boy!" The trainer had another bout of desperate movements and terrified grunts. "I'm in no hurry, Marcos. I can wait for you to tire yourself out," said Dona Irene with a condescending smile. The former fighter stopped. She resumed her speech. "Well, let me explain what's happening. Now you're mine." Another outburst from the trainer. The woman picked up a small stool from the corner, placed it in front of Marcos, sat down, and calmly crossed her legs. She remained like this for about five minutes, staring at the man in front of her, whose eyes were now filled with tears. Until he finally calmed down. "So, as I was saying, now you're mine. That's right: mine. It's going to take time, and it's going to hurt a lot, but you'll learn to be mine. I've been preparing for this for four years, Marcos, ever since I left your gym. You have no idea what I've learned in all this time, nor what I'm capable of doing. Anyone who sees me like this, in this loose hoodie and dyed hair, thinks I'm just another lonely, useless old widow, waiting for death, abandoned in a nursing home. Fortunately, I woke up in time. And I transformed myself into what I am now." Dona Irene stood up, pushed the stool aside with her heel, and slowly unzipped her jacket. Marcos's eyes widened as the garment fell to the floor: the woman hadn't gained weight but had doubled her muscle mass. Her torso, covered only by a sports top, was as defined as his. "And there's no steroids or anabolics here. Just diet, rest, and a lot, a lot of weightlifting, every day, religiously." She flexed her biceps. "See this? Hard as a rock!"

[MuscleWomanBR]

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[MuscleWomanBR]

Marcos remained motionless, stunned. He had never seen anything even remotely like this since he had entered the world of sports, back in his early adolescence. He had met many MMA fighters, solid as steel, with physiques that would make many male athletes envious. And one of his students was preparing for the national bodybuilding championship. But they were much younger women, who responded quickly to diet and training, focused on competition. Dona Irene was almost 60 years old, and in four years, she had built the musculature of a competitor.

"I'm not preparing to compete, Marcos," she said, as if reading the thoughts of her former trainer. "That is, not in bodybuilding competitions. I want to compete with the men I chose. And you were the first."

Despite the gag, Marcos smiled and even relaxed his body, as if feeling relief at understanding a mere misunderstanding. If he could speak, he would say that competing with him was complete madness, which only reinforced his certainty that this woman had lost her mind. No matter how muscular she was, Dona Irene could never compete with an experienced fighter like him—a 35-year-old man, standing at 6'3" (192 cm), weighing 209 pounds (95 kg), at the peak of his vigor, famous for the power of his punches and skilled in Brazilian jiu-jitsu.

"I know what you're thinking, Marcos. You men are all the same. You don't need to be a mind reader to know what's on your mind." And leaning her face closer to his: "Like I told you, you have no idea what I'm capable of. Think about it: how do you think you ended up here, in this situation? Of course, I had to sedate you. Yes, in the coffee you drank. You noticed a strange taste, didn't you? Well, I did some stretching and started my daily weightlifting routine: I lifted you and carried you here like a sack of potatoes. Yes, Dona Irene, the crazy 58-year-old woman you kicked out of your gym, had no trouble putting you in this chair, where you're now very securely tied up. I could have already broken you, Marcos. But I want you whole. Very whole. Because I'm going to teach you to be mine. And you're going to teach me how to fight."

The trainer had already given up on resisting. The ropes were tight, and the more he moved, the more they seemed to tighten around him. As the woman spoke, he tried to think of ways to escape while simultaneously being horrified by this absurd story. Fighting had taught him to keep a cool head. It was the stance he adopted after realizing he was unable to react.

"Well, I know talking won't help," Dona Irene continued. "You'll understand through practice, little by little. It's going to hurt. Don't say I didn't warn you." And in a sudden, swift motion, she squeezed Marcos's testicles.

While her prisoner slept with his head slumped on his chest, Dona Irene indulged in a series of weightlifting exercises, which always excited her as they made her feel her strength in every muscle she worked on diligently. In recent years, these sessions ended in an invariable and prolonged masturbatory routine. For the first time, however, the athletic woman didn't need to imagine the muscular stallions she subdued in her fantasies: now she had her own, right there, unconscious, slumped in a chair, his dazzling naked body all for her. But she couldn't linger in contemplation. Before the effects of the medication wore off, she had to secure the former fighter's wrists and ankles to chains fixed to the wall. Dona Irene stifled a cry of the orgasm she had just reached and, naked, quickly untied Marcos, lifting him onto her shoulders. The man groaned. The fifty-something woman gently placed him against the wall and fastened the leather cuffs to the extremities of that beautiful athlete's body she had just masturbated to. "Good boy," she whispered, pressing her muscular body against his.

Ten minutes passed—and Marcos began to regain consciousness as she pressed him against the wall, gently rubbing her clitoris against the rigid left quadriceps of the former MMA fighter. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, interrupting the rising waves of pleasure coursing through Dona Irene. She hesitated. Should she trade an orgasm for an unnecessary door-to-door bleach salesman? The doorbell rang again. And with it, reason returned. It wouldn't be wise to pretend she wasn't home. She let him collapse onto his knees, his arms suspended by the chains, grabbed the long, plush robe, and left at the sound of the third ring.

"Coming! Coming!" she shouted, putting on the robe as she walked to the door.

Behind the garden gate stood a beautiful young white woman with light brown hair, wearing sportswear and standing upright, nervously looking into the house.

"Hi! Good afternoon! Could you give me some information, please?"

"Good afternoon! Yes, of course," replied Dona Irene, with the door slightly ajar.

"Do you know Marcos Galdino?"

"Who?"

"Marcos Galdino, the owner of the gym nearby."

"Oh, yes, I know him. I used to go to his gym until about four years ago..."

"Well, he's disappeared..."

"What do you mean?!" Dona Irene opened the door, crossed the small garden, and approached the young woman, touching her arms in a friendly manner. "My God! What happened, dear?"

"Well, he went out for a run this morning and never came back."

"But didn't he have his phone with him?" asked the woman, knowing full well that Marcos didn't carry his phone during runs.

"No, Marcos didn't run with his phone. It's still at the gym."

"Oh my God... But isn't there a way to check if he had any appointments?... Maybe he's in a meeting or doing something like that and forgot to let anyone know."

"No, he didn't have anything scheduled. I'm going door to door on this street to see if anyone saw him today. You didn't see him, did you?"

"No, no... It's been a while since I last saw Marcos. Not since I stopped going to the gym. You know how it is, I'm getting old, right? The gym is for young people," she said, delighting in her defined abdomen, purposely contracted under the thick robe. "But listen, I'll keep an eye out, okay? If I hear anything, I'll let the gym know."

"Oh, please! Everyone's really worried. Marcos isn't the type to just disappear like this. We've already reported it to the police, but you know how it is... And I can't just sit around waiting for time to pass."

"You're right. I'll pray that he shows up soon, okay? I'm sure he's fine... He probably just forgot to let anyone know where he was. Marcos will turn up soon. Don't worry." Dona Irene made a sympathetic expression. Then she added, "I'm sorry! I didn't even ask your name..."

"Oh, I'm the one who should apologize. I'm so nervous I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Sandra, Marcos's girlfriend. And you are...?"

"Irene."

Added after 1 2 minutes:

When the widow returned to the shed, she noticed she had left the door open, through which came the tense clinking of chains and Marcos's growls, now more desperate. He had heard the doorbell. Dona Irene found the man stiff, stretching the chains as far as possible, as if trying to rip them from the wall. The woman was aroused by the sight of that athletic musculature involuntarily displaying itself to her with full vigor.

"You're so beautiful, Marcos..." she sighed, removing her robe. "I'm only not masturbating right now because we have a lot to do. So, calm down. It's no use trying to escape or scream. Start accepting it. Now you're mine." She punched him in the stomach. Marcos writhed from the force of the blow, but the greater shock came from the unexpectedness of the gesture. Dona Irene delivered another punch, this time to his temple, equally forceful, opening a gash on his eyebrow, from which blood gushed profusely. Another punch, under the jaw. Unaccustomed to the pains of competitive fighting, the former fighter roared through the erotic gag, from whose hole drool, blood, and the paste Dona Irene had forced down his throat dripped. The widow's punches were incredibly powerful.

"I lack technique, don't I?" the woman presumed. "Now do you understand why you're here? I mean, this is also why"—and she punched Marcos in the liver. "I've been training in boxing alone, but nothing compares to having a teacher like you. Or to hitting you," she added, smiling, as she moved her legs and torso like a true boxer. Even an athletic body like his couldn't endure without suffering the force with which Dona Irene was beating him. And she distributed punches to the most sensitive areas of her prisoner's body. "This time I'll spare your balls," she said, after five agonizing minutes of intense beating. Marcos's eyes were swollen, his face bloodied, with dark bruises and abrasions all over his body, his muscles aching. With some difficulty, he managed to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, strategically placed in front of him on the other side of the room. "Start learning who's in charge here," Dona Irene whispered into the ear of her former trainer, now on his knees and hanging by the handcuffs. She took two steps back and launched a kick at his face. Marcos passed out.

At the end of that day, therefore, Mrs. Irene was no longer alone. After checking that everything was securely locked – and contemplating the house with vague melancholy – she turned on the television with the volume quite high, to pretend to the neighbors that she was watching the six o'clock soap opera, like so many other Brazilian ladies her age. And she felt the hardening of her nipples and the harbinger of a clitoral erection as she walked to the outbuilding. There, she found Marcos squatting, with his arms half-raised by the chains and his back resting against the wall. His feet were soaked with urine, which smelled throughout the room. The widow brought a wool blanket, a gallon of mineral water and the catheter, which she inserted into the hole in the gag. And she began to speak in an almost didactic way, in a tone of maternal care: "Now I'm going to give you water. Lots of water. You need to hydrate yourself. Don't worry, because this time there's no tranquilizer. I know you're dying of thirst. Your lips are dry.

Marcos swallowed greedily, choking and coughing a few times. The liquid leaked from the corners of his mouth and ran down his chest, still splattered with porridge. His eyes, purple and swollen, opened with difficulty. His face was covered in clotted blood. His muscles ached, feeling the blows of those strong arms that held the heavy gallon of water.

"Today you're going to sleep there, in your own piss, hanging from these chains," said Mrs. Irene, suddenly stern. "Because I want you to learn." She paused for a long time, staring at the virile instructor, so fragile and humiliated. And she resumed her speech, keeping the hard look in her eyes. "You know, Marcos, until my husband died, men always told me who I was, what I could do, what I liked, what I had to want. I spent thirty-five years in this house cooking, washing and ironing for two men who never said a "Thank you very much." And I still did a lot of knitting to help with the budget. Two weak ones. My husband couldn't even change a light bulb. He would collapse on that couch to watch TV as soon as he got home from work. He had no discipline. He would work out for a week and then stop for six months. He wasn't even any good in bed. His dick wouldn't get up anymore. It was getting flabby, sloppy, ugly. He ate only junk, like a pig. I lost my interest in him a long time ago. I went crazy when I found out that this idiot was saving money without telling me anything. He was definitely going to dump me and run off with some twenty-year-old prostitute! – Dona Irene got up from the stool, adjusting her robe. – Oh! But when I discovered bodybuilding!... It freed me, you know? In truth, I've always been what I am now, Marcos. Always! But it couldn't be. On my parents' farm, the hardest work was mine. I was capable of doing with my arms and hands what any other man could do. Even better. That was scary. And it turned me on so much! I liked to feel strong, to have a lot of strength, especially in my arms, to imagine myself doing to men what they did to women, you know? Taking the initiative, making the guy feel that I can do more than him, that no man scares me because I can do as much as anyone else... But I had to hide. Or I would become a spinster with a reputation as a lesbian, stuck in a dusty, miserable little piece of land, way out in the countryside. Can you imagine what that means where I came from? – Dona Irene paused as if she was really waiting for an answer. Marcos just looked on, in absolute silence. – It was no different in this house – she continued, raising her voice. – I never needed a man to fix anything! I dragged the furniture by myself! I carried everything that was heavy! I lifted everything those two useless men were incapable of lifting! I kept this house clean! I paid for the electricity, water, telephone, and internet they used to jerk off! I took care of them when they were sick! – Another pause. His eyes shone with fury. The ex-fighter instinctively shrank his body, expecting a storm of blows. – Who's the weak one here?! – Another pause. – And another thing: I want pleasure! Why can only men cum? I can too! Actually, I knew I could, but my husband was a disaster... – Dona Irene smiled ironically and looked at Marcos' genitals. – He had a tiny dick. Not even half as big as yours, which is soft now. The widow untied and opened her robe, under which she was naked. It was cold, but this discomfort did not stop her. Once again, Marcos was exposed to a well-defined female abdomen – a sight he had never seen before, on the body of a woman approaching sixty. Her defined chest almost hid her breasts. Her torso was more like that of an Olympic athlete. Dona Irene licked her index finger for a long time. With it, spreading her shapely thighs and slightly bending her knees, she ran it along the groove that separated the abdominal muscles until she reached the top of her vulva. With her other hand, she pressed the back of her neck, bending her abdomen and accentuating its definition. With her ring finger and index finger, she opened her labia majora, allowing her middle finger to touch her clitoris. Her gaze devoured Marcos' masculine, athletic and haggard figure. Little by little, she increased the speed of her movements, pressing with her fingers, alternately drawing larger and smaller circles, sometimes reducing, sometimes increasing the intensity of the friction, causing waves of pleasure that made her skin crawl. She continued like this for minutes on end, controlling her climax. The movements of her hand on her clitoris then became progressively more vigorous. Her eyes began to roll back, foretelling her orgasm. She threw her head back and opened her mouth, moaning louder and louder. Dona Irene contracted her abdomen even more and stood on her tiptoes, demanding the force of 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 the fluid released by her urethra dripped profusely from her fingers.

Marcos had witnessed, for the first time, something he had only known by its English name from porn sites: 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 did every morning, Mrs. Irene entered the mini-gym with breakfast for the former athlete. The widow smelled of a well-taken bath. The floral fragrance of the soap contrasted with the smell of urine that soaked the kidnapped man's feet. With his body dotted with bruises from the previous day's beating, barely covered by the wool blanket on a cold night and tired from the predictable insomnia caused by that situation, he gave a tearful look of supplication to the woman who was inserting the feeding tube into his gag.
"You won't learn to obey me overnight, Marcos," she began, without looking at him, while the trainer choked and coughed, drooling the porridge. "It will take time. You have a lot to learn." As she made the man swallow a liter of that kind of soup, she gave him a look of disgust:
"You stink." He's covered in piss. What a character! All slobbering, like a senile grandpa. Who would have thought, huh? The champion got his ass kicked by the fifty-something woman! What if I put some pictures of you on the internet, in this state? Have you ever thought about it? Pictures of me giving you a rear naked choke with this steel fist. What do you think? - And she laughed, flexing her right arm defiantly. Then she removed the wool blanket that was barely covering Marcos and announced, assuming the maternal tone he was already familiar with: - Now I'm going to give you a bath, get rid of that dried blood, treat those wounds. I'm going to make you beautiful and smell good, you'll see!
Dona Irene left the outbuilding for half an hour, returning with a steaming bucket and a paraphernalia of bandages, bath towels and personal hygiene products. With a very soft sponge, heated in water, she began to soap the tired body of the ex-fighter, who responded with visible pleasure, closing his eyes as if receiving a loving caress. The pleasant and comforting smell of soap wafted up to his nostrils. The massage and the hot water relaxed his muscles. For a few moments, he even forgot about his captivity and smiled under the gag. It was the first time that Mrs. Irene had touched his body like this, feeling the contours and solidity of those well-worked muscles that she admired so much. If it was comforting for him – he didn't 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 was now all hers, she thought. Then the widow climbed onto the stool and poured hot water over Marcos, but not before shampooing his thick black beard, well-shaped in the lumberjack style. Finally, she picked up two huge, fluffy towels and began to dry him.
"I bought them especially for you, big man!" said the woman, as she dried him carefully. Marcos felt a mixture of tenderness and repulsion. Then she pulled out the chair where he had been tied the previous morning. "Now you rest, sitting here. There's a hole right in the middle of the seat, remember? That's where you're going to piss and shit, understand? I put a laxative in the soup. It should take effect in a few hours. So spread your legs wide." Marcos obeyed, suspicious. Dona Irene moved the chair over the formidable arch of thighs that her former trainer had formed, placing the back against the wall behind him. Then she smeared her hands with balsamic oil. "Leave your ass back and stick your dick in the hole." Once again, he did as she told him, suffering in anticipation of the new torture he was expecting. "That's it! See? That way you can piss. I'm going to put a bucket underneath." Before he could change position, however, she grabbed the kidnapped man's penis. Marcos moaned loudly, desperately, expecting another session of crushing his testicles. "Calm down, stud," she whispered in a warm voice. "It's time to milk. I'm going to give you a nice handjob on that big, beautiful cock. A handjob that not even the most experienced whore could give you." Her hands, calloused from bodybuilding, held the instructor's genitals, completely exposed in the orifice, in simultaneous movements of caressing the scrotum and stimulating the head of the phallus, still retracted. "Relax, Marcos. I'm going to teach you what a good handjob is."
Crouching down in front of the athletic prisoner, looking up at him with a mischievous smile, Mrs. Irene began with light and gentle touches, exploring the sensitivity of that shrunken member, whose monumental erection she had assessed the night before. Taking her time, the woman gradually gained the kidnapped man's trust. Little by little, Marcos also began to relax and give in. With her hands well lubricated, she began applying gentle pressure around the glans and shaft of the penis. The man moaned and ended up responding with the progressive hardening of his phallus. She then began to experiment with different types of stimulation, including caresses, circular touches, sliding movements and firmer squeezes, changing the focus of the stimulation between the glans, the shaft and the scrotum, multiplying the sensations whose effects she could read on the ex-fighter's face. The main response, however, was in the penis, now hard as stone. Dona Irene used both hands with surprising skill: the left one stimulated the shaft, while the other caressed the glans or massaged the scrotum, in rapid changes of technique, always attentive to Marcos's moans of pleasure, who, with accelerated breathing, found himself devouring that woman with a sensual look, asking her to continue, to intensify her movements, to take him to ecstasy. His eyes, swollen from the beating the day before, did not distort the expression of supplication for that orgasm. A shiver ran through her body from the nape of her neck to her calves. He grunted something incomprehensible, chewing on the ball of the gag, as if trying to speak amidst the moans of pleasure. Even without understanding, Dona Irene understood: Marcos would accept anything in exchange for the climax, announced in generous flows of pre-ejaculate liquid. Immediately she let go of his genitals and stood up, saying:
- You will cum when I want.
The man roared, his penis erect as never before, on the verge of orgasm, on the verge of ejaculation, experiencing a combination of simultaneous feelings no less intense than erotic excitement: anger, terror, shame, frustration, guilt, humiliation... And, at the same time, the uncontrollable desire to repeat it all.

Sandra slowly untied the knot of her black belt and opened her karategi slowly, without taking her eyes off Marcos. She let the belt fall. Her tanned skin glowed in the dim light of the deserted gym, which had just been closed, while her defined abdomen, just below the black sports top, pulsed with slightly accelerated breathing. As she removed the jacket of her karategi, Sandra revealed her slim but athletic torso, typical of a dedicated weightlifter. Still staring at the trainer, she picked up the black belt from the floor and tied it again around her now bare, slender waist. Her movements were firm, decisive. No hesitation. No trembling.

"No man fools me, Marcos," she began.

"What are you talking about, Sandra?" he asked, puzzled by her words and behavior.

"You think I don't know?"

"Don't know what?" The former MMA fighter was now moving from confusion to anger.

"All men are the same..." she sighed, with a slight ironic smile, as if addressing an audience. "I know you're sleeping with that bitch who trains MMA here."

"Have you lost your mind?! I've never had anything with Diana!"

"Lost my mind? Marcos, do you think I'm stupid?! I saw you fucking that cow in the women's locker room... Worse! I saw that slut fucking you after beating you up, you pervert! I found out you love getting beaten up by women! Now I know where those marks on your body come from... I checked your browser history and saw the videos you like, you freak! You get off on being beaten by women, you sicko!"

"That's not it, Sandra..."

She took two steps toward Marcos, cutting him off with visible fury.

"Shut your lying mouth, you freak, because I saw everything! You don't have to explain anything to me!" And moving her neck and shoulders, as if preparing for a fight: "I thought you were with me out of love, not perversion. Now I get it: you're with me because I'm a black belt in karate, because I lift heavy, because I love my defined muscles, because I'm strong and I like being strong. You were going to use me for your sick fetishes, you psycho!"

Marcos relaxed. He even smiled a little.

"I don't know where you got all this nonsense, Sandra. You must be losing it. Look, go home and..."

"Son of a bitch!" Sandra interrupted, shouting. "I'll go home after I break you! You like getting beaten by women, huh? Well, now you're going to get beaten for real. I won't give you little slaps like that cow. You're going to get beaten by a black belt!"

"Go home, you bitch!" Marcos shouted, clenching his fists. "Or I'll be the one to break you!"

Sandra let out a brief, nervous laugh, tightening her abdomen and assuming a fighting stance.

"Sandra, you're not well, go home, cool off, we'll talk tomorrow..." Marcos said in a conciliatory tone.

Before he could finish the sentence, however, the karateka delivered a fast, precise, and powerful *seiken chudan zuki*—a punch to the stomach. Marcos screamed in pain. And woke up. Leaning against the wall, he realized he was fully erect.

Dona Irene entered the shed, drawn by the grunt of her prisoner.

"Well, well, well... Was the boy having an erotic dream? Were you dreaming about me, handsome? Did you enjoy being beaten up by this old lady?" And, before his penis could retract, Dona Irene grabbed it and began to masturbate him. "Ah! Let's give this a happy ending, my dear..."

Marcos looked at Dona Irene's pronounced biceps, which manipulated his erection with impressive skill, giving him immense pleasure. The image of his girlfriend's defined musculature in the dream and now the biceps of his kidnapper, tensed by frantic masturbatory movements, seemed to awaken a previously unknown excitement in him. The contours of Dona Irene's upper muscles conveyed the same appearance of power that Marcos had seen in Sandra's body in the dream. The difference was that the woman in front of him was real and wouldn't disappear when the dream ended. He was effectively being masturbated by an athletic, powerful, strong woman—and all of this now excited him. Then pleasure took over. And Marcos relaxed, allowing himself to surrender to this discovery. When Dona Irene skillfully massaged his prostate, the trainer ejaculated in a delicious orgasm that sent shivers from his scalp to his calves.



Sandra returned once again to her boyfriend's gym, which continued to operate, though in an atmosphere that felt strange to her: there was a certain tension among the regulars, especially those who trained in martial arts. She knew them well, as she trained with them. Everyone was aware of Marcos's unexplained disappearance, and as the days passed without news of his whereabouts, they seemed horrified by what might have happened to him. In the office, with large windows overlooking the gym, Sandra watched obese individuals lifting weights in the hope of easing their own burdens, elderly women trying to delay the weight of the years, young men lifting weights to gain and erotically display strength, girls focused on weights that made their buttocks appealing to men's eyes, fighters enduring the weight of blows while dreaming of becoming MMA stars... Could it be that among all these people, so obsessed with weights, there was someone for whom Marcos's life weighed heavily?

Since her boyfriend disappeared, Sandra had been considering several hypotheses, none of which convinced her. Especially the idea that Marcos might have an enemy—at least to the point of being kidnapped or killed. Kidnapping was definitely not the case—a conclusion that seemed obvious to Sandra, though the police still insisted on it. What kidnapper would go a month without making any contact or demanding a ransom? She knew the former fighter would never get involved with drugs and had no debts to criminals or loan sharks. It also didn't seem plausible to her that he would run off with another woman, leaving absolutely everything behind.

Feeling somewhat lost after so many fruitless attempts, Sandra decided to access the gym's laptop one more time, with the vague hope of finding some clue. She had already searched the device several times after the police returned it. Apparently, there was nothing suspicious. The browser history contained nothing strange or even embarrassing, like visits to pornographic or suspicious websites. Everything was very proper. Too proper, even. That's when she decided to open the folder containing the gym's client records. The police had already done this and scrutinized the lives of each member in search of suspects. They found none. Sandra decided to read each registered member's file. Meticulous, Marcos tracked attendance, exercise routines, weight progressions on the machines, and the physical progress of each student. She began to read each record, driven by an obsession only her desperation could explain. After all, Marcos was the great love of her life, and the mystery of his disappearance was eating away at her, while she watched his parents sink into a deep depression.

Almost two hours had passed when, under the letter "I," Sandra found Dona Irene's file. At first, nothing seemed unusual, but the girlfriend of the missing trainer grew increasingly impressed by the fifty-something woman's dedication and performance. She had never imagined that someone of that age could achieve such results, to the point where she assumed Marcos had made a mistake, recording the "old lady's" name in the file of someone much younger. But no, all the data was correct, including the woman's address—which Sandra had visited a month ago. However, at the end of the file, in the space reserved for notes, Sandra found an entry by Marcos that explained the sudden interruption of Dona Irene's exercise logs, weights, and measurements: "Membership canceled after warning for excesses." This piqued Sandra's curiosity. The note was dated four years earlier. What had happened? Could Dona Irene have been upset with Marcos? Of course, it never crossed Sandra's mind to suspect the fifty-something woman. After all, what harm could that old lady possibly do to a man like Marcos—strong, athletic, tall, and experienced in various fighting styles? Sandra's curiosity was more about the outcome of that story and the certainty that Dona Irene might have information about something suspicious. After all, until four years ago, she had been the gym's most dedicated member, trained exclusively by Marcos—a privilege for which she paid extra. With no better alternative, Sandra decided to visit Dona Irene once more.

[MuscleWomanBR]

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