**The Avenger**

[MuscleWomanBR]

**The Avenger**

She was never a conventional teenager. Even as a child, she was intensely kinesthetic: she loved anything that set her body in motion, testing her limits, often at the expense of furniture, dishes, and decorative items that couldn't withstand her jumps, kicks, flips, runs, and somersaults. Once, at the age of five, she climbed to the top of her father's enormous and precious bookshelf, filled with rare books. "It's like having a monkey loose in a crystal shop," her mother would say years later. But her parents' response couldn't have been less conventional: they promptly enrolled her in ballet. However, it only took two classes for the school to expel her, unable to control her explosive energy. In the choreographer's note, the sentence that would radically change her life: "Her place is in Olympic gymnastics, not here." By the age of eight, she was already considered a promising talent in the sport, which offered everything she loved: movement, agility, challenge, strength, flexibility, muscle exhaustion—and above all, a sense of freedom that only that sport seemed to provide.

Finally, peace reigned in that home. The decor of the vast, elegant, and comfortable apartment remained intact, and it became a place where she only rested, as she spent her entire day at school and training.

Until it happened.

The gym was part of a sports complex with countless athletic activities. It functioned as a kind of breeding ground for Olympic talent, which filled her and her parents with pride. Now ten years old, the girl loved to wander among the countless courts and pools, imagining which other sports might exhaust her energy—the same energy that seemed endless, even after an exhausting gymnastics class. She wanted to try them all, absolutely all of them. That's why she was now sitting in the bleachers by the pool reserved for beginners. The center, open to the public, housed a federal government social inclusion program, which made its clientele quite diverse, with the myriad skin tones typical of Brazil's mixed population. Among the newcomers stood out a boy, perhaps her age, whose skin was so black it seemed painted with ink. A shiny, velvety skin... beautiful. It was the first time she felt sexually attracted to a boy—though, at that age, she couldn't describe the sensation she felt while admiring that slender yet attractive body learning to embrace the water.

It was clear the boy was a novice. And it was costing him dearly. His more skilled and agile classmates quickly singled him out for relentless bullying, as is common in such places and situations: someone vulnerable at the mercy of the stronger ones' sadism. As the training ended, the small bleachers emptied, and the apathetic coach was absent, the leap to physical aggression was as evident as it was imminent. Soon, a group of students subjected the boy to torture: they prevented him from leaving the pool, stepping on his hands every time he tried to grip the tiled edges, forcing him to stay in the water. In one of his attempts to escape, they dunked his head underwater.

She didn't hesitate: she jumped into the middle of the group of bullies and pushed them. One fell into the water. The other two grabbed her, but they quickly discovered it wouldn't be easy to restrain her. Uncoordinated and somewhat clumsy, the girl easily freed herself from the hands trying to hold her back. Grabbing each by the arm, she pushed them into the pool.

The bullying victim, however, was already far away, running to the locker room, finally free from the torment. She ran after him. Her strong, long legs carried her to catch up with him at the entrance to the locker room. The boy was crying profusely, which flooded her with compassion. Ignoring his savior, he opened his locker, grabbed his things, and hurried out, head down, still dripping water and sobbing. She never saw him again. But the other boys were there, also still dripping, ready to take revenge on her. What followed was a storm of kicks, punches, and blows in which everyone got hurt, but no one won, especially since the adults quickly intervened. And she went home with a week's suspension for the fight.

After the initial shock and fury, her parents finally understood that it was an unyielding sense of justice, more than understandable and relevant in that case. They were appalled by the adults' negligence, indifferent to the obvious gratuitous aggression that had victimized the poor boy. Her parents then decided to enroll her in another school.

"I don't want to do gymnastics anymore," she reacted as soon as her mother announced the change.

"What do you mean? You absolutely love gymnastics, honey!"

"I don't want to."

"And why not?"

"Because it's useless."

"Of course it's not! It's so beautiful..."

"What's the point of being beautiful? I couldn't beat up those boys who almost drowned the other boy..."

"What do you mean, 'beat up the boys'?! That's the last thing I need! No one does Olympic gymnastics to go around hitting others!"

"I don't want to do gymnastics anymore! I want to do karate!"

The revelation left her mother stunned and, later, her father speechless.

"No, absolutely not! Out of the question! We're not enrolling her in any violent sport. That's not what we're raising this girl for."

That night, just before bed, he went to his daughter's room.

"I don't understand. You were loving gymnastics."

"But now I don't like it anymore, Dad."

"Just like that?"

"No! It's just that I didn't like seeing that boy get beaten up by the others. They almost drowned him."

"I know, we've already talked about that. What I don't understand is you giving up gymnastics to do karate."

"If I knew karate, I'd beat up those boys so they'd learn to never bully anyone again!"

"Whoa! I don't want any little fighter in this house! That's not what we raised you for!"

"But I'm not going to go around hitting everyone, Dad. I just don't want someone stronger hitting the weaker ones."

Again, that nascent sense of justice moved her father. But he knew her decision was simplistic and childish, as is typical of a child. Surely, the indignation that episode provoked would fade with time, giving way to the discernment of maturity. While she was still a child, however, she would continue with Olympic gymnastics. Now at a new school.

Peace seemed to have returned to that home. For months on end, nothing happened that exceeded the exhausting routine of school and increasingly intense gymnastics training. Until a new incident disrupted the calm. This time, it was more serious: she had beaten up a boy from the boxing class who had humiliated a boy from ballet. The serious episode—since she had injured the aggressor—raised alarms, and her parents took her to psychotherapy while pulling her out of gymnastics.

After the initial sessions with her parents, she and the psychologist finally had their first one-on-one meeting.

"I practice karate," the therapist began. The girl's eyes widened, fascinated.

To the girl, who had just turned eleven, this woman was a lady. But she was a 29-year-old, slender, delicate woman who appeared older due to her thick black-rimmed glasses, which gave her an air of seriousness and maturity.

"I'm a black belt," she continued. The girl didn't know what that meant, but she sensed it was something admirable. Her eyes sparkled, framing an enchanted smile. "Why do you want to do karate?"

The girl hesitated for a few seconds. Then she looked at the psychologist, who recognized in that gaze the spark of the approaching teenage rebellion. Leaning forward slightly and lowering her voice, the girl confided:

"Because I love beating up boys."

The confession didn't faze the woman. On the contrary, it provoked a subtle smile.

"I understand you very well. For your happiness, you've found the right person."

After this conversation, the therapist took an action that initially puzzled the parents: she said she could no longer treat their daughter, recommending another professional. But she emphatically urged them to enroll her in karate. She offered to accompany the girl if she attended the same dojo where the psychologist practiced the martial art—which also impressed the parents.

"Repressing her won't help. It'll only make things worse. She really wants to learn this. I'd say it's vital for her. More than that, it's crucial for her to channel her aggression, understand? And she's extremely aggressive. Don't wait until she turns against you. Karate will teach her to discipline her anger, especially in the face of injustice, which is the main trigger for her aggression. But she needs to learn to discern and restrain herself, so she doesn't become a reckless troublemaker. And you know how cruel our culture is, especially toward women like her. I'm sure karate will educate her, not just turn her into an aggressor." She adjusted her glasses and crossed her legs, looking at the couple frankly. "Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. My story is identical."

What followed was a long account of how the psychologist became a karateka. In fact, it was the opposite. After a few years as a professional athlete, with a history of domestic violence and other risky and aggressive situations, she decided to understand why she had become a champion in this martial art. She found the answer in psychology—more specifically, in psychoanalysis—which made her aware of her childhood emotional and sexual abuse, which she hadn't recognized until then. This led her to become a therapist for children, especially those struggling with aggression or who were victims of it.

This entire story, along with the references they gathered about the professional, reassured the parents, who enrolled their daughter in the dojo where the psychologist trained. Shortly after, to their further relief, the couple learned that the therapist was the sensei of the academy, which was exclusively for women. Their daughter, they thought, was finally on the right track—and in good hands.

What they didn't know, and could never have imagined, was that this exotic dojo, apparently focused on teaching self-defense techniques to women, was a kind of feminist sect organized around karate. The expensive membership fees made it a private club for the liberal, progressive upper-middle class, open to radical experiences like the one the therapist-karateka proposed: women could fight as well as men—sometimes even better. More than that, they needed to direct their aggression toward another victim, not their own bodies. Karate, therefore, was a form of emancipation and recognition of repressed potential. At least, that's what this psychologist believed—and that's what she told her disciples, who pledged absolute secrecy about the dojo's philosophy.

This girl, however, was the first to openly declare her pleasure in fighting the opposite sex. Confiding episodes that never reached her parents' ears, the girl recounted several physical confrontations with male peers outside of school. In all of them, she proved relentless, subduing bullies who harassed weaker girls and boys. Her strength and agility as a gymnast left no room for retaliation. Even a boy who practiced judo was no match for this girl who so fascinated the black belt psychologist.

Added after 7 minutes:

The girl then became a project. The therapist-sensei would test the limits of this girl in her karate training. Limits that seemed limitless. She became a daily visitor to the dojo, even when no one else was there. It wasn't a sick obsession. There was an ineffable pleasure in that learning process. It was as if she had finally found her essence. The girl "lived" karate nonstop. Winning tournaments and medals was more of a way to please her parents than a goal in her life. The girl, now a teenager, pursued perfection in this martial art. Everything else was just a consequence of her daily hours, more exhausting than her gymnastics classes, spent training karate and engaging in exercises that strengthened her body—which was undergoing radical transformations.

One day, passing by the open door of her room, her mother stopped to see her daughter sitting on the bed, her back turned and her torso completely bare. Her first impulse was to scold her daughter for leaving the door open while changing. But she was paralyzed by a mix of shock and admiration as she noticed the girl's broad shoulders and the defined musculature of her back, as she tied her long, curly black hair into a ponytail, flexing a pair of equally defined biceps. The kinesthetic girl had become an athletic teenage karateka. Her mother sighed and, carefully, closed the door.

And peace reigned in that house.

That athletic exuberance, however, had been hard-earned. The sensei was particularly strict with the young girl blossoming into adolescence, full of energy and rebellion. But above all, she was driven by an increasingly uncontrollable desire to engage in fights against men.

"You have to restrain yourself!" the master shouted after learning that the teenager had challenged a young man from another dojo. "Either you learn to discern situations, or I'll expel you from the dojo."

"He beats his girlfriend."

"That's a problem for the police to handle."

"You know most women suffer in silence."

The sensei took a deep breath and placed her hand on the teenager's muscular shoulder.

"You're not ready yet. You need a lot more training. But you're not far..."

"From the black belt?"

"No. From becoming a..."

"Champion? I already am!"

"Control your anxiety, for God's sake! Let me finish my sentence!" The sensei took a deep breath. "I'm preparing you to become an avenger."

The time between that conversation and the moment when the nineteen-year-old girl finishes tying her black belt around her waist is three years. During that period, she not only became an unbeatable champion in her discipline, kumite, but also a physical education student—specializing in teaching... karate. Without abandoning her master's dojo, she expanded her athletic pursuits, intensifying weight training—explicitly to gain strength—and learning muay-thai and jiu-jitsu. The discipline of her routine, however, prevented excesses that could harm her health—preserved by proper nutrition and good sleep.

But as she tied her black belt that day, she wasn't preparing for another long training session.

Added after 5 minutes:

Her mentor had recounted another episode of violence committed by an old "client": a famous lawyer well-known to her father. As she had learned in other "missions," she was only to take more drastic action after the second warning. Narrating the case of the lawyer should clarify everything about these "missions."

The dojo of the therapist-sensei functioned as a center for reporting domestic violence among people close to the women who frequented that karate academy. In most cases, the police and the justice system resolved the situation, which usually ended in separation and the arrest—even if temporary—of the abusive husband or boyfriend. However, a few remained protected by the power of money and political influence. The lawyer in question was one of them.

Wealthy and single, he seduced beautiful women, whom he initially paraded as girlfriends, showering them with affection and glamour, dining at expensive restaurants, and traveling to exclusive, paradisiacal beaches around the world. But for them, a nightmare soon began, marked by rapes, beatings, humiliation, and imprisonment in his mansion within a high-end gated community in the Brazilian countryside. His temper was explosive, with shocking outbursts of rage over trivial matters, like a steak cooked slightly over or under his preferred doneness. A practitioner of heavy weightlifting and jiu-jitsu, and extremely vain about his athletic body—which he never missed an opportunity to show off—he subjected his partners to absolute isolation. The torture only ended when he grew tired of them, abandoning them under the threat of death. As a member of one of the richest and most influential families in the country, his threats were taken seriously. Some victims reported him to the police, but his promiscuous connections with law enforcement and the judiciary always led the complaint into a bureaucratic labyrinth that went nowhere—and only worsened his threats against the accuser, who invariably spiraled into depression and feelings of helplessness. One of them attempted suicide.

When the sensei told her all this, the young woman stood up, ready to rush after her tormentor. The master stopped her with a karate strike. The disciple, on whom the blow had little effect, understood the gravity of the situation.

"I've told you a thousand times: it's not like that! You can't act on impulse! First, study your opponent. Never underestimate them!"

The black belt therapist then devised a strategy to approach the abusive lawyer. Well-known to her father—who had heard vague murmurs about the degrading practices of this colleague—it was easy for her to schedule a dinner at an elegant restaurant in São Paulo. At the exuberant age of nineteen, the beautiful young woman, just out of adolescence, was the type of woman that men in their forties liked to flaunt. Dressed discreetly, however, she did not reveal her even more exuberant musculature.

"I'm glad you arranged this dinner. I always thought you were a very beautiful girl, you know?"

"Thank you," she smiled, falsely grateful.

"How about we finish this conversation at my condo?"

She didn't expect the harassment to come so quickly and so directly. The petulance, combined with what she knew he was capable of, made hatred churn in her gut. To avoid the worst, the karateka went straight to the message she needed to deliver.

"I'm only here to ask you one thing: stop hitting women. Don't lay a finger on any woman without her consent."

The burly lawyer immediately changed his demeanor.

"What are you saying, you brat? Just because you're the daughter of a friend, you think I can't ruin you? Do you know who you're talking to? I'm going to tell your father that you're coming on to me like a little slut, which is exactly what you are. And get out of my face, you little slut, before I beat you to a pulp. That's all I needed!"

She remained cold, indifferent to the embarrassment the scene caused in that refined environment, so concerned with appearances.

"Well, the message has been delivered," she said, standing up as he shouted insults and curses.

When she then tied the black belt around her waist, she prepared to face the boastful lawyer. After the meeting at the restaurant, he even called the young woman, apologizing for his outburst and promising to prove that those accusations were false, typical of people who envied his wealth, beauty, and success. The sensei instructed her to accept the apologies and maintain some proximity, as he would certainly not delay in victimizing another defenseless woman.

In fact, it didn't take long for them to learn of a new attack, this time against a model in her twenties, whose face had been disfigured by punches and kicks. The young karateka decided to be more aggressive in getting closer, and began to call the violent lawyer frequently. Certain that the "little chicken" – as he referred to girls who had just left their teens – had regretted what she had said on their first date, and was uncontrollably attracted to him, the man tried to bring forward the day he would take her to bed.
A new dinner was arranged between the two, and she allowed herself to use all the feminine stratagems of seduction. Her beautiful curly hair was impeccably groomed. And the makeup, discreet but very well done, highlighted the beauty of her face, whose dark, smooth and hydrated skin exuded health. The daring, short, sleeveless dress revealed her athletic body, which excited the wealthy lawyer even more – "I love a fit woman," he said, between bites, swallowing the young woman with his eyes, without paying much attention to her pronounced biceps. "The fitter she is, the hotter," he said, already imagining the acrobatics, copied from porn videos, that the man would demand the athletic woman do in bed to give him maximum pleasure. "You must be able to carry a lot of weight on your legs, huh?" he commented, when the topic of bodybuilding came up in their small talk.
The meeting ended with the promise of a weekend together, in the luxury condominium where he kept one of his ostentatious residences. The young woman's parents, who had already not looked favorably on their first meeting, now radically opposed it and tried to dissuade her – even though they knew that, in the end, their daughter always did what she wanted. Sitting on the bed, watching the martial artist pack a small suitcase, the mother said, in a tone that was almost whining:
- My daughter, we know the rumors...
- That's a legend, Mommy – lied the girl. – He's a really nice guy! A gentleman. He's treating me like I'm a princess. And isn't he a friend of Daddy's?
- A colleague, not a friend.
- But you know him. Don't worry, Mommy...
- Daughter, give up on this date. Who knows if those rumors are really true... You're so pretty. Why waste time with this forty-something guy who's always chasing girls your own age?
- Mommy, nothing will happen that I don't want. And I know how to defend myself very well.
The girl said this while folding her karate kimono and black belt. The two looked at each other and smiled discreetly. And they didn't say anything else.

The trip to the condominium – a kind of exclusive city for millionaires, artificially paradisiacal and surrounded by an exuberant security apparatus – was even fun. He knew how to seduce. Or at least he thought he did. The expensive sports car had every comfort and the playlist played what she liked the most. It was as if he had investigated her tastes. The first twelve hours in the mansion were equally pleasurable, starting with a very refined dinner on Friday night. She counted at least five servants in the monumental residence, decorated with an ostentatious and upstart eclecticism that bordered on bad taste: the cook, the waitress, the chambermaid, the cleaning lady and a mix of bodyguards and handymen – whom the karateka knew were the main cover-ups for the atrocities committed by her boss. The presence of four other women in the house, however, raised a question for her: did they do nothing in the face of the suffering of other women who passed through that house? Or did she simply not know anything? During dinner, however, while she was still rambling, the lawyer made numerous advances, trying to get the girl to go to bed before the meal was finished. She resisted, but not without exciting him, insinuating that it would be worth the wait because she had a series of "surprises" in store for the next day.

When they finally went to bed, after a surprisingly pleasant conversation after dinner, accompanied by port wine, she took care to lock the door to the large suite that had been prepared for her. She was sure that her irate and arrogant host would try something in the middle of the night. And he did. The athlete woke up to the sound of someone forcing the lock and jumped to the floor, ready to fight. But he soon gave up. He certainly preferred to avoid a scandal, waking the servants, or just to wait until the morning that was soon to dawn.

The day's schedule included hours of relaxation in the heated pool and open-air hot tub with a view of the mountain that bordered the condominium. At the lavish breakfast table he was wearing an elegant and comfortable robe. She noticed that, at least apparently, there was no one else in the mansion: no sign, not even of the bodyguard.
- Ready for our bath, princess?
She was wearing a long and comfortable robe provided by the maid.
- Are you wearing a bikini? - He gave the girl a predatory look, certain that in a little while he would be enjoying the "toned" body of a post-teenager. She tried to change the subject.
- I think this hot tub will be good. I need it...
- I asked you if you're wearing a bikini!
The girl looked at him haughtily, but said nothing. He stood up, furious, and grabbed the lapel of the young woman's robe.
- When I ask, I want an answer - and forced open her robe, under which the martial artist was wearing short silk pajamas. His disappointment at seeing her clothes so modest in the face of her sexual voracity was unmistakable. The lawyer grabbed her by the neck and lifted her up, knocking over the chair. "This time you won't escape me." And he stuck his tongue in the karateka's mouth, while ripping off her robe. Strategically, the young woman awaited that attack. Amidst the wild kisses, the black belt spoke brokenly.
"Wait, wait... Please, wait... I'm going to put on a bikini... A thong bikini... To look really hot... for you..." The ploy worked. He let go of her and smiled vulgarly.

[MuscleWomanBR]

LIVE NOW

Muscular Women Are Live Right Now

Join private chats instantly. Real models. Real-time interaction.

120+ models online now

Start Watching →

[MuscleWomanBR]

You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

[MuscleWomanBR]

– Really?... I want this thong tucked deep into that tight little ass of yours... I'm going to fuck you in a way you'll never forget. – He squeezed his erect penis under his robe.
She replied with a sexy smile.
– Go ahead! And don't delay, or I'll come and get you – he threatened, opening his robe and revealing his abs sculpted by intense weight training. He was wearing only a pair of swimming trunks.
The girl ran to the bedroom and took the cell phone she had used to record the entire conversation out of her robe pocket. She tried to send the file to her teacher. There was no internet signal. So she hid the device in the suite's closet, from where she took out her kimono and black belt, which she now tied around her waist. But the karateka made a decision that was as unusual as it was bold and radical: she would wear only the shitabaki and the obi. So, when she finished tying the belt tightly around her waist, she admired her broad shoulders with rounded muscles, her strong biceps that supported her deadly blows, her proportional and firm breasts on her defined chest and her toned abdomen, ready to withstand punches and kicks. She smiled proudly at the athlete reflected in the mirror, remembering her teacher:
- Avenge the suffering of women!
She took a deep breath, already preparing for combat, while she heard, in the distance, lost in the immensity of the house, the man's screams:
- Either you come down now or I'll come get you there, with a beating!
The scream made her blind with hatred, driving her to the door, ready to take off in a run that would end with her feet on the chest of the millionaire rapist. But martial discipline held her back. And calmly she walked to the edge of the pool, where he was waiting for her wearing only his swimming trunks. When she appeared, with her torso completely naked, the lawyer experienced a few seconds of confusion: was that really what he was seeing? He took off his sunglasses and stared at that beautiful, dark-haired girl, barefoot, with curly hair tied in a ponytail, with her breasts exposed and an athletic torso that he had never seen in a woman – at least not among the women he had known or raped.
"What the hell is this?!" he shouted. "All I need is for you to have a dick between those legs! If you think I'm interested in butch women, you're wrong, girl. I'm disgusted by transvestites. Start packing your bags and get the hell out of my house. Now! And if you're a woman, you're too fit for my taste." She remained motionless. "What are you waiting for, little slut? Come on! Get the hell out of my house! I'll talk to your father later. Poor guy, I don't think he knows that he's the father of a transvestite who isn't the least bit ashamed to show his breasts to a stranger...

– For the love of God... Stop...
She grabbed the man's hair and made him look at her.
– I'm avenging all the women who...
Her proximity and the cessation of the beating gave him the opportunity he wanted: before the black belt could finish his sentence, he grabbed her waist and knocked her down, then rolled her into a rear naked choke with her back on his chest. The lawyer's strong arm desperately squeezed the girl's neck, certain that it was his only chance to defeat her. In fact, she knew she had little time, and soon her vision would start to darken. The difficulty in breathing only increased. But her survival instinct made her launch countless and powerful blows with both elbows, which ended up fracturing two of her opponent's ribs. He screamed in pain and released his grip on the karateka's neck. Already on the verge of fainting, she rolled to the side, passing over the millionaire's broken ribs, who screamed even louder - which only increased the pain.
Taking a deep breath to recover and resuming her cold martial balance, she stood up, groaning and coughing, and grabbed the waistband of her opponent's swimming trunks, pulling them up to squeeze his testicles. Too busy with the pain of his fractured ribs, the man was completely defenseless, even though he tried, with feeble movements, to grab her again in a jiu-jitsu move.
"You want to play, don't you?" Then she put a foot on his back, grabbed the armholes of the man's swimming trunks and threw herself backwards, pulling the garment with all the violence and strength she could, until it tore off. The screams of pain made ropes sprout from the lawyer's neck. She showed him the torn swimming trunks.
"My trophy." Grabbing his hand, she dragged him with all her strength into the house. Now completely naked, the man howled in pain, trying to stand up.
- Help! Help! Gil, help! Gil!
He cried out for his bodyguard, who had certainly been dismissed because the rich lawyer was sure he could do whatever he wanted with that girl.
- If that gorilla shows up here, I'll finish them both off!
And she threw him onto a couch. He kept screaming for help, but the vastness of the house only echoed his scream, without any response. The innocuous screams gradually diminished, until they turned into a plaintive moan.
She bent over him, speaking calmly and softly.
- Listen carefully to what I'm going to tell you, you rapist son of a bitch. That was just a message. If you touch another woman again, I'll tear you apart, I don't care where. I'll find you. And you will experience everything I have learned, until you become a black belt. – The karateka stood up and looked at him with contempt. – I want to kill you now. But I promised not to do that. You are lucky, because I keep my promises.

[MuscleWomanBR]

You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

[MuscleWomanBR]

In a breathless speech, interrupted by the sharp pain in his ribs, he grunted, with his mouth, trying to laugh:
- I'm going to end... your race... you little whore...
She smiled back, ironically. The girl was about to say something when she felt a tug on her ponytail that made her fall backwards, being violently dragged and already taking the first punches to the face. Everything was so unexpected and fast that it took her a few seconds to understand what was happening. It was the bodyguard, who was now applying a powerful rear naked choke, lifting her about twenty centimeters off the ground. This time, the elbows, as fulminating as they were, did not work. Taller, stronger, more cautious and, apparently, more trained than his boss, the bodyguard, a black man elegantly dressed in a black suit and tie, now twisted one of the karateka's arms while continuing to strangle her with a rear naked choke, from which she tried in vain to free herself at all costs.
"Kill the little whore, Gil..." the lawyer moaned, clenching his teeth.
Overcoming the uncontrolled movements in the fight for survival, she stopped uselessly forcing the arm of the man who was strangling her and used her free hand to stab him in the eyes with her fingers. It worked. If he didn't let go, she would certainly blind him. It all happened in a fraction of a second. With no time to recover, since her life depended on reacting immediately, the black belt sprang into action. With her vision severely impaired, Gil could not see the movements of her opponent who, emitting a terrible kiai, launched a series of blows at the bodyguard – whose attempts to defend herself were pathetic. The combat strategy seemed to have been meticulously planned. First, she struck with her feet at sensitive points, such as the height of the kidneys, ribs, thighs and knees, which almost made him falter. But the man was very well trained physically, and withstood the blows. She then moved on to hand blows, mercilessly striking the bodyguard's head, who this time felt dizzy. Before he fell, however, the black belt pulled him by the tie, while placing one of her feet on his abdomen. Throwing herself backwards, she fell on her back, using her own weight to bring Gil's body to her feet and throw him backwards. The perfect blow threw the man onto his back, with no time to get up on his own for the girl's next furious action: she grabbed him from behind, by his collar and belt, and slammed him head-on against the wall. With one hand she held the back of his neck, while the other stuck between the man's thighs, just below his buttocks, in search of his scrotum – which she found and squeezed mercilessly. His eyes were badly bruised and his body aching from the rain of blows he had just received, he howled in pain as he felt that small, strong hand crushing his testicles. He could barely speak, begging her to stop.
"If you try anything, I'll rip your balls off," she said in his ear. And she pulled him by his belt, without loosening her grip on his testicles, forcing him to walk, painfully and slowly, with his legs half-open.
With half a dozen steps, the girl placed him in front of the boss, who could not contain his astonishment. The sight was truly appalling: with swollen and red eyes, apparently cloudy or perhaps even blind, his monumental protector, a former police officer and former jiu-jitsu champion, had bruises and cuts on his face. His blood had splattered over his elegant black suit and his once immaculate white collar. The position he found himself in would be comical if it weren't tragic: with an expression of pain and fear, Gil was holding the hand of a girl almost a foot shorter than him who, from behind, was squeezing his scrotum after beating him mercilessly like a karate master. He was in so much pain that he was afraid of succumbing.
"Look at what I did to you two. I'm warning you: never touch another woman again. Not one! That goes for you too, troglodyte," she said to Gil, squeezing his scrotum tighter. Gil began to cry, while the lawyer, despite having difficulty breathing, insulted and threatened the girl while moaning.
"Take off your belt," she ordered the bodyguard, who remained still, instinctively holding the hand that was squeezing his testicles. "Take off your fucking belt, dammit!" the karate fighter yelled.
Now crying convulsively, foreseeing the worst, he obeyed and handed the leather piece to the fighter.
"I didn't tell you to give it to me. You're supposed to beat up your boss."
Gil responded with more tears, now desperate, with tears and blood streaming from his eyes.
"I'm dying to rip off your balls. So you chose: either you beat up that son of a bitch or I'll rip off your balls."
He struck the millionaire with the belt, who groaned and cursed, glaring hatefully at his employee.
"Harder!"
Another blow.
– I'm going to do this: the harder you hit, the more I'll ease your balls, understand?

[MuscleWomanBR]

You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

[MuscleWomanBR]

Then, with his legs still half-open, Gil began to whip his boss mercilessly, while the karate fighter eased her grip on his scrotum. He thought about reacting and overpowering the girl, but the pain in his body and the near blindness reminded him of what she was capable of. Besides, that situation was proving to be cathartic: always humiliated by his boss, including with racist jokes, Gil had a great alibi in his favor to punish the arrogant millionaire who bought his loyalty with a good salary and some power in that house. And who would soon discard him: "You're getting old," the lawyer told him recently. So, with his testicles free, the bodyguard gave vent to all his hatred – including that of class and race – for his white, millionaire and perverse boss, descendant of the Brazilian slave-owning aristocracy. With blurred vision, he could vaguely make out the body writhing and groaning under the whip that his belt had turned into. He had been inflicting more than two hundred blows when he realized that the karateka was no longer there.

The training at the dojo was much more than tough. It was cruel. For her, however, it was terrible. The karate therapist always pushed her disciple to go beyond her limits. Including the limits of pain. That's why, over the years, sometimes when the limits seemed to have been unbearably exceeded, the young woman threatened to give it all up. Not because she disliked karate. She couldn't stand the brutal training that the psychologist imposed on her, always without discussing at length pseudo-Eastern philosophies about discipline and overcoming or any other justification other than technique and physical preparation for fighting. The athletic and kinetic girl who liked to beat up boys would become an excellent fighter who would relentlessly punish abusive men. That was the goal of that combination of martial arts academy and sect. Nothing much beyond that needed to be said or explained. When, avoiding her parents' house, the girl arrived from her "mission" at the lawyer's mansion, exhausted, with her ponytail disheveled and with some bruises, the sensei said only one word to her:
- Warm-up.
The young woman, who was wearing a sweatshirt over her blood-spattered karate pants, put her suitcase on the floor and took off her shirt, under which she was completely naked. In that dojo, everyone trained topless. "If men can, why can't we?" said the sensei - who was now wearing a black bikini.
- Where is your black belt? - the psychologist asked, after briefly examining the body of her former patient, noting that there were no serious injuries.
Only then did the girl realize that she had lost it, during her clumsy escape from the mansion. Just by exchanging glances, the sensei deduced everything and looked for a new belt.
- You fought hard to get one. Literally.
Before the young woman could finish putting her on, however, the teacher grabbed her arm, thrust her shoulder into the student's chest, reared her pelvis against the young woman's and threw her in a blow that the disciple could not identify – much less prevent. Without having had time to warm up, and with her body still sore from the morning's fight, she was subdued by her teacher as if she were a beginner: her former therapist threw herself on the former patient, thrusting and twisting the girl's head between her thighs, while she rolled on the mat. All with impressive strength and speed for a 47-year-old woman. The young woman felt defenseless in the face of so much agility and power. And she feared being strangled by those muscles as rigid as steel. However, taking advantage of the momentary reverse scissor position, the girl placed her powerful arms on the ground, preventing the roll from continuing and, with great difficulty, began to stand up, while the teacher tightened her grip on her thighs and tried to destabilize her, pulling her legs. The disciple, however, grabbed her teacher's torso and began to fire relentless knees and kicks that forced her to give up - which she communicated to her opponent, with three quick and light slaps on the young karateka's calf and a start of bleeding on her face.
The two collapsed on the mat, exhausted and panting, drenched in sweat. And they remained in that position for a long time, recovering from the fight that did not last more than a few minutes - enough, however, to exhaust them. Little by little, their breathing calmed down. The teacher even snored for a few moments, but the threshold of sleep was interrupted by a question from her student. – What the hell are these moves?
The woman laughed.
– I don't know. The other day I saw one of those rehearsed wrestling matches that Americans love. And I decided to try it out.
They both laughed.
– Don't ever do that again – said the young woman, in a seemingly good-natured tone.
– Are you threatening me, my dear?
– I never know when you're serious.
– It's always serious. You know that.
– But does it always have to be like that?
– Of course it does!
– Damn! I almost died this morning and you attack me like that?
– Did someone make it easy for you today?
The girl didn't answer.
– I asked you a question.
– You know that you didn't.
– So why do I have to make it easy for you?
The teacher sat down, hugging her knees. Her blond hair, which was starting to turn white, was still soaked with sweat. Her black bikini, soaked, gave the impression that she had just taken a dip in the sea. On her face, there were small spots of coagulated blood.
"There's still time to give up. But if you want to stay, this is just the beginning." And she stood up. "Whatever you decide, go take a shower. You stink."
The girl remained lying down for about half an hour, thinking and, at the same time, feeling the pains in her body that reminded her of the hardships of that day. She heard the vague sound of a shower and, a little while later, the door slammed behind the sensei, who was leaving the dojo.

[MuscleWomanBR]

You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

[MuscleWomanBR]

* * *
The months passed without her realizing how much time had passed. Except for the memory of the violence and risk she had experienced during the "mission" at the lawyer's house, the dangerous dimensions of which she could only assess from a distance, her life returned to the routine of the hard and relentless training that her teacher had subjected her to, and classes in her undergraduate degree in physical education. During dinner at home, her father mentioned something about a "serious accident" that her fellow millionaire and abusive lawyer had suffered. "It seems to have been serious," he commented. "The guy broke some ribs and got hurt pretty bad. Gil, his bodyguard, was also badly hurt." And he added, lowering his voice, as if that were necessary: ​​"They say the truth is that he got into a fight so bad that not even Gil could save him. But that can't be true, because from what I know, both of them filed a complaint with the police. Maybe some boyfriend or cheated-on husband must have taken revenge on him." The karateka daughter smiled discreetly, realizing that the two men did not dare to denounce her. "It worked," she celebrated inwardly, proud to honor her dojo-sect and grateful to her sensei for the long, hard and even cruel training that had turned her into a feared fighter, capable of such a feat.
A few more months passed since then, like the calm before the storm. Which finally arrived, first with thunderstorms that broke the silence of the dojo, where she was stretching alone and calmly after going through the entire repertoire of expected karate moves and blows that a black belt should master with mastery. Her goal was to reach judan, the tenth and highest level of karate, before she was 25. The goal seemed reasonable: about to turn 20, she was at shichidan – the seventh level. Her martial daydreams, however, were interrupted by that boom, which she immediately imagined to be thunder. But she soon realized that the delicate door of the dojo, which was located in a house built in the traditional Japanese style, was being destroyed. Everything happened in a few moments, without time for reflection: she ran to the entrance hall, already covered in wooden splinters. Where the door had been, there was now the silhouette of a man against the light of the small garden that surrounded the house. Broad-shouldered, of medium height, obese, his features began to take shape as her eyes quickly adapted to the brightness of that midday that now invaded the dojo with its tropical summer splendor. Dark-skinned, his eyes were brown and his beard and long hair were incredibly black. At the back of his head, a ponytail. Obese, his figure inspired strength, power, fear. His gaze was fierce and no less frightening. The fatty mass of his belly fell over an unusually tiny black thong. There were exuberant tattoos on his strong arms. He was a sumo wrestler. – What is this?! Who are you?! Get out of here now or I'll call...
With a speed and agility that seemed incompatible with his weight, the man advanced on her, without letting her finish her sentence, and threw all his weight against the girl, who seemed small compared to the mass that was now knocking her to the ground. The man's broad, voluminous chest collided with the young woman's beautiful, proportionate breasts – always exposed due to her topless practice in that dojo –, provoking a feeling of excitement in him, translated by a sensual smile that immediately aroused the repugnance and anger of the karateka. Her first attempt to react was useless: the incalculable strength of that fighter had trapped the girl's powerful arms as if they were shackles.
"I came to teach you a lesson," and he licked her face.
That was her biggest mistake. The gesture, full of vulgar sensuality, triggered the trigger of her arsenal against the rapists – the reason for the existence of that dojo-sect. First, she fired a tremendous headbutt at the attacker's face, which immediately broke his nose – and injured her forehead. The impact was so unexpected and strong that he let go of her arms, bringing his hands to his nose, which was bleeding profusely, in addition to the pain. "That guy is not prepared," she concluded, as she launched blows at the rikishi's head. "Never underestimate your enemy," was the voice of her sensei in her conscience, always accurate in her teachings. The young woman even assumed that it was just another "surprise" in training. But she soon realized that it was not. Although perhaps unprepared to face a situation like that, and the one who underestimated the enemy was him, the man proved to be resilient and very confident in his undeniable physical strength. With relative ease, he stood up and freed himself from the black belt's herculean legs, which tried to embrace his large waist. With blood running down his beard, she grabbed the young woman's ankles and began to spin her body around the room, until she gained momentum to throw him into the house. The black belt fell to the mat of the dojo, the most familiar terrain of her life. Still suffering from the effects of the impact, she saw the rikishi repeat the same blow, throwing himself at her: "He really is an amateur," she insisted. This time, however, the fighter was ready to react, stopping the man with her feet on his chest and pushing him back with all her strength. He fell on his back. He was ready to be massacred. Already sitting on his trunk, the avenger punched the attacker in the face with all the strength accumulated from years of martial arts training and weight training. That was when she realized that she was disfiguring the rikishi, now inert, unconscious, bloody. Exhausted, she got up, assessing her own injuries: her knuckles were bleeding and a trickle of blood was running down her forehead. She thought about calling the police, but first she wanted to "investigate" the attack herself. And she waited patiently for the man to regain consciousness.

[MuscleWomanBR]

You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

[MuscleWomanBR]

Amidst grunts and groans, he first opened his eyes, now quite swollen. From his bloody mouth finally emerged the first word, barely audible:
- Ambulance...
- Only after you tell me who sent you.
He tried to get up. She stepped on his chest. He grabbed her ankle and knocked her down, trying to get up. But the rikishi was very weak. He could barely see, given the swelling in his eyes. Still dizzy from the blows he had received to the head, he fell to the side. In a fraction of a second the karateka had gotten to her feet, pushing the man so that he fell face down. Still in less than a second, she sat on her opponent's back, facing his legs, grabbed the straps of the thong over the burly fighter's buttocks and threw herself backwards, throwing her head next to his. The rikishi's legs flailed wildly in the air, while he screamed in pain. – Don't forget this detail. Your boss will understand.
She kept him in that position for minutes on end. The resistant swimming trunks wouldn't budge, squeezing his testicles. His hips, raised backwards, pressed against his spine in a position that was no less torturous. Defenseless and injured, he moaned in pain in the middle of a weak and slurred speech:
– Help... Help... Help...
– You didn't expect this, did you?
Suddenly, the black belt let go of the swimming trunks, letting the fighter's heavy legs hit the floor. Rolling backwards, she stood up, ready for combat.
– I know who sent you. You're my little message to him.
She grabbed him by the armpits and, using the weightlifting technique, pulled him to his feet. His legs gave way. She supported him and led him to a bench in the entrance hall. The young woman took her cell phone out of the bag hanging nearby and called her teacher. Fifteen minutes later, she was there, without needing further explanation, examining the fighter's condition. "He can handle it." The two of them, now with their bodies completely covered in ninja garb, picked him up and carried him to the sansei's car—whose license plate number had been altered by stickers—covering his head with a towel, which was soon stained with blood. When they arrived at the entrance to the lawyer's mansion in the city, the two quickly left the injured and half-fainting rikishi at the gate. The car sped off, while the girl sent a text message to the lawyer: "I left a gift for you at your doorstep." The car stopped dozens of kilometers later, driven in silence, entering the ruins of an abandoned building. The sensei braked the car abruptly and, before she could land the first blow on her student, the latter was already attacking her with a formidable seiken jodan zuki. The karate therapist responded with a hiji uti, which the young woman blocked. Still strapped in by the seatbelt and with no room to move their legs, all they had left was their repertoire of blows with their hands. With their bodies completely covered by the black clothing, it was impossible to assess the effect of the punches delivered with merciless violence, as if they were two great enemies. The car shook with the virulence of the fight, apparently tied, but suddenly changed by a bold move: at the cost of a few painful punches without blocking, the girl managed to release the seatbelt and, with the agility typical of a 19-year-old girl trained in Olympic gymnastics, spin around in the seat to throw her legs over her teacher's neck, trapping her in an increasingly tight head scissors. The girl had her hands free, while the mature woman tried to free herself from those strong, steel-hard legs.
"Stop..." the psychologist groaned.
Ignoring the request, the young woman hit her instructor's head until she realized that she had fainted. The former gymnast, panting, relaxed. She was finally ready for the ritual that would consecrate her as The Avenger.
* * *
You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

[MuscleWomanBR]

You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

[MuscleWomanBR]

* * *
The ceremony took a long time. It took months for the sensei to fully recover from the beating that nearly incapacitated her. One of the very few women with a tenth-dan black belt in Brazil, the leader of the dojo-sect wore her unfailing black shitabaki without an uwagi. The months of rest had made her lose the exuberance of her muscles, no less rare for a woman of almost fifty, which the rigorous training had given her over four decades of continuous practice of that martial art. On the other side was now her former student, dressed identically to her now former teacher, but without the belt around her waist. Unlike the karate therapist, the young woman had an enviable physique: while her former teacher was undergoing months of treatment to recover, the girl intensified her strength training and gained lean mass, adding six kilos of pure muscle to her weight: her shoulders seemed broader, the muscles in her extremities stood out in two spheres that crowned two very pronounced biceps marked by thick veins. Her chest had swallowed part of the girl's beautiful breasts, and her abdomen displayed six packages separated by a groove that went down to near her groin. Her back was equally muscular and strong, holding her proudly upright. The girl's athletic torso reminded her of Bruce Lee at the peak of his form. An audience of eight women – who together with the two of them made up the total number of members of the "sect" –, all seated on the floor surrounding the mat, witnessed the rite. They were wearing white karate kimono pants without a top. They all wore black belts.
The former master and former disciple bowed in greeting to the Japanese woman and headed to the center of the mat. Slowly, the older woman bowed again to the younger woman, reached her waist and untied the black belt, solemnly handing it to the girl, who was visibly moved. Without turning her back, and bowing once more, the psychologist walked away, leaving the mat. The girl turned to the small audience, bowed and tied the black belt around her waist. No words were spoken.
She left for a few moments. Then, everyone heard a desperate grunt coming from the other room and the sounds of a body being dragged across the floor. The new master of the dojo-sect was pulling, by the man's thick and enormous ponytail, the sumo wrestler who had invaded the place months before, trying to beat the young woman. He was dressed as he had been before: wearing a mawashi, the typical loincloth for this type of fighting. His mouth was gagged, and his hands and feet were tightly tied with a rope that connected them behind his back. His beautiful caramel eyes, drowned in tears, expressed terror.
"This is my gift to the dojo," she said calmly, with a discreet smile, looking at her mat mates. "He tried to attack me again, yesterday. This time, when I was leaving college, at night. Poor guy... But I decided to just put him to sleep and bring him here so we could have some fun. Today is a day of celebration, isn't it?"
The women looked at each other. The strictest rule of the dojo is that no man is allowed inside, one of the fighters reminded her, in the face of the silence of the founder and now former leader of the "sect."
– So now the new rule is: men only come in here to get beaten up...
They all laughed. No one would dare to argue with the young woman who had mercilessly beaten one of the best karatekas in the country.
– Mrs. Irene – the girl called, looking at the oldest fighter in the dojo – he's all yours.
A woman in her late 60s jumped up, visibly excited. About five feet tall, her short hair was dyed dark brown, and a tiny pair of earrings shone in her ears. She showed off abs that were only more defined and muscular than those of the new leader of the dojo-sect. Without exaggeration, her arms were also muscular and hung from athletic shoulders that gave her the aura of strength and vigor typical of high-performance athletes. Mrs. Irene, the wife of a top bank executive, was famous among those women. Two decades ago, she discovered the dojo by chance, when she was looking for a self-defense course to confront her abusive husband who was blackmailing her with a separation in which she would be left with literally nothing. A former swimmer, then 39 years old, she was an attractive and still athletic woman who satisfied the sadism of her husband, who raped her frequently. Often, he beat her. Years of training with the relentless therapist-karateka made Mrs. Irene a feared black belt in the "sect" for her violence, which often exceeded the limits of what was tolerable even there, where they prepared for a discreet and silent war against abusive men. As for her husband, after a single beating in which Mrs. Irene almost killed him, he maintains the sham marriage with the now lady who now splits the assets of the obedient top executive in half. This does not exempt her from continuing to train karate and from maintaining her own security team, as a precaution. Until the teenager became the young woman who would command the dojo from that moment on, Mrs. Irene was the first one called for the rare but dangerous "missions" that the sensei entrusted to her. In one of them, however, which was the last, the man – a well-known MMA champion –, whom she was supposed to take revenge on in the name of the woman he had brutally assaulted, subjected Mrs. Irene to a true massacre. Although at first she easily overpowered him, in which the surprise factor helped a lot, he soon reversed the situation and began to beat the woman who was now around 50 years old. All the intense training she had undergone over the years seemed useless in the face of the fighter's strength, agility and technique. That was how Mrs. Irene lost her status as "avenger" within the "sect".

[MuscleWomanBR]

You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

[MuscleWomanBR]

"So now the new rule is: men only come here to get beaten up..."
Everyone laughed. No one would dare challenge the young woman who had mercilessly beaten one of the best female karate practitioners in the country.

"Mrs. Irene," the girl called out, looking at the oldest fighter in the dojo, "he's all yours."

A woman nearing 60 sprang to her feet, visibly excited. Standing about five-foot-three, her short hair was dyed dark brown, and a tiny pair of earrings glinted on her ears. She sported a toned abdomen, second only in definition to the new leader of the dojo-sect. Without exaggeration, her arms were also muscular, hanging from athletic shoulders that gave her the aura of strength and vigor typical of high-performance athletes. Mrs. Irene, the wife of a high-ranking bank executive, was legendary among those women. Two decades ago, she had stumbled upon the dojo by chance while looking for a self-defense course to deal with her abusive husband, who blackmailed her with the threat of leaving her with nothing in a divorce. A former swimmer, then 39, she was an attractive and still athletic woman who endured her husband's sadism—he frequently raped her and often beat her.

Years of training with the relentless therapist-karateka turned Mrs. Irene into a feared black belt in the "sect," notorious for her violence, which often crossed even their loose boundaries of tolerance—a place where they prepared for a silent, discreet war against abusive men. As for her husband, after a single beating where Mrs. Irene nearly killed him, he maintained the façade of their marriage, now forced to split his wealth with the once-submissive wife. That didn't stop her from continuing her karate training or maintaining her own security team—just in case.

Until the teenager became the young woman now leading the dojo, Mrs. Irene had been the first called for the rare but dangerous "missions" assigned by the sensei. On one such mission—her last—the man, a well-known MMA champion whom she was supposed to punish in the name of the woman he had brutally assaulted, subjected Mrs. Irene to a massacre. Though she initially overpowered him (thanks largely to the element of surprise), he quickly turned the tables and began beating the then-50-year-old woman. All her years of intense training seemed useless against his strength, agility, and skill. That was how Mrs. Irene lost her status as an "avenger" within the sect.

The new leader's gesture—"offering" her the sumo wrestler—moved her deeply. Since her humiliating defeat against the MMA champion, she had never fought another man—except in occasional, casual sparring with her bodyguards. And taking revenge on men had become her greatest obsession since joining the "sect." So, untying the ropes binding the rikishi was, for Mrs. Irene, like unwrapping a long-awaited gift. Her firm, well-proportioned breasts betrayed her excitement—her nipples were stiff, pointing toward her victim. Seated around the tatami, the others waited in anticipation of what she would do to him.

"Come on, darling, give me a fight worth my while," the woman said in a playful tone, tossing aside the ropes and gag.

The rikishi scrambled up, massaging his sore wrists as he spoke, frightened and tense.

"Look, I get what you're about... Just let me go in peace... I swear I won't bother anyone again—"

"The problem isn't bothering anyone now. It's that you bothered one of us. Twice. And whoever messes with one of us, messes with all of us."

"I know... I'm sorry! I'll never do it again. I was forced! That lawyer threatened me—"

"Ah, my friend, that's your problem with him. You have a problem with us, and that's what matters here."

He dropped to his knees, hands clasped.

"Please, just let me go! That girl already beat me up twice. Enough, for God's sake! I'll leave quietly, won't tell anyone."

Mrs. Irene knelt in front of him, hands on her thighs, back straight, her athletic chest rising in steady breaths. She smiled.

"Scared of an old lady, sweetheart? Look closely: you're half my age and, let's say, twice my weight. Use those advantages."

The rikishi glanced at her black belt, then at her lightly wrinkled face. Next, he assessed her shoulders, biceps, and abdomen—everything exuded power, strength, and years of training. He realized he had no choice but to fight.

"Enough talking!" she shouted, driving a punch into his chest that sent him sprawling backward.

Mrs. Irene leaped onto his bulky stomach and turned to her small audience, grinning.

"I'll save some for you girls later..."

Then, looking back at the sumo wrestler:

"Come on, boy, I'm dying for a fight!"

The man grabbed her strong arms and arched his body, destabilizing her just enough to throw her off. The tables turned—now he was on top, blocking her attempts to strike. She tried wrapping her legs around his massive waist, but the rikishi managed to stand, now holding Mrs. Irene's legs. In that split second, she realized what was coming: the man began spinning, building momentum to hurl her with all his strength. She screamed. No one moved.

Her body crashed into a wooden wall, which splintered on impact. Lying in the wreckage of the flimsy partition, Mrs. Irene groaned softly.

"That was easy," the man panted, prematurely triumphant over his first victory.

You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

Immediately, the forty-something sensei leaped onto the tatami. The sumo wrestler assumed that she, lacking a belt around her waist, was a mature beginner, though she struck him as quite athletic and self-assured. He flashed her a malicious grin, eyeing her beautiful breasts. But, in a fraction of a second, her foot was already crushing his nose. The crack of the fracture was audible, followed by the dull thud of his massive body hitting the tatami, where the wrestler—now stiff—struck his head and lost consciousness. She gave a subtle nod to the dojo's new leader, who understood immediately.

Walking slowly, the young woman crossed the tatami until she reached the corner where Dona Irene sat hunched over. She extended her hand to her older training partner, who shrank back further. The girl insisted, her hand still outstretched. The woman remained frozen. The new leader stepped forward, reaching for the black belt of the older karateka, who clutched the younger woman's hands.

*"Don't do this, Irene."* With a violent tug, she ripped the belt from the older fighter's waist, who broke into painful sobs. *"Find another dojo. You know damn well we don't accept losses to men here. And you've already been beaten by them twice."*

The woman rose slowly, her body bruised and battered, and left the dojo with her head bowed. Meanwhile, the new leader—now standing over the rikishi, her feet planted on his torso—watched as the sumo wrestler, his face bloodied and breathing through his mouth, gradually regained consciousness. She rolled her shoulders while tilting her head side to side. Her athletic arms hung slightly away from her body, her hands half-open. The pose exuded strength, determination, and power. Her breathing was deep and rhythmic, her muscular chest rising with each breath, showcasing a firm, well-proportioned pair of breasts. The sheer definition of her toned physique once again mesmerized the audience, who were equally enthralled by the strictness with which the young black belt upheld the harsh rules of their "sect."

The man cowered. He had already experienced this woman's ferocity firsthand. She grabbed his mawashi and lifted him by the waist. Instantly, two other female fighters jumped onto the tatami, seizing the rikishi's feet and hands. The new leader, her legs strong as steel, clamped down on the man's torso while the other two stretched his body to its limit. The young woman spoke with the calm of a teacher instructing a class, indifferent to the sumo wrestler's screams and groans:

*"This is why our master keeps saying: Train your legs!"*

The audience burst into laughter.

*"But train your arms too, because holding a man's legs is really hard, as you can see."*

Indeed, the rikishi thrashed his legs wildly and desperately, with no leverage, but the woman gripping them looked like a weightlifter. At 35, she was a senior arm-wrestling champion, the ex-wife of a bodybuilder who had systematically abused her. In this dojo and through karate, she had discovered other uses for her unmatched arm strength—like, for example, *"the horse,"* the torture technique these women had invented, which they were now practicing on a real victim.

The young woman looked down at the man.

*"Broken ribs now... or a fight later?"*

He whimpered, grunted, and screamed. She tightened her legs further.

*"Fight... fight... fight..."* he whispered.

The three women relaxed and let his body crash onto the tatami, where he curled into a fetal position, clutching his ribs. Without pause, the dojo's new leader launched herself at the arm-wrestler, driving a fist into her face. For a long time, the newly appointed disciple—barely out of her teens—had yearned to emulate her master, displaying ruthlessness and asserting dominance over the other fighters, especially since she was only 19. The older woman felt the blow but reacted instantly, proving she was well-prepared, and delivered a sharp shuto to the young karateka's neck, who also staggered from the hit. The fight promised to be evenly matched.

The arm-wrestler, admitted into the "sect" just a few years prior, loved flaunting the largest, most powerful biceps in the dojo. Being an arm-wrestling champion and a black belt in such an exclusive club, however, wasn't enough for her vanity or her dominant, aggressive nature. She wanted to lead the "sect," to which she devoted herself with astonishing fervor and loyalty—earning deep respect from all her peers, even the fighter-turned-therapist. To achieve this, she'd have to defeat the sensei—something she'd never managed. She relied too much on her Herculean arm strength, neglecting technical refinement. Seeing the rise of her younger comrade, now on the verge of becoming the enforcer, the arm-wrestler showed no mercy: during training, she was relentless with the girl—who, paradoxically, loved sparring with the strongest karateka in the group, relishing the challenge. The arm-wrestler's plan was to humiliate the girl on the very day of her ascension as the sect's leader, stripping her of her black belt after an epic defeat.

To intimidate her opponent, the older woman shed her zubon, revealing black shorts that showcased her heavily fortified, sculpted thighs—promising lethal weapons, as would soon be evident. She tightened her black belt over the shorts and unleashed a barrage of high kicks, mercilessly striking her rival's head. The young woman realized her adversary had refined her technique. Dramatically. And now fought more ruthlessly than ever, a permanent smirk of arrogance and irony on her face. This only enraged the disciple who had once beaten her own master without pity. It was her undoing.

Consumed by youthful fury, wounded pride, and reckless vengeance, the new leader lost her usual self-control, relying more on brute strength than the fusion of power and technique. Though balanced at first, the fight quickly turned one-sided, with the older woman dominating the tatami. Perhaps in the entire world, only in this dojo was such violence permitted without the slightest intervention—from anyone. It was as if the two fought in complete isolation. But the spectators were there, silently watching as the mature karateka dismantled the younger one—the same girl who had defeated one of Brazil's highest-ranked female fighters, the same girl who had completed the grueling "mission" that earned her the title of enforcer and the position she now seemed to lose to the strongest fighter.

The arm-wrestler, however, was determined to inflict a double defeat on her opponent: before the entire dojo, discrediting her as leader, and before the sumo wrestler—whom the girl had beaten twice. Indeed, the man watched the scene with a mix of shock and satisfaction, seeing his tormentor now avenged through the older karateka, who indisputably controlled the fight. The young woman's titanic musculature and elite martial arts skills couldn't save her from the brutal combination of raw power and newly honed technique that her adversary wielded with pride and cruelty. One more minute, and the girl was on the ground, at the victor's feet—who still wasn't satisfied.