**The Avenger**

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"Try my jiu-jitsu now, girl."

The arm-wrestler threw herself across the young black belt's body, trapping her right arm between steel-hard thighs and twisting it mercilessly. Their contest of strength was incredible—the girl resisted fiercely, clinging to her last shreds of dignity. But the older woman demonstrated why she was renowned as the dojo's strongest, and would have snapped her opponent's arm had the desperate girl not finally slapped her thigh in submission, tears welling up. The victor stood.

"No crying. Don't humiliate yourself further."

With solemn satisfaction, she slowly unwrapped the black belt from the still-prone girl, whose face and torso were already blooming with bruises. Holding the belt aloft, the arm-wrestler bowed to the audience. Now wearing two black belts around her waist, she flashed a faint smile at the sensei and beckoned her forward. The master rose, approached her challenger, then knelt and pressed her forehead to the floor in total submission. The new leader planted a foot on her back and announced:

"From now on, we'll be even harsher."

She yanked the sensei up by her ponytail.

"Fight!" she roared.

Shaken by her star pupil's swift and shameful defeat, the therapist-turned-karateka revealed vulnerability for the first time. The battle was as grueling as it was prolonged. Though the former leader dominated much of it, inflicting serious damage, she couldn't overcome the arm-wrestler's Herculean endurance, which turned the fight's tide as fatigue set in. In the final moments, gasping for air, the sensei collapsed onto all fours after a failed attempt to tackle her nemesis by the waist. The stronger woman seized her from behind in a crushing bearhug, then slammed backward onto the tatami, entangling them in her invincible legs. One arm locked around the sensei's throat—her biceps swelling like an iron sphere—while the other pummeled her former leader's face. It was as if the challenger had saved every ounce of strength for this brutal, humiliating finale: each punch deformed the victim's features further, leaving her bloodied and utterly broken. The new leader howled like a beast until she finally rolled aside, leaving the sect's founder motionless. The defeated disciple, still weakened from her own fight, tried to intervene but was restrained by the others.

The now-crowned leader barely noticed. She was already lunging for the sumo wrestler, grabbing the back of his mawashi and dragging him to the tatami's center, where she flung him facedown. Glaring at her frozen comrades, she declared:

"I'm both leader and sensei now. I claim the title of Enforcer."

She gripped the rikishi's thick, curly black hair, yanking his head up to reveal a face smeared with dried blood.

"This is for Irene," she vowed.

Now she decided to flaunt her strength. Her powerful hands gripped the man's mawashi and ponytail, wrenching him up over her left thigh—which launched his heavy body onto her chest, then onto the broad, muscular shoulders of the arm-wrestler, where he now dangled. All in less than two seconds.

Sweating, exhausted, wounded, and panting, she took shaky steps toward the sliding door that led to the Japanese garden behind the dojo's main house. Her comrades understood and quickly cleared the way. When she reached the small koi pond, she forced the rikishi's head to the water's edge and plunged it in.

"Never lay a hand on another woman again—understand?!"

He could only thrash and cough, gulping desperate breaths whenever she yanked his head back. With his torso pinned between her legs and her crouched on his back at the pond's edge, she sat atop the sumo wrestler's buttocks, pulling his ponytail taut. The man screamed, clawing at her hands. The arm-wrestler tugged harder, leaning back.

"Stop! Stop! Help! Somebody—!"

"The more you scream, the worse it'll get!"

Truthfully, she was spent. She'd fought the dojo's two finest karatekas, and hauling this mountain of a man here had drained her completely. Even an arm-wrestling champion and black belt had limits. So she was grateful when two fellow martial artists touched her shoulder. The twins.

"We want in on the fun," one whispered.

Slender and red-haired, they were 28 years old. Daughters of a banker, they were the least talented fighters—and the biggest financial contributors to the dojo. They had no history of abuse. As victims. They were the abusers.

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They, too, coveted the title of "Enforcer," but their karate skills never reached the level required for "missions"—though this didn't make them vulnerable. After all, they were black belts. Just a few dans below the youngest fighter, whom they deeply admired, far from envying her. Former patients of the therapist-fighter, they'd joined the dojo to discipline the violent tendencies that got them into fights at school during their teens. Expelled from multiple schools for "perversion," they'd once tortured a classmate. The dojo didn't tame them—it refined them: instead of two crude, unruly brawlers who often lost to martial arts-trained boys, they were now two karatekas fiercely proud of the black belts around their waists, turning most men into easy prey for their cruelty.

Lacking the younger fighter's muscular prowess or the arm-wrestler's raw strength, the twins were athletic enough for what they sarcastically called their "boyfriend rotation"—luring men to one of their family's luxurious vacation homes on Bahia's paradisiacal southern coast. The modernist beachfront mansion stood on a private shore, far from the hordes of Brazilian and European tourists flooding that eternal-summer region. But their private resort became a dungeon the moment their "guests" arrived.

The last time they'd brought victims there, they'd chosen the latest winners of Mister Brasil, the country's premier male beauty pageant. Seeing no one else in the mansion, the men assumed an orgiastic night awaited—especially when the twins vanished, presumably to "prepare." Suddenly, though, the women reappeared in full black karate gi, short-sleeved uwagi, their hair in tight ponytails exposing toned arms, hands, feet, and faces. The men, expecting a striptease, froze.

"We want to see the color of your underwear," one said, smirking.

They eagerly complied, thrilled by the prospect of effortless sex with two millionaire "hotties" ready to please them—snapping a selfie with the twins in the background first.

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They responded immediately, unable to contain their joy, excitement and surprise at the fact that they would have such easy sex, without seduction rituals, with two "hot" and "fit" millionaires ready to satisfy them. They threw their clothes away with war cries. Before advancing on the young women, however, they took a selfie, with the two of them in the background.
"Come on, girls, you look very serious..." said one of them, clicking several times. They flexed their biceps, serious, staring at the camera.
Then, the two were ready to rip off their kimonos and satisfy the uncontrollable desire that their erections showed under their designer underwear. But all the twins wanted was a good night of fighting with two handsome men who, not by chance, they had chosen to have fun with – as they were doing now, with both of them grabbing their ponytails to give them wild and eager French kisses, while they were already cruelly squeezing their scrotums.
"My body, my rules," said one of the twins sarcastically, also squeezing the neck of one of the boys, who was trying to pull away that small but incredibly strong hand that was crushing his testicles.
The other young woman seemed to have found a worthy opponent, because he responded with a competent shuto uchi on her carotid artery, freeing himself from the grip on her scrotum. The twin lost her balance, which the man took advantage of to knock her down, kicking her legs.
"You are crazy!" he shouted, while his opponent jumped to her feet. "I love men who know how to fight," she said sarcastically, jumping and bluffing, as she feared she was facing another black belt.
Her sister, however, had already subdued the other boy, completely incapacitated by the excruciating pain in his scrotum.
"Take me to the hospital, for the love of God..." he moaned, curled up in the fetal position with his hands over his genitals. "Goddamn it, why are you doing this to us?!"
"It's our way of fighting machismo," she replied, in a cruelly childish tone of voice, as she grabbed one of his hands and started to apply an armlock. Now he was yelling.
"I fight jiu-jitsu too," she said, keeping the same childish voice.
On the other side of the room, her sister was in trouble: her opponent was indeed a karateka—and, apparently, a very advanced one. The girl was at a clear technical disadvantage, with her body already marked by very strong and accurate kicks and punches. She could no longer hide her panic at being knocked down by that man who was as handsome as he was an expert in martial arts.

Realizing the predicament her sister had gotten herself into, the other twin twisted the armlock even tighter, until she completely incapacitated her opponent, who let out a terrible scream of pain, so high-pitched and piercing that it would have been heard hundreds and hundreds of meters away, if there had been anyone. But there was no one. She pushed the body of the boy who was still screaming and crying, completely incapable of doing anything other than expressing the suffering caused by the rupture of all the joints in his arm, starting from the shoulder. In a matter of seconds, she had already jumped onto the back of her sister's opponent, hugging his torso and throwing herself backwards with him. Her legs intertwined with his, separating them with a strength that rivaled the young man's athletic legs, while with her free hand she fired countless and extremely violent punches at her opponent's face. He didn't have the slightest chance to react, because the other twin had already grabbed his scrotum and was twisting it mercilessly, as if she wanted to rip it off. His screams joined the groans of the other, who had gotten up to try to escape. The twin who was crushing his testicles ran off to stop him, while her sister continued to violently and uninterruptedly punch her opponent in the head and face. The fugitive was intercepted at the edge of the pool, looking for an escape route while holding his dislocated, swollen and unbearably painful arm. The karateka, however, caught up with him, pushing him into the water, where he fell screaming, unable to swim. She threw herself into the pool.

– For God's sake, call a doctor... Why are you doing this to us? We didn't do anything to you...
– Didn't you?
– No, of course not...
– You were dying to screw us over.
– But it was consensual—you brought us here...
– Avenge the women.
– Huh?
– Avenge the women. That's what our dojo's sensei taught us.
– I don't understand a word you're saying... Take me to the hospital, for God's sake! It hurts so bad... You broke my arm...
– I'll break your whole body.

The conversation was interrupted by the groans of the other guy, who was being dragged toward the pool, his face disfigured and bloody. The other twin pulled him by both arms and dropped him at the edge of the water, where her sister was intimidating the other man—who alternated between screams of horror and cries of pain.

– Train harder! – shouted the one outside the pool, ignoring the men's suffering. – You almost got beaten!
– How was I supposed to know he also knew karate?!
– That's why we train so hard, you idiot! We have to be ready to face anyone if we want to be avengers!

The other twin fell silent, admitting she hadn't done as well as her sister, who was also an excellent jiu-jitsu fighter—as evidenced by the man groaning in the pool. Without another word, the two pulled the guy out of the water to the sound of his screams and sobs, then lifted the other from the ground, laying them both on lounge chairs. Half an hour later, they were being examined by a doctor accompanied by a nurse, who cleaned and treated their wounds.

– This time, you went too far – said the doctor.
– We don't pay you for your opinion, Artur – one of them replied. – I want to know how they're doing and what needs to be done.
– The one with the broken arm will recover. It hurts a lot, but he'll be fine. As for this one, he took too many hits to the head. I need to examine him further to check for possible brain damage.
– Fine, but they're not leaving here. Use our infirmary.
– Look, you have to stop this...

The twin grabbed the doctor by the neck.
– Artur, unless you want to join them in the infirmary, you'd better fix this problem right now!

The twins helped Artur and the nurse take the two men to the infirmary set up in the house to care for the victims of the two karatekas. In reality, it was a kind of prison where the men they beat up remained in recovery—and were "persuaded" to accept a settlement. Artur left the two men with the nurse and led the twins to the porch. The sun was setting over the beautiful tropical landscape.

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– Look, I'm out! This time you went way too far...
– Artur...
– Don't interrupt me! You hit that guy's head so hard he could die, you understand me?! Die! And I want no part in this. We never agreed to cover up murder. Because if he dies, that's what it is—no other name for it: murder!

Artur was a dark-skinned man in his early 40s, short, slightly overweight, completely bald, with thick-framed glasses that gave him an intellectual air. His face was always sweaty, and he wore a small diamond stud in his left ear. The twins studied him carefully. They could finish him off right then and there with just a few strikes. The better fighter of the two, however, thought it wiser to bribe him.

– How much, Artur?
– You're not listening—I'm talking about murder...
– How much?
– This is too serious. I don't want to be involved.
– I'll ask one last time: How much, Artur?

When they returned to the infirmary, Artur wore a satisfied expression and diligently assessed the extent of the young man's injuries—his head swollen and disfigured. One of the twins sighed, watching the scene with the four men, and smirked ironically.

– And we're just getting started...

It was these two women who now dragged the rikishi into the dojo by his mawashi.

– Stop! shouted the weakened psychotherapist and former sensei, stepping into the dojo.

The twins turned to her, eyeing her pitiful state with disdain.

– You don't give orders here anymore, one of them said mockingly.
– No, she doesn't, said the arm wrestler—now the new leader—with some difficulty, flanked by the other fighters. Some rules are changing from now on.
– I founded this dojo...
– Congratulations! But I'm in charge now, got it? I beat you. I beat the best karateka in Brazil. I took down your favorite girl. I ripped the black belts off both of you, and now everyone here will obey me. So deal with it!

Then, turning to the twins:

– From now on, you two are avengers.

They glanced at the sumo wrestler, fallen and helpless, still wet from the attempted drowning. One of them lifted him by the armpits while the other stretched her arms, rolled her shoulders, and cracked her neck, bouncing lightly. With the rikishi on his feet, she leaned in close, almost whispering:

– Karate... or jiu-jitsu?

– Wait!

The voice belonged to another student—Seiko, a 60-year-old woman, daughter of Japanese immigrants who had built an empire in agribusiness. She was the former teacher of the dojo's founder. And she was the oldest of them all.

In her youth, despite her family's resistance, she became Brazil's first Olympic judo champion before switching to karate and mastering the art. Her parents forced her to marry a Brazilian rikishi—also the son of Japanese immigrants. True to old patriarchal Japanese customs, he forbade her from continuing judo or learning karate. But Seiko kept training in secret.

It didn't take long for her husband to find out.

One evening, as she crept back from the dojo, he decided to punish her. Wearing his mawashi, he waited in the shadows of their home. When she carefully opened the door, shoes in hand to avoid noise, he lunged at her. Speaking in Japanese—their household language—he locked her in a bear hug and declared:

– Your disobedience dishonors me. This hurts you as much as it hurts me, but I must discipline you.

With his massive frame and sumo techniques, he overpowered her effortlessly. Seiko tried to defend herself with her Olympic-level judo, but it was useless against a man twenty centimeters taller and 120 kilograms heavier. As if she were a basketball, he hurled her against the walls, then dragged her by the feet from room to room, repeating the throws—as if determined to smash every piece of furniture and decor with his wife's body.

Her athletic conditioning kept her conscious for a long time... until she finally broke, begging him to stop the torture.

– Now you will give me a son. I want a boy.

And he raped her.

It took months to recover from the beating. During her convalescence, she discovered she was pregnant. She considered an abortion but ultimately yielded to the demands of her husband, parents, and in-laws: abandon sports and become a proper upper-middle-class Japanese-Brazilian housewife.

Convinced she would bear a son, the sumo champion refused to let Seiko get an ultrasound.

A girl was born.

The rikishi's disappointment was palpable when he saw his daughter for the first time. He simply noted the child's sex and walked away. Days after the birth, he raped his wife again.

– If you don't give me a boy this time, I'll kill you, he growled, violating her with brutal force.

Another pregnancy. Another girl. Another beating.

Still recovering from childbirth, Seiko fled home with both babies and disappeared for fifteen years. Those were hard times—no support, forced to rebuild her life from nothing. In the city where she took refuge, she sought work in the only thing she knew: judo and karate. At the first gym, she started as a cleaner until she could prove her martial arts skills—a challenge made even harder because she was a woman. Older, out of practice, and traumatized by the violence judo had brought into her marriage, she struggled to reclaim her former mastery. But over time, the Olympic champion reemerged—now as a teacher.

Her regained confidence made her feared by men, who made up most of her students. Not even her new husband—the gym owner, a judoka a few years her junior—could match her. Seiko also returned to karate training, even as her reputation as an exceptional judo instructor spread.

Her return to judo and success as a teacher were inseparable from her physical conditioning, honed through functional training and weightlifting. She practically lived in the gym, becoming famous not just for her fighting prowess but for the sculpted body she was building. That woman, barely five-foot-two, could deadlift 265 pounds. Karate, her new obsession, drove her to break record after record for sit-ups, surpassing every man in the gym: *"I want steel abs,"* she'd say. In karate, no one in the region could touch her.

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At 45, Seiko told her husband she was traveling alone to São Paulo. He didn't understand this sudden, mysterious decision—completely unlike her. But Seiko had kept her past a secret. *"Just promise me one thing: Don't ask where I came from, what I did, or didn't do. Just accept me."* That was her condition when they married, and he'd always respected it. This time, though, he demanded answers.

**"Don't demand anything. The one thing I asked was for you to respect my silence about my past."**
**"But leaving like this, out of nowhere, not even telling me why you're going so far, leaving me alone with the kids—"**
**"This is my business. And I'm not abandoning you. I'll come back."**
**"Seiko, please—"**
**"Don't push it."**

She picked up a small suitcase. He grabbed her arm.
**"You're not leaving until you explain everything—where you're going, who you're meeting."**

Seiko set the suitcase down and shrugged off her backpack. Her husband smiled faintly, relieved, certain she'd reconsider. Wearing jeans and a blouse over her T-shirt, she calmly removed her shoes and undressed, folding each garment until only her black lingerie remained.

At 45, Seiko was at her physical peak, though her expression hovered between stern and sorrowful. Since they'd met, he'd watched her sculpt this body with Japanese discipline. Her once-flat abs were now ridged from the thousand daily sit-ups. Her shoulders rose, rounded and firm. Her biceps had hardened into steel peaks over eight inches thick. Her breasts stood proud, her waist narrowed, and her thighs—though not bulky—could outperform the gym's youngest men. Her buttocks, small by Brazilian beauty standards, were taut, without an ounce of softness.

To command respect as a judo and karate master in a male-dominated world, Seiko had forged herself into a compact bundle of muscle—deceptively lean, her strength honed for function, not size. On the mat, she regularly overpowered men twice her weight.

Her husband stood frozen, staring at her half-naked body, unsure what to do.
**"I don't want to wrinkle my clothes,"** she finally said, stretching her torso to loosen her muscles. Then she seized the collar of his gym jacket—the same grip that had become legendary on the mats.

In that instant, he understood: For the first time, they'd settle a marital dispute with a fight. An *unequal* fight. Seiko had long surpassed him in judo—and he didn't know karate. This wouldn't be a sparring match or a refereed tournament. This was real.

First, she slammed him against the wall, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could react, she drove her shoulder into his gut and hurled him onto his back, seamlessly locking his arm in a submission hold. He slapped her rock-hard thigh, tapping out—but she wasn't done.

Releasing the hold, she sprang up with terrifying agility, grabbed his collar again, and speared her shoulder into his abdomen, sliding one arm between his legs. With a grunt, she *lifted him off the ground*. He'd had no idea how strong she was. He'd watched her lift weights, spar, train—even during sex, he'd felt her growing power. But this was different. This was fury, a fight for something he couldn't comprehend.

**"Seiko, stop—let's just talk—"**

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But she, with visible effort and remarkable determination, her entire body slick with sweat, was already climbing the stairs to the upper floor, her husband's legs flailing desperately as he tried to free himself with his uninjured arm. Upon entering their bedroom, Seiko threw the man face-first onto the bed. He groaned in pain. She mounted his back, sliding one arm under his neck in a chokehold.

"You're going to kill me..." he gasped, already struggling to speak.

"No, because I love you," she panted. "But never speak to me like that again!"

The struggle had cost her the departure time for São Paulo, but fury had overtaken her when her husband tried to stop her from pursuing the vengeance she'd prepared for so fiercely these past ten years. Yes, she would settle accounts with her past. She'd been monitoring her ex-husband's life - after her escape, he'd moved to Japan, remarried, and prospered in his sumo career. Through Japanese newspapers, Seiko discovered he'd be vacationing in Brazil - alone, without his wife and children. She intensified her training while investigating his likely whereabouts. At the gym, complaints arose about her violent randori sessions. She sought out the biggest, heaviest men to spar with. One was thrown so forcefully he dislocated his shoulder. The fight with her current husband had been a preview of what awaited her in São Paulo.

It wasn't hard to track down the rikishi.

Sumo wrestlers are rare in Brazil, and her ex-husband had been welcomed like a pop star by his Japanese-Brazilian peers at the Mie Nishi Sumo Gymnasium—the first and only facility outside Japan built exclusively for the sport. Obsessively, Seiko studied the athlete's routine in the days leading up to his exhibition tournament there. And she discovered a rare window when he'd be alone: early in the morning, before anyone else arrived, save for a small maintenance crew.

Posing as a Japanese journalist with a scheduled interview, Seiko slipped in easily. She found her ex-husband in the gymnasium's locker room, tying his mawashi. His back was turned; he didn't notice her at first.

He'd grown heavier, but his shoulders and arms looked thicker, more powerful. Fear flickered in her chest. When he turned, he moved like a shifting mountain. Once, she'd found him handsome. In a way, he still was—but the thought disgusted her now.

– Who's there? he asked in Portuguese.
– Vengeance, she replied in Japanese.

He laughed, recognizing her.
– Came back for another rape, you whore?

She wore a modest long-sleeved dress, which she began unbuttoning slowly.
– Hah... You're desperate for it, aren't you? Waited all these years for me to wreck you again... Slut!

Free of the dress, she stood in a sports top and black shorts, her muscular frame visibly surprising the rikishi—though not intimidating him. His hands were already around her throat.
– Bet you've been fucking every man in this shithole country.

He lifted her off the ground. Her legs kicked wildly, trying to strike his groin, but he slammed her into the wall. The impact echoed like thunder. Seiko groaned in pain.

With elephantine steps, the rikishi lumbered toward the locker room door.
– Don't run, she spat, forcing herself up, bruised but unbroken. The fight's just starting.

– I'm not running, bitch. He turned the lock with a smirk. I'm making sure you don't escape the beating you've earned. After I'm done breaking you, I'll fuck your cunt and your ass—then dump you in the gutter.

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Seiko began using karate, employing an attack-and-retreat tactic to avoid the fatal grip of her ex-husband, who remained unfazed by her strong and precise strikes. The rikishi's layer of fat cushioned the first few blows, but soon, they began to hurt. So he resorted to his greatest weapons: height, weight, and brute strength. Standing at one hundred and eighty-two centimeters tall, weighing one hundred and sixty kilograms, and accustomed to lifting wrestlers as heavy as himself, Seiko's ex-husband simply threw himself on top of her—twenty-two centimeters shorter and ninety kilograms lighter. He could feel a dense bundle of hardened muscles beneath his massive body. He rose slightly, sitting on Seiko's athletic abdomen while gripping her neck with one hand.

"You've got the body of a man! This is an abomination! Did those things you gave birth to turn into freaks like you?"

Seiko could barely speak, her throat crushed by her ex-husband's large, powerful hands as he stood up, lifting her by the neck. Her feet dangled in the air as she tried in vain to kick him while striking at him with her hands. Struggling to breathe, instinct drove her hands to claw uselessly at his grip. Suddenly, he hurled her against the steel cabinet doors, denting them on impact. Seiko fell to the ground, coughing desperately for air.

"You've turned into a man. Let's fight like men."

He tore off her sports top.

"Freak! A man with a woman's chest..."

The rikishi yanked her up and grabbed her by the waistband of her shorts.

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In a matter of milliseconds, with no chance to react, she was thrown far away, as if in a sumo match. Seiko slammed against the cabinets once again and blacked out for a few seconds. That was all the time the wrestler needed to flip her onto her stomach and tear off her shorts. He freed himself from his mawashi, spat into his hands, lubricated his already erect penis, gripped the woman's hips, and lifted her to the height of his groin. Then, in one thrust, he penetrated his ex-wife.

Holding her hair, the rikishi sped up his movements, driving deeper. That was when he realized she wasn't screaming—but moaning. In pleasure.

Seiko relaxed her torso and spread her legs wider, making it easier for her ex-husband's thick shaft to enter. With her palms flat against the cabinet, she adjusted herself further against the wrestler's body, clearly maneuvering to seek and give pleasure. Her athletic physique was on full display, particularly impressive for a 45-year-old woman. Her back revealed muscles meticulously honed through years of intense training.

Now Seiko was grunting, as if possessed by a beast. She took control of the movements and began squeezing his penis with her vaginal muscles, proving herself a master of pompoir technique. The rikishi was overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure unlike anything he'd ever known. Seiko controlled the rhythm, delaying the sumo champion's orgasm. He couldn't hold back his moans. She was already climbing toward her own climax.

The wrestler responded with an erection of a strength he didn't remember ever having in his life. The woman quickened her movements, determined to push him over the edge. The giant roared in pleasure. Then she threw her head back, locking eyes with her ex-husband, his face twisted on the verge of orgasm.

Still controlling the rhythm, she first stretched out her arms and then slowly flexed them into a double biceps pose.

"Touch them," she simply said in Japanese.

His large, strong hands immediately gripped those muscles, hard as two steel spheres. His body shuddered with erotic thrill. Something had been unleashed—something he had never known before. Feeling not just those incredibly solid biceps but all of Seiko's body, sculpted like a work of muscle art, sent the rikishi into an orgasm he certainly wouldn't be able to describe in either of the two languages he knew so well.

His ex-wife had also reached orgasmic ecstasy, but hers was far more prolonged. She screamed as if in a karate match.

"Seiko... Seiko... Seiko..." the man moaned, clinging to her small, athletic frame, his penis still inside her.

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Seiko in the locker room where she fought her ex-husband, opening the closet from which she would take her "trophy."

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"Don't move."

Then she began to sway her hips, back and forth, but at first with a minuscule, almost imperceptible motion, tightening and releasing the muscles of her vagina around the swollen phallus of her ex-husband. Gradually, with exquisite technique, she increased the speed. The rikishi entered a new upward spiral of pleasure, heading toward orgasm. His enormous body entirely covered in goosebumps. His moan reflected a mix of enchantment, ecstasy, and supplication, as if begging Seiko not to stop, not to abandon him, not to deprive him of another climax—one as intense or perhaps even greater than the last. She made brief pauses, delaying his release. His moans grew louder. They were more like grunts than actual moans. Now, the language was different. Wordless.

Seiko responded with grunts and moans of her own, for her pleasure was no less. In fact, the woman seemed to have saved all her erotic mastery for this moment: not even with her current husband had she experienced anything like this, because the rikishi matched her, revealing a sexual intelligence and sensitivity that the other man lacked. Seiko felt every inch of that sizable member rhythmically sliding into her vagina, rigid as steel, yet at the same time docile, careful, and thrilling. The enormous mass of muscle and adipose tissue of the rikishi, weighing down on her body, was an added pleasure that Seiko savored, feeling strong for bearing 150 kilograms and, at the same time, for allowing herself the contact with a giant's body that gave her a sense of protection. The frenetic dedication—often bordering on unbearable—to bodybuilding and strength training had finally been rewarded.

Then she took one of the man's hands and guided it over her defined, hard, and strong abdomen while Seiko continued swaying her hips, controlling her ex-husband's orgasm. The rikishi felt a mix of bewilderment and joy. Bewilderment at this utterly unusual situation. Joy at the discovery he was experiencing with each passing moment. His ex-wife was introducing him to something he had never known and couldn't explain. But it was indescribably pleasurable: feeling the musculature and strength of a woman...

Without saying a single word, she suddenly freed her vagina from the rikishi's hard penis, which was on the verge of ejaculation. She gestured for him to get off her. The wrestler obeyed immediately, not daring to protest, and stood up, masturbating. Seiko motioned for him to stop—which, once again, the man obeyed—and then made another gesture, signaling for him to lie down. The rikishi's massive body stretched out on the floor, indifferent to the cold surface, while she pulled out a tube of personal lubricant from her bag. After generously coating his anus with the gel, she did the same to the rikishi's penis, whose erection showed no signs of fading—impressing even its "owner." Without delay, Seiko assumed a sumo wrestling stance and lowered herself onto her ex-husband's shaft. Then, she stretched her arms out to the sides and slowly flexed them, showing off her biceps, while contracting her abdomen to display the musculature of her torso. Finally, she sat fully on the wrestler's penis, taking in its entire length. He let out a roar of pleasure. His entire body tensed, revealing his athletic exuberance. Seiko rhythmically contracted and relaxed her sphincter. It was the only movement she made. Immediately, the rikishi moaned in orgasmic ecstasy, releasing his second ejaculation in less than an hour.

She rose slowly. The rikishi's penis was still hard, glistening with abundant semen that also dripped from Seiko's vagina. She stood up, her torso very erect, with the wrestler's hips between her feet, and from her elevated position, hands on her waist, she gazed down at her ex-husband's face, which looked back at her with a mix of admiration, ecstasy, and submission.

"I love you, Seiko..."

The woman didn't speak, her expression remaining stern. She simply picked up her purse, took out a pack of wet wipes, and cleaned herself, even wiping away the sweat that had trickled down her body. She glanced at her torn shorts on the floor. Then she rummaged through her purse again, pulled out a tiny black thong, and put it on. The rikishi, still on the floor, sat up.

"I'll do whatever you want."

Now, she allowed herself a faint smile.

"You'll never see me again."

Seiko opened the rikishi's closet and took the mawashi that was inside.

"My trophy."

The two never saw each other again.

Compared to her ex-husband, the Japanese-Brazilian rikishi standing before her in the dojo of the "cult" was laughable. About five-foot-seven and no more than 220 pounds, his face battered and smeared with dried blood, dripping water after being tortured with simulated drownings, he was the very embodiment of defeat. Seiko felt a brief moment of pity for the young man, whose gaze held a hint of disdain. Now 65, with white hair and wrinkles, she had obviously lost the exuberance she had twenty years earlier, when she had met her ex-husband in a fight where she knocked him out with sex. Yes, knocked out. And yes, through sex.

The man broke into convulsive sobs as Seiko left the locker room—but not before parading in front of him, still wearing only the thong, flaunting her sculpted body. Victorious, she devoured the rikishi's hungry gaze as he remained seated on the floor, as if truly defeated in a match. She smiled and crouched down, once again in a sumo wrestler's stance. The man began to pant, and a new erection stirred. He made a move toward her.

"No!" Seiko shouted.

Still squatting, she extended her arms to the sides one last time and slowly bent them. And once again, the eruption of two rigid, well-defined biceps—carved by countless hours of weight training—emerged from those feminine arms, whose shape and strength fascinated and uncontrollably aroused the rikishi.

"Look closely. You'll never touch a woman like me again."

All of this took a few years. And through the Japanese press, Seiko followed every episode, feeling fully avenged. And free. She did not return home. She simply never went back, not even to see her two daughters again.

In São Paulo, she soon found work at a renowned karate dojo, initially as an instructor for beginners. However, while training with the sensei—who was simply the greatest master of this martial art in Brazil—Seiko surpassed all the black belts in the dojo and began to rival the sensei himself. Her talent took her to Japan for a season, where, at 50 years old, she earned her tenth dan. At the same time, she was able to witness firsthand the downfall of the man who had raped her.

Upon returning to Brazil, she became a partner at the dojo with her now-former sensei—a place frequented by the elite of Brazilian karate. It was there that she met the psychotherapist-karateka, who had joined the dojo as the only female student among a select group of men, with the explicit goal of reaching the tenth dan.

It was love at first sight.

Neither of them knew they were bisexual until they stood face to face, dressed in their black-belted karategi. Seiko felt an unexpected attraction to this woman—then 35 years old—who radiated strength, determination, and pride like nothing she had ever seen in her life. Her skin burned, her nipples hardened, and she fought an almost uncontrollable urge to kiss the beautiful blonde. The psychotherapist's attraction was no less intense. Before her stood a silver-haired Japanese-Brazilian woman with sharp eyes and broad shoulders, her strong hands resting on the black belt that bore the marks of her rank: tenth dan.

"Come to my dojo," the blonde said.
"I didn't know you had one."
"It's secret."
"Why the secrecy?"
"Because it's for women like us."

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That was how Seiko discovered the "cult" and fell in love with the psychotherapist. On the mats of the "secret" dojo, the older woman honed the younger one's karate while they both explored the pleasures of sex between women. Seiko proved the bolder and more creative of the two, eroticizing karate and judo moves she applied to her partner. But her most thrilling fetish was wearing the black thong she'd worn during her last encounter with her ex-husband. She would strike sumo stances, much to her girlfriend's delight, who marveled at the sight of that mature, athletic body—so powerful, so confident in its abilities. Seiko seemed utterly free from all the constraints that oppressed women, especially those that repressed their bodies. The blonde would let herself be thrown across the tatami, surrendering to the physical dominance of her unbeatable lover and master. Seiko knew this. And precisely because of it, she never neglected her physique, maintaining the rigorous strength and weight training she had practiced for nearly two decades.

The blonde matched her lover's desires. Beyond absorbing her master-lover's teachings, the psychotherapist also learned to pursue not just strength but the physique that expressed it. She focused more on weight training, sculpting her body with millimeter precision without losing femininity—to Seiko's delight and for their mutual pleasure in the erotic "battles" they staged in the solitude of their secret dojo. These "fights" could last for hours. Often, they began with a simulated sumo higashi between them. Other times, Seiko's fetish demanded her girlfriend wear a black karategi, slightly open to reveal glimpses of her toned abdomen between the sports bra and black belt. Then Seiko would crouch, slide a hand under her thong, and pleasure herself while flexing her bicep with the other arm. The blonde would rise, untie her belt, and perform a kata with her uwagi sensually open—a hybrid of training and mating dance. Sometimes, she was caught off guard by Seiko suddenly leaping into action, abandoning her self-touch to engage in a ruthless, real fight with her lover, defeating her without mercy.

"If you're serious about your dojo's philosophy, always be ready for combat," Seiko taught.

That was how the black-belt psychotherapist learned to surprise her students. The difference was that fights with her master always ended in sex. And almost always, after inflicting a crushing defeat on her girlfriend, Seiko would demand the other karateka penetrate her with a strapon, submitting servilely to her sweaty, bruised lover. The roles would reverse—the disciple now humiliated the master, penetrating her just as mercilessly. Seiko, on all fours and moaning in pleasure, would feel her girlfriend's strong arm tightening around her neck and hear whispers in her ear:

"This time, I'm the winner."
Or:
"Now you're my bitch."
Or even:
"Where's your strength now?"

It was a cue for Seiko to unleash her power—something that thrilled the other woman beyond measure. The therapist preached, in her "cult," the importance of female physical empowerment, breaking taboos, and surpassing men. So Seiko delivered feats of agility and strength, astonishing for a woman in her fifties. Once, the blonde set up a series of wooden boards for Seiko to break with karate strikes. The tension and force of each blow made every muscle in the master's body stand out—an intoxicating sight for her disciple, like witnessing a mature, female Bruce Lee at her peak. By the tenth shattered board, they were already rolling on the tatami in a savage sexual clash where, once again, sex and combat blurred—except now, in another role reversal, the disciple overpowered the master, to Seiko's ecstasy.

In sex, the hardened tenth-dan black belt often adored serving her girlfriend and being dominated by her—this was when the psychotherapist's sadistic fetish surfaced. She would loop Seiko's black belt around her neck, pulling tight as she thrust into her master with the strapon.

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In a display of unparalleled devotion to her love and desire for the psychotherapist, as well as to her disciple's domination fantasies, Seiko relentlessly prepared for what she called "the last great show." At 55, she knew her body would respond to—or endure—the intensity of weight training less and less. No matter how athletic she was, physical decline was approaching, slowly and irreversibly. At least, that's what the oldest karateka believed. With younger, more attractive fighters joining the "cult," she was certain she'd soon be replaced once the psychotherapist noticed the advance of old age in her master.
So, on one of the nights when the two met alone in the dojo, Seiko—dressed in a black bra and shitabaki, with the black belt that so excited her girlfriend, gripping a weightlifting bar—announced:
"Two years of training with double the load."
"Of course I noticed, Seiko."
"But not my intention."
"To establish yourself as the best fighter in the best dojo in the country."
"I don't need to lift weights for that."
"You lift weights to turn me on, mostly—because I order you to. And you obey me. I want you strong and muscular. That's no secret to me or to you, Seiko."
"Go beyond. Don't settle for 'enough.'"
"I know that too. Soon, I'll match you—reaching the tenth dan."
Seiko set the bar on the floor as if it were a staff. She solemnly bowed before her girlfriend, in the Japanese fashion, and without another word, gripped the bar at both ends and began straining to bend it. For the first few seconds, the blonde wore an expression of both surprise and disbelief: as powerful as Seiko was, that feat was impossible for someone her age without the necessary strength training. But soon, she realized she'd underestimated her partner's disciplined obsession. Through indescribable effort, punctuated by brief pauses for rest and breath, after about ten minutes, the bar slowly began to yield. The psychotherapist's eyes widened, overtaken by an unusual excitement, as she reached for her genitals beneath the karate kimono pants. Seiko groaned—both from the Herculean effort that made her tremble and sweat, and from the sight of her girlfriend masturbating. The mature master intensified her bending of the bar, recalling the immense sacrifices of the last two years, which had forced her to seek out an (expensive) specialized gym to make her arms and muscles strong and dense enough to bend that bar.
A pool of sweat had formed around Seiko when, at last, she first bent the straight rod into a "U," then—after a pause (during which the blonde thought Seiko had finished)—into an "O." The other woman was already nearing orgasm, her mouth open in a mix of a scream and a moan of pleasure, utterly mesmerized by Seiko—who was drenched in sweat, panting, exhausted. The therapist tried to touch her, desperately, but Seiko pulled away.
"From now on, we'll only touch each other in combat."
The other woman shot her a stunned look. Without another word, Seiko slipped on the sleeveless wagui that accentuated her powerful arms, walked into the adjacent room, and returned leading by the hand a handsome, athletic young man of about 25 - his curly long hair tied in a ponytail, sporting a short beard, wearing nothing but briefs, standing just a few centimeters taller than her.
The therapist was simultaneously shocked and outraged by her master's insolence, breaking one of the cult's golden rules: no men allowed. But Seiko appeared utterly indifferent to the rules. And the young man seemed confused about what was happening.
"So? Is the show with both of you?" he asked. "You didn't tell me there were two. With two women, it costs extra."
"She's just going to watch," Seiko replied.
The therapist understood everything. In the nearly half hour that followed, Seiko demonstrated—using the oblivious sex worker's body—why she had been Brazil's first Olympic judo champion. The young man's well-built muscles proved useless: neither bulk nor brute strength could withstand a woman who had just bent a steel bar and was simultaneously a master of judo and karate. His screams and cries for help were equally futile. Even if the relatively close neighbors heard, everyone knew this was a dojo where shouts were commonplace.
Not a single inch of the tatami remained untouched by the young man's body as Seiko expertly hurled and struck him with devastating precision. The blonde therapist masturbated, delaying her climax to savor every moment of the thrill—watching her now-ex-lover assert the physical dominance of a 55-year-old woman over a desperate, athletic 25-year-old man. Sometimes Seiko would let him stagger a few steps toward the exit, only to intercept him with the most unexpected strikes, further delighting her fellow karateka—who was also learning, in real time, how to utterly dominate a man. One of these moves, the blonde would later teach to the freshly adolescent avenger: with astonishing technique, Seiko thrust her hands between the young man's thighs as he tried to flee, seizing his scrotum in an iron grip. The rent boy attempted to defend himself with one hand while desperately trying to shield his testicles from the crushing pressure with the other. But still clutching his scrotum, Seiko delivered precise karate chops - with open palms - to his neck, head, back, and shoulders.
"You're going to kill him!" screamed the blonde.
"Avenge all women!" roared back the tenth-degree black belt, echoing the cult's central tenet.
"He hasn't done anything!"
"He exploits women!"
Everything happened simultaneously at a frenetic pace fueled by pain, vengeance, sadistic violence, and sheer desperation. The young man kept screaming, alternating between cries for help and pleas for mercy. Between moans, he tried to argue, promising he'd "never again" exploit his female clients. Hearing this, the psychotherapist adjusted her own sleeveless black kimono, tightening the black belt around her waist.
"Let him go," she commanded Seiko, who immediately complied.
Then turning to the young man:
"No man leaves here on his feet."
The dojo-cult's current leader delivered a powerful kick to his chest that sent him flying nearly a meter backward. As he landed on his back, she immediately mounted his chest, pinning his arms beneath her knees, and raised her hand for the final strike.