**The Avenger**

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"Let's fix that pretty face."

But before she could throw the first punch, the blonde woman felt an immense force stopping her arm.

"Learn to savor it."

Seiko pulled the other woman off the young man and helped him up. He was slightly dazed and somewhat injured, but nothing seemed to stop him from standing. The young man wept quietly, too afraid to move. The mature black belt adjusted her kimono and began a series of stretches for her arms and shoulders, which cracked with each movement. Then she started bouncing, faster and faster, her hands poised to strike, circling the young man, who followed her movements with the certainty that he wouldn't leave this place unharmed. Her movements were so swift and precise that he couldn't even tell where her punches and open-handed strikes were coming from. He tried to block them, but with no martial arts training, the escort found himself completely defenseless against this unbeatable fighter—who, unbeknownst to him, had recently humiliated the sensei of the renowned dojo where she was a partner.

Kazuo was ten years younger and had been running the dojo for over twenty years after buying it from the man who introduced karate to Brazil—then already in his nineties. Kazuo, a grandson of Japanese immigrants, had a successful career in martial arts, becoming Brazilian, South American, Latin American, Pan-American, and finally world champion in kumite under the World Karate Federation, repeatedly defeating even the Japanese in successive tournaments. The São Paulo dojo he acquired from the old sensei marked the beginning of his equally successful parallel career as a sports entrepreneur.

When Seiko returned from Japan with her tenth-degree black belt, Kazuo initially welcomed her warmly and even offered her a partnership to expand the clientele of their prestigious martial arts academy, which gradually incorporated non-Japanese disciplines like boxing, capoeira, and Krav Maga under her influence. Within months, however, Seiko proved to be a far more charismatic, skilled, and effective instructor than Kazuo. Her classes became highly sought after, and she gained fame as a senior karateka, racking up medals in every tournament and championship in her age group—though her performance matched that of someone twenty years younger.

The problem was that Kazuo, fearing a loss of prestige, began sabotaging his partner—even cheating her out of the academy's profits, which was the most expensive martial arts dojo in Brazil. It took Seiko years to discover she was being swindled.

And so, we arrive at the days leading up to her encounter with the escort in the dojo-"cult." She abruptly interrupted one of Kazuo's classes, filled with fighters at various skill levels, and showed him something on her phone. His surprise—and embarrassment—was unmistakable. Dressed in her sleeveless black kimono (reserved exclusively for the "cult"), Seiko then subjected Kazuo to the most humiliating moment of his life in front of dozens of students: she beat him mercilessly. He stood no chance against her, her arms strengthened by intense weight training. The violence of the fight escalated to the point of alarming the trainees—unsure whether this was real or a demonstration. But the doubt quickly vanished: Kazuo's handsome face was swelling beyond recognition, his steel-like abs gave way under Seiko's brutal strikes, and his arms nearly snapped under the mix of karate and judo she used against him, disregarding all rules or sportsmanship. She was blind with rage. No one dared to intervene.

To heighten the humiliation, Seiko began hurling Kazuo across the tatami before finally hoisting his semiconscious body onto her shoulders and parading him around. Dripping with sweat and panting, she glared at each student while carrying the highest-ranked Brazilian karate champion—the same man who, in tournaments, made opponents forfeit before the fight even began.

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"Seiko, please... enough."

"He was the youngest assistant at the dojo, responsible for warming up the classes before training with the sensei."

She responded with a fierce glare that made the man shrink back. With Brazil's most feared black belt slung over her shoulders, Seiko strode out of the dojo—though not without some difficulty, her steps heavy with exhaustion as she carried eighty kilos of dead weight. But her hatred and sheer willpower drove her forward until she reached the administration office. She locked the door and waited patiently for the karate master to regain consciousness.

An hour later, Seiko left the academy clutching a document that declared her the majority owner of the business, just as paramedics arrived to administer first aid.

The male escort, now being mercilessly beaten by her, would never know that this woman was—unofficially—the greatest karateka in Brazil. He was equally unaware that he stood before the owner of the country's premier martial arts school and the most lethal sister of that "cult," whose very existence he couldn't have imagined. He was a (highly paid) sex worker who leveraged his looks and erotic skills as tools of the trade, extorting wealthy married women—or the powerful men who also hired him. Never had he imagined a woman like this "Japanese" fighter could exist, her precise, devastating kicks targeting every vulnerable point of his athletic but untrained body.

The situation turned critical when the blonde joined in the beating. He collapsed to his knees. Seiko yanked him up by his hair—which he clutched in desperation, screaming—

The ordeal lasted barely two minutes. Enough to leave the man utterly broken: mouth and nose bleeding, face swelling grotesquely, body throbbing with pain—especially his abdomen, where the blows had been deliberately concentrated. Bruises bloomed across his skin. He couldn't stand. Seiko held him upright, preventing his collapse, and lowered him onto the tatami. As he groaned, she gripped the waistband of his briefs and slowly pulled, stripping him of his last shred of clothing. Then she rose, locked eyes with the blonde, and untied the cord of her loose shitabaki, letting it fall to reveal the lethal legs of a tenth-degree black belt.
while locking eyes with her now-ex-girlfriend. Seiko spat copiously into her hands, crouched over the escort's hips, and took his flaccid penis in her grip. The karateka's technique was astonishing. In under two minutes, even in his battered state, the young man responded: his handsome, well-endowed shaft rose fully erect, proud and eager.

The black belt grew aroused herself, realizing his reputation wasn't just built on looks—now temporarily marred. Without breaking eye contact with the blonde, who had also crouched nearby, Seiko slowly, deliberately guided the young man's penis into her vagina with subtle, erotic movements. He moaned—this time in pleasure. Then she began rocking her hips, staring down the blonde as she demonstrated that even in this arena, the mature karateka was unmatched. Just as with her ex-husband, Seiko deployed every pompoir technique, dragging the escort toward extreme pleasure amid the lingering pain of his beating.

Simultaneously, still fixated on the other fighter, she extended her arms laterally, clenched her fists, and gradually flexed her elbows. The psychotherapist watched as two perfectly sculpted—but not exaggerated—biceps swelled splendidly on the disciplined 55-year-old's powerful arms. Here was a woman at the peak of muscular maturity: strong, omnipotent, relentless, free. Seiko embodied everything the blonde's "cult" sought. It was then the therapist realized the true master of that women-only dojo had always been Seiko. She'd long achieved what the blonde and her disciples were only beginning to pursue.

Yet the cult leader wasn't observing placidly—she was masturbating frantically, body convulsing with pleasure as Seiko untied her black belt and slightly parted her sleeveless uwagi, granting her pupil a glimpse of those incredible abdominal muscles contracting with each pelvic thrust. The escort felt no attraction to athletic women like Seiko—yet it didn't diminish the indescribable pleasure she masterfully orchestrated. His sensations were radically contradictory: the same woman who'd brutally beaten him now guided him toward an orgasm unlike any he'd known.

Accustomed to being paid to give pleasure, the tables had turned—he would've paid all he had to reach that climax's summit, desperately fearing Seiko might stop at any moment.

And she did.

Lifting her hips, she freed his shaft—which slapped against her rigid abdomen. Without pause, the karateka pinned his biceps beneath her knees, seized his hair, and shoved his face against her genitals.

"Lick!" she roared, savage.

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Seiko knew the male escort would be skilled in the art of pleasuring her—licking and sucking her vagina with expertise. Another masterstroke that further enthralled her disciple, now mid-orgasm yet simultaneously devastated by the knowledge she'd never touch Seiko again. The tenth-degree black belt always kept her promises—of this, the blonde had no doubt.

Yet it was the older fighter who, in this moment, derived the deepest satisfaction from the pleasure she orchestrated on all fronts. Never had she felt so complete. Between her thighs, the head of a beautiful, arrogant man—so easily subdued by her—now penetrated her with a prodigious tongue, its subtle roughness sending successive waves of pleasure radiating through her body. A shiver climbed from her pelvis up her spine to the nape of her neck.

She knew exactly how he humiliated and extorted women. Having him here like this—his pretty face swollen from her blows—doubled the scene's erotic charge. The approach of old age no longer intimidated her. Without ever neglecting her martial arts technique, she'd resolved to become physically stronger than what karate alone could offer. Seiko had completely shattered the myth that physiological differences between men and women prevented equality—or even superiority. And she'd proven it. Not that she considered proof necessary; women's Olympic performances had demonstrated that amply. What she wanted was to experience the physical strength men always claimed as their exclusive privilege.

At the specialized gym she frequented, trainers asked what she sought with such a demanding regimen. True to form, Seiko was telegraphic: "Strength." Without fanfare or showmanship, she broke every record her physique and age allowed. The men she fought knew this firsthand.

Therefore, facing her no less beautiful disciple - now stunned into silent comprehension of everything unfolding before her - filled Seiko with the sensation of having become a superwoman. Young and equally athletic, gifted in martial arts and determined to match or even surpass her master, the therapist-karateka had been involved with younger fighters from the dojo-"cult." Seiko knew everything, having spied on her now ex-lover - who had promised absolute marital fidelity, though the master had never demanded it.

Confronted with this silent realization, the cult leader - exhausted by ecstasy - bowed until her forehead touched the floor in a gesture both reverent and submissive to this admirable woman. Then came an unusual orgasmic roar that pierced the delicate rice-paper walls surrounding the dojo. During her spasms, every muscle stood revealed, hard as marble: Seiko was an athletic colossus.

Still with her uwagi slightly open, she rose, releasing the equally exhausted escort's head. She picked up the black thong, put it on, and while maintaining eye contact with the other woman, slowly extended her arms to the sides before flexing them once more, proudly displaying her sculpted biceps. Without uttering a single word, she left.

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Ten years had passed since those events—until the moment Seiko, standing over the battered young rikishi in that same dojo, found herself face-to-face with the sumo wrestler who had tried to assault the youngest and most talented member of the "cult."

As she recalled every struggle that had brought her here—a mental flashback lasting mere minutes, holding the small "cult" audience in suspense—her hesitation to let the twins "fight" the weakened rikishi left her uncertain. At 65, she remained strong, muscular, and feared as both a karateka and judoka. But age was beginning to take its toll. Her grueling weight-training regimen had been scaled back to accommodate her limits, and she could no longer defeat her male training partners with the same ease.

Her prolonged indecision over what to do with the rikishi began to read as cowardly hesitation—even to him. She feigned serenity. It wasn't fear of her opponent that paralyzed her, but the dread of failing to deliver the spectacular massacre she'd performed ten years prior against Kazuo.

The elderly sensei's delay infuriated the armwrestler, who seized the rikishi by his mawashi and shoved him toward one of the twins.

"You're not the same anymore, Seiko," the brawny arm fighter spat.

"Jiu-jitsu!" shouted the twin who'd earlier ordered the rikishi to chose his fight—already taking him down in a rear-naked choke. "Let's finish this."
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[MuscleWomanBR]

Seiko, however, her pride wounded by the dojo's strongest fighter, grabbed her by the arm.
"I'm still the same. I'm not challenging you to a fight right now only because you're badly hurt and..."
The other woman didn't wait for Seiko to finish her sentence. She struck with an unexpected and powerful hiji (elbow strike) that left the experienced karateka visibly shaken. The muscular woman showed why she was feared as the most powerful fighter in that dojo and a national arm-wrestling champion. But there was no time for assessments. Seiko responded in kind, opting to use judo. In a split second, she had thrown her opponent to the tatami and immobilized her arms.

The scene would've seemed bizarre to an outside observer: in the same space, a fit 65-year-old Japanese-Brazilian woman, with her opponent's arms pinned between her legs, was trying to subdue a blonde, bodybuilder-type woman struggling to get up; nearby, a strikingly athletic redhead had her legs wrapped around the waist of a battered sumo wrestler, who was desperately trying to escape the strong arm tightening around his throat. Around the tatami, as if they were watching a tournament, half a dozen women sat impassively. One of them, the youngest, had her head down and looked almost as beaten as the man who, at that moment, seemed like the helpless prey of a boa constrictor.

The unstable nature of a fight means everything can change in an instant. Suddenly, the arm-wrestler seemed to "remember" the strength she possessed—far superior to Seiko's masterful technique. Before the Japanese-Brazilian could break her arm, she rolled on top of her attacker and managed to get to her knees—then to her feet. Seiko still clung to her arm, trying to break it. The muscular woman began to bend it as if she were engaging in an arm-wrestling match with Seiko's entire body.

Nothing was silent. In addition to the sound of heavy breathing, the two women grunted from the immense effort they were exerting. Nearby, the rikishi groaned, choking from the redhead twin's chokehold. She was the only one speaking—more than that, she was giving a speech, her phrases interrupted by gasps.
"I love beating up men like you, you know?... I'll show you what a strong, trained woman like me can do... Feel it... You feel that? That's my six-pack pressing into your back... Pure steel!... Feel my power, you bastard! I'm a fucking avenger!"

The rikishi was already unconscious. Beside them, the short-haired, broad-shouldered blonde was also speaking, though much more breathlessly.
"Your reign is over, Seiko... You've had your time... Accept it... I'm in charge here now..."

There were three throws. The arm-wrestler lifted Seiko as high as she could and then slammed her down onto the tatami three times. The older karateka resisted bravely, but after the third impact, she blacked out for a few seconds. Her opponent ripped off her black belt and held it up for the audience to see.

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[Dona Fell Friz]

Thank you as always.

[MuscleWomanBR]

Eu é que lhe agradeço.

[MuscleWomanBR]

Seiko, however, with her pride wounded by the dojo's strongest fighter, grabbed her by the arm.
"I'm the same. In fact, the only reason I'm not challenging you to a fight right now is because you're too badly injured—"

Before Seiko could finish, the other woman struck her with a sudden, brutal hiji elbow strike, visibly staggering the seasoned karateka. The muscular fighter proved why she was feared as the most powerful combatant in that dojo—and the Brazilian arm-wrestling champion. But there was no time to dwell on it. Seiko retaliated swiftly, opting for judo. In a split second, she threw her opponent onto the tatami, pinning her arms.

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To an outside observer, the scene would have been surreal: in one corner, a 65-year-old Japanese-Brazilian woman—athletic despite her age—locked the blonde bodybuilder's arms between her legs, struggling to dominate her; nearby, a stunning redhead, equally athletic, wrapped her legs around the waist of a battered sumo wrestler, who desperately tried to free himself from the chokehold squeezing his throat. Around the tatami, half a dozen women sat impassively, as if watching a championship match. The youngest among them hung her head, nearly as injured as the man who now seemed like helpless prey in a boa constrictor's grip.

In a fight, momentum shifts in an instant. Suddenly, the arm-wrestler "remembered" her overwhelming strength—far superior to Seiko's masterful technique. Before the Japanese-Brazilian could snap her arm, she rolled on top of her assailant, rose to her knees, and then to her feet. Seiko clung stubbornly to her opponent's arm, still trying to break it. The muscular woman began bending it instead, as if arm-wrestling Seiko's entire body.

The struggle was far from silent. Grunts mingled with ragged breathing. Beside them, the rikishi wheezed, gagging under the redhead's chokehold. She was the only one who spoke—no, lectured, her words punctuated by exertion:
*"I love beating men like you... Let me show you what a strong, trained woman can do... Feel that? That's my six-pack against your back... Pure steel! ... Feel my strength, you bastard! I'm a goddamn avenger!"*

The rikishi was already unconscious. Meanwhile, the short-haired blonde—broad-shouldered and just as winded—was delivering her own speech:
"Your reign's over, Seiko... You've had your time... Accept it. I'm in charge now."

Three slams followed. The arm-wrestler hoisted Seiko as high as she could and smashed her against the tatami—once, twice, three times. The older karateka fought valiantly, but on the third impact, she blacked out for a few seconds. Her opponent yanked off Seiko's black belt and brandished it at the audience.
"Anyone else wanna lose their black belt to me?"
Silence.

Seiko tried to rise. The arm-wrestler stomped on her chest. But with the reflexes of a true master, the Japanese-Brazilian coiled around her opponent's leg like a serpent, twisting her foot until a scream of pain tore through the dojo. The muscular woman writhed, rolling across the tatami until she hit the wall. Seiko, relentless, wrenched the foot until it cracked. The scream was so piercing the onlookers rushed to help—but the 60-year-old karateka had already won. Exhausted, she stood, indifferent to her adversary's sobs, when the first blows struck: the twins were on her.

Seiko fought back with her elite karate, but the twins—forty years younger—fought dirty, exploiting her fatigue and slowing reflexes. They attacked in perfect sync, from all angles, as if rehearsed. A suspicion seized Seiko: Had this been planned? Worse, the twins were now shirtless, their sculpted torsos and defined abs distracting her mid-fight. Their athletic bodies, pale against black belts, stirred something in Seiko—They deserve those belts, she thought, even as she blocked (or failed to block) their strikes.

Then, darkness. A kick to her neck sent her crashing facedown onto the tatami. The best karateka in Brazil had just been knocked out for the first time. One twin roared in victory, punching the air, while the dojo's youngest member—devastated—rushed to the fallen master.

The dojo emptied quickly: two women carried the arm-wrestler to the ER; four others left in silence. Only Seiko, the twins, and the young leader remained.
"Take care of the old lady," one redhead sneered, slipping on a sleeveless uwagi. "We've got more important things to do."

As they called for updates on their new "sensei," the twins left to "hunt"—their term for it. Now, with the title of "avengers," they felt more entitled than ever. In their sports car, euphoria took over.
"Beating up the Japanese woman got me so fucking turned on!"
"Me too!"
A pause.
"Thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Let's raid a dojo. Right now."
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" she mocked in English.
"There's that one on Carmo Street!"
"Perfect! Full of arrogant guys there!"
"Those poor bastards won't know what hit them..."

Renato was opening the gym's glass door when the expensive imported car screeched to a halt outside. What caught his attention wasn't the car—it was the breathtaking redhead twins stepping out, barefoot and dressed as they were.
"You train here?" one asked bluntly.
"Yeah," he replied politely.
"What's your belt?"
He hesitated, uneasy. "Brown..."
The twins exchanged smirks.
"Leaving?"
"Yeah."
"Not anymore."

The jiu-jitsu-trained twin moved faster than he expected, taking him down with an arm lock. Renato tapped frantically, swearing. She yanked him up by his collar—he smelled freshly showered.
"Don't even try. My sister and I just beat Seiko Yamaguchi."
Renato's mind reeled. Seiko Yamaguchi? A legend in Brazilian karate. But the woman's grip was iron, her face inches from his, terrifying. He'd never seen anything like it.

The other twin stormed the dojo, where a few trainees gaped at the sudden appearance of a toned, fierce woman. The place was far from a traditional dojo—more like a rundown boxing gym, reeking of sweat and old leather.

Dragging Renato inside, the second twin locked the door. The sensei protested:
"Hey! What the hell is this?!"
"You the sensei?"
"Yes—"
A kick to his skull cut him off. The crack echoed as he collapsed, unconscious.
"Not anymore."

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Two other men stood frozen.
"Let's go, boys," a twin taunted. "We've never taken on three men at once. Time to start."
One moved to help his sensei.
"You're insane! Claudio, call the police!"
Claudio—bald, overweight, and gentle-faced—reached for his bag, but a twin blocked him.
"You're not going anywhere, chubby."

Claudio struck. One precise hit to her trachea, and she dropped, gasping. Her sister screamed for an ambulance, but it was too late. By the time help arrived, one twin was dead. Claudio was arrested for homicide; the surviving sister, catatonic, was led away by police.

News of the twin's death reached the "sect" with mixed reactions. The arm-wrestler, her foot shattered by Seiko, was sidelined for weeks. The media frenzy exposed the twins' history of assaulting men—aided by their doctor and nurse accomplices, who confessed under interrogation. The surviving redhead was jailed, blaming the "sect" for turning her into a "hunter." But she couldn't prove its existence—or the "missions" she claimed they'd assigned. The rikishi stayed silent, too ashamed to admit he'd been bested by women.

[MuscleWomanBR]

– I've decided to close our dojo, – said the karateka-therapist to Seiko and her young former patient, months after everything came to light. The three of them were sitting on the tatami mats of the "cult." – I was completely devastated after everything that happened. I had no idea those three were plotting to take control of everything... And the twins? So much wickedness, my...

– Don't be a hypocrite! – Seika interrupted, cold and harsh. – It was obvious those two were crossing the line. And you turned a blind eye to their violence because they were covering more than half the costs of this place.

The karateka-therapist visibly stiffened, unable to refute that truth.

– With or without our dojo, I'll keep going, – said the girl, easing the tension. – In fact, I already am. – She exchanged a knowing glance with Seiko.

The crushing defeat by the arm wrestler had the side effect of humbling her. Quietly, she began training under Seiko while taking steps to avoid trouble with the lawyer. The girl intensified her strength exercises—which made her gain muscle mass—and her judo training with the Japanese-Brazilian woman, preparing for a rematch with the man she had already beaten once. But first, she had a talk with Gil.

The now-former bodyguard of the lawyer was working at a security company when, one night after his shift, he was intercepted by the young black belt. He recoiled in fear, bracing for another beating.

– Relax, Gil. Everything will be fine if you help me.

From him, she got everything she needed to know about the heavily guarded routine the millionaire had adopted. And she found a weak spot. It was through that weak spot that the karateka slipped in on an ordinary day for the man who had gone back to raping and beating his girlfriends, all while preparing a lawsuit against the fighter who had once thrashed him. He frequented a high-end private club, filled with luxury escorts, where the black belt got herself hired under a fake name.

– Some guys like muscular girls like you, – said the manager who hired her.

By bribing a girl the lawyer had chosen, the karateka took her place, entering the elegant, enormous, and luxurious suite where he waited for the woman who, as usual, would end up beaten by him—after he carefully isolated the room from any outside contact. The perfect storm had been set in motion.

Dressed in her black "avenger" gi, this time she found a more muscular man, wearing nothing but black briefs. When he saw her, he sat up in bed, startled.

– Two things, – she said, with the calm of someone utterly self-assured. – First: drop the lawsuit against me for beating you up. Second: I'm here to repeat the lesson, because you clearly didn't learn anything from the first beating.

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With his composure regained, the lawyer also exuded confidence.

– This time, the lesson will be for you, bitch.

Not only had he intensified his jiu-jitsu training, but he had also been advancing in karate, all while maintaining the bodybuilding regimen that made him so desirable to the women he seduced. That explained the more athletic physique the girl had noticed when she first saw him lying on the king-sized bed in the suite. She then remembered Seiko's lesson: "Never underestimate your opponent." A flicker of doubt crept in, but the young woman didn't let it show. It was too late, anyway.

The wealthy lawyer sprang from the bed, ready to fight, a malicious smirk on his face.

– I've been dying to fuck you, girl... – He stroked his half-hard cock. – Ever since I met you, I've had a thing for jacked women...

For the first time, she admitted the physical attraction this man stirred in her. He was rugged, virile—the epitome of a testosterone-fueled, mature Latin American male. That tall, muscular body advancing toward her genuinely aroused her. His face wasn't exactly the pinnacle of male beauty, though she wouldn't call him ugly. In truth, the fighter couldn't tear her eyes away from the bulge in those sexy briefs, alternating between admiring that prominent outline and visually savoring the well-defined pair of biceps descending from his broad, powerful shoulders. Now she understood why so many women succumbed to his advances.

Distracted, she suddenly felt his feet against her abdomen and his hands gripping the collar of her uwagi, executing a throw that sent her crashing into the wall. The blow didn't injure her, but it surprised her—impressing her with its technique and speed. And he wasn't done. Before she could react, he locked her arm, twisting her wrist while pinning her neck and chest between his legs.

– Training, girl! Training!

She couldn't suppress a groan of pain.

– No mercy, you bitch!

He was on the verge of breaking her arm. She fought to reverse the situation, arching her body to relieve the tension while channeling all her strength into resisting the joint lock. But the man proved why he was known as a skilled—and now, apparently, even better—jiu-jitsu fighter, and what all those muscles and his six-foot-one frame were for. The lawyer was in peak form.

"I'm a disciple of Seiko Yamaguchi," she reminded herself amid the excruciating pain. The brutal training under Brazil's greatest female karateka—and its first Olympic judo champion—had prepared her for this moment, though not against an opponent this strong and skilled. But this was an extreme situation, with no choice but to resist and fight back.

In one swift motion, she kicked her legs up, using the momentum to scissor them across the floor while thrusting her body to the right. This allowed her to rotate her shoulders, easing the strain on her trapped arm. She managed to plant her knees on the ground, even as the man kept pulling her arm and pressing her shoulder and neck with his legs. Then she planted her right foot, stabilizing herself in a half-kneeling position—just enough leverage to start rapid movements to free her arm. Now she was on top, finally breaking his grip and standing up. Of course, all of this happened in mere seconds. She dropped to her knees and flexed her arms in a quick double biceps pose before resuming the assault.

– Training, you bastard! Training!

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Then, with the lawyer still on the ground, she unleashed countless punches and kicks against him, as if finishing an MMA fight in the most violent way possible. The man screamed in pain and for help.

– No mercy, you son of a bitch!

At that moment, all he could do was shield his head with his arms, completely unable to counter her strength and speed. Relentless, with the man already badly injured, she grabbed one of his arms, yanked it with all her might, locked it between her legs, and twisted—dislocating it. His scream was so loud that, for a moment, she feared someone might come to the millionaire's rescue. The karateka decided to hurry.

– If you're gonna scream in pain, then scream properly!

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[MuscleWomanBR]

The strong grip, however, didn't stop the well-trained bodyguards from reversing the move, taking advantage of their bodies, much heavier than hers. Pushing her back, the two freed themselves and assumed a fighting stance. That was exactly what the karateka wanted, for now she was on familiar ground.

"Come on, boys, give me a good workout," she taunted, already landing a kick to the head of the taller bodyguard, knocking him out.
"That leaves you, mister," she said to the other one, who was visibly frightened.
"This is the price you pay for protecting that rapist..."

That last word was the trigger that unleashed the fighter's fury. *"Avenge the women!"* was the first phrase that came to her mind, as she recalled the photos of the girlfriends and escorts the lawyer had beaten and disfigured. Then she was overtaken by a wild desire to hurt, without the slightest mercy, the man standing before her—this well-paid, well-trained bodyguard hired to protect the physical integrity of another man known and feared for his limitless cruelty.

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With another kick to the head of the man who was starting to get up, the karateka released her first *kiai*, channeling through sound all the energy her body poured into kicks and punches against the second bodyguard—who made a dash for the door to escape. It was a desperate yet naive attempt, because she grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him back.

"Coward! Take a beating like a man!"

He saw no other choice but to face her, now trying to intimidate her in the silliest way possible. The karateka found it all ridiculous, but understood the game and decided to enjoy it. The man stepped forward, spreading his broad shoulders, but with a stammering, insecure voice that gave away his bluff.

"You... You think you can beat me? Karate is kid's stuff to me, you hear? I break people like you for... for breakfast!"

The young woman wanted to burst out laughing. But she held back and assumed her role in what seemed to her like a comical performance.

"How many of those 'people' were women? How many trained eight hours a day and lifted weights like I do?"

She was startled by the sharp tone of her own voice, as if someone else were speaking in her place.

"I'm not some scared little girl. I fight way better than you."

He laughed, pretending not to have seen what had just happened—what had just happened to him—but the laugh died quickly when she closed the distance in the blink of an eye.

Her *yoko-geri kekomi* struck his ribs like a bullet. He gasped, trying to mask the pain. Without pause, she spun into a *ushiro-mawashi geri* that exploded against his chin. He fell to his knees, blood dripping from between his teeth.

"I squatted two hundred kilos yesterday. You really think your ribs can take a hit from me?"

Those words, which now sounded ridiculous to her, she had once seen on a site dedicated to the fetish of mixed-gender combat.

The spectacle continued, always at the dizzying pace of her fury. He stood up and tried to grab her. She blocked with a *gedan-barai* and crushed his nose with a *uraken-uchi*. The bodyguard's blood sprayed.

"You train to intimidate," she said, watching him stumble. "I train to avenge."

He threw a desperate punch. She dodged with ease and struck a *mawashi-zuki* to his liver. He folded, his face contorted in agony.

"I train with men bigger than you," she whispered, grabbing his head. "And they all fall the same."

Once again, the karateka felt like laughing at that line straight out of a pulp fiction novel.

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But the *hiza-geri* that followed was no joke—it shattered the man's nose. He fell flat on his back, gasping, eyes unfocused. Gripped by panic, the bodyguard tried to crawl away to some place he couldn't even name, but she grabbed him by the hair and dragged him back.

"I lift until I puke. I do a thousand push-ups a day. I break boards and bricks—all so idiots like you learn their lesson!"

He tried to speak, but only a moan came out.

"You're my message to your boss!"

The karateka had fully immersed herself in the character she was embodying, making the scene even more dramatic, now sending a fresh threat to the rapist lawyer who had cowardly fled. And yet, it was as if the character were taking on a life of its own, beyond her control. At the same time, she reveled in the fantasy. Blending real experiences with completely invented scenarios, the young woman began to feel aroused by what she was saying. Her disheveled ponytail swayed as she leaned forward, dark curly hair sticking to her sweaty, blood-splattered face.

"Wanna know how I break men like you, you piece of shit? I'll tell you everything. Every detail. Every bone I've snapped, every muscle I've torn, every drop of blood I've made monsters like you spill!"

The man's eyes widened, confused by a scene that made less and less sense by the second. *"What am I doing here?"* he wondered. She got even closer. She was truly overtaken by fury—breathing heavily, teeth clenched, eyes narrowed.

She stomped hard on the bodyguard's chest. The violence clashed with the near-whisper in which she spoke.

"I'll tell you everything... From the first judo black belt I crushed to the bodybuilder I hoisted like a sack of potatoes at the gym. And you're going to hear every detail, because when I'm done, you'll know exactly who I am..."

The bodyguard tried to retreat, now sure he was facing a madwoman.

"The first one was a monster—six foot five, a hundred kilos of muscle. Black belt since he was thirteen, national champion... Thought I was just some spoiled little girl playing martial arts."

She mimicked the moves she described.

"In the first minute he hit me with a perfect *uchi-mata*. Threw me like I was a rag doll. But the asshole didn't know I've been training *ukemi* since I was twelve... Five hundred falls a day, until I puked. I rolled, got up faster than he could blink, and—*mawashi-geri* to his ribs!"

She smiled at the bodyguard, who remained on the floor, elbows down, upper body lifted like a cornered spectator to the monologue that now seemed the prelude to another brutal round.

"Second round: he tried to grab me again. This time, I let him. *Harai-goshi*? Sure, beautiful and clean... Except mid-air, I twisted like a cat, grabbed his head and—*snap*! Perfect *juji-gatame* with full torque. His elbow popped. I cranked it until the joint was completely out of place. Three centimeters, to be exact... Did he scream? Cry? I don't give a damn! I hit him with a *uraken-uchi* to the back of the neck and stomped on his spine while whispering: *'This is for every woman you called weak... and every one you helped violate with your silence.'*"

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[MuscleWomanBR]

She looked like a colossus, her arms displaying their musculature with every new hint of a strike.

"The second idiot I beat down? A gorgeous son of a bitch—hot as hell, black belt like me, with that smile of someone who's never taken a real punch in his life. First fight ended with him in the hospital for a month."

She crouched, staring straight at the bodyguard, who shrank back in fear.

"But the bastard came back for a rematch eight months later. This time, he came prepared. First round, he landed a *mawashi-geri jodan* to my temple that had me seeing stars. Second round, he hit me with an *ura-zuki* to the stomach that made me spit blood and double over in pain. And the third round? Hah..."

A wicked smile spread across her face. There was a sadistic thrill in her voice.

"I went to the ground on purpose. *Newaza.* He tried a *sankaku-jime*, but I slipped out like water, flipped on top with a move I didn't even know I could pull off and—*crack!* *Ude-garami!* His shoulder popped out of place. When he tapped the mat, I jumped on him: *hiza-geri* to the chin, *ushiro-geri* to the liver, and I finished with a *yoko-geri kekomi* that fractured his jaw."

She spat on the floor with contempt. The man teared up, imagining she would do the same to him.

"In the end, he was crying like a baby. Just like you are now. I leaned in and whispered in his ear: 'Now go tell everyone you got your ass kicked by a woman... Twice... And that you're not even worth the effort of my warm-up routine.'"

The karateka had finally, and with immense pleasure, discovered the character she would play—the destroyer, the one who would spread her reputation like wildfire. And to heighten the impact of her tale, she made up, with deliberate rawness, a fight set in the gym's weight room.

"Now comes my favorite story: I beat up a bodybuilder."

The bodyguard had stopped paying attention to her words long ago. He was only thinking about how to get out of there alive—and in one piece. But the karateka was clearly turned on by the persona she'd created.

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[MuscleWomanBR]

She stepped on the bodyguard's chest, her eyes gleaming. The young woman leaned in, as if sharing a dirty secret.

"You know what the problem is with guys like you? Like that asshole I humiliated at the gym? You all think muscles give you a free pass to be pricks. That a chiseled six-pack and some steroid-swollen arms give you the right to treat everyone else like trash. But let me tell you something..."

She took her foot off the man's chest and yanked his hair, forcing him to look into her eyes.

"The guy had the ridiculous nickname 'Bull.' Must've weighed over two hundred pounds of muscle soaked in oil, an ego the size of a truck, and the brain of an amoeba. Spent his whole day flexing in front of the mirror, grunting like a pig, thinking every woman at the gym was there to stroke his ego."

She mimicked the bodybuilder, snorting and making a dumb face.

"And you know what he used to do? He'd let the barbell 'accidentally' drop near me to scare me. He'd 'coincidentally' take the bench I was waiting for. And he'd bump into me in the hallway like I was invisible. Until one day, the idiot decided he was going to 'put me in my place.'"

She raised her arms, making her biceps bulge.

"And guess what? He learned his lesson. The hard way..."

A wave of excitement ran through her body, giving her chills.

"I was benching, right in the middle of my set. And there he comes again, 'forgetting' the bar right next to me."

The karateka demonstrated the moves with a wicked grin, the hard, defined muscles of her forearms flexing.

"This time, I stood up, grabbed the bar—twenty kilos—with one hand and racked it. He turned purple with rage. Then he said, 'Wanna play strong girl, babe?'"

She laughed, half from pleasure, half from the ridiculousness of the story.

"I just looked at him and said, 'Bull, you're pathetic. Your muscles come from a pharmacy. You're nothing but a sad clown parading around that pumped-up meat to impress girls who like beef. Walk away before I make you cry.'"

The black belt took a judo stance, feet firmly planted.

"He charged at me, of course. Thought a bear hug would crush me. Poor guy..."

She imitated the opponent's gesture.

"I grabbed him by that ridiculous tank top... Even his clothes were a cliché! And bam! *Harai-goshi.* Threw him to the floor like a bag of cement. He got up, rubbing his neck, muttering that he slipped and calling me a bitch."

She laughed out loud.

"So I asked, 'Slipped? Alright, Bull. Let's see if you slip again.' This time I used *ouchi-gari.* Swept his legs and... *crash!* There he was, back on the floor. Then he screamed, all red: 'Stop with that judo crap and come fight for real!'"

The karateka—also a judoka—was no longer really there, her eyes glowing as if she were reliving the imagined scene.

"Real fighting? You can't even handle a throw... You want me to use my fists? Fine. He came at me with clenched fists... I ducked, slipped under his arms and—*ura-nage* so perfect I launched him straight into the weight rack. Plates fell, the rack tipped over, and he was just lying there, motionless."

She demonstrated the move, the muscles on her back rippling, defined and solid beneath the *karategi*.

"When he woke up, I already had him in a fireman's carry, parading him around the gym while everyone filmed. He was still dizzy from the beating I gave him."

The fighter laughed again.

"I just shook my head and said: 'Bull, you were already a joke before today. Now you're a meme. Tomorrow, you come back and apologize to every woman you harassed. If you don't show up, I'll find you.' They filmed the whole thing and posted it online. The video has over two million views... Bull never came back to the gym."

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[MuscleWomanBR]

The black belt leaned over the bodyguard, her hot breath on his face, a kind of twisted pleasure in playing that role, a desire that the whole story had actually been true. She gave him a light slap across the face.

"Want to be my next viral clip, you piece of shit? Or are you finally going to be smart for once in your life and deliver my message properly?"

The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of her sweat dripping from her chin onto the man's face. Then she stepped back, wiping her hands on her gi as if she'd touched something filthy. With her hands on her hips, the woman stared at the helpless man, slumped on the floor, propped up on his elbows.

Suddenly, she flipped him onto his stomach, pressing his face against the blood-stained mat, his breath ragged and shallow. She sank her right knee into his back. Her fingers closed around the back of his neck—not violently, but with a firmness that made it clear: any resistance would be pointless.

"You want to know why you're down there and I'm up here?"

She brought her lips close to his ear, whispering seductively.

"It's not just technique... It's not just intelligence... It's because I'm stronger than you!"

She felt his neck muscles tense in vain.

"You've got muscles to show off. Mine are for war. You train to intimidate. I train to fight."

He groaned as she increased the pressure.

"You think you're strong because you can lift a bar full of plates? I'm strong because I throw you to the ground—and I'll do it again and again until I break you completely..."

The bodyguard wasn't thinking about arguing. He just wanted to survive. The woman grew more excited and grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at her.

"You're a pharmacy product. I'm the result of years of pain, discipline, and determination. Training. Endless training. Until I couldn't take it anymore..."

With one final push, she stood up, rolling her shoulders and neck in a stretching motion. The other bodyguard began to stir. Cold as ever, she knocked him out with another relentless, flawless kick, then returned to the man still lying on the ground. She tightened her black belt and adjusted her gi.

"Get up. We're fighting."

It was one of the few moments the bodyguard managed to say something.

"Look... I got the message... Please, let me go..."

"It's always the same. You never learn. You do all kinds of shit, all kinds of barbarity, and then you don't want justice... and especially not a beating. You're not afraid to hit—but you're terrified of getting hit..."

She grabbed him by the hair and forced him to stand.

"Aren't you supposed to be the tough guy?! The big man?! You're good at hitting women and protecting that fucking rapist who's your boss! And now?! There you are, scared shitless of me!"

A brief pause. She felt immense pleasure in saying that last line and savored it for two seconds. Their faces were almost touching.

"What martial art do you practice?"

He was panting and crying, finding the whole conversation stupid and pointless in the face of what he thought was about to happen.

"I asked you a question. What the fuck do you train, huh?!"

The scream was so loud and violent it pierced his ears.

"Judo... Judo... I do judo... and jiu-jitsu..."

"I've been dying to put my judo lessons to good use..."

The first throw was an *ippon seoi nage*—she spun under his body like a whirlwind, her hip perfectly placed, her arms pulling with the precision of someone who had done that move thousands of times. The bodyguard flew over her shoulder, his back slamming against the floor with a dull thud. Before he could catch his breath, she had already lifted him again, her fingers digging into his collar.

"This is pure technique," she whispered, as she set up the second throw—an *uchi mata.*

Her right thigh—hardened by countless deadlift reps—swept his legs, sending him spinning in the air before crashing on his back. He tried to roll away, but she was faster. The third throw was a *soto gari*—her left foot reaped his supporting leg while her hands pushed him backward. The impact caused a slight tremor.

"You're heavy, but clumsy," she remarked with ironically professorial tone, dragging him back by the hair.

The fourth throw was a *harai goshi*—her hip rotated like a well-oiled axis, using his weight against him. When he hit the floor for the fourth time, he was already gasping, eyes glazed with pain, mouth bloody and spewing groans, cries, and words she didn't bother to understand. The avenging force that had taken hold of her gave no mercy.

The fifth throw was a *tai otoshi*, smashing his head to the floor, his body twisting midair.

"This is what happens when you underestimate a woman," she growled, her muscles burning pleasantly from the exertion.

The sixth was a *koshi guruma*—the fighter lifted him entirely off the ground, the muscles of her back outlined beneath the sweat-soaked gi, before slamming him into the mat.

The seventh throw was a spectacular *ura nage*—she leaned backward, using all his weight as counterbalance before hurling him.

The eighth, a *yoko guruma*, sent him rolling until he crashed against the wall.

"Nine," she counted, executing a *tomoe nage* that spun him through the air before slamming him to the ground.

By the tenth throw, he no longer resisted—he only groaned. She delivered the final *uki goshi* with surgical precision, her hip crashing against his like a hammer.

"Do you understand now?"

She knelt beside him, her voice back to a whisper.

With one last push, she stood.

"When you get up—if you get up—tell your boss he's met his limit. You're my second little message to him. The first was that pathetic sumo fighter he sent to beat me up. Poor guy... Your boss just doesn't learn... Arrogant bastard... Tell him I'll find him—wherever he is."

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