Aura

[Dona Fell Friz]

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[Dona Fell Friz]

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[MuscleWomanBR]

It's always the same ritual. He arrives first – Marco, 150 kilos of pure muscle, shoulders that fill doorways, an Olympic weightlifting champion whose face has graced the covers of sports magazines. Today, he's just in sweatpants and a tight t-shirt that molds to a bull-like torso.
On the table, the tube of lubricating gel, as always.
He doesn't talk much. His eyes, however, say it all – a mixture of desire, shame, and almost painful anxiety. I let my dress fall to the floor. He holds his breath. My body, a sculpture of defined muscles and artificial curves, is the antithesis of his. And that's exactly what he desires.
"Turn over," I order, my voice a soft command.
He obeys, lying face down on the king-size bed. His back muscles, wide and carved, form a landscape of unquestionable power. I pick up the gel, the plastic tube cold in my hand. The snap of the cap opening is exciting.
I apply the cold gel to my already hard cock, then to the crack of his ass and his hole, in an exaggerated amount, until it drips onto the floor. He shudders. Over him, my silicone breasts – round, hard – press against his sweaty back as I position myself. He moans, a sound muffled in the pillow, when I feel the tip of my penis find his entrance.
"Say it," I whisper in his ear, my lips brushing his earlobe. "Say what you want."
"Please..." his voice is hoarse, broken. "Fuck me... please, fuck me, Aura."
They are the words he loves to say most. The total surrender of the invincible athlete.
"How?" I insist, starting to move, a slow, deep motion that makes his whole body tremble, my cock passing the entrance...
"Fuck me... your... your whore... your cocked... your muscular whore... so hot... don't stop... please, don't stop..."
It's the desperate moan of a man who spends his days being adored by crowds and who, here, longs to be possessed, dominated, reduced to a body that begs for pleasure. He surrenders completely, and every one of my thrusts is an affirmation of my power over that monument of male strength.
Then I thrust it all in. Until I feel my balls slapping against his ass. He moans. He howls, even. Sounds like a bitch in heat. Suddenly, I stop moving. He loves it. And moans more. He knows the script perfectly. I pull my cock out abruptly, with a wet pop that excites us both: plop! We are already panting and covered in sweat.
Then he gets up. Goes to his bag and takes out a white, cotton brief, low-rise and very tight. He puts it on. The white fabric contrasts brutally with his flushed skin and his muscles. He stands before the mirror, and his gaze is fixed, hypnotized by his own image – the titan in briefs, marked and possessed.
"Come here," he asks, his voice still trembling.
I approach from behind. My right hand slides over his waist and slips past the waistband of his briefs, heading towards his beautiful ass. I slide it between his enormous, colossal Olympic lifter thighs. I find his testicles, heavy and sensitive. I start to squeeze, slowly, with a growing pressure that knows those balls well. He arches his back, a long, continuous moan escaping his lips, his eyes closed in pleasure and pain in the reflection. His two hands are on his thighs.
And then, I lean in and whisper in his ear:
"Look at you... the champion... the strongest man... moaning with his balls in the hand of a tranny... you like it, don't you? To know that all this strength... all this fame... is worth nothing here... that you're just my luxury whore... my motel bitch..."
He doesn't answer with words. His body answers for him, trembling against mine, while now his hands grip my arms, his fingers pressing into my biceps. And in the mirror, I see his face – a mask of ecstasy and humiliation. He pays a fortune for this. For these words. For this hand that squeezes what is most vulnerable in him. And I... I provide the service. Leticia is right. Power isn't just about lifting weights. It's also about knowing exactly where and how to squeeze...
Now the scene in the hotel room is more charged, the air heavy with the smell of sweat and intimate lubricant. Marco has his back to me, his hands firm on the back of the armchair, his monumental body bent in total surrender. Legs spread, feet planted firmly on the ground, the briefs stretched between his two ankles. My image envelops his in the mirror.
"Today I don't want you to box with me," he moans, between short gasps, while my fingers continue their work of pleasurable torture on his balls. "I want you to fuck my ass. Several times. Several."
His voice is a hoarse thread of supplication. He pushes his hips back, offering himself.
"Until I can't take it anymore. Until you come... and I feel your hot cum dripping between my legs. Then..."
He raises his eyes in the mirror, his face flushed with excitement stares at me through the reflection.
"...you're going to fuck me standing up. With me bent over this armchair. I want to see... I want to see all your muscles tensed. Your arms... your biceps... pumping while you shove your huge cock into me."
A wave of power runs up my spine. I get closer, my body fitting perfectly against his, my skin against his broad, sweaty back. My hands grip his hips, and I bring his ass onto my very excited cock. He screams, a high-pitched sound of fused pain and pleasure as, once again, I penetrate him.
And then the ritual begins.
Each of my thrusts is a testament to my strength. My biceps bulge, round and hard, my shoulders burn, my abdomen contracts. In the mirror, our bodies dance – his, a monument of athletic power, subjugated; mine, a work of sculpted strength, in command.
And he moans. Like a bitch. Like he promised.
"Yes... like that... you strong bitch, you muscular tranny... fuck me... destroy me..."
He reaches a hand down, starting to jerk off frantically, his thick fingers moving in sync with my rhythm.
"You are... the only one... the only one who makes me feel like this... a nothing... a piece of meat for your dick... come in me, please, fill me, you beautiful bitch... fill me with your cum... spurt inside me..."
His words are fuel. My hands close on his shoulders, my hips accelerate, each movement a wet, primal thud. I see my own eyes in the mirror – wild, dominant, owners of that moment, of that man. My long, straightened hair whipping against the nape of his neck.
"I'm gonna come, you fucker," I whisper in his ear, my voice in a masculine tone. "I'm gonna flood that little whore ass of yours... Here you're not an Olympic athlete... you're a whore..."
It's the cue he was waiting for. His moans turn into a continuous howl, a sound of pure, absolute submission. "Yes! Please! Mark me, make me your toilet!"
And I do. With one last deep push, my whole body tenses and I release everything inside him, a hot jet that seems to have no end, deep in his rectum. He screams, his own orgasm hitting him like a shock, his body trembling violently against mine, his cum shooting out in a jet, staining the back of the armchair and soaking the floor.
We stay like that for a long moment, panting, stuck together, sweat running down our backs. My cock still hard inside his rectum. In the mirror, the image is one of complete conquest. He collapses over the armchair, and I step back, watching, with a deep satisfaction, my cum running down his trembling thighs.
He looks at the reflection, then at his own legs, where threads of semen run down like little veins, and a last moan, of exultant gratitude, escapes his lips.
He paid well for this. And I, once again, delivered.
The air in the room is now thick, almost unbearable, laden with the sweet and sour odor of sex and sweat. Marco finally straightens up, freeing himself from the back of the armchair, his body already marked by scratches and bites. His eyes, in the mirror, shine with a sensual fire that seems never to extinguish.
"More," he snarls, the word coming out as a threat and a plea. "This time, be used until you beg for mercy, you whore. I'm gonna ride that dick of yours until you forget you're a woman."
Then he performs for me with a performative fury, every muscle tensed as if in a competition.
"See this strength?" he asks, punching his own chest with a dull thud. "It's the same that crushes world records. Today, it's yours to dominate. But you'll have to earn it. Prove to me you can take it, you shitty tranny. Prove to me your dick can fuck me one more time."
My erection returns with a delicious pain. Watching this titan, this god of sport, reduce himself to vulgar insults excites me. Seeing him perform like this, like in a ridiculous mating dance, simply drives me crazy.
"You are stronger, Marco," I say, my hands sliding over my own muscles, smaller, but as defined as his. "Your body is a fortress. But I break down doors. I am the only one who busts down the door of your ass. And you love it, you muscular whore!"
He grabs the lubricant violently, crushing the plastic tube until the gel gushes out.
"In the gym," he says, spreading the cold liquid in his anus and rectum with brutal movements, "I lift 200 kilos like they're feathers. Here, you're lifting 150 kilos of pure man. Let's see who tires first, you bitch. I want to see you moan begging to stop while I hold back my come. My ass is gonna chafe your dick!"
And then the most sublime landscape my eyes have ever seen unfolds.
Marco turns around, his broad back forming a triumphant V that descends to a powerful waist, exploding into a round, hard ass like granite. I turn the armchair towards the mirror and sit down, my thighs open like a throne ready to receive that mountain of pulsating muscle. He places both feet between my waist and slowly squats down, his hand guiding my cock, once again, towards his hole.
When he sits on my dick, it's with an impact that wrenches a gut-wrenching, synchronized moan from us. And in the mirror, the sight is of a beauty that launches towards ecstasy: that human colossus who embodies the ideal of male strength, bouncing on my dick like an animal in heat, his powerful hips pumping, his lats dancing a choreography of sweat and submission.
"NOW, YOU WHORE!" he screams, his enormous hands gripping my shoulders with the strength he uses to lift Olympic bars. "SHOW ME THAT THIS LITTLE TRANNIE BODY CAN TAKE THE STRAIN OF A REAL MAN!"
"A REAL MAN?" I shout, my beautiful, well-painted nails digging into his waist. "A REAL MAN DOESN'T BEG TO BE FUCKED LIKE A WHORE! JUST LOOK AT US IN THE MIRROR — WHO'S IN CONTROL? WHO'S BEGGING FOR MORE? YOUR STRENGTH IS A FRAUD, YOU MEATHEAD MACHO! IT'S ALL AN ACT TO COVER THE HOLE YOU HAVE IN YOUR ASS!"
He speeds up the pace, his hips slamming against mine with a force that makes the armchair creak.
"YOU'RE WEAK!" he bellows, sweat pouring from his face. "A FRUSTRATED LITTLE WOMAN WHO PLAYS AT BEING A MAN! I'M GONNA DRAIN THAT DICK OF YOURS UNTIL IT GOES SOFT!"
"TRY IT, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!" I yell, pumping with a fury that comes from my bones. "COME, YOU ASSHOLE! COME AND SCREAM FOR EVERYONE TO HEAR THAT THE CHAMPION IS JUST ANOTHER SLUT WHO LOVES TO GET FUCKED IN THE ASS BY A TRANNIE!"
"THEN DESTROY ME ONCE AND FOR ALL!", his voice breaking in a mix of agony and ecstasy. "WRECK MY ASS! I WANT TO FEEL YOUR CUM! I WANT TO WALK WITH A LIMP TOMORROW AND REMEMBER I WAS FUCKED BY A TRANNIE UNTIL I COULDN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!"
"YES! THAT'S IT, YOU SON OF A BITCH!", my hips colliding with his in a frantic rhythm. "LOOK IN THE MIRROR, DAMMIT! YOU ARE NOTHING! JUST ANOTHER MALE GETTING HIS ASS TORN UP BY MY DICK!"
Sweat streams down, our bodies are one in a single ecstasy.
"I... CAN'T... TAKE IT ANYMORE..." he moans, his body beginning to falter, his muscles trembling from exhaustion, his hand jerking off frantically.
"HANG ON, YOU CHICKEN! DIDN'T YOU SAY I WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO TAKE YOU?". I accelerate even more, each thrust an affirmation of my dominance. "YOU ASKED TO BE VIOLATED, NOW TAKE IT! YOU ARE MINE! WHOLLY! UNTIL THE LAST DROP OF YOUR CUM!"
"CRUSH ME!" he roars, completely lost in the abyss of pleasure. "MAKE ME FORGET WHO I AM! MAKE ME FEEL THE CUM RUNNING DOWN MY LEG!"
When the orgasm finally overtakes us, it's a cataclysmic explosion. He screams — a guttural, primitive sound of a man being torn apart and remade at the same time. His body shakes convulsively, his fingers digging into my arms.
"I CAME! I CAME WHILE FEELING YOUR DICK GRINDING ME UP INSIDE!" he yells, his legs giving way completely.
"TAKE IT! TAKE MY CUM, YOU ARROGANT FUCK!" I shout, emptying every drop of myself inside him, in another hot and triumphant flood. "FILL YOUR ASS WITH IT! THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE WORTH!"
He collapses on the floor, a panting heap of muscle and sweat.
"Fuck...", he whispers, his breathing ragged, "it was like... like winning a gold medal... and being humiliated in public at the same time... the best feeling of my life..."
And I, exhausted and triumphant, whisper in his ear: "That's the only competition that matters, champion."
Long pause. Maybe an hour. Breathing normalized, sweat and semen beginning to dry on our bodies. Marco breaks the heavy silence, his voice a thread of vulnerability.
"I don't know when I'll be able to see you again, Aura," he says, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if confessing a mortal sin.
He rolls onto his stomach on the bed, his face buried in the pillow.
"Fuck me again," he begs, his voice muffled by the pillowcase. "Now. Here. And talk in my ear... you know... those things..."
I let out a low laugh, almost maternal. "I've already come twice, Marco," I reply, my voice laden with a maternal sweetness. "It's true I went days without ejaculating. Didn't even jerk off, saved myself for you. But I don't know if I can manage a third."
Marco doesn't argue. He doesn't insist with words. Instead, he gets up with a sudden determination. His monumental body moves to the backpack. He takes out another pair of briefs. This time they are black, very tight and low-rise like the other, made of thinner fabric. He knows they're my favorite.
He puts them on with a slow, almost ritualistic ceremony. The black fabric molds perfectly to his powerful hips, to the curve of his still perky and red ass from our lovemaking. And then, I see it: a white, sticky thread of my own cum leaking through the back of the briefs, at the level of his ass, lightly staining the black fabric.
He isn't ashamed. On the contrary. He performs for me. He starts to parade, slowly, his bare feet on the hotel's thick carpet make no sound. And then, he stops. Facing me, Marco begins, once again, the show that only I get to witness: displaying his weightlifter muscles.
He flexes his arms, and his enormous biceps bulge. He contracts his pectorals, an impenetrable block. He turns to show his back, that dramatic V that descends to the waist tightly embraced by the briefs. And in every movement, every contraction, I see the stain on the rear of the black briefs, the seal of my dominion over that divine body.
And I can't contain myself. There was no way.
A familiar, uncontrollable heat sprouted at the base of my spine. My cock, which I swore was spent, responded with a stubborn, painful, and delicious throbbing. The fatigue evaporated, replaced by a wave of pure, possessive lust.
"You... you son of a bitch," I whispered, my voice thick with renewed desire. "You know exactly what you're doing to me, don't you?"
He smiles, a wicked angel's smile, and gives another turn, showing himself off like the most desirable merchandise in the world.
I get up from the bed, my own muscles, smaller but defined, answering the call. I walked over to him. My hand touched the damp stain on the briefs, spreading my own cum over the fabric, over the skin of his buttocks.
"Face down," I order, my previous sweetness completely replaced by a voracious rawness. "Now. And you're going to hear every word you love. You're going to remember every one until the next time you get on all fours for me."
And as he lay down, obedient and trembling with anticipation, I knew the night was far from over. The third time would be the wildest of all. Because he had challenged me. And I never refuse a challenge.
The morning light flooded the hotel room, illuminating the dust dancing in the air and the bodies still marked by the night of sex. Marco got up from the bed with a brusque movement, his sore muscles protesting. He stood before me, fists clenched, his gaze challenging. "To finish this, fight me, Aura," he said, his voice hoarse but decided. "It wasn't planned, but now I want to fight. I'll pay you double."
A calm smile appeared on my lips as I stood up, stretching my arms with the familiarity of someone who knows every inch of their own body. "Double? For your ego, I'd charge triple. But let's do it for free. To teach you the last lesson: money can't buy technique." I assumed a fighting stance, feet rooted in the carpet, my whole body transformed into a conscious weapon.
He came at me like an enraged bull, an awkward punch thrown from the shoulder with brute force, but without direction. I dodged with a minimal movement, his fist passing inches from my face. "See, you shit? You have nothing to give me. Here, I'm the one who knows how to fight."
Another punch came, faster this time, but I blocked it with my forearm, the impact echoing in my bones. "Your strength is dumb. Useless." Before he could react, I landed a precise jab to his solar plexus. He bent forward, the air escaping his lungs in a hoarse "oof".
Frustrated, he tried to grab me, seeking to use his superior weight. But I wasn't an Olympic bar - I was a fighter. I spun in a fluid motion, applying an arm lock that forced him to his knees. He groaned, not from pain, but from the humiliation of seeing his monumental body yield to a technique he couldn't comprehend.
As I forced him to submit, I thought of the paradoxical beauty of being who I was - a muscular transvestite, a living contradiction that dismantled all the certainties of men like Marco. "I love hitting men like you...", I whisper in his ear.
I felt his resistance give way, the imposing body finally surrendering. I released him, and he remained on his knees, panting, head bowed. Defeated. "Get up," I said, my voice calm but incisive. "And keep your money. Today you paid me with something else." He looked up, confused. "With what?" "With the confirmation that the whore here is you," I replied, looking at the broken warrior before me as I ran my fingers over my own defined muscles.
I left him there, kneeling. I got dressed and left.

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[MuscleWomanBR]

This is my story as Aura. My clients are like that, not very creative. Not even Leticia strays far from the average among my clientele. She fascinates me, of course. Turns me on a lot. I'd have sex with her for free if she weren't an arrogant white billionaire, like every white billionaire. And she's very good in bed... My! How good she is in bed! But she's just a pervert (save the moralizing, please...) who pays well. Very well. And, yes, I love watching those guys get beaten up by her. That really turns me on.

The trans bodybuilder, whose name I don't even like to remember, isn't better because he's trans. He's a disgusting guy. A real son of a bitch. I won't see him again, no matter how well he pays. I like Marco. He's honest, behind closed doors. And I love seeing that colossus moan with my dick shoved up his ass, begging for more, and more, and more. I have to be very well prepared to handle the 'order'... He drains a lot of my energy. But every penny he pays me is worth it.

Ah! There's the cowboy, the rodeo champion. Handsome, hot! I love fucking macho men like that, but there's nothing special about him. Same with the trendy, modern businessman. Deep down, they're all quite ordinary people.

I haven't told you everything, though. I am also Valkyrie. Untamable. Cruel. Relentless. I do weight training and box more for her. That's when all my physical strength and my boxer's technique surge forth, in all their exuberance. She rarely appears. The clients who pay me for that persona want to submit to a degree of humiliation and physical and psychological suffering that very few can afford. Valkyrie is an expensive woman. And far more demanding than Aura. Far more...


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[MuscleWomanBR]

BONUS

He is there, in the center of the spacious white-walled room, like a sculpture – golden amber skin, dark curly hair at the nape of his neck, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Giancarlo. The incarnation of beauty.

He was on all fours. Knees on the Persian rug, hands on the floor, head bowed. But this time, his voice came out hoarse, broken by need:

"Fuck, Aura... when you walked in wearing those white panties... you can see everything... the outline of that huge cock of yours showing through the fabric... how does a woman have a body like this?"

I closed the door softly. My heels made no sound on the thick carpet.

"Well then, here we go..." My voice echoed softly as I walked around him. "We have a long story to tell, don't we, my Greek god?"

"Your back..." he continued, panting. "Those arms... when you pinned me down at the hotel that time... fuck... and whispered in my ear that you train boxing... that you could break me... I went crazy... got hard instantly."

I stopped behind him. My hand touched the base of his spine. He arched his back instantly.

"I remember the first time," I began, my fingers slowly ascending his back. "You, on the runway, unreachable."

"And you in that tight dress," he interrupted, voice trembling. "You could see every muscle in your thigh... those legs that could strangle me..."

I opened the bottle of intimate lubricant with a dramatic, purposefully scandalous gesture. I knew that sound excited him. And me too.

"And since then," I said, spreading the cool liquid on my fingers, "how many encounters?"

"Never enough!" he shouted, almost in panic. "Your hard ass... those fighter's hips... when you fuck me, it feels like I'm going to split in half... that huge fucking cock of yours wrecking me from the inside..."

He moaned when my fingers touched his anal ring. An animal, primal grunt. Now came the moment of the "confession."

"Aren't you the terror of women? The insatiable one? The terribly gorgeous man? The man any woman would do anything to have in bed?" I whispered in his ear as I positioned myself. "You date beautiful models..."

"But none of them have your body!" he screamed, his fingers digging into the carpet. "None have this strength... this dick that makes me feel like a whore... Fuck, Aura, fuck me! Fuck me hard, come on!"

I felt a spasm in my cock, which began to drip when I heard those words moaned with such pleasure by one of the country's most expensive and celebrated models. That was enough to make me cum right there, before even penetrating him...

My arousal was through the roof! I looked at that beautiful ass, and gripped my wonderful cock, big and thick, marked by veins that were the joy of my clients. Then I penetrated him with a fluid motion, facilitated by the generous layers of gel coating his anus. His body accepted mine with a scream that echoed off the walls of the elegant room, which hosted so many "cool" people, incapable of imagining that space could be the setting for what was happening at that moment.

"That's it!" he roared, eyes rolling back. "I want this! To feel this whole muscle pumping on top of me... Fuck, wreck me!"

His moans were now a sensual litany:

"That narrow waist of yours... those arms... strong... holding me... and this dick... this thick dick opening me all up... don't stop, don't stop, fuck!!!"

I accelerated the pace, my hands marking the skin of his waist.

"I..." I gasped, feeling my muscles burn, "I love being strong for this."

"ME TOO!" he screamed, jerking himself off, on the verge of ecstasy. "I LOVE YOUR BODY! I LOVE... BEING FUCKED BY A WOMAN... WHO COULD... KNOCK ME OUT! CUM IN ME, BABE! FILL ME WITH YOUR CUM!!!"

He collapsed as we reached climax, a convulsive cry of pleasure, of joy, his cock spurting like a hose, flooding the expensive rug. And I held him, my strong arms wrapping around his perfect torso, knowing that in a few minutes he would be Giancarlo again – the unattainable god. But for now, he was just mine, marked by the strength of my body. I pulled out my still-hard cock. A trickle of my semen ran from his anus. The contraction of his sphincter was the final period in that sexual liturgy.

The silence that followed was as profound as the climax that had ravaged us. Only Giancarlo's panting breath, gradually calming, filled the space between us. My arms, still tense and wrapped around his torso, felt the rapid beats of his heart against my forearms. His skin, so pale and full of definition, warm and damp with sweat, stuck to mine.

I did not let him go.

Minutes dragged by. The late afternoon light, golden and dusty, streamed through the panoramic window, illuminating the small puddles of spilled semen on the Persian rug. A crime of luxury. A vestige of our ritual.

It was he who broke the spell, with a voice that was a thread, a hoarse and unraveled whisper.

"I can never look you in the eyes afterward."

My hand, which was tracing slow circles on his sweaty back, stopped.

"Why?" My voice was equally low, but steady. A rock after the storm.

"Because that's when I see that you know." He didn't dare look at me. "You see the scared boy hiding behind the Greek god. The boy who trembles at a touch, who gets lost at a command. And I... I'm afraid that one day you'll get tired of playing at taming a titan."

It was the most vulnerable confession he had ever made to me. More than any moan, any shouted obscenity. That was his core, exposed and pulsating.

I made him turn around. He resisted, a last vestige of pride, but my strength was implacable, even spent. Finally, his beautiful honey-colored eyes met mine. There was shame there. And an ancestral fear.

"Gian," I said his name, a single syllable, soft. "You don't understand, do you?"

My fingers held his chin, forcing him to maintain eye contact.

"I don't 'play' at taming you. I tame you." My thumb passed over his trembling lower lip. "When I pin you down, it's to show you your strength is nothing against mine. I dismantle the myth every time I mount you. Because that's what you are, that's what you want: to be a whore. You pose as a tough guy. Here you are my bitch, my bitch with that beautiful, muscular ass I love to fuck. Don't give me this talk of 'fragility' and 'shame' because I know very well what you're hiding."

He held his breath. Visibly, he felt threatened. And at the same time, he got off on that fear and the certainty that I could subjugate him outside of that room, revealing his fetish for being fucked by a muscular trans woman.

"Is that what you see?" his voice was a breath.

"That's what I adore," I corrected, leaning forward until our foreheads touched. His sweat and mine mingled. "I adore fucking my cock into the ass of the country's most expensive model. I adore seeing you on the runway knowing that soon after you'll give me your ass. I still want to see you limping on the runway after being fucked all night long..."

His eyes shone. That scene seemed to have fascinated my most beautiful client.

Suddenly, we embraced, face to face. We remained like that, for a stretch of time that couldn't be measured in minutes.

When I stood up, my boxer's legs, hard as steel, ached, a pleasant reminder of the effort. I extended my hand to him. He took it, his long, perfect fingers intertwining with mine.

"Let's take a shower," I said. "You have that Vogue gala later."

He stood up, and as if by magic, the posture of Giancarlo, the god, began to settle back onto his shoulders. His muscles recomposed themselves, the expression of vulnerability was swept away by a classical serenity. But his eyes, when they rested on me, still held a glint of surrender, a secret only I could read.

"Yes," he said, his voice already firmer, recovering the alpha male facade he sold on runways and magazine covers, as we walked toward the shower. "And you, Aura? What will you do tonight?"

"What does a 'strong slut' do on a Saturday night, darling? The same as always. I'm going to the gym. To train. To get even harder. Another guy crazy for my muscles wants to give me his ass throughout the night..."

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[MuscleWomanBR]

I lifted my eyes and, through the curtain of blood that covered my vision, I noticed that Leticia was still moving. I stood up with great difficulty, leaning on what was left of the furniture. I felt a terrible thirst. And pains that were increasing as I became aware of the damage: it seemed like one of my legs was broken. And my right arm was... bent, maybe? I noticed that I couldn't move my hand and I panicked more at the idea of having lost movement than at the pain of a possible fracture.

I walked eagerly to the kitchen, leaving drops of blood that I didn't even know where they were falling from. I just wanted to drink water! Desperately. Gradually, flashes of what had happened began to shine in my memory. Spaced-out scenes, disconnected, illogical, more or less like in a dream. That helped distract me from the pain, which was no less than the thirst.

I was almost drowning myself, with my mouth on the kitchen faucet, soaking my breasts in a torrent of water, when my memory began to piece together the sequence of events that had led me to that situation.

I remember a single word on my cell phone screen, which Leticia sent me on WhatsApp: "Valkyrie." That name was enough. My wildest version. I replied: "When?" The millionaire gave me fifteen days, enough time for the training to take effect and prepare me for what was to come.

The clients who want me as Valkyrie desire violence. Extreme. Total. Unlimited. Unrestrained. Relentless. Unstoppable. There is no "safe word." And they pay a lot for her. Much more than I charge as Aura. Scenes from the few clients who surrendered to this experience flash through my memory. One of them ended up in the hospital.

Richard. A middle-aged businessman, lonely, reclusive, a regular at sadomasochism clubs, but lacking more, shall we say, radical experiences. He met me as Aura, who didn't enchant him, but when we were saying goodbye without having sex (but properly paid, of course), I mentioned Valkyrie. His dull eyes lit up. And we spent another hour (properly paid, of course) talking about her and scheduling the visit of my other persona, properly prepared.

What he would pay me would be enough for me to live (well) for a year without doing any gigs. An offer I couldn't refuse. It seems easy. But it's not.

The physical preparation is exhausting. Increased weights to lift or pull, long runs on the treadmill, never-ending stretching exercises that feel more like torture, a strict diet to increase muscle mass. And the main thing: boxing training as if I were competing for the heavyweight belt... In a way, it really is an epic fight. Only without an audience.

The clients who hire me as Valkyrie want to be broken. Literally.

I remember well the state I left the middle-aged millionaire in. I can afford to chose them. Almost always. And this one replaced another, who had hired me, but I ended up canceling: he was a disgusting old man, fat, misshapen. I'm a whore, not a murderer. The middle-aged millionaire was a handsome man. Very handsome, actually. I ruined him in a way that, I believe, no plastic surgery will fix. Well... Isn't that what he wanted? More than that, isn't that what he bought?

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[MuscleWomanBR]

Richard received me wearing black briefs in one of the rooms of his fake-classical-style mansion. He must have been an arriviste, that typical poor boy who got (very) rich over his lifetime and needed these imitations of old eclectic palaces to flaunt a nobility he didn't inherit, but bought – or stole? It hardly matters, as long as he pays me. These people have a serious problem with self-affirmation... That certainly explains the careful, imposing appearance, athletic, fighting madly against aging, delayed thanks to massive doses of vitamin supplements, prescriptions from specialists paid their weight in gold, and obsessive care for his skin, hair, and muscles.

His half-naked body turned me on, of course. I'm a whore, not a hypocrite. Athletic men like that make my dick hard. That's what I like. That's why I soon felt the stirrings of an erection as I admired his musculature, so well-defined for a man of perhaps fifty, and his still-perky, firm ass, kept that way thanks to endless hours of suffering at the gym under the tyrannical command of a personal trainer for whom he certainly harbors a repressed hard-on. Typical...

The salt-and-pepper hair and beard framing a virile face made him even sexier – and Valkyrie takes a particular, doubled pleasure in knowing she's going to destroy all of that with refined cruelty, in a long session of beating after plenty of fucking and coming. I repeat: I get paid a fortune to do what I do, and I love it all – mercilessly beating the client and getting paid very well for it. Sex and money. Simple as that. The two seem to go together more often than our vain philosophy might initially suppose. Yes, Shakespeare, baby. I'm a whore, not stupid.

Well, Richard was in a hurry to get to the reason I was there, in the middle of his tacky-chic room, wearing my best and most diaphanous designer dress by a famous couturier, which left my arms – hardened and defined by a month of insane daily weightlifting and boxing training – uncovered. My muscles looked like stones, and were more voluminous – but without exaggeration, as I hate looking like a bodybuilder. I hate muscle masses inflated by steroids. Those monsters, be they men or women, don't turn me on in the slightest. Marco, the Olympic champion weightlifter who's crazy about being fucked by me, isn't bloated by "chemistry," but is the result of effort without shortcuts. He has that volume, though not excessively defined, because he trains for strength obsessively. My turn-on lies there, in knowing that this male, the incarnation of the ideal of virility, built that physical strength with much sweat, much suffering – and surrenders to me like the most fragile of gazelles, like a submissive and helpless female. I'm a whore, not a butcher.

I make a point of being, let's say, "organic." Having been a man helps a lot in that regard. My physical frame – I'm six-foot-three, baby – can handle my training and my marvelous musculature that so fascinates the men who love to be taken by trans women. But I underline my womanhood with a beautiful pair of breasts that don't even look artificial and dazzling makeup, which a professional tends to with such mastery that I look like a walking masterpiece. This contrast drives my clients crazy: a woman with muscles and a cock. The perfect combination for those who don't want to admit that, deep down, they desire to be taken by an athletic man...

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[MuscleWomanBR]

I don't even know how I ended up with Richard... Am I delirious? Or am I in one of those brief moments where we don't know if we're alive or dead? I know I still feel myself drowning under a jet of water that I gulp down greedily, that my body hurts, and that I need to keep remembering so I won't suffer more or so I won't actually die, to understand why I'm here, in this kitchen, desperately drinking water, suffering terrible pains, a taste of blood in my mouth, my eyes still blurry... Are they swollen and, my God!, deformed forever?

Richard... How did it happen again? He lunged at my dress and tore it completely. Even though it was my first (and certainly only) time experiencing this, this tasty man knew how to provoke Valkyrie's wrath. Heavens! Of all dresses, that one! So expensive! A work of art! Torn apart by this nouveau-riche troglodyte who just learned to eat with a fork! He truly wanted to know the worst Valkyrie had to offer...

In a fraction of a second I already had him by the scrotum, dragging him across the room.

"Let's take a walk, kitty!", I said with cynical softness. "The fun has barely begun."

This was a recurring practice among my clients: almost all of them wanted their balls crushed. I confess I never quite understood this fetish. But since they pay for it, I do it with pleasure. But in Richard's case, this was just the prelude to something, let's say, more hardcore. He paid for Valkyrie, not for Aura. And his gaze, despite the pain, seemed to challenge me, expecting what my wilder, crueler version would be capable of.

"You insolent man!", I shouted, slapping him with my free hand while with the other I squeezed his sack harder, digging my so well-done and polished nails deep, and pulling upward that marvelous, potent, masculine, delicious toy in my hands.

The man really had formidable resistance! He withstood the pain, waiting for more. His legs spread apart instead of closing, and our walk across the huge room was absolutely ridiculous: he walked on his tiptoes, like a clumsy ballet dancer, in a useless yet instinctive attempt to lessen the pressure from my powerful and skillful hand on his scrotum. He didn't let out a single moan. Just heavy breathing, which certainly held back a terrible urge to scream in pain.

"We'll see how long you can last, baby."

Richard wasn't a man of many words. He was paying to see, not to talk. And the night was still a child...

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[MuscleWomanBR]

For a while longer, the script followed the conventional, however: putting the stallion on all fours on the expensive rug, tearing off his underwear (underneath which I discovered a sexy leather thong...), delivering a nice slap to his no less nice ass, generously lubricating his ass and my marvelous cock and driving it all the way in with a single thrust, squeezing his dick to see if it was good and hard (and it was, a sign he loved being penetrated) and preventing him from masturbating, delaying his orgasm as much as possible, etc. etc. etc. None of this seemed to move him much, despite his unrestrained moans of pleasure. It was still Aura performing. And he paid for Valkyrie.

Then she finally arrived.

The air changed. I felt a spark run down my spine, an electric current rising from my coccyx to the nape of my neck, unleashing the ferocity of my most sadistic persona. Richard's breathing, earlier panting with contained pain, now seemed like a call. A tribal drum beating in the silence of the room. He remained on all fours, perfectly still, the muscles of his back tense like a bowstring, his ass still throbbing from the brutal penetration I had imposed on him as Aura.

He was beautiful, yes. My cock remained hard as steel, admiring that mature, hot, and rich man submitted by me like a bitch, asking to be mine, to be dominated and beaten by me until orgasm...

"Enough playing around, baby," my voice came out different. Deeper, a resonance that came from my chest and not my throat. It was less a sound and more a vibration, like an engine being started. "You want to meet Valkyrie? She's here."

I let my hair down, and it cascaded over my shoulders. My movements became slower, more deliberate, like those of a big feline circling its prey. I walked in a circle around him. The tips of my nails trailed along his spine, from his buttocks to his nape, scratching lightly. He shuddered, his whole body breaking out in goosebumps, but he didn't retreat. His gaze was one of pure, burning expectation.

I grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head back until his neck was fully exposed, a tense arch of tendons and veins. He groaned, but his eyes didn't blink, fixed on mine.

"Let's see if you stay so quiet."

With my free hand, I picked up a forgotten bottle of wine from the side table between two glasses and poured a stream of the red liquid into the valley of his back. The cold alcohol made his muscles contract violently. He let out a muffled grunt.

"Spiritual cleansing, love. A nouveau riche dirty soul needs a little fire."

I smeared the neck with lubricant and crouched behind that muscular ass.

"We'll go slow because I don't want to hurt you. Not yet."

For the first time, I noticed a flash of astonishment in Richard's eyes. And then I made him face the immense crystal mirror, placed in that room exactly for that purpose – as I had deduced the moment I entered.

"Showtime," I whispered, and with one hand I spread his buttocks to insert the neck of the bottle into his ass. "Relax, baby," I said. "Let's make things easier."

He moaned with pleasure. More from what he saw than from what he felt: a marvelous, tall, strong, and muscular black trans woman behind him, shoving an expensive wine bottle up his ass. Richard spread his legs wider and raised his ass to better receive the alcoholic penis invading his rectum. The liquid began to flow out, mixed with blood, running down his scrotum and dripping onto the rug.

"Good boy," I whispered. "You love this, don't you? Butt chugging... Think I don't know the names? Except here it's straight from the bottle." But I soon pulled it out. "I don't want you drunk, handsome. Like I told you, the night is still young..."

I delivered a series of hard, fast slaps to his ass. Then my fingers found the leather thong still around his waist. I pulled it, tightening the strap against his skin, a new kind of constriction. I wrapped the leather straps around my hands, using them as reins.

"On your feet!" I ordered.

He stood up, unsteady, his face contorted in a mask of pain and pleasure. His body was sweating. I pulled him against me, his back pressed to my torso, against my breasts. My mouth found his shoulder and I bit it, a deep bite, until I tasted the salty, metallic flavor of sweat and near-blood. My hips locked against his. I felt his whole body trembling.

"Look!" I ordered, forcing his head to turn toward the mirror.

In the reflection, our gazes met. Finally, a sound escaped him, hoarse and slurred, already somewhat drunk:

"More..."

Valkyrie smiled. It was a smile that didn't reach her eyes, that was merely a retraction of lips over teeth.

I didn't respond. With a strong shove, I threw him over the leather armchair, completely dominating him with the weight of my body. The dance, finally, had its true music: the sound of ragged breathing, muffled grunts, and the crackling of a desperate desire begging me for a new and voracious penetration. My cock, always hard, was dripping. Richard was, finally, meeting Valkyrie. And she had barely begun her introduction.

I bathed my cock in generous portions of lubricant and did the same to his ass, from which a trickle of blood now flowed. The violent thrust made him scream in pain, this time. I kept my cock still inside him, throbbing, without movement, so he could feel at length the sensation for which he had paid so dearly. And then I began to move my hips, in a back-and-forth motion to which he responded with more moans and with a cock that was always hard, which I squeezed without stroking. My smile widened, a predatory slit amidst the still-intact, impeccable makeup.

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[MuscleWomanBR]

Then I slid my arm under his neck and flexed my bicep to tighten around his throat. By instinct, Richard tried to remove my arm, which heavy weight training had made deadly. I used the rear-naked choke to lift him from the armchair. His feet dangled in the air. His body stretched along mine, much taller. The millionaire fought against the suffocation.

"No mercy, Richard. That's what you asked for." I squeezed tighter. He began to thrash, desperate. "Now take it!"

Unconsciousness wasn't far off. His breathing was desperate, almost agonized. His musculature cooled, lacking the energy to save itself from the choke. Then I opened my arms and let him plummet to the floor, as he simultaneously coughed and gasped for air desperately, in a roar of an animal fighting for its life.

When I received the instructions for that session, she had told me that in a small marquetry Moroccan chest, there were "toys." I could help myself. While he was still recovering from my choke, I opened that Pandora's box and found what mattered at that moment: raw cotton hand wraps to protect my beautiful hands, my wrists, and especially my impeccable nails, which a manicurist maintains at a gold price. Just because I lift weights and box doesn't mean I'm obligated to have stevedore hands, baby. He watched, now kneeling on the carpet, his breathing still ragged, his eyes glued to my studiedly slow movements. And I returned the gaze, with a cynical smile. Under the thin, red leather thong, I saw his erection announcing he was ready for the next game.

"On your feet!" I ordered.

He stood up with some difficulty, coughing a little, a little drunk, a little dazed from the choke. The pain from the marks, the fatigue in his muscles—everything seemed small, however, in the face of the spectacle he envisioned. Valkyrie, the warrior, was ready for combat.

"Stance. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent. Hands here," I said, giving sharp taps to my chin. "You're going to try to defend. You're going to try to take it. It's part of the show you bought."

I didn't give him time to prepare. A fast, sharp jab shot out like lightning. Smack! My punch landed on the front of his shoulder, not his face—not yet. A warning. The impact was solid, surprising. Richard grunted, taking a step back, his eyes wide.

"That one was educational," I said, dancing lightly on the balls of my feet, my weight perfectly distributed, my enormous semi-erect cock swaying like a pendulum between my athletic thighs, drawing his attention. "Now the real one."

A cross from the right, crossed, came with the torque of my entire torso, my hips rotating, my back foot pivoting on the ground. My fist connected perfectly with his left pectoral muscle with a deep, dull thud. Richard exhaled the air he had so laboriously gotten back into his lungs. He bent forward, his arms instinctively protecting his torso.

"Don't turtle up!" I yelled, applying a left hook over his low guard. The hand wrap scraped his temple. He staggered, stunned.

The dance began. I circled him, the light and deadly steps from my intensive training. Jab, jab, cross. Blows to the abdomen, protected only by sweaty skin. Smack, thud, smack! My cock, now harder, translated the excitement this uneven fight provoked in me. Another male, another stallion, another prototype of masculinity getting beaten badly by the muscular, big... and beautiful trans woman boxer! Each impact was an explosion of controlled pain. He tried to grab me, desperate, but I moved away with a fluid motion and landed a grazing uppercut under his ribs.

"I paid... for Valkyrie..." he gasped, with a crooked smile of pain and ecstasy.

"And you have her!" I retorted, applying a relentless combination: a straight to the sternum, a hook to the liver. He fell to his knees, holding his side, his face contorted in a grimace.

I pulled him by the hair again, forcing him to look up. His gaze was cloudy but still challenging. Still avid.

Richard's breathing was a hoarse whistle in a broken rhythm that filled the space between us. Under the immense dangling crystal chandelier that cast patterns of light as sharp as blades, I once again circled him. My barefoot steps made no sound. The silence was part of the spectacle.

He remained on his knees. His torso was now a map of reddenings, of bruises beginning to bloom in shades of purple and blue. My eyes, very slowly, scanned every inch of the beautiful body of that mature, wealthy man who paid dearly to get beaten. From his perspective, at that moment, I must have seemed like a tower.

I took a step forward. Just one. The muscle in my thigh contracted. He followed the movement with his head, a hypnotized animal.

"Speak!"

"Valkyrie..." his voice came out trembling, but his eyes, swollen and bright, burned with total surrender. "Please... don't stop."

I lowered myself with the deliberate slowness of a feline. I was at his height, my face inches from his. I could see every dilated pore, every fine vein bursting in the whites of his eyes, the tremor in his lower lip.

"What do you want, Richard? Be specific. You paid for clarity."

He swallowed dryly. "I want... I want to feel like I'm going to break. That you can do it. And that you chose not to... yet."

"Ah," I exhaled, the warm sound hitting his face. "The razor's edge..."

I raised my right hand. The wraps were loose, soaked. I extended my hand and, with my fingertips, touched the center of his chest, right over the sternum. His skin broke out in goosebumps all over. The pressure was minimal, but he gasped as if pushed. My fingers slid upward, tracing the line of his collarbone, contouring his neck, until they rested on the side of his jaw. He trembled, a continuous, deep vibration. A clean tear cut a path through the grime and blood on his face.

My hand finally closed around his throat, in a gradual conquest, unhurried. First my thumb finding the frantic carotid pulse, then my fingers meeting at the nape of his neck, entwining in his damp hair. I felt it, the life pulsing against my palm, a terrified little bird in a cage of flesh. And slowly, with a strength that was more presence than effort, I began to lift him.

His knees detached from the carpet. His feet dragged, seeking traction. His exhausted muscles fought uselessly against the ease with which I raised him. I suspended him until his eyes were level with mine. He was hanging in the air, supported only by his neck in my hand, his fingers clutching my wrist in a gesture that was less an attempt to break free and more a desperate act of connection, of clinging to the source of his agony and ecstasy.

Time dilated. I perceived the room with a new gaze: from the kitschy golden statue of a cupid on the shelf, to the red velvet of the sofa, to the distorted reflections in the chandelier's crystals.

I let him go. Before he could regain his balance, I stepped forward and pinned him against the cold wall. The temperature shock made him let out a grunt. I pressed my body against his. He could feel every hard plane of me, the abs, the pectorals supporting the silicone of my breasts, the latent power of my hips.

"I'm going to finish you, Richard."

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[MuscleWomanBR]

All rules or etiquette of boxing ceased to apply from that moment on. My blows were meant to annihilate him. That's what I had always trained for. That's why I intensified my training over the last thirty days. The sparring sessions with my trainer were becoming unbearable. For him, of course. Because I wanted to acquire the skill of a professional. When I arrived at Richard's tacky mansion, I was in condition to step into any ring. And that's exactly how I saw that moment. I would hit that millionaire with the effectiveness and precision of a boxer – not with simulated or clumsy blows of mere fetishistic roleplay. He made it very clear: "No mercy." And he paid for it. Customer satisfaction comes first.

I worked on my arms particularly. They had never been so strong and so hard. My God! I could burst the punching bag. And I did! My cock got hard under the tight shorts when I did that. My trainer noticed and got an erection too, which he tried to cover with his hand, disguising the bulge with that typical masculine gesture of adjusting his dick in his underwear. Less than fifteen minutes later I was fucking his delicious, muscular ass in the men's locker room. Hypocrite... But that's another story.

What matters is that I was now turning Richard's head into a speed bag. He tried to protect himself, in vain. "Take it!" I shouted, as I dyed the hand wraps with the blood flowing from the cuts my punches were opening on his face. His head rocked back and forth, at the mercy of my fists.

I was wearing high heels. Which turned me on even more. My elegant balance on a stiletto heel is enviable... I learned to combine my catwalk walking training with boxing footwork. It's beautiful! It gives me an imposing presence combined with ferocity, power, strength, dominance that drives my clients completely crazy... And there I was, in my beautiful custom-made German chrome-leather shoes for my size 44 feet, disfiguring, without the slightest mercy, a millionaire with championship-level boxing blows – who paid me to do exactly that – I repeat this like a mantra, especially to clients before a session, so they don't complain afterwards (about the excesses, of course).

I forgot to mention I was wearing a custom-made black leather thong as well. Real leather, not synthetic fabric imitation. Genuine leather, good quality, soft, well-tanned. Specially designed to wrap my scrotum and my giant cock, even during an erection. Cock and balls make a bulge that sends my more fetishistic clients into ecstasy. One came just from seeing me dressed like that, in that single sexy piece. It's not exactly a "dental floss" type, but it's quite narrow. It rides up my ass as I'm beating the men who hire me. My cock hardens and grows, pulling the back part further into my ass... So I spread my legs a bit more, without losing my balance or my boxer's stance, making it easier for the thong to work its way into my ass and on my balls. What a delight!

Where was I again? Ah, yes! I even forgot about Richard... By this point he's already slumped against the marble wall, curled up, trying to shield himself. In less than two minutes I must have thrown more than 60 punches at him. I don't remember exactly. I stopped counting around 50. Some clients have a fetish for numbers, after they've been beaten. They want to know exactly how many blows they received from my powerful, well-trained fists. Some film it to count later. I don't know if there was a camera filming us. There certainly was.

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[MuscleWomanBR]

Where was I again?... Oh, right! Richard was almost unrecognizable. His beautiful salt-and-pepper beard had become a red, hairy mess. His swollen eyes had lost all their charm. His hair was still somewhat intact, with some splatters of blood. But his nose... Well, from what little I could see amidst that flood of fresh blood and coagulated plates, it seemed hopelessly broken. His mouth was bleeding too, but it looked like all his teeth were still there, as I could see with every scream he let out, now completely unable to defend himself.

So I rise up on my high heels—always very balanced—and pull off my amazing leather thong in one go. That's delicious... Feeling the strap come out all at once from deep within the cleft of my ass... It's hard to describe the pleasure of that sensation... It makes my cock hard... or harder... But anyway, I got rid of it, grabbed the lube bottle, greased up my ass really well, and went down onto Richard's cock, slathering it generously too. I'm a whore, not a martyr. And yes, the bastard's cock was rock-hard! Like steel! The guy really loved getting beaten up. And beaten up bad.

It didn't matter. He was paying. That was enough.

I sat down with all my weight. That rock went deep into my ass. I moaned. He did too. Meanwhile, I started unwrapping the bloodied bandages from my hands. A show in itself. Because I started by pulling the end of the fabric with my teeth, without taking my eyes off the client... The effect is immediate. Richard got harder, watching the sensual way I did that while I swayed my hips. I unwrapped my hands in the sexiest way imaginable...

When I freed my fists from the bandages, I clenched my well-trained sphincter, grabbed my own rock-hard cock with one hand, and with the other, I squeezed his neck. Richard grabbed my arm and felt, once again, the density of my muscles.

"A month of heavy lifting, baby," I started, my hips now still, just clenching my sphincter. "Two hundred kilos on the leg press," I began—and I knew about their fetish for those numbers. "I can stay like this for hours, squatting on your dick... You see these thighs? Hard as steel..." Another contraction. The guy moaned. With pleasure. All covered in blood. He was probably all sore. And yet he was almost cumming... His dick was harder than my muscles...

"You wanna know what strength is? Then listen." I started bouncing slightly, squeezing his cock inside my ass. "Two hundred kilos on the leg press... one-forty on the squat... seventy-five on the bench press." Richard made some strange grunts. I guess it couldn't be any different. His face was all busted up. Nose smashed. Mouth busted, full of blood. And then I delivered my line, because the bastard really had a huge kink for all this. And so did I... I love being strong, muscular, hot with this big, sculptural body of mine... I love being a rare travesti with the muscles I have. There's no competition. The clientele is tiny. But they pay—very—well!

"When I start a workout, I forget everything... It's just me... and the weight. I push, I go back, I push again... My head is clear, my blood is hot... The bar weighs heavy on my shoulders, the muscle burns beautifully..." I squeezed the male's throat tighter, looking straight into his swollen eyes. "A heavy body... full, in the right way." I feel my thighs burn, holding that squat, my feet firmly planted on my stiletto heels. I had to go down really deep, for Richard's dick to go all the way into my ass. What a delight! I resumed my speech after moaning a lot with that hard dick inside me.

I like men like this, potent, big-dicked, hot... "My legs can handle anything... my abs hold tight... my shoulders are strong as fuck!!!" Then I extended my arms in line with my shoulders, as if I were about to flap wings. "But what I'm most proud of are... my arms..." I bend my elbows and two defined, dense spheres pop up. "My biceps... hard, round... To know there are many men... who can't do what I do... with these biceps..." I remember guys looking at me in the gym. Some disguise it, others stare. I let them look. I know what I have. This strength here—nobody can take this from me. My dick is going a mile a minute! I start masturbating. Richard trembles beneath me. "Don't you cum now!" I order, yelling and slapping the bloodied face of the millionaire. "Only cum when I say so!" My abdomen is contracted, showcasing the musculature sculpted by my workouts. He stares at this marvel, but you can't recognize any expression on that swollen face. I love all this! I was incredibly turned on, sitting on the cock of that mature, athletic, handsome, and arrogant man, who thinks he's in charge of everything... And there he was, the male moaning under the control of my sphincter and the thrust of my thighs capable of crushing him. I increased the speed and intensity of the handjob. The orgasm was coming. I kept one arm flexed, displaying my bicep. I didn't say anything... I just let it come, along with a long moan of pleasure... A flood of cum covered Richard's ripped abs, almost up to his chin. I went over a week without jerking off to get to that moment... It was worth it! I'm a whore, not a penitent. I also want pleasure with my work...

I was still in the throes of my orgasm, clenching my sphincter because of the ejaculation, when Richard exploded inside me... The bastard definitely hadn't jerked off for a long time either, because I felt something like a jet of hot shower filling my rectum with an absurd amount of cum, which soon leaked out, running down to his groin. I kept riding him until he shot everything, not leaving a single drop of cum behind... "That's it, baby, cum it all... cum good... cum for your muscular travesti..." He could only manage to whisper one word: "Valkyrie..."

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[MuscleWomanBR]

And that's how, I remember now, exactly how I narrated that episode to Leticia.

"I want to," she said calmly, while, with her back to me, she sat on my cock, hard from the excitement of remembering the state I left Richard in. "What do you mean?" My question was sincere, though my focus now was on Leticia's firm ass taking my delicious dick deep inside. God! This woman knows how to fuck!

She gripped my cock with her sphincter with a technique infinitely superior to mine. And the worst part is, the old millionaire kept talking as if she didn't have my log stuffed up her ass. She seemed to read my thoughts. "Learn how to give it up the ass, darling. I'm a master at that too." She spat into her hand and began to masturbate while talking. The two of us, her sitting on me and me sitting on the velvet recamier, were reflected in the huge mirror strategically placed in front of the bed.

"I like the Valkyrie." If the scene weren't so fucking hot, she'd look ridiculous, because Leticia talked while bouncing on my cock and frantically manipulating her pussy. Only her ragged breathing betrayed her gallop toward another orgasm. The second one that morning. Suddenly, she let out a little cry. She sighed. Raised her hips. And stood up, whole, straight, poised like a soldier. I stayed there, with my cock hard, throbbing, about to ejaculate. As I spat into my hands to start jerking off, she shouted, "Don't you dare!", already walking toward the bathroom. "I'm going to fuck you later, and I want you hard and full to come a lot in my pussy." Just hearing that almost made me orgasm. But I restrained myself and relaxed on the recamier, thinking about the fortune she paid me to have my cum flooding her holes.

The shower was quick. She came out of the enormous bathroom wrapped in a huge, plush towel, which she would use only that once, crossing the immense bedroom toward the no-less-immense closet. "I liked the Valkyria," she repeated, without stopping. "I liked what she did with this... Richard?", and I found it funny how she really saw my other persona as if it were another person. But my mind was already racing. What would it be like to fight her? Fighting Leticia isn't like beating up Richard. She likes to hit, not be hit. And to hit for real. The woman really is a terrible karateka, an undefeated black belt who enjoys beating up her own well-trained bodyguards. In fact, seeing her emerge from the closet wearing her sleeveless black karategi, with the insignia of her martial arts rank carefully tied at her waist, was exactly what she would do now. She flexed a bicep and smiled at me, looking at my cock, once again hard as a rock. Leticia knew how that karate uniform and her athlete's musculature drove me completely crazy. My urge, on the verge of uncontrollable, was to jerk off immediately, drenching the floor with cum. She winked at me. "Of course you find me hot, Aura... And you're not going to jerk off now. You know what I'm capable of, and that also turns you on a lot. So you're going to wait while I beat up two bodyguards now. I'm going to fuck one of them. The handsomest and hottest one, obviously. And then I'll come back to fuck you some more," and she closed the door, leaving me with my dick drooling.

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[MuscleWomanBR]

I don't know how long I lay on the bed, but with my feet on the floor and my legs spread. My nearly desperate desire was to masturbate thinking about what Letícia was doing at that moment. My cock grew hard again, imagining the beating she would give those boys who were, in fact, paid to take hits from her. And it excited me to remember that, after beating and fucking her bodyguards, the old woman would fuck me, take another shower, put on an expensive executive pantsuit, and head to her holding company's office in a luxurious chauffeur-driven car, as if she hadn't just left two black belts bleeding on the tatami of her private dojo. That's not what happened.

Another half hour—or so it seemed—and there was Letícia, bursting into the suite with effervescent energy. Her eyes shone, staring at me with avidity. She showed me a pair of white karategi pants. "The idiot tried to challenge me," she was saying, without further explanation, while, keeping the top half of her karate uniform on, she took off her own pants. "I gave him a nice beating and took his pants," she finished, already sliding my cock into her pussy and initiating an insane ride. "Come on, girl! Give me another orgasm... That's what I pay you for..." This voracity made Leticia so masculine! It made me fucking turned on! It was delicious to hear her cries of pleasure. I closed my eyes, already feeling the precursor to my own orgasm. Suddenly, I felt a pull on my rigid cock. With unthinkable agility, the old millionaire leaped to the floor. I raised my head, not understanding what was happening.

The sound came before the light—a hiss cutting through the damp air of the locker room. My instinct spun my body too late. Letícia's foot, a lance of cotton and bone, drove into my ribs. The air fled my lungs with a dull thud.

"Where's your boxing, you tranny bitch?"

Her gaze promised demolition.

Pain. Sharp, clearing the mind. And in its wake, a treacherous, deep heat. My body responded to the aggression with overwhelming excitement.

"Come on, give me a decent fight!" Already on my feet, I blocked a side kick with my forearm. She was efficient, economical, relentless. My punches, heavy and fast, cut through empty air. She dodged, slipped, was always inside, where my brute strength was useless.

Her fists were needles: precise strikes to the solar plexus, to the flanks. My leg buckled. I fell to my knees. She stopped. Motionless. Controlled breathing.

"Is that it?" she asked with disdain. "The 6'3" monster is just that?"

A hoarse groan escaped me. My hard cock, however, laid bare my desire.

She saw it. Her eyes read the truth in my trembling body.

"Aaah..." the sound came out prolonged, lascivious. "You get beaten up and get hard for me. That's delicious..."

With the tip of her foot, she lifted my chin. "Get up."

Trembling, I stood up. She, then, still half-naked, wearing the gi jacket and the black belt around her waist, pointed to her own exposed pussy, lifting the hem of the fabric.

"Come," she challenged, her eyes blazing. "Come try to take what you think you deserve."

I charged like an animal, grabbed her by the waist, and threw her onto the bed. A muffled grunt escaped her. Her body tightened around me in an iron embrace. I moved with fury, seeking to dominate, but victory was an illusion. Leticia reversed the position with her fighter's skill, crouched over my pelvis, and thrust my cock into her pussy, looking at me with a victorious expression as she resumed the frantic ride from before.

But then she stopped. Stopped everything. No muscle contracted, except that deep, intimate, devastating one. She locked down. And began the silent war, squeezing my dick with her pussy.

Inside there, in the depths where I was embedded, something awoke. It wasn't a simple squeeze. It was a hand. A hand made of living, intelligent, voracious flesh. A capsule of muscle that closed at the base, a perfect, pulsing grip, while, higher up, another set of fibers began to massage, twist, suck with surgical precision.

"Pompoirism, you beast," she whispered, her voice a thread of controlled ecstasy, calm, confident, almost mocking. "Ancient art... Total mastery..."

I froze. A roar began to form in my throat, provoked by absolute pleasure. Every contraction was a verse in a language my body understood instinctively, dismantling my rage, my pride, my consciousness, my will to fight back, to hit that rich, arrogant white woman. And she alternated rhythms: quick, light contractions like hummingbird wings, then deep, slow spasms.

"Is... is this... what you want?" I moaned, losing my breath, my hips trying in vain to follow the internal dance she commanded.

"Silence," she ordered, softly and fatally.

And she increased the pressure. Her walls began to milk me. A wave of unbearable heat rose up my spine. I was on the edge of the precipice, trembling, sweating, my fingers digging into her ankles. The orgasm approached like a runaway train. I roared, tried to thrash, but I couldn't get out, didn't want to get out of that absolutely marvelous torture.

"Please..." I screamed, I begged, no longer knowing why.

She smiled. My eyes rolled back. I was there, on the threshold, about to be thrown into the abyss...

And she stopped. Everything stopped. Completely. The contractions, be they less or more forceful. The millimeter movements with their deliciously devastating effects.

In one fluid, impossible motion, she leaped, slid out of me and away, before my body, betrayed and on the threshold of ecstasy, could even understand the absence.

The void, the sudden cold, were a physical shock. I wavered, panting, drenched, in pain, my nerves in open revolt.

And then she attacked.

She was no longer the technical karateka. She was a beast. A whirlwind of feet and fists. A yoko geri swept the air where my head had been. I evaded by instinct, the adrenaline turning raw.

"GONNA CRY, BITCH?! GONNA BEG ME TO STOP AGAIN?!" she screamed.

The fury born in me then didn't come from boxing. It came from a deeper place. From humiliation, from sexual frustration, from the survival instinct. I blocked a punch, grabbed her arm and pulled, using my weight. She fell sideways but rolled and was up in an instant. Her training was invariably on point.

"YES! THAT'S HOW I WANT IT!" she bellowed, advancing again.

This time, I didn't try to be elegant. It was pure brawling. A left hook caught her high on the chest, pushing her back. A low, dirty kick, one I'd learned in training, hit her thigh. She groaned, in pain or pleasure, it was impossible to tell.

"WHO'S THE BITCH HERE, OLD WOMAN?! WHO'S BEGGING?!" I shouted back, advancing, feeling the blood throb in my temples.

We traded blows in the middle of the room, without style. Until, exhausted, we separated, panting, with minor injuries, staring at each other across a meter of charged air.

She laughed. A rough laugh, from a scratched throat, but genuine. There was blood on her tooth.

"Finally," she gasped, a look of fierce respect shining through the chaos in her eyes. "Finally you came to fight."

She turned, took off the gi jacket, and let it drop to the floor.

"Shower. Now," she ordered, her voice regaining a trace of that habitual coldness, but still trembling. I obeyed. With great pleasure.

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I dragged myself to the bathroom, a sanctuary of marble and polished chrome, whose coldness contrasted brutally with the intimate jungle we had created. The ambient light came on by itself, revealing the damage in the mirror. My lip was split, a purple bruise swelled under my right eye, and red finger marks circled my neck. My ribs throbbed. And, at the center of it all, the look in my eyes: a mixture of total fatigue and a residual excitement that stubbornly refused to die, like embers under ashes.

Before I could touch the faucets, Leticia entered. Silent, like her shadow. She had already shed the remnants of the gi and was naked, exposing her own battle map: a reddish mark on her chest where my hook had landed, and the beginning of a bruise on her thigh.

Without a word, she stepped into the tub and extended her hand to me. Not to help. To pull me in.

I entered. The hot water enveloped my leg, awakening every pain, every tense muscle. We stood in the steamy, perfumed water. For a moment, all that existed was the heat penetrating to the bone. When she turned me, with my back to her, there was no gentleness. Her skillful, merciless fingers found the luxurious bottle of liquid soap.

We sat in that perfumed, languid water.

The touch began. Her hands slid over my back, pressing muscles, feeling knots of tension, the scratches. She could read a body like a surgeon reads an anatomical atlas. Every pressure was calculated, meant to extract a moan—of pain or pleasure, it didn't matter.

"Here," she murmured, her mouth near my ear, muffled by the sound of the water. Her left hand closed on the nape of my neck, while her right slid forward, over the hard plane of my abdomen.

Her fingers continued their descent, passing over my waist, completely ignoring the throbbing center of my desire, to grip my thighs. "This leg is still alive. It buckled, but didn't give way completely. Does it hurt?"

"Yes," I grunted.

"Good," she replied.

Her hand, then, finally rose to clean the blood from my split lip with her thumb. The movement was strangely careful, a violent contrast to the savagery of minutes ago. She brought the bloodied finger to her mouth, cleaned it with her tongue, her eyes closing for a second, savoring the metallic taste of our fight.

It was my turn. I turned to face her. I picked up the soap. She said nothing, just lifted her chin, challenging, permitting.

My hands, so much larger than hers, began to work. I washed her shoulders, feeling the muscular density, the steel fiber under the soft skin. I scrubbed her back, where the old pains of a fighter's arthritis mingled with the new ones. When my hands descended to wash her thighs, feeling the growing bruise, she let out a low sound, almost imperceptible.

"Harder," she ordered, her voice echoing off the marble.

I tightened my fingers into the bruised flesh, massaging with a strength that would make anyone recoil. She arched her back to offer more. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted.

Then, she opened her eyes. The gaze was clear, limpid, all the previous fury dissipated, transformed into something denser and more dangerous.

"Now, wash where you were," she said, her voice low but sharp as a blade. "Wash where you tried to enter and were expelled."

My fingers trembled. Leticia spread her legs and rested them on the edges of the tub, placing a hand on my shoulder, not to balance herself, but to anchor me, to remind me of my position. My soapy hands submerged in the water, seeking her pussy. The skin was warm, soft, miraculously intact after the violence I had inflicted on it. And, at my touch, I felt it. An internal tremor, an echo of that devastating power that had ruined me minutes before. A slight squeeze, like a wave from within.

Her face was serious, her eyes watching me with an evaluative intensity. She was testing me. Testing my submission, my reverence, my capacity to serve even after the revolt.

It was then that she did something that stopped my heart. Slowly, with agonizing grace, she stood up and spread her legs, inviting my face closer. Seated, I leaned in, pressing my mouth against her pussy, thrusting my tongue inside, and with a wild voracity, exciting the woman who had just fought with me. It was an homage. And a plea for more and more and more... Letícia began to moan, squeezing her own nipples. It was monumental, all of it! She climbed towards another orgasm, riding my tongue. Until she exploded into an ecstasy even greater than the previous ones I had provoked...

And, as soon as she relaxed, she began to ignore me.

The bath ended in silence. We got out, dried ourselves with thick, soft towels.

"The next fight," she whispered, her breath minty and powerful, "will be even better."

And, for the first time, it wasn't a threat. It was a promise. And I, Valkyrie, the strong trans woman, the boxer, the survivor, yearned for it with every fiber of my trained muscles.

Now I was sitting on the bed, calmly drying my long hair, in a ritual of self-care. It was the post-battle ritual. And I was waiting for the moment when she would dress as an executive, resuming that posture of icy indifference that, deep down, excited me.

She disappeared into the closet, a space larger than the apartment I grew up in. I waited, listening to the luxurious silence of the suite, feeling the softness of the plush towel.

The sound that came from the closet wasn't the rustle of silk or wool. It was the dry, decisive noise of a cotton belt being tied tightly.

She emerged. She wasn't wearing the serious, expensive pantsuit. She wasn't wearing high heels or pearls.

She wore another black karategi, of heavy, opaque cotton, always sleeveless, always revealing her muscular, veined, time-marked arms. The black belt was around her waist, a reminder of the fighter's skill that, deep down, was her reason for being. Her short, silver hair was neatly combed.

She stopped in the center of the room, between the unmade bed and me, frozen before the mirror.

"That was the warm-up, you fool," she said. My own breath caught in my chest. "The fight starts now."

She didn't move. Didn't adopt a stance. She was just there, a black hole of intention in the center of luxury. The meaning of the words pierced me like an icy katana. The brutal sex, the beating, the uncontrolled fury... all of that was preliminary.

And this fight would have no interruptions for pompoirism, no transitions to pleasure. It wouldn't end with orgasms or orders for a bath. That look said it all: it would end with one of us unable to get up. Or to breathe.

All the arousal, all the burning submission I felt, froze and transformed into something primal: the survival instinct. She wasn't playing the role of a millionaire dominatrix. She was offering a duel. And a duel with Leticia, in her purest state, wasn't a game.

My fingers released the towel. Slowly I straightened up, my eyes never leaving hers. I was only wearing boxer briefs, my tall, athletic body a landscape of fresh contusions and tense muscles. Valkyrie, the luxury whore, the trans woman excited by humiliation and violence, was no more. There was only this body. This fighting machine. The last thing that remained.

She saw the transformation. An almost-imperceptible nod of the head, the closest to praise I would receive.

For the first time, there was no desire in my heart. There was fear. A pure, crystalline fear. And, wrapped within it, a spark of savage gratitude.

She had broken me in every possible way. And now, dressed in black, she was offering me the only thing that could mend me: the chance to break her back. Or die trying.

Without a word, I pushed the leather armchair out of the way, dragging it across the parquet with a harsh squeak. I cleared space. My fists clenched with the brute force of someone grabbing their own life.

Leticia, the black belt, the invincible one, finally smiled. It was a smile without warmth. The smile of a blade being unsheathed.

And then, in the oppressive silence of the million-dollar suite, the real battle began.

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[MuscleWomanBR]

"Come on, you fucking tranny whore, I paid to see you broken by my karate," she began, arms still crossed and a languid, almost seductive tone in her voice. But that was all an act. She was already about to strike me.

My boxing training was useless. Deep down, I knew it, but I had no alternative. I had never been paid so well in my entire career as a (top-tier!) sex professional.

The first strike came with an open hand, like a knife, sharp: Leticia pivoted her torso with a minimal movement, hitting my forearm with a violence and strength I hadn't experienced even in my hardest training sessions.

"Feel that? I'm fucking strong!" she spoke while fighting, seeming to converse more with herself.
"See this?! This is strength, you tranny... Muscle! I lift weights, goddammit! More than you!"

Her body seemed to have rejuvenated by thirty years. Her firm, rounded shoulders, the vascular, swollen neck, the strong, decisive posture of an unbeatable fighter, the bulging biceps and triceps gave me a hard-on that not even that extremely tense situation could stifle. The beginning of an erection strained against the front of my white cotton panties, designed precisely to accentuate the bulge of my cock.

But I had no time to do anything else but fight as well. Increasingly, it felt like a life-or-death situation, no matter how much that woman's muscles gave me a crazy urge to fuck her again.

With the same hand, she delivered another blow, this time to my collarbone. I heard a muffled crack before the pain. I staggered back, trying to respond with a straight punch. But the black belt lowered her center of gravity, slid a step to the side, and landed another blow, this time at the base of my jaw. My neck whipped around from the impact, my eyes wavered. She continued without pause—right hand open, cutting through the air again, aiming for the side of my neck, controlling the force, but enough to make me buckle over my own knee.

"This so-called Valkyrie... is a... huge disappointment..." she mocked, while bouncing like Bruce Lee, studying where to land the next blow on me.

The old millionaire maintained control in the most humiliating way for me, as if disdaining my 1.90-meter height and the muscle I'd built especially for this confrontation. Of course, there was no time for any thought, as Leticia's left hand came with the heel of her palm pushing my shoulder, breaking my balance. I tried to steady myself, panting, but I was already within her reach. A final, fast, precise strike with her hand hit the forearm I still stubbornly used to protect my face. This time, the intensity of the blow was such that I'm sure I suffered a fracture. I screamed in pain, holding my arm. Leticia was cruel, I knew. She wouldn't have an ounce of compassion.

"This is what it's like to get beaten by a black belt... Understand, whore? I'm going to break you entirely, you gorgeous bitch... You'll never fuck anyone again..."

She then began combining kicks and punches with unbeatable speed, pinning me against the wall beside the head of the bed. I felt completely helpless. More than that, desperate, certain I would be beaten to death by that crazy old woman. My survival instinct demanded I do something.

So I grabbed the bedside lamp and threw it at her head with all the strength my endless hours of weightlifting allowed me. For a fraction of a millisecond, I saw the shadow of desperation in Leticia's eyes—she certainly hadn't expected a reaction from me. At least not like that.

"You bitch! I'll kill you!!!"

Even though she protected herself with her arms, the lamp was solid, well-made, and resistant—that's why it was so expensive that only that rich, insane fighter could afford it. Well, it cost her a nasty wound on her arm, which began to gush blood even before she fell. I grabbed the now-broken lamp and used its stem and base as a hammer. Again the old woman protected herself with her arms, but I used my reach to hit her head.

"I'll kill you!!!"

She dodged, the object scraped deep into her shoulder, and her right leg shot up in a kick toward my face, while my right hand went for her left, trying to take her down. I missed. She hit. I fell. Leticia, now bloodied, came at me with everything she had. She would certainly sit on my abdomen and pound my face with countless punches. But I still held what was left of the lamp, and she fell onto the stem. A shriek from the old woman, the first one of pain, filled the suite. I definitely broke a few of her ribs.

The millionaire fell to the side, groaning, and I, exhausted and dizzy from the blows I took to the head, passed out.


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[MuscleWomanBR]

When I woke up, I was sure I was dead and that my ghost had decided to assess the damage that led to my demise. But the aches throughout my body, the no less painful swelling in my eyes, and the taste of blood in my mouth confirmed I was alive. Very much alive.
I survived.

I had fought with her twice that morning. Or rather, Leticia had shown me the reason she is an invincible black belt and, at the same time, the effects of decades of weight training. I felt the erection returning as I struggled to focus on that high-performance athlete's body that didn't look 60 years old. Knowing she was an "old woman" turned me on even more. And an old woman who fucks like none of my clients can. She defeated me badly in bed. In sex, Leticia was also a black belt. I know I'm repeating myself. But saying or thinking that gives me a hell of a thrill! What a hot woman! What a turn-on! I'll still fuck her a lot, especially if she keeps paying me so well...

But where am I again? Oh, right, under this faucet, in the kitchen, desperately drowning myself trying to quench a thirst that seems relentless. What's happening to me? Why am I so thirsty?...
I feel like I'm miles away from the suite where I got beaten like a stray bitch... Is Leticia dead? My God! If that millionaire bitch dies, the police will arrest me... I'm done for... The worst part is my condition prevents me from fleeing. I'm all sore, all fucked up. How am I going to explain this swelling in my face, these wounds... I must look horrible... If that old woman has ruined me for good, I will kill her, if she isn't dead already... Son of a bitch!

I screamed this last sentence, spitting blood. "Valkyrie," I heard in response, amid a dragging step. The old woman was coming. The son of a bitch was alive, which relieved me... But at the same time, I feared she was coming to fulfill her promise: to kill me. I turned off the faucet. The floor was soaked. On the counter, hanging from a metal bar, I glimpsed all kinds of knives. I grabbed the first one I could reach and got ready.

Leticia appeared in the entrance to the enormous kitchen. She leaned against the doorframe.
"I like it, whore." She even managed a smile. "For the first time, someone managed to take me down."
"You bitch..." I growled. "You almost killed me..."
"But I didn't. And you won... You fought dirty, played unfair... But it's fine, anything went anyway... The important thing was the fun... I loved it!"

And she left without another word, hugging her own torso and walking away slowly.
I remained leaning against the counter, knife in hand, feeling ridiculous in that completely absurd situation. I was only in my panties and my dick was getting hard again. Heavens! That old woman was truly incredible...

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