I met her at an old gym on the outskirts of the city. One of those concrete-floored, sweat-stained temples where fighters went when they didn’t care about flashy gear—just pain, power, and pride.
She was 51. Lean. Hard. Japanese. Her face was calm, but her eyes? Pure fire. She didn’t move like a regular woman—she moved like someone who’d knocked out men twice her size and didn’t regret a single one.
I was there fixing up some equipment. She asked if I could help her move a heavy bag. I followed her upstairs, and that’s when I really saw her.
Tight black tank top. Scar on her right shoulder. Short gym shorts that clung to thick, carved thighs. Her calves looked like they’d crushed skulls. Every inch of her said: I know what I’m doing.
But underneath that steel? There was heat. Loneliness. A crack in the armour.
As we finished setting up, I caught her staring at me. She looked down at my chest, at my arms, the sweat glistening on my neck. Then she said, without flinching:
“You’re not afraid of older women?”
I stepped closer. “Only the ones I can’t handle.”
Her lip twitched. A half-smile. “And what if I hit back?”
I leaned in. “Then I’ll pin you down and make you beg.”
She didn’t answer. She just turned and walked into the back room.
I followed her.
There was no pretense. No romance. Just her peeling off that tank top to reveal a battle-worn body—small, round breasts, toned stomach, tattoos along her ribs.
“Come here,” she whispered.
I grabbed her. Lifted her. Pressed her back against the wall with one hand while the other yanked her shorts down. She wasn’t wearing panties.
She gasped as my fingers slid between her legs—already soaked.
“You get off on control,” I growled.
“I used to,” she whispered. “But not tonight.”
I dropped my pants. My cock pressed between her thighs as I pinned her to the concrete wall. She locked her ankles around my waist like it was instinct. Her breath hitched.
Then I slammed in.
She choked on the moan. Threw her head back. I fucked her against the wall like she was the punching bag—deep, hard, unrelenting.
She grunted. Growled. Grabbed my shoulders and tried to pull me in harder. Every time I bottomed out inside her, she twitched.
“You fight dirty,” she said.
“Only when I want to win.”
I flipped her. Bent her over a bench. Pulled her hips up. Her ass was perfect—tight, high, muscular. I slid in again and drove deeper this time. She cried out.
Each thrust rocked her. Her fingers gripped the wood like she was back in the ring.
She came without permission. Legs trembling. Voice breaking.
And I didn’t stop.
By the time I came, her body had given out—sweat dripping, face flushed, mouth open.
I collapsed on top of her, panting, heart thudding against her back.
She looked over her shoulder and whispered, voice shaky:
“You hit harder than I thought.”
I kissed her neck. “I go for knockouts.”