Wolves in Sports Bras

[RockRye]

Avery smirked, her lips curling with a mix of satisfaction and malice as she felt the telltale signs of panic ripple through Tomas. It was palpable, radiating from his fit, muscular frame in the way his movements grew increasingly frantic. The flex of her arm around his neck and the unyielding clamp of her legs around his waist only fed her exhilaration. His chest heaved as he strained for breath, every ounce of his power pouring into futile attempts to pull her off.

That potentially powerful, threatening body. Avery couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer irony: a man of his size, reduced to helplessness in her grip. A thrill coursed through her, sharp and intoxicating, as she realized the truth of it. She could knock him out anytime. And he knew it. That knowledge was like fuel for her fire, the ultimate proof of her dominance.

His hands clawed desperately at her forearm, his fingers tugging at the taut skin stretched over muscle that refused to yield. Avery tilted her head slightly, peering at him with icy amusement. Her voice was calm, informative, as if she were a teacher correcting a particularly inept student. “Pulling on a strong arm like this won’t get you anywhere, darling,” she quipped.

Then she noticed it.

Peering over his shoulder, Avery’s keen gaze flicked downward. And there it was. The subtle but unmistakable growth between his legs. Well, well. A wicked grin spread across her lips as understanding clicked into place. For all his frantic resistance, Tomas wasn’t just panicking. He was… enjoying this.

Avery’s grin widened as a rush of excitement flooded her system. This was all the confirmation she needed: Tomas had sunk too far into her web to escape now. Her feet shifted, the sleek strength of her legs adjusting to press her more tightly against his body. Her heels brushed tantalizingly close to his crotch, a hair’s breadth from making contact.

She squeezed down harder, her bicep flexing against his throat as her legs cinched tighter around his waist. Her feet, now intentionally brushing against his arousal, teased the line between control and indulgence. Avery’s smirk deepened, savoring every second. That heady blend of power and control surged through her as she drank in his helplessness.

And then, just as she could feel his body slacken, she let go. Her arm slipped from around his neck, her legs releasing their iron grip as she pushed him forward with a casual shove, ready to watch him struggling on the mat before her.

[GoingBananas]

Tomás had been in fights before—real fights. Fights that left ribs bruised, lips split, knuckles raw. He’d fought in Bangkok alley gyms with rusted fans and blood-stained mats, stood toe-to-toe with men who wanted to break him just for the sake of doing it. But none of them had undone him like this.

None of them had smiled while doing it, either.

His lungs screamed as the choke cinched tighter. The world around him narrowed to the strain in his throat, the burn in his chest, and the vice-like squeeze of her legs locked around his hips. He clawed at her arm, knuckles whitening with effort, but her voice cut through the struggle like glass through silk.

His muscles strained harder in response, but somewhere deep inside, he knew she was right. This wasn’t Muay Thai. This wasn’t a brawl he could power through or outlast. This was something else—slower, more suffocating. Tactical. Intimate. And she had him—body, breath, and now, without question, mind. He couldn’t see her face, but he could feel her smirk radiating off her like heat.

Then her feet shifted. That was the moment everything changed.

Not just pressure. Contact. Barely there—just the whisper of a touch near the bulge in his shorts—but enough to cut through the adrenaline, to freeze him in a split-second of shock. His hands faltered. His body jolted with confusion, humiliation, something far worse than physical defeat.

And she noticed. He knew she had. He didn’t need to hear her say it. Her body answered for her—legs tightening with surgical precision, her feet now deliberately grazing over the very thing he’d hoped to ignore. A hot flush lit up his neck, shame burning through him faster than lack of air ever could. He wasn’t just being dominated. He was being read. And that was worse.

The worst part was his body’s betrayal—that dull throb of arousal cutting through the panic. Something involuntary. Something base. He gritted his teeth hard, willing it away. But she was already there. Feeling it. Using it.

Then, just as his limbs weakened—just as he reached the edge of giving in—she released.

The choke unraveled like silk peeling from his throat, the crushing clamp of her thighs easing until gravity took over. She pushed him off her like he was nothing. Just another student who’d failed the lesson. He collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, coughing once, chest heaving as oxygen poured back into his lungs in ragged, embarrassed gasps.

He didn’t look at her right away. Couldn’t. His hair hung down over his face, sweat slicking his brow, his palms pressed against the mat like they were the only things anchoring him to reality. His throat throbbed. His pride even more. He was a fighter. A striker. Trained to stay on his feet, to overwhelm, to punish. But here, pinned, choked, and teased like some fucking rookie, his opponent reduced him to something else. And worse than all of it... part of him had felt something.

He spat once to the side, more out of instinct than necessity. Then, slowly, he pushed himself to his knees, head bowed, still not meeting her eyes. Every breath he took was a war between humiliation and something rawer, deeper. “I didn’t come here for this,” he muttered—quiet, hoarse. But he didn’t stand. Not yet.

[RockRye]

Avery had seen enough. That visceral, carnal reaction Tomas had to her dominance told her everything she needed to know: she no longer had to pretend to care about training him. This had shifted from an act into a performance, suited for the hidden camera watching the scene with a cold fascination; she could tear him apart while he squirmed, unable, and maybe even unwilling, to stop her. And really, he wasn’t good at this grappling anyway. It wasn’t as if he could have mounted any credible resistance before she put on the facade.

A smirk curled on her lips as she wheeled to her feet with ease, watching him scramble and recover. The sight of him, disheveled and obviously flustered, fed into her growing amusement. She resisted the urge to bend over and stare between his legs to embarrass him further. Slowly, she stepped into his space, each movement deliberate, her confidence radiating in waves. She let her bare feet come into his line of sight, the same feet that had toyed with him moments earlier, poking holes in his pride.

Her smile widened as she loomed over him, her voice sharp and laced with mockery.

“Pardon? You didn’t come here for this?” she asked, her tone dripping with sarcasm. Her laughter followed, rich and full, filling the room. “Then what did you come here for, hmm? To be coddled? To be told you’re doing great? Life doesn’t work that way, and neither does training.”

Avery lifted her foot deliberately, pressing the ball of it against his chin. The motion was casual, almost dismissive, as if she were nudging a petulant child to look her in the eyes. Her hands rested confidently on her thick hips, her posture commanding as she tilted his face upward with her foot.

“Training is harsh, Tomas,” she said, her words slow and deliberate, her gaze piercing. “But if you didn’t come here to grapple, fine. I’ll beat you with strikes instead. Then maybe you can take this session seriously.”

Her foot lingered for a moment longer before she pulled it back, her movements sharp and purposeful. With a swift step forward, she unleashed a flat kick aimed across his face. Not her hardest, but hard enough to sting, hard enough to force a reaction.

[GoingBananas]

There was a haze behind Tomás’s eyes, a slow-burning fog of oxygen deprivation, confusion, and something uglier he didn’t have the words for. He stayed on his knees longer than he should have, too long, giving Avery the upper hand, not just in position, but in the tempo of whatever this had become. And when he finally lifted his head, just a little, she was already moving.

Avery rose like she hadn’t exerted an ounce of effort, her steps smooth and predatory. He caught the flicker of that smirk before he looked away again, jaw clenched. He didn’t need to see her face to feel the weight of her satisfaction—he could hear it in the silence between her steps, in the way she let her presence tower over him, drawing out the moment just to twist the knife. Despite that, some part of him—stubborn, proud, furious—refused to drop his gaze when her feet came into view. Bare, strong, deliberate. The same feet that had toyed with him like he was nothing more than a bag to be worked. They lingered there like a taunt, but he didn’t flinch.

Until she spoke. The words cut deeper than the choke had. Her laughter came next, and that was worse—sharp and knowing and full of teeth. It echoed off the walls and into the pit of his stomach. She was right about one thing: he hadn’t come here for this. But now, he wasn’t sure what this even was.

Tomás didn’t answer. Not immediately. His breathing was slow now, controlled, pulled back from the edge of panic and reshaped into something cooler. Sharper. Her foot lifted, and instinctively he tensed, but he didn’t pull away as it pressed under his chin. That part stung—not physically, but what it meant. Like she wasn’t just above him. She owned the space between them.

His jaw flexed beneath her foot. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, screaming for a way out—anything to claw back some piece of the control he’d lost. Even so, he didn’t strike. He waited. Let her speak. Let her gloat.

Her words bit, but they grounded him. They pulled him back into something familiar. Harsh? Good. Pain? Even better. Grappling had left him humiliated. But striking? Striking was his world. It didn’t matter how fast or clever she was—if she wanted to take this back to fists and feet, at least then he’d have footing.

The moment her foot drew back, he felt the shift. The sudden flex of her weight. And when her kick lashed out, he moved.

Not cleanly. Not perfectly. The heel caught him across the cheek, snapping his head to the side with a dull thud, but he absorbed it, rolling with the motion, letting it feed the fire lighting in his core. He spat to the side again. Then, slowly, he rose. First to a knee. Then to his feet.

His chest was still heaving, the mark on his face already beginning to flush red, but his eyes had changed—no more fog, no more haze. Just clarity and steel. “You want strikes?” he said, his accent thicker now, raw in the back of his throat. “Fine.”

He raised his hands, settling into a southpaw stance. The Nak Muay’s weight shifted, light on the balls of his feet. His guard was high. His eyes locked on her, not with anger—not anymore—but with purpose. “I’ll give you strikes.”

And this time, he wouldn’t hesitate.

[RockRye]

Avery’s lips curled into a wicked smirk as she watched Tomas stir beneath her, his body shifting with effort as he deflected the worst of her latest blow. Her foot had grazed his face with enough force to leave an impression, but he managed to dull the impact, refusing to go down as easily as she might have hoped. Her foot planted firmly on the mat in front of him, her powerful thighs jiggling slightly from the momentum. She let the tension linger in the air, standing tall and watching him as he began to rise.

She tilted her head, almost as if in amusement, while she considered her options. Maybe she should have pressed her advantage right then and there, but the spark of resistance in him entertained her. He was still trying, still pushing forward despite everything she’d already done to him. And that, she decided, was worth savoring.

Avery had always enjoyed breaking her opponents down piece by piece, and Tomas was no exception. She knew the cocktail of emotions and doubts she had stirred in him. The lecherous distractions, the suffocating power she had displayed, the way her holds had robbed him of breath and strength alike. And now, with his body tense and his spirit frayed, she had every intention of exploiting all of it to finish him off.

Her eyes glinted as she glanced over her shoulder at him, watching as he steadied himself, his body dropping into a fighting stance. When he declared his resolve, his voice firm, Avery couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“How cute,” she purred, her tone dripping with mockery. “So serious all of a sudden… for a man who was just on the mat, struggling for his composure and consciousness against a little submission and a pair of pretty feet. I'm not blind, Tomas.”

Her words were a dagger, aimed at twisting the insecurity she knew she’d planted in him. And before he could muster a retort or a counter, she moved.

In a blur of motion, Avery spun on her heel, her body flowing with practiced grace as her leg swung high into the air. The sharp snap of her movement was aimed directly at Tomas’s face, a cheap but calculated roundhouse kick designed to capitalize on his frayed nerves and tired body.

[GoingBananas]

Tomás had just barely found his footing when her words came slicing in.

It wasn’t just a taunt—it was surgical. Measured. She no longer tested his guard, but she targeted his pride. Or what's left of it. And it hit. Not because it was false, but because it wasn’t. She had rattled him. Had him wrapped in her legs, choked half-senseless, and left him gasping on the floor recently. She had felt the twitch of his body under hers, the confusion in him, the heat he hadn’t known how to process. And now she was weaponizing it.

But Tomás had fought through worse than embarrassment. Pain, shame, even humiliation—he’d been dragged through all of them on this hard path. He could handle this, too.

He breathed through his nose, slow and steady, forcing the last remnants of her chokehold from his system. His jaw ached. His chest burned. But his eyes never left her, even when her tone turned to a purr and her smile dared him to crumble again.

That’s when she moved. The moment she shifted weight, his instincts screamed. Her hips turned. Shoulder dipped. And then her leg came sailing up toward him in a clean, vicious arc. Just from that, Tomás could see she's not quite the savant in that field. However, the woman could throw a hell of a kick.

Mind you, it wasn’t textbook. There was no snap to the knee, no pivot through the hip the way a Nak Muay would generate power—but the speed was there. And so was the weight. He saw the torque in her thigh, the blur of her heel slicing toward his head like a whip. His guard was up, but she’d chosen her angle well—high and quick, a kick you don’t catch unless you’re ready. And Tomás, for all his fire, wasn’t at full capacity yet.

Tomás didn’t block. He rolled.

A side weave, weight shifting off his lead leg, head tucking just beneath the arc of her kick. He could feel the gust of it skim past his ear, the air split by the raw strength in her legs. The same legs that had nearly put him out a minute ago. She was strong—stronger than her build suggested. Not refined in her striking, but dangerous in that unpredictable, unschooled way. He filed that away.

The second his feet found the mat again, he exploded forward—not recklessly, but committed. One clean step in, and his right shin snapped upward in a low kick, targeting the meat of her lead thigh. He didn’t throw it with full force—he still respected her ability to trap and counter—but enough to sting. Enough to send a message: He will not fold.

He followed it with a tight elbow feint toward her midline, then checked himself, reading her reaction instead of over-committing. He had no illusions this would turn into a classic striking match. She was too smart for that. She was baiting, prodding, always two steps ahead in the psychological war. But this? This was his ground. And if she wanted to play the game his way now, then he’d show what a Nak Muay looked like when he was cornered—but not broken.

[RockRye]

Avery could already see it in her mind. The satisfying arc of her leg ripping through the air, the power behind her strike colliding with the side of Tomas’s face, sending him sprawling. She relished the thought. While grappling and squeezing brought her unmatched joy, feeling her opponent struggle against her strength, there was something uniquely satisfying about delivering a kick. It was the raw, physical finality of the impact. Watching someone crumble beneath the power of her long, thick, devastating legs made her feel unstoppable.

Of course, it wasn’t her go-to tactic. If she could humiliate and conquer without throwing a single strike, she would. But this was about making Tomas’s defeat absolute. She wanted him broken in every way possible and wanted the eventual viewership to witness her dominance in all its forms.

Unfortunately, her vision didn’t translate to reality. Tomas moved faster than she expected, rolling just past her swinging foot. The air hissed with the force of her missed strike before her foot clobbered into the mat. The impact sent ripples up her calf and thigh, and the muscle jiggled briefly before tightening again. She didn’t have much time to dwell on it, as Tomas capitalized immediately. His retaliation came swift and sharp, a solid kick aimed directly at the same thigh she’d just planted. The collision echoed through the space, a sharp smack of flesh against flesh.

“Ugh!” Avery grunted, a mix of displeasure and surprise coloring her voice as she staggered briefly. The sting radiated through her leg, but the kick had struck her strongest asset. Her thighs weren’t just for show. They were built to endure punishment and crush her opposition. While the sting of the impact lingered, it didn’t stop her. If anything, it fueled her.

Her eyes snapped to Tomas, wild and blazing, her expression a feral mix of determination and fury. It was as if she were silently telling him he’d made a grievous mistake. He dared to attack her thighs? Her thighs? That was another miscalculation.

Avery immediately shifted her weight onto the leg he’d struck, showing no signs of faltering. She darted toward him with a swiftness that belied her size, her movements honed and precise. Her other leg swung up high, the muscles coiling and releasing with lethal intent. This time, there was no hesitation. She aimed the kick directly at his retreating form, her foot on a collision course with where his head should be once he moved.

[GoingBananas]

The sound of his shin slapping against her thigh echoed louder than he expected. A meaty, satisfying crack, followed by her short grunt of pain—half surprise, half insult. Tomás didn’t smile. He didn’t have the luxury of celebration. He knew the truth the second he felt the density of the impact travel up his own leg.

Her thigh didn’t buckle. It absorbed. The muscle had give, flesh always did—but beneath it was something far more brutal. Conditioning. Strength. Power that didn’t come from drills, but from dominance. From time spent crushing, locking, and choking. Her thighs were weapons, and he’d just slapped one like he thought it would flinch. It didn’t.

He saw the shift in her face before her weight even moved. Her eyes went cold. Not blank—burning. Controlled rage, not chaos. She wasn’t furious in the way novices get when they get hit. She was insulted. He’d touched something sacred.

Her answer came quickly.

She closed the distance faster than he anticipated. No telegraphing, no slow-coiling wind-up. Her leg cut through the air in another savage arc—high, direct, unforgiving. The way it moved made his gut twist, not in fear, but respect. There was raw force in that strike, enough to flatten someone who didn’t read it in time. And this time, it came high. She was aiming for his head.

Tomás didn’t retreat. He entered. In Muay Thai, when you’re outmatched on reach or can’t match the force of a strike, you don’t run—you invade. You smother. He dipped low into her base, stepping inside the arc of her leg just as it came around, his right shoulder tucking and rolling beneath the whipping strike.

It was a tight escape—too tight. Her foot clipped his upper back, catching the slope of his shoulder blade as he passed under. Pain flared, white-hot and sudden, but manageable. He gritted his teeth and forced his balance to stay centered. Her shin had weight behind it—even glancing, it hurt.

Still, he was inside now. His body spun as he closed the distance, turning with the roll to bring his left elbow upward, fast and brutal, toward her ribs—the kind of close-range strike born of desperation and drilled instinct. He didn’t go for her face. He didn’t have the angle. But ribs? Those were fair game. Whether it landed or not wasn’t the point. This wasn’t about knocking her out. It was about reminding her: he wasn’t just some toy to squeeze and discard.