Natasha Richardson is an Afro-American woman. Very smart. Has a PhD in psychology. Her specialty is dealing with men who have sexual problems (impotency, lack of sex drive, too much sex drive, etc., etc., etc.)  She's thirty five years old, very attractive. Brown skin. Dark hair. Perfect white teeth. Deep brown eyes. Keeps her body in shape. Up early five mornings a week to jog five miles. And and two hours, five afternoons a week  working out with weights.

She's strong. Has large, very sensual muscles. And she likes to show them off. Her tight skirts stop several inches above the knee showing the power in her calves and thighs. And when she turns around, the fabric hugs her "world class ass." That's what a lot of her patients call it. Her tits are large and strain against the buttons in her sleeveless blouse. The muscles in her shoulders and arms ripple.

And yet, no one thinks of Natasha as muscle bound. Maybe it's because she's so god damned sensual. The way she moves. The way her muscles move. So smooth. So graceful. Like a big jungle cat. And she's very friendly.  Women don't envy her. They admire her. Many hold her up as a role model, have starting jogging and weight training to be more like her. The men? They, of course (unless they're suffering from impotency, lack of sex drive, etc), want to take her to bed and fuck her eyes out.

Dr. Richardson (you may call her Natasha, she prefers that, feels "Dr. Richardson" is sort of stuffy) can cure half of her impotency patients in the first thirty minutes of a one hour session. She sits near the front of her desk. Lets her heels slip out of her shoes, exposing her perfectly arched feet. She's not wearing hose. A few minutes into the conversation she lets a shoe fall to the floor and her toes massage a calf, which she flexes very gently.

The patient's eyes widen slightly. Dr. Richardson (excuse me, I mean Natasha) slides very slowly toward the edge of the desk. The patient can't see it, but her fingers have gripped her skirt. Result? Obvious! The skirt stays in place and more of her thighs come into view. As the conversation continues, she slowly rubs her thighs with her fingers, sensually flexing each muscles group slightly as her hands pass over. And she notices a bulge in the patient's pants.

Natasha lets the other shoe fall off. She slides off the desk still griping her skirt. Her thighs are exposed up to where her panties would be if she were wearing any. She isn't. She digs her toes into the carpet and breathes deeply so her large tits rise high on her chest. There is now a stain on top of the bulge in the patient's pants.

Natasha looks into the man's eyes for a moment. He blinks several times. She doesn't. Not once.

"Tell me what you're thinking! And tell me now! Don't stop to think! Just start talking! Now!"

"I want to fuck your eyes out!!!"

Natasha smiles. She walks over to John ( the "patient") and rubs the wet bulge in his pants.

"I thought you were impotent," John.

"Not any more," Dr. Richardson.

"Please, John. Call me Natasha."

John gets up from his chair, pushing his bulge down as best he can and buttoning his coat to hide the stain.

"How much do I owe you? Natasha."

"One thousand dollars, John. Please pay the receptionist on the way out. If I can help you again, please call. And if you have any friends who need help, please ask them to call."

John smiles broadly as he leaves the office, closing the door behind him

6:00pm Friday afternoon. Natasha's gym is in her apartment. That's where the weights are. That's where the mirrors are. She builds her muscles in the nude.  Enjoys watching her muscles strain against the weights. Finds it sexually arousing. Her biceps and triceps bulge as she lifts the heavy dumbbells. Natasha builds her shoulders and chest with the  barbell. And with the heaviest weight  of all, she squats with a heavy barbell on her shoulders and stands, rising on her toes, building her calves thighs and "world class ass".

Then she does stomach crunches until her gut burns to keep her stomach as hard as a rock. She stands and looks in the mirror as the sweat trickles off her and lands on the floor. She runs her fingers over her pumped up muscles. Natasha closes her eyes and breaths deeply. She runs her fingers over the pubic hair between her legs. 

Dr. Natasha Alison Richardson is a brilliant psychologist. She has helped hundreds of people cure their  ills. But she can't seem to cure herself. Natasha has an insatiable, out of control sex drive. And she loves to fight. Lives to fight. To make matters worse, the two enforce each other, feed on each other.

9:00pm Friday night. Natasha sits on a stool at the bar.  Her dress is the same as at the office. Short skirt, sleeveless blouse, exposing her sensual muscles. The bar is a melting pot. Blacks, whites, Hispanics, Asiatic ,Muslims. She sits, slowly flexing her muscles. This will bring sex or a fight. And it won't  take long.

Three white girls are sitting at a table near the bar. One of them is good amateur  boxer. Her name is Susan. Her friends are Jill and Alice. All three are racists.

"Look at that muscle bound,  black bitch", says Susan.  "I can whip her ass in two minutes." Jill and Alice smile at each other. Susan likes to pick fights in bars. She's fought twenty women. Turned their faces into hamburger meat. 

Susan walks over to Natasha.  Sits down on the bar stool next to her.

"You think you're hot shit, don't you, muscles," says Susan.

Natasha looks away and smiles so Susan doesn't notice. Another fight. Another victim. This fool is going to the hospital  

She looks back and glares at Susan, but doesn't reply, doesn't say a word.

"You muscle bound women are nothing but show boats. None of you know how to fight. I can whip your black ass in two minutes."

"Where and when?", responds Natasha.

Susan looks puzzled. "What?"

"Where and when do you want me to whip your lily, white butt?" ask Natasha with a smile. Natasha is not a racist. Hates racism. Despises it. But she just couldn't resist flinging that remark in Susan's face.

Susan's face turns red as a beet.

"Let's fight in the parking lot. Now. But you won't be whipping any butts, you black bitch."

Natasha ignores the racist slur, slides off the bar stool and heads for the parking lot. Most of the people in the bar have heard the exchange of words and follow the two women out the door. Women are fascinated and men love to watch a good old fashioned cat fight.

They're in the parking lot. A large crowd gathers around the women as they prepare to fight.

"My name is Natasha, what's yours?"

"Susan, you black cunt. Why do you blacks always use these African names?"

"Always?" responds Natasha. "My four best friends are Sally, Nancy, Rebecca and Maria. Two of them are black. Which two names are African?, Susan."

Susan's face reddens again. She's a hopeless racist.

"Let's cut the bull shit and fight, Nateesha."

"That's Natasha, Susan."

"Whatever," says Susan as she balls her hands into fists.

Susan starts to advance, but before she takes two steps Natasha kicks off her sandals and quickly takes off her skirt and blouse. She's not wearing panties or bra, completely nude.

The men in the crowd applaud. Natasha, in addition to her sensual muscles, has a great set of large, firm, brown tits and a "world class ass." The kind of ass you see in your dreams. The kind of ass you run your hands over and feel the muscles flex as she meets you thrust for thrust.

"I only fight in the nude," says Natasha.

 Susan looks startled. She's sort of frozen in place, can't move.

A chant starts low in the back and gets louder as it moves through the crowd.

"Take it off, Susan!" "Take it off, Susan!" "Take it off, Susan!" "Take it off, Susan!" "Take it off, Susan!"

Susan's face reddens. She knows she has no choice. Off come her sandals, shorts, tank top, bra and panties. Her white skin contrast with Natasha's brown in the lights of the parking lot. And so does her body. She's the same height as Natasha, five feet, six inches. Her stomach is flat and hard. Her muscle tone good. Her butt tight. But the size and sensuality of her muscles is no match for Natasha's.

Susan moves in close and whispers in Natasha's ear.

"I'm going to kill you, you muscle bound, black bitch. I've been boxing for years, won twenty of these parking lot fights. Never lost a one. This time a win is not good enough. I'm going to kill you."

Without warning, Susan lands a hard right, bloodying Natasha's nose and a left that burst her lip. The red blood flows over her brown skin, down across her tits and stomach. Natasha uses her powerful arms to throw punches at Susan's head. But she easily ducks them and smiles at Natasha. She lunges at Susan, trying to grip her in a  wrestling hold. But Susan's body is as quick as her fists. She moves aside and lands a crashing right to Natasha's forehead.

 Natasha rocks back, stunned. Susan is now like a shark in a feeding frenzy. She turns quickly to the crowd and shouts. 

"You thought this muscle bound, black bitch could beat me, didn't you. Well, that is blood on her black face and not a scratch on my white skin. And now I'm going to finish her off. More red blood on her black skin. Red and black! Red and black! Red and black!"

Susan had expected cheers. The silence is deafening. The crowd from the parking lot has, of course, come from the bar, a melting pot, many races, many religions, mixed marriages. To them, it's not black vs white. It's simply one woman against another. Susan just doesn't get it.

Like Susan, Natasha has never lost a fight. While Susan shouts to the crowd, her mind is racing. She remembers, when she was a little girl,  the great Mohammed Ali's historic fight with George Foreman. 

Foreman was the champion. Strong as an ox, the heavy favorite. But Ali was smart. For the first four rounds he leaned against the ropes, covered his head with his gloves and let Foreman pound away. Foreman wore himself out and Ali decked him, winning back his heavyweight crown.

Natasha smiles. Good idea, Ali. Worked then. Let's try it now. Nothing else seems to be working.

Susan turns back to Natasha and starts punching at her face. But instead of hitting Natasha's face, she's hitting the palms of her hands. Fists are not as large as boxing gloves, so she decides to use the palms of her hands. They cover a wider area. Susan is furious. She decides to go for Natasha's mid section, which is like pounding on a tree trunk.

As Susan drops her fists to Natasha's stomach, she leaves her face open. Natasha shoots a couple of quick jabs to Susan's nose and lips. And now the blood starts to flow from Susan. She steps back, stunned at the sight of blood on her and once again pounds away at Natasha's face. But the blows are getting weaker. And weaker. And weaker.

Natasha knows the time is right. Her arms drop and go around Susan's ribs, the wrists locking at the base of her spine in the classic bear hug. She tucks her head against Susan's chest and begins to to squeeze, to pull. The muscles in her powerful back, shoulders and arms bulge as Susan's ribs begin the crack. 

Natasha's head is unprotected, but it's against Susan's chest. The blows will travel a much shorter distance. Susan gives a few weak punches, tries to push Natasha's head away from her chest, but her strength is gone. Her head rocks back in pain. She makes a futile attempt to reach back and break the bear hug and then blacks out. Natasha releases Susan and lets her fall to the parking lot.

She quickly drops to Susan, to look at the damage. Her bear hug had been aimed mainly at the ribs, not the spine. Ribs will heal. Spine damage can do permanent paralysis, even kill. Natasha wants to win. She does not want to kill or maim. 

Susan is regaining consciousness. "You god damned, black bitch. You could have killed me. Why didn't you"

She looks Susan in the eyes. Natasha's look is blank. No hate. No pity. No joy. No sorrow. Nothing. You just don't get it do you Susan? Maybe some day you will. Maybe some day when you look back at this moment in time, you will.

Now that she's sure Susan will live, Natasha wipes the blood off her face, puts her clothes on and looks around. For a man. After a fight, her sex drive becomes incredibly strong. It overwhelms her. She has a PhD in psychology. Specializes in sexual problems. So why can't she deal with hers?

A white man approaches. He looks about her age and he's at least a foot taller, at least six feet, six. And damn good looking. Natural dark blond hair. Deep blue eyes. Full lips. Strong jaw line. His generous smile shows perfect, white teeth.

"Hi. I'm Bill Carson. And you?"

"Natasha Richardson."

"I'm a paramedic. Some of those cuts on your face look pretty deep. My apartment is just around the corner, Natasha. Walking distance. Would you like to go there so I can take a close look under some bright lights. You may need some stitches."

Bull shit. What kind of idiot does he take me for. He doesn't want to look at my face. He wants to fuck.  

But so does Natasha. She's so sexually aroused after her battle with Susan she has to fight to keep from trembling.

"Yes, Bill. I would appreciate that. Some of the wounds keep bleeding. You're right. I may need stitches."

So now I'm bull shitting. Nothing's bleeding. Let's just get to your apartment.

Bill was right. He does live a short distance from the bar. Natasha admires him as they walk. He's dressed about the same as her. Shorts. T-shirt. And he's built. Strong muscles in his arms, legs, shoulders and chest. His T-shirt rides up occasionally, briefly exposing a rock hard stomach. Bill is a hunk.

11:00pm. Still Friday, They enter Bill's apartment. A one bed roomer. Nice furniture. Pictures of him and his paramedic team standing in front of an ambulance on the walls.

At least he's honest about his occupation.

Bill turns on some bright lights near a table. He pretends to examine Natasha's "wounds."

I've told you I'm a paramedic. What about you, Natasha?"

"I have a PhD in psychology, help men with sexual problems."

Bill smiles. "Guess I won't be seeing you around the office, Natasha. No problems here."

Natasha watches the muscles flex in Bill's arms as he looks at her wounds. She so aroused now she's visibly trembling. 

Bill notices. "Are you OK?"

"That depends on you, Bill. I treat people with sexual problems, but I have one of my own. I can't get enough. No man can satisfy me."

Consider yourself cured, Dr. Richardson.

He takes Natasha by the hand and leads her into the bedroom. They stand. He reaches down. She reaches up. And they pull each other's T-shirt and blouse off. He reaches down. She reaches out. And they pull each other's shorts off. There is no underwear.

Bill sits on the bed and his mouth and tongue move to her large, brown tits, his tongue massaging her nipples until they're rock hard. While his tongue is on her nipples, Natasha takes his dick in her hands and strokes it until he has a full erection. He's huge. But Natasha has seen "huge" before. And reduced it to small and limp.

Natasha bends her head to Bill's ear, bites it gently and whispers. "I can out fuck you Bill. Your big dick will go limp before you satisfy me."

Bill's head moves to her ear. Another gentle bite. "Bull shit, Dr. Natasha Richardson, PhD. Before I'm through, you'll beg me to stop."

Natasha lies on her back and guides Bill into her. Her eyes blaze and every muscle in her body tenses as she reaches her first orgasm. Her powerful muscles flex as she meets Bill thrust for thrust as they build to another orgasm. And another. And another.

This goes on for hours. Natasha's eyes continue to blaze as her bulging muscles guide her to another climax. Bill's muscles are beginning to cramp as he strains to keep his erection. Finally his dick is small and limp. He rolls off Natasha. Completely exhausted.

She sits up in bed.

"I told you I had a problem, Bill"

Natasha quickly puts on her clothes and starts to leave the apartment.

"You're fantastic, Natasha. Where will I see you again?"

"Where? In your dreams, Bill. In your dreams." 

4:00am. Next day. Natasha is in her gym. She's still sexually aroused.

Maybe the exercise, the weights can bring relief.

For the next two hours Natasha lifts dumbbells and barbells. She watches her muscles swell in the mirrors. Sweat pours off her body. Forms a pool on the floor. Instead  of bringing relief, the sight of her muscles arouses her even more.

6:00am. Natasha's muscles are completely exhausted. She can't lift another weight. Her eyes close and she almost blacks out.  She opens then. Looks at her muscles.  Aroused again she sinks to her knees and runs her fingers deep into her pussy. Her body shutters with the orgasm. And then she blacks out and sleeps on the gym floor for twenty four hours.

Picture of Th-Resa Bostick used with permission of Bill Dobbins.

Mail to: womenwhofight@aol.com