Close encounters of the painful kind. By Smac. An innocent man encounters Vanessa, twice. Corrected 12/06/2001 I'm usually in and out of Tesco's as quickly as possible. It's normally in, a pack of lager, checkout and back on my bike. But today was different. Almost as soon as I went through the gaping doors I saw her. She stood over six feet tall. The man who was beside her, presumably her husband, though of normal stature, looked small beside the strapping woman. He had mostly grey hair and a straggly, greying beard, thick glasses and a slight stoop. She had grey flecks in her dark brown hair, though it was cut fairly short. But, apart from her height and obvious physique, it was the black leather that stopped me in my tracks. I thought at the time that she must have had the leather clothes specially made for her, for despite her size, and shape, they moulded her form precisely. There was a well filled black leather jacket, with the short collar turned up to her bare neck, such were her breasts it looked like she had a couple of footballs stuffed down the front. The trousers were a little baggy but one could still see her rounded bum and even the outline of her panties beneath. The ensemble was finished off with an obvious pair of black leather boots worn under the thick, black leather trousers. I watched her for a short while then, as soon as I thought they were headed for the checkout, I grabbed my lagers and zoomed off in the same direction. Just like in the films, I tucked in behind her at the till whilst her obviously timid husband packed their purchases back into the shopping trolley. I was so close to this Amazon I could smell her. It was probably just soap. I noticed that on her almost manly hands she wore an enormous cluster of assorted rings on the ring finger of her left hand. As she tucked her cards back into her pockets she suddenly turned and made brief eye contact with me, then she nodded at the man and they headed for the exit doors. As I unlocked my bike I noticed her climbing into the driving seat of a quite old and tatty 4 x 4. Again she fixed me with a withering stare. I carried on into work and, after an hour or so of savouring the memory, told my colleague all about her. He was singularly unimpressed. That was a Tuesday. On the Thursday he brought the local newspaper into work with him and a couple of hours into the shift boredom had exerted it's grip on me to the extent that I was prepared to ask him for a loan of the parochial little rag. I started with the small ads. There it was, in the personal column. 'Athletic woman 6ft. 38 years old offers training to willing men and women - write to Vanessa at Box No. 33347' I slipped a crumpled piece of paper into my pocket and returned the paper with the usual observations. Despite the lateness of the hour, as soon as I got home on went the doorstop and I wrote the fateful letter to the paper's box number. The house was detached, quite large and had quite a run down air about it. Nervously, I rang the doorbell. A large, somewhat familiar form filled the frosted glass aperture. As the door creaked open I noticed another vaguely recognisable figure leave the back of the house and drive away in an old four wheel drive. She stood, almost filling the doorway. Her dress was the same as I'd seen in the supermarket just over a week before, leather jacket and trousers, the boots replaced by scruffy black leather moccasins. "You!" she hissed. Her voice husky with the hint of a foreign accent. "Come on in." "We've just come back from exercising the dogs, you can look at these while I change." They were picture albums containing photographs of Vanessa in various modes of dress including sportswear and, yes, shorts and boxing gloves. My hands trembled as turned the page and studied some more photos of Vanessa in what looked like a leather g string and tiny black boxing gloves. "Anything catch your eye?" I looked up. Vanessa towered over me. She had her strong arms folded over the thin, white blouse straining over her incredible breasts. Her thick, black leather mini skirt finished half way up her meaty brown thighs and she tottered on black heels that must have added at least four inches to her already heady height. "These," I stammered, pointing to the photos of her in the leather g string and boxing gloves. "Brave boy," she smiled, "haven't got to use the boxing gloves on anyone for ages." My guts tightened. "Do you want to fight, or do you just want me to beat you up?" "You can box?" I asked incredulous. The 'Ja' was clearly discernible. "Can you?" she asked threateningly. "Well... no," I admitted. "Good," she smiled, "we'll fight to a finish, ok?" I nodded. "What do you want me to wear?" I pointed to one of the photos of her in the g string and boxing gloves. "Give me a few minutes," she growled. I returned, gratefully, to the photo albums. My eyebrows shot up as I turned the next page. She was in the leather g string and boxing gloves again, but this time she had the gloves high over her head. Her massive breasts thrust out over the prostrate figure of a man, her partner by the look of it. She had her bare foot on his blood spattered chest. His face seemed to be a bloody pulp. "Do you want me to use the same gloves as in the photo? They are six ounce gloves," she asked from behind me. I looked up. She was barefoot but covered by a threadbare, dirty white towelling robe. I swallowed hard but nodded. "What are you going to wear?" I didn't know what to say. "You have anything to be ashamed of?" I smiled weakly. "Ok," she snapped, "be undressed by the time I come back." My hands were trembling so much I had trouble getting out of my clothes, but soon I stood naked in the vast kitchen. "Right I'm ready for you." I followed meekly. It was clearly an exercise room. There was even a heavy bag hanging in the corner. In the middle of the huge room were some exercise mats. They were covered in ominous looking stains. There were two rickety stools standing apart from the mats, each had a very thin looking and tatty pair of old, brown boxing gloves on the seat. She undid the belt of her dressing gown. "Come here and lace my gloves on," she commanded. She picked a pair up from one stool and handed them to me. As I tied them onto her big hands, I noticed that the big cluster of rings were missing from her left hand. Once her gloves were tightly tied to her satisfaction she padded, barefoot over to the mats, peeling the gown from her shoulders just before she stepped onto them. She turned to face me. I nearly came on the spot. Her strong face was make up free. Although she must be in her forties, her great tits stood out on her chest like two footballs with dark brown nipples standing out further few centimetres. The thin, black leather of the g string was drawn up between her barrel thighs. She surely must shave between her legs. She planted her little boxing gloves on the crowns of her matronly hips and nodded towards the other stool. I took the strong hint. The ragged boxing gloves had Velcro at the cuffs and, after some minutes struggling I got them fastened. By now Vanessa was clearly more than ready for a fight. "Come on," she snapped, "get over here." I knocked my almost useless boxing gloves together and headed for the mats. "We fight until one of us is knocked out, ok?" Without any warning she began to hit me. I didn't know what was happening or how to defend myself. The only time she eased up was when she forced me off the square of mats. On about the third occasion she succeeded in this, I looked down at my chest and noticed that I was becoming covered in blood. I stumbled back onto the mats and she uppercut me in the face as I approached her. I felt my nose give. I went down for the first time, onto my knees, my arms round her meaty thighs, watching the blood from my broken nose running down her legs and over her bare feet. "Had enough?" she laughed. I pulled myself up until my wrecked face settled between her massive, heaving bosom. "You said a knock out," I mumbled. "Ok, if that's what you want." She pushed me away and I remember a blinding pain before the lights went out. She stood much as she had at the start of the beating, breasts thrust out, gloves on hips. I lay at her bare feet in the foetal position, my head throbbing, my boxing gloves thrust between my thighs. I looked up and tried to focus on her. Then I noticed the little flecks of my blood on her magnificent breasts. "You can sleep here tonight," she said softly, "I have told my husband to stay out in the outhouse with the dogs for the weekend." She helped me up and we headed off to another part of the house and another part of the story.