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.