Gypsy Vengeance

Mayıs 1, 2024 Yazar admin 0

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Queens, New York

It was difficult telling whether the Gypsy stripper was moving around the pole or if the pole was just moving around her. She slipped around it like a silk ribbon, twisted her body around it sensuously. Her full, pouty lips were parted slightly, as though she were silently moaning.

The evil and cruel Albanian club owner and sex trafficker was pleased. He smiled darkly as he rubbed at the growing bulge in his pants, enjoying the show. The strain of his shaft against his pants was finally too much and he unzipped, freeing himself.

If the dancer saw him take himself out, she never even blinked. She just went on dancing, flinging her jet black hair back over her shoulder, grinding against the shiny dancing pole, wrapping her long legs around it and climbing to the top.

Miroslav Kastrati was particularly happy with this choice of woman that would satisfy him tonight. She was probably the most beautiful of all the strippers who worked in his club. He couldn’t think of any other girl being this good, moving that well. He was lucky to have found her at all; after what he had done to one other dancer last month, he had to keep a low profile.

It wasn’t a big deal for him, really, but it was an enormous pain in the ass to have to deal with all the questions, with the police coming in and poking around. Miroslav was the eldest son of a rich lawyer, who was also a veteran human trafficker, so it wasn’t like he was in any real danger of being arrested. And Miroslav had most of the strip joints and brothels cowering in terror, too afraid to refuse him when he came calling.

What was he going to do to this one, he wondered, slowly beginning to stroke himself under the table. He’d have his way with her one way or another, but afterwards, what would he do? He was in a private room in his club with guards posted outside both the front and back doors, so she couldn’t escape, and the walls and doors were thick enough that it was almost impossible to hear anyone shrieking and begging for their lives.

This vixen was amazing, though. She did not seem afraid. She climbed to the top of the pole and opened her legs wide, slowly rotating around as she exposed her barely concealed sex to him. She smiled and then clamped her legs down tight on the pole and hung upside down, facing him. Her breasts were threatening to slip out of her sexy half bra, her dark nipples peeking over the edge.

The Romanian Gypsy woman sat up straight and slowly slid back to the ground. She ground against the pole for a moment before turning to face him, her eyes smoky, her red lips smirking. Miroslav frowned, narrowing his eyes at her as she gracefully loped towards him, finally sinking to her knees and crawling to him.

He opened his mouth to say that he hadn’t give her permission to stop dancing, but her eyes were enchanting and he couldn’t find his voice. He straightened a bit in surprise as she made her way between his legs, sliding her long fingers along the insides of his thighs. She wrapped her hand around his penis and pulled, seeming to giggle as he groaned and dropped his head back against the couch.

The cruel Miroslav didn’t like this. He didn’t like that this Gypsy bitch was in control of him. He didn’t like that she wasn’t afraid of him. He sat up, ready to grab her by the hair and jerk her away, but she lowered her head and licked his testicles, swirling her hot wet tongue up his shaft and then to the head of his shaft. She slid her mouth down over him, taking his entire length and thickness deep into her throat. She let out a small breathy sigh as she swallowed, as he jerked his whole body off the couch. It felt amazing!

Gradually the woman started to bob her head up and down, sucking hard on him, jerking it with her hand, pumping him hard. With her free hand she reached down into her tiny thong, sliding those long fingers over her clit and folds. She moaned around his shaft, bobbing her head faster as she ground against her own hand.

Just when Miroslav felt his climax approaching, the woman jerked her head away, her hand squeezing down on the base of his shaft to cut him off. She thrashed between his legs, her head whipping back as she gave a long, primal moan of ecstasy, coming hard before him.

Miroslav’s eyes flared. How dare the bitch come before he did. How dare she stop him like that! She was going to pay for it…

As soon as the last of the shudders faded, the stripper licked her lips and grinned mischievously as she stood, slipping her panties down her long legs, and slowly crawling over him. Miroslav stared up into her beautiful face in disbelief. Who did she think she was?

Crouching over him, the woman took his wet shaft in her hand and before impaling herself, she dragged the blunt head up and down between her folds then carefully sheathed him inside of her. Both of them gasped and moaned at the feeling, her sheath so hot and so tight around him. She lowered herself all the way down to the hilt and groaned, carefully lifting Anadolu Yakası Yabancı Escort and lowering herself on top of him.

Miroslav couldn’t do anything. He went completely limp. His mind was screaming in outrage, but she felt so perfect that he did not have the will to fight back. He just laid there against the couch, enjoying it, feeling the hard nipples of her breasts springing free of her bra and rubbing themselves against his face. He turned his head and licked at one, struggling to draw it into his mouth. Even as the seductive vixen moaned in pleasure, she seemed to know that he was going to bite her and leaned back, away from him.

He felt her sheath beginning to pulse and grow wetter. He gasped in shock as her body tightened around him and seized, as she thrashed against him and shrieked in euphoria, pounding her body hard against his, bruising them both before finally slumping against him.

She stopped moving just as he was about to come. Outraged, he grabbed her by the arms and shoved her back up right on his lap. He was going to have fun with this one after she was done with him.

Miroslav yelped as the woman’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the jaw, brutally jerking it open. Her opposite hand planted itself against his forehead and shoved his head back, pinning it against the back of the couch.

The woman lowered her face to his and opened her mouth over his. Miroslav tried to scream as the woman squeezed the life out of him; all of his air.

Finally it was done, and the woman carefully lifted herself off and stepped back, letting the body of the murderer slump back onto the cushions. He got what he deserved, the murderous bastard. He had gone too far and viciously killed young girls who were victims of sexual slavery, including her sister, and this was her way to exact revenge on the man who had killed her.

Heaving a small sigh, the woman hooked her bra and put it in position. Then she straightened her panties and leaned forward to picked up her short skirt. After she was dressed she left the murderer’s club by the backdoor. She didn’t care who found the body. One less sadistic murderer in the world. The police should thank her for taking out the trash. If by some way she’d be arrested, then so be it.

Luludja was an exceptional woman. Being six foot one, she was in tremendous shape and very proficient in fencing, Savate, which was a full-contact boxing and kicking art indigenous to France, and karate. And also in Krav Maga, an Israeli martial art developed by Hungarian born, Imi Lichtenfeld in the 1930’s. At one hundred and forty pounds, she was more physically fit than most woman, and was able to get out of dangerous situations quickly and efficiently.

She had just killed Miroslav, a sadistic Albanian sex trafficker who deserved what he had gotten. Using sex, she had been able to get close to him, and will continue doing so, as her plan was to go after men like Miroslav.

As Lichtenfeld said, “Move quickly from defense to attack by becoming the aggressor as fast as possible.”

Moscow, Russia

A fist shot at her face much faster than she’d expected. Luludja felt certain it would impact somewhere on the side of her head, but at the very last second her body seemed to take over and jerked her head out of the way. The fist sailed through empty air and as it went past her, she saw the opening she needed. In a blink of an eye, she fired three solid punches into the attacker’s midsection.

Sweat was pouring down Luludja’s face and into the folds of her karate uniform. It was stained with sweat, dust and exertion of the past few hours.

She turned to the judges and waited. Two white flags went into the air.

She beamed but contained her joy over winning the match. She was getting better and more confident with every match. Instead she executed a formal bow from her waist to the judges. Then she walked to her defeated opponent, a twenty-five-year-old Frenchman with light brown hair. He was still bent over, fighting for the air Luludja had knocked out of his lungs.

As she approached, he looked up and frowned. “How did you do that?”

She just shrugged. “I thought you had me, Jean-Pierre. But somehow my reflexes kicked in.”

“Good fight. I may never breathe normally again, though.” He tried to grin, but winced in pain instead. His friends helped him off the tatami mats.

Luludja turned and went the other way toward the side where her gear lay. One more match and she’d be done for the day.

“What a woman,” Jean-Pierre muttered to his friends when the dark-haired and dark-skinned woman was out of earshot.

But the last fight of the day was looking to be nothing but nearly impossible. She gulped down water and waited for the next opponent to walk onto the mat.

When he did, Luludja felt her stomach twist itself in knots. This man was a monster. Anatoly Chernoskulov was one of the most feared fighters out of Russia. An expert stylist, Anadolu Yakası Yeni Escort he liked to practice his punches against brick walls. He’d split his knuckles so often that doctors had finally removed the remaining cartilage and simply sewn the knuckles together. Anatoly had calluses on top of calluses and was well over six feet, his thighs were as big as tree trunks.

He lumbered across the mat and stood in front of her with his arms folded across his huge chest. “I will not be easy as puny Frenchman,” he stated.

Jean-Pierre wasn’t easy, Luludja thought.

She took another sip of water and then mopped her sweating brow. The material of her uniform top stuck to her skin. She flapped it, trying to get some air circulating so she’d be able to move without getting caught up in it.

Anatoly did some deep squats across the ring, warming up his body. As the champion of Sambo, he was going to be a difficult opponent.

The judges looked at Luludja and she nodded, then stepped onto the mat. Anatoly turned and bowed to the judges. She did the same.

Anatoly turned to Luludja and gave her a bow. She bowed in the same way.

The referee stepped in between them and held his hand horizontally. He looked at both of them again, but she already had her eyes on the big Russian.


Anatoly stalked Luludja right away, coming at her from the side, like a crab. She pivoted to her southpaw stance, bringing her guard higher than normal, aware that Anatoly will attack with straight punches aimed at her head, trying to score immediate knockouts. She had seen him successfully knock out three previous opponents on his way to this match. She hoped to defeat this man and become the champion of this tournament.

Anatoly shot out a feint with his right leg, a flashing roundhouse kick aimed at her upper thigh. Luludja stepped back out of range, letting the kick sail past her. His follow up was a straight blast aimed at her head.

She ducked and deflected the blow away to the inside and punched at the Russian’s exposed chest. He brought his left hand in sharply and punched her arm out of the way. She dropped back and away, clutching her arm.

Damn, that hurt, she thought. She took a breath and gritted her teeth. Let’s see how he likes this.

Against all her normal strategic thinking, Luludja jumped and let a loud shout erupt from her lungs as she folded her legs up and under her, aiming her left foot at Anatoly’s head.

The jumping side kick caught her big opponent by surprise, and he barely missed getting his head snapped to the side by her kick. She landed, aware that he was already punching at the exact spot where she’d be landing. Instead of standing, Luludja let the momentum drop her to the ground and then pivoted and swept Anatoly’s legs out from under him. He went down hard and the judges scored it one point for her.

Just two more to go, she thought as her opponent hauled himself to a standing position again, and glared at her.

No way is he going to fall for that again, she thought with a forced smile. Still, it was worth seeing the look of surprise on his face. Especially since she knew Anatoly was a notorious misogynist who thought women belonged either in bed or in the kitchen, preferably both.

The referee barked at them again to begin, and Luludja and Anatoly faced off.

This time, the Russian didn’t waste time by trying to find the Romanian’s weak points. He simply flew at her with punch after punch, forcing her to back up again and again, blocking them as they came shooting at her.

Anatoly attacked with a ferocity she hadn’t experienced from all her previous opponents. His punches came at her from different angles and levels. He punched high and low and right in the middle. She kept backing up, aware that the edge of the mat loomed closer.

Finally, Anatoly got one punch past her and an instant later Luludja felt it slam into her lower abdomen and drive every last bit of breath from her lungs. She fell backward and landed hard on the edge of the mat.

She tried to flush her lungs but her diaphragm seemed to be spasming. Anatoly’s face came into view, hovering over her.

“That makes us even at one point each, Miss Romania.” He smiled. “Now it really is anyone’s match.”

He helped her to her feet. “Just don’t mistake this for anything but what it is; a long overdue lesson for all women that they need to stay away from competitive fighting. They belong at home, or entertaining men in clubs.”

The last part of the statement infuriated her. She was willing to bet he was involved in sex trafficking. If he was, he was a dead man. Maybe not now, but somewhere down the road.

“What a hateful statement,” she said. She smiled at Anatoly. “But don’t worry, I’ll make sure this doesn’t sting too much when I lay you out on your ass.”

The Russian just chuckled and walked to his edge of the mat. The audience had quieted, aware that both Anadolu Yakası Masaj Salonu fighters were even in points. One more score would decide the match. Luludja could feel their eyes on her as they leaned in to watch.

She could smell of sweat that tinged the air, and her thoughts went to what had brought her here in the first place.

After deciding to do something about the human trafficking problem that plagued Eastern Europe, in which her sister was a victim, she wanted to become a fighting machine and take on the smugglers and traffickers in hand-to-hand combat. In her intense desire for justice, she had soared to the top in a short period of time.

And now, here she stood, awaiting Anatoly’s final attack. Her nerves seemed poised at the edge of a very steep cliff, ready to jump at a moment’s notice. Even the sweat seemed to still wherever it was on her body.

Anatoly’s eyes glistened like those of a hungry tiger about to consume an antelope he’d pursued and had cornered. Her stomach still hurt, but her breathing had returned to normal.

For the last time the referee stepped between them. Once more, he looked at them both.

Luludja nodded.

Anatoly grinned.


The crowed roared and jumped to their feet. Shouts and cheers echoed across the cavernous room as the Romanian woman circled the Russian man. The Sambo practitioner smiled and then roared as he launched a high roundhouse kick toward Luludja’s left temple. She stepped inside and started to drop to punch into his groin.

This should bring him down, she thought.

But in that instant, Anatoly recoiled his kick and then shot his left arm out, getting her across the throat in an chokehold.

She knew she would be defeated if she couldn’t get out of the hold. She grabbed Anatoly’s arm and used it to vault herself over like a gymnast. As she spun over, she kicked out with both feet at his chest.

He sidestepped and shot a punch at her head.

Luludja ducked out of the way and the two of them broke apart again.

Sweat poured down both their faces. She blinked through the salt and kept her guard up. Her arms felt like lead weights, dragging her down, but she was all too aware of how fighters often tire. Once the guard started to drop, the other fighters usually had no problem finishing them off. Luludja was determined to not let that happen. Especially since she’d spent enough time listening to her self-appointed trainer, harp on her about keeping her hands up where they could protect her.

Anatoly’s guard had stayed perfectly in position throughout the entire fight. His arms were like steel girders wrapped in sinew. He still maneuvered on deeply bent legs, keeping his center of balance low and steady. Trying to unseat him would be pretty much impossible.

He screamed and came at her with a series of stomping kicks aimed at her midsection. He looked as if he was taking giant steps across the mat, and she had to sidestep them again and again.

This is ridiculous, she thought. It’s time I went on the attack.

She turned and launched a single roundhouse kick at the Russian’s head. He casually flicked it away and in that instant, Luludja went low, driving her elbow toward his stomach.

He blocked that as well. She came up, driving up both arms with an uppercut at the underside of his square jaw. He pivoted out of the way and then dropped unexpectedly to the floor. She felt the crushing blow of Anatoly’s instep sink into stomach and then lift her high off the ground. When it was fully extended, he retracted his right foot, but Luludja kept sailing through the air, tumbling before crashing to the floor in a broken heap just as the judges raised their red flags.

She had lost the match.

She got to her feet, determined not to lie there like a beaten fool. Even though her stomach ached as if someone had used it as a punching bag, she bowed to the judges and then to Anatoly.

“Next time,” she said through gritted teeth, “you’ll lose. I promise you that.”

Anatoly smiled.

Luludja hobbled over to her bag and drank down the last of her water. The crowd was still cheering as the Russian soaked up the adoration. He bowed several times and then left the mat. The spectators left soon after.

She sat there for another few minutes, catching her breath. She lifted the water bottom to her lips but found it drained of the precious liquid.


She looked up and into the darkest eyes she had ever seen. He held out a fresh bottle of water and smiled.

A shiver went through her. Wow, she thought. What was that? “Thanks,” was all she could say.

“That was some fight. You held your own against him remarkably well.”

“Remarkably well? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He held up his hands. “Please, I mean no disrespect. I certainly do not share Anatoly’s viewpoint on the role of women in society.”

“You know what he thinks about women?” Luludja asked.

He smirked. “Anatoly has made no secret of his views on women and the martial arts. You can read about them in any number of magazines.” He watched as the arena emptied out. “Anatoly is an extremely adept opponent, however. But you made him work for that win. And that is something that doesn’t happen too often. You should be very proud of how well you fared.”

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