I have to accept the blame. Tara and I had a good friendship. I knew she did not have normal relationships with men. She liked being the dominant too much for normal to be a part of her sex life.

She was five foot eleven inches tall and a bodybuilder so she carried herself at a muscular one hundred ninety pounds. I was five inches shorter and thirty pounds south of her weight. We made an interesting sight when we went out for a friendly dinner or to catch a movie.

Tara was heavy into the FemMuscle Dom scene and only dated smaller males she could throw around. Our comparative sizes and her sexual interests led to her mistake.

I am the comatose laid back type. I never liked making decisions about unimportant things like restaurants or what movie to watch. There are very few things that I have ever been assertive about so Tara was the dominant partner, at least in her eyes. In her defense, she was except that it was by default and not choice. She took making the decisions in our friendship as my ceding control. She became more assertive, and I accepted it. She, from her view, understandably took this as a sign that I wanted her to 'dominate' our relationship.

It was a mistake of interpretation; the truth being that nothing I did with her was important to me.

She decided a consummation of our friendship was in order and that I should be the small male Sub to her FemMuscle Dom. She had never challenged me to the type of physical contest she liked with her men because for her it was a sexual experience. I had showed some interest in her activities. Sexuality is something discussed by people in a friendship so I felt obligated.

We were having dinner at a little Italian place that I introduced her to. She seemed extremely excited that evening, anxious and expectant. I could feel the tension but ignored it figuring that she wanted to talk about her newest conquest.

"David?" Tara said quietly.

I looked up from the vodka linguini I was enjoying.

"I'd like to ask you something?"

I nodded.

"Would you like to come over to my place tonight and mix it up?" she asked.

'Mixing it up' is what I had nicknamed the fights that she and her men got into. From what she had told me, it was a combination wrestling and fighting where she got to trounce the guy for about 20 minutes, then fucked him through the common levels of consciousness.

I put my fork down slowly. The situation had to be handled delicately. It is not every day that a friend asks to fuck you.

I had not considered it a real possibility. Tara was a beautiful woman. She had gorgeous shoulder length black hair with a hint of curl, olive skin, and deceptively soft brown eyes that finished off the picture perfect Italian woman. She was a big girl, but incredibly proportional. I was not a breast man, but she had high and tight cups between a C and D. I admired her thighs. There is nothing more attractive than firm, thick thighs, except maybe blonde pubic hair.

Obviously, it was not that I did not find Tara attractive. She wanted something I had been taught painfully never to give someone else; a situation I knew could only end ugly.

I tried to avoid the situation, but it got ugly.

"Tara, I'm not your type," I said quietly but very pointedly.

She did not take me seriously. Maybe, this whole FemDom thing has guys playing hard to get and needing to be convinced.

"Let me be the judge of that" she replied just as pointedly.

"I'm not into your scene, Tara," I told her. "At all."

She smiled at me, the cat stalking the mouse. I stared back; a real predator surprised at the cat's boldness.

I sighed.

"Tara, speaking as your friend, you do not want to do this."

She smiled dangerously, or what she thought was dangerous; her eyes sparked as she fought to keep her temper in a public place. Tara did not like to be balked.

"I know what I want David!"

I tried one last time.

I opened to her, allowing the smile I hid behind to drain. I looked at her through the flat dead eyes that watched me shave every morning. I let her into the place where she was a target that I would not focus on, because the target is irrelevant. I had lived beyond the horizon of her darkness before the training wheels came of her bicycle. I did not want to hurt Tara, but I no one crossed my lines.

She looked back, blind to what I was showing her. I could see the glow of expectation and desire around her. If I had not been challenged, I would have felt sorry for her.

"What are the rules to this encounter?" I asked.

"Winner takes all," she shrugged confident in her victory. I stared out the window.

"No quitting," she continued, "We keep going until someone gives."

She gave me a huge smile. Someone giving meant until someone was taken.

"When?" I asked with a nod of acceptance.

"We stay here long enough to relax, digest the food a little," she explained, "Then we go over to my place, down to my gym, and we mix it up until I win."

Her smile grew in confidence the quieter I became. I was holding down the rush of adrenaline. My body was trying to enter hyper-excitement. My senses heightened as I fought to control the instinct to do what I had been trained to do in that situation, kill her. I nodded and sat back relaxing. It would be an hour before we would move; I did not want to expend energy fighting my body. I pushed the plate out of the way. I had eaten enough in case it went longer than expected, but I did not want to be weighed down if it did. I sat and began the process of coming down. I relaxed every portion of my body individually the way I had done a thousand times. First, my mind thinking of something else, relaxing my facial muscles and forcing them into the rigor of death... My neck rotated left, right, back, forward, and then released the tension. Shoulders rotated forward then back. Biceps and triceps, forearms, and down to wrists. The hands are important so I flexed and released each finger. Back to the torso, taking deep breaths to stretch my lungs and the muscles in my rib cage. Abdominals, hip flexors, quadriceps, and hamstrings. I brought tension to my calves and released. Rotated my feet, and stretched each individual toe.

I sat quietly as Tara finished eating. Almost I was ready, I needed more though.

I had read it in a novel, a description of the attitude a monk exuded, 'serenity of purpose.' I reached for it, bending my body and will to one objective. My instructors had said we would find different ways to deal with the wait before the target gave us the shot. A lot of the other guys talked about different things. I had no need for tricks; I had plenty of experience waiting for my time to come.

I waited relaxed and ready.

I saw her at the edge of my awareness. She was burning energy in the anxious expectation of conquest.

I waited.

She talked about a hundred different things, somewhere deep inside where I never looked, laughter echoed.

I listened to her, and waited.

Finally, she signaled the waiter for the check. When he came over, she paid. She smiled at me, another wasted show of domination. I followed her out of the restaurant, and into her car.

"Can you drive me home for a minute? I need my workout clothes," I asked.

"Sure," she replied I could feel her body revving up even higher.

I went up to my apartment, into my bedroom, and opened the drawer with my workout clothes. I changed quietly into a pair of black rowing shorts, and sweats. I threw my wallet and keys into a small waist bag and went out to her car. Before I closed the door, I felt I should make one last try.

"Are you sure?" I asked her.

She smiled and nodded at the door. I closed it and we drove to her place.

Tara owned a beautiful brownstone, and used all three floors of it. Her parents had money, and she was an only child. She owned an extremely successful gym, but the investment capital came entirely from her family, and there was no risk involved for her. Her parents had never gotten out of the habit of paying for everything. I could not blame them. Tara had been a late child, long after they had given up. Their adjustment to having given up was the only reason they did not completely spoil her.

The brownstone had a personal gym in the basement; no weights, just a Stairmaster for an aerobic warm up and mats for her preferred form of entertainment.

She opened the door to her house and pointed me toward the basement as she walked up the steps to the second floor. The first floor was her living room, library, den, and kitchen. Her personal space was on the second floor.

I walked down the steps to the basement, turned on the lights, stripped down to my shorts, and started stretching. I figured it would take longer than my martial arts matches or even the wrestling of my high school and college days.

I released some of my energy, revving myself up slowly, breathing a little faster, and then slowing down again. I kept my back to her when I heard her on the steps and beginning her own stretching.

After about five minutes, I heard her say "Ready?"

I turned around; Tara was impressive.

She was wearing white spandex shorts over a light green bodysuit. It was really a one-piece workout swimsuit. She turned to model the outfit trying to distract me; trying to make me want. At the small of her back, the bodysuit split into five strips of cloth, two to wrap around her waist and become one over her crotch meeting the one that had run down her back and into the crack of her wonderful ass, the last two strips went up and down her shoulders to give her breasts unneeded support and came down to meet the two strips that were rushing to cover her femininity.

I stared at her hungrily. She smirked at me. I did not smirk back; take in every possible distraction so that they lose power when the time comes. Training had taken over.

"Ready?" she asked again.

I took in a full breath of air expanding my chest, I released it slowly staring across at her; the prize. She did not know it yet.

I nodded.

"Remember no quitting, one person has to give," she said smiling seductively.

I nodded again.

She motioned me to the approximate center of the mats. I moved to it, she reached out her hand to shake mine. I gave her a quick shake.

I watched her move. She was mostly a wrestler, but she had described a few instances where she had to scrap it out with a more than usually reluctant fellow.

She went into a classic wrestling position; I joined her in it. I needed to hit her unexpectedly but not to hurt. I did not want that. I had to walk a fine line to keep her coming, letting her believe she could hold her own.

We locked, unsurprisingly she was as strong as I expected. She had decent balance but it was obvious that I had to be one of the few men she had brought down here that could be her better in strength. I held back. We had different workout regimens, she liked size and tone, and I worked for efficiency. Unfortunately for her, being male gave me an edge. Some women hate to have that pointed out, but biologically the average male is nearly seventy percent stronger in the upper body than a woman; the disparity is not much in the lower half. Tara was not average; she would probably be considered even for a man. I had ground to give though, and was not average either.

I let her test me, giving ground to make her show more of her strength, to make her waste energy. She would have had the female lead over me in endurance, but her regimen did not work on that and mine held to the maximum effort for the longest amount of time; purpose over flash. I needed her physically exhausted if I was going to beat through her mental defenses.

She drove me backward and down. I turned to her left driving her strength down. I released and moved away from her. She got up slowly, surprise showed on her face and a lot of annoyance. She thought she had me pegged, but people rarely pay attention. They are so caught up in themselves that they do not notice when someone does not talk about himself or herself.

I had wrestled for four years in high school and four in college. I was never one of the best but I could give anyone a hard fought match. My biggest problem was that I was a late bloomer; I was not fully developed until twenty-five. Tara was wrestling me with the full confidence of my ability and growth. She was good, but only a good play wrestler.

She smiled and moved into me. She faked another lock up and tried to kick me in the thigh. I turned it at the last second. Hips do not lie so I had seen it coming. She had thrown a good fake, but her hips told me the truth.

She smiled at me confidently; I looked into her eyes. She thought she hurt me.

Laughter echoed deep inside. How could she have come this far and not read the subtle turning?

I moved to her, faked the lockup, moved to the right when she went for it and kicked her thigh. It was solid but without power. She had challenged, but if she quit I would have let her go. I needed her confident for a little longer. I needed her to be angry just a step beyond reason with the taste of blood in her mouth.

Challenged, I meant to take.

She looked up at me surprised, in one second that surprise turned back into quiet confidence. She thought that was all I had to give. The bloodlust was flowing through her. She should have known I was stronger from our clench, but she was at the edge of not thinking.

It continued for five minutes, she challenged again and again. I kept turning blows and using greater wrestling experience to get out of holds and clenches so I would not have to show how badly she was overmatched. She was strong but play fought. I was holding back trying not to cause damage. I hoped she would not surprise me and get hurt for it.

It was in her eyes, she was beyond real thought. Sexual excitement, the taste of pain, and the greater challenge had carried her to the other side.

Inside me an exultant cry repeated.

Mine.

MINE!

MINE, GODDAMN YOU, MINE!!!!!

I smiled and focused past her. I released the controls, letting adrenaline's song dance in my veins. Purpose flooded me and I hardened.

We clenched and I let her turn me. She had my back and wrapped her arms around my rib cage. I filled my lungs to capacity, and held as she pulled me up into a reverse bear hug.

I gave her thirty seconds. Kicking backward in rhythm, I struck her calves and knees.

Twenty-five seconds. I started a loose rhythm of downward elbows on her upper arms and forearms.

Twenty seconds. I flailed wildly keeping the blows raining down on her.

Fifteen seconds. I lessened the power of the shots. I did not want to hurt her; I wanted to weaken her beyond return. She should have thrown me down but the flailing seemed panicked.

Ten seconds. I increased the flailing.

Five seconds. I brought my hands down to her grip.

I let the air out of my lungs, and used whatever leverage I had to insert part of my thumb between us. I applied pressure with my other hand directly on top of her hands and pushed downward to attack the grip.

She bent down to keep her hold. I stepped to the right and behind her thigh. I continued the motion around her, trying to get behind her. It is the best method of breaking a hold from behind by leveraging beyond their reach while trapping the hip. She tried to hold on to the bear hug instead of dropping out of it, or dancing in the direction I wanted to go.

Leverage beat her.

As she released, I drove an elbow and the beginning part of my tricep into her rib cage. It was a flat strike used only to strain and take some of the flexibility out of her rib cage.

I moved away from her.

Deep inside I gave a low whistle of admiration; the same sheen of sweat that covered my body covered Tara. It brought out the beautiful coloring of her skin. Moving backward I drank her in, taking in distraction when it did not count.

She kept her distance, but I did not move forward. If she quit, I would have let her. Slowly, I saw confidence returning. I had not tried to hurt only wear her out. The minute I danced away from her some of the soreness drained out of her.

Cross the line!

She moved on me. We beat on each other for a few minutes. In truth, she beat at me, and I drained her.

She tried to go head to head with me in pain tolerances. If she had asked, she would have known how badly she would lose. I let her take the majority of the shots in our exchange turning them again and again. I absorbed more punishment than what I was dealing to her but head to head, if she had asked she would have known I would be fighting long after she had broken down in blood tears. If she had asked, we would not have been there. I would have told her about my childhood, beatings upon beatings until pain is an expression of love.

Pain on top of unhealed pain.

I would have told her the truth. I lived through that truth, lived with it. They did not break me. They made me stronger, stronger than this woman in front of me. Tara never asked, but she paid.

Pain was the fine edge of excitement for me, like the pleasure a child feels at picking a scab.

We piled it on each other, blow after blow. She was good, strong, fast; a dangerous combination, but I wanted to take now. I cushioned the blows I threw at her, spreading damage across the maximum area. We kept dancing; moving in, she sent two shots at me. I turned them and kicked across her thighs. We separated. She moved back in, I took the shots on the outside of my arms, and kicked her with the full bottom of my foot in the ribs.

If we clenched, I leaned on her forcing her to work on the edge of her power while I had not fully started moving forward in tempo. It was slow going, but I did not want victory. I wanted her exhausted beyond defeat.

I let her lead our dance. She was bathed in sweat. I let her drive the pace at what she wanted, I knew if she thought she was in charge she would not stop. I did not want to stop. The voice in the depth was getting closer to the surface.

She went for a wrestling clench that I turned out to trip her. I landed on top of her, stretched myself out so that my toes kept me balanced. Wrestling spins on top of an opponent, keep them driven into the mat, carrying as much of your weight as you can get on them. Do it for too long during a match and it is stalling, but here there was no referee. I could force her to work against an extra hundred pounds. She tried to rest on the bottom. I moved down her back until I was forcing her diaphragm into the mat cheating her of deep breaths. I used my forearm at the back of her neck to force her head down making it uncomfortable for her and cutting off more air. She was recovering slowly, but she was behind in endurance, and I was getting more rest out of the position.

I let her up, and she moved back.

She had to go into her reserve. I let myself drop into the next gear. I breathed deeper; she smiled at me. It must have seemed like I was running out of breath. I was taking in more oxygen, feeding myself, revving higher, letting the depths get closer to the surface.

She moved in on me again, a predator that could not admit she had made a mistake.

I love strong women! It was unfortunate that Tara wanted me bent to her will. We could have been equals. She moved fast, but I was reacting with distance between us.

I let the darkness out to dance with her.

This time it was fifty-fifty in the shot count. She was absorbing as much punishment, but it looked like she was giving as good as she got. For a second, I wanted her to quit. She faltered, and I took ground with that split second of mercy forgotten.

There was no stopping now. We had been at it for a half-hour, much longer than she was used to. She had taken more punishment than she ever had to. I took the lead driving her back and down. Rage began to flow through my veins.

She had told me, "I only know master or slave, nothing in between!"

Inside my head, I could hear the furious yells.

"Learn to crawl, slave!"

It got louder and louder as blows fell on her.

"QUIT, BITCH! Quit and walk away!"

I had bellowed it at her. She turned her face up to me. From somewhere in her soul, I could see the challenge still in her eyes.

Tara was a woman of her words; master or slave.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

I felt the voice inside howl its victory. It took me over for the split second that it takes to capture mercy, pity, empathy, and any emotion. It dragged them all down into the little box I built on the last day I cried myself to sleep from the pain. It left behind only the waiting and the purpose.

I beat her, not with the helpless frustration that a boy beats his wife or girlfriend, nor with that impotent anger.

I beat her with soulless purpose. She had made a choice; master or slave and challenged me with it. The clues were all there, but she did not want to pay attention, or maybe she knew all along how it had to end.

I beat her into defeat, and then deeper. I beat her until her will shattered on exhaustion.

Master or slave!

I stopped; I let her swim in the sound of her sobs, and hot feeling of tears.

She lay flat on her stomach crying. I watched as her breaking stopped, and she started to heal inside trying to build up what I had taken from her. I felt something release inside me, a return of the human. Pure lust, undiluted by anything soft rose inside me.

No quitting, someone must give; someone must be taken.

More of the words that Tara lived by.

I untied the ties of my shorts. I could see her watching as I unlaced them recognition came to her eyes.

Someone must be taken.

I pushed the shorts down my hips to my feet and stepped out of them toward her. She did not even try to move away from me. I reached down grabbing a fistful of her sweat-matted hair. I pulled her up until she was on her knees with my cock inches from her mouth. I pulled her toward me as I cut the distance between her face and my crotch. Blood flooded, and I got harder the closer her face came to me.

I could feel her breath on my balls as her face forced my dick up and to the right. Her eyes looked up at me, not pleading just accepting. She had been playing a game before me. I was always different, and now she was the prize.