The Terminator's Daughter

All aspiring athletes have their share of sports heroes, and Alexa Goodwin is no exception. As a soccer playing youngster, it was Mia Hamm. Later, when she took up gymnastics, it was Dominique Dawes. And presently, as she gains interest in competing in the martial arts, she's got one right in her own home—her dad, Jim "the terminator" Goodwin.

Back in the day, Jim Goodwin was one of the most feared amateur middleweight cage fighters around. Standing around six-one, weighing close to the class limit of 185lbs, he compiled an enviable 25-3 won-loss record before retiring in his late thirties. What made Jim so formidable was a combination of superb conditioning and technique in the major disciplines of MMA: boxing, kick boxing, grappling and jiu-jitsu. He could knock a man out just as easily as he could throw on a choke hold or arm bar. He might have turned pro if not for his day job at A-1 Auto Repair, a body shop he co-owns with his brother, and one that earns him a much better living than pro fighting ever could.

These days, Jim, now in his late forties, confines his involvement with MMA to watching the matches on TV. His wife Kendra has no interest in it, nor does Danielle, Alexa's younger sister. But Alexa does. She admires the fitness and courage of the women fighters especially. Carla Esparza. Miesha Tate. Cat Zingano. Holly Holm. Ronda Rousey. It amazes her the way that strong, tough chicks like Rousey, Holm and the retired Gina Carano can be so fearsome in the octagon, yet so attractive and feminine out of it.

"I can do that," she says one day to Jim as they watch one of the bouts. "That's for me."

Jim sighs and shakes his head. "First get through college," he says to his nineteen year old daughter, "then we'll see." In truth, he's not crazy about the idea of his baby girl stepping into the octagon, ending up bloody and bruised. He's not against women cage fighters per se; he just doesn't want his own daughter to be among them.

Little does he know that Alexa already has a head start. For the past few weeks, she's been working out a few afternoons a week at Westwood 10, one of only two mixed martial arts gyms in the area. She's yet to fight an actual match. Instead, she's learning technique, plus conditioning herself with cardio work and weight training.

She drops this bit of news as she and Jim lounge on the sofa, glued to their sixty inch flat screen TV in their club basement. "So I figure I might be ready in another few months to fight my first amateur bout," she tells him. "The people at Westwood are great. But you've held several championship belts whereas none of them have. Craig Lowery, one of the co-owners, was so impressed when I told him who my dad was. He even suggested that you could be my primary coach. 'Holly Holm calls herself the preacher's daughter. You can call yourself the terminator's daughter', is what he said. Does that sound cool or what?"

Jim raises an eyebrow and folds his thick, muscular forearms against his chest. "You really want to do this?" She nods. "Well, okay, but be prepared to take the good with the bad. You've seen what some of these women look like after a bout, blood gushing from deep gashes, their faces all swollen and bruised. Of course, I'm prejudiced, but you're very pretty, and I'd hate to see that lovely face all messed up."

By any conventional measure, Alexa is indeed very pretty: big blue eyes and thick auburn hair that drops below her shoulders and frames a face without a blemish on it. Her hundred-watt smile reveals a gap in her front teeth a' la super model Lauren Hutton. But she's hardly built like a super thin catwalk model. Standing five-foot six, weighing around one-forty, she's on the stocky side, with arms and legs that are thick and deceptively smooth, devoid of the sort of well defined muscularity of a Holly Holm or Cat Zingano. In body type, she's more akin to Ronda Rousey, a mix of endomorph and ectomorph.

Alexa can't argue with the bad part, not with this man who sports a slightly crooked nose, broken more than once during his fighting days. In her opinion, it makes him look more masculine, handsome in the sort of rugged way she admires in men generally. She thinks the tattoos etched into both forearms enhance his macho image even more. She takes his hand, leans forward and gives him a peck on the cheek. "I'll be okay, dad, especially with you standing behind me, coaching me. What do you say?"

"Well, you've always been a determined girl, gone after anything you wanted. And I guess you're going to pursue this new venture of yours no matter what. So okay, if you think I can help you realize your goal, I'll do anything I can to help you get there."

Alexa throws her arms around him, then hops on his lap, something she hasn't done since she was in grade school.

"Whoa there, little girl!" Jim says, throwing his arms up in the air. "It's great you're so enthusiastic, but—"

"But what? I've just landed as a coach a former MMA champ. Who just so happens to be my big, bad-ass dad." Before he can say anything more, she kisses him again, this time on the lips and this time longer.

Jim hugs and kisses her back, more to appease her than anything else. Still, he can't deny something he feels, something weirdly sensual. It makes him uncomfortable, which is why he pulls away after a few seconds. "Wow! I can see that curbing your enthusiasm isn't in your vocabulary," he says, trying to make light of this novel, unexpected happening.

On impulse, from feeling a tingle between her legs, she swipes her hand over the crotch in her shorts before climbing off his lap. "Wow is right." The wow she gives is a deadpan wow, the sort with a period at the end, not an exclamation point. Her expression conveys worry and confusion, not wonder or joy. "I mean, I can't wait until you start coaching me," she says. "Sorry, I must have got carried away." She flashes him a faux smile, hoping like hell he doesn't pick up on what she's wowing; hoping also that what she just felt was just an anomaly, something more aberrant than real.

Days later, she almost forgets it even happened. She's too busy with schoolwork and training for her goal. She divides her training regimen into segments, strength building/cardio and technique. The first two work at Westwood 10. Technique she'll work on with her dad at home. The Goodwin house is big, one of those three-thousand square foot McMansions, thanks to Jim's lucrative auto body business. Their basement is so big that he was able to install a basic home gym (some dumbbells, an Olympic barbell set, a couple benches, squat rack and treadmill), plus have enough room left over for the big screen TV and sofa. Squares of red and black linoleum cover that part, while rubber matting covers the floor under the gym equipment.

Jim moves the benches and weights aside to make room for his first session with Alexa. He's barefoot, wearing black shorts and a black sleeveless T-shirt. "To be successful in MMA, you need to be strong everywhere," he explains. Alexa, also barefoot and wearing tight fitting blue shorts and matching shorts bra, pays close attention. "So we're going to work on boxing skills, both conventional and Muay Thai kickboxing, as well as Brazilian jiu-jitsu and other disciplines. Today I'm going to give you a smorgasbord of fighting styles we'll be working on. We'll concentrate on each of them in detail later on."

While Alexa ties her hair up, he drags out equipment from a storage closet that hasn't been used in years—fingerless gloves, punch mitts and a heavy bag. He installs the bag and slips on a pair of gloves. "Okay, watch me," he says, then proceeds to pummel the bag with combinations of jabs, hooks and uppercuts. His muscle tone still looks sharp, the result of regular weight training and treadmill work. With a bodyweight still in the one-eighties and a thirty-four waist, he doesn't look much different than he did when competing.

Alexa watches in awe, thinks how youthful her middle-age father looks, admiring the striations of muscle in his shoulders, arms and legs. If not for his thinning hair, she might think he's a decade younger. "You're an inspiration, dad," she says after the demonstration.

"Well, I'm a little rusty, but you get the idea," he says, slipping off his gloves. "Now it's your turn." He moves in close to her as she tries to emulate. "You need to snap those jabs," he says, "make them sting. That's it. Bap. Bap. Bap. There you go. But keep your guard up. You don't want to drop your guard."

After about ten minutes, he says, "Now we're going to add our feet as well as our fists. As you know, Holly Holm proved that kicking can be mighty effective if done right." He demonstrates, throwing a series of roundhouse kicks with both legs, kicking the bag high and low. Alexa finds this harder than just throwing combinations with her hands, and for good reason. It requires greater flexibility, especially when kicking to an opponent's head. If not executed right, it can leave one open and thus vulnerable to an opponent's counterattack.

She falls off balance, laughs at her beginner's awkwardness. "This will take gobs of practice, I can see that. Holly and some of those other women make it look so easy."

He nods. "That's because they've trained a zillion hours to get where they are. You can get there too with the right commitment."

She throws her last kick, takes a deep breath and wipes the sweat from her forehead. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely. You're a natural athlete. You showed that with your soccer and gymnastics."

She smiles, then grabs a towel to wipe her face.

"So, what's next, coach? I'd really like to learn some of those submission holds, choking a person out or arm-barring them into submission the way Ronda does."

"Well, you're in luck because that's just where we're going next—to the mat." He directs her to lie on her back. Then he gets on top of her and places her hands against his chest the way fighters on the bottom tend to do in that position. Even before he starts his maneuvers into the several ways to execute an armbar, his cock starts to stir. He didn't expect this, nor does he welcome it. The old cliché about a guy's penis having a mind of its own is true enough, he knows. But could it be awakened from its normally dormant state by the charms of his own daughter? Perish the thought. Yet here he is, crotch to crotch with said daughter, and that's exactly what is happening.

"Watch closely," he says, doing his best to stay focused. He proceeds with the move, making a half spin, grabbing Alexa's arm and then extending it by leaning back perpendicular to her body in the move's final phase. He goes through it a second time, then a third, doing his best to keep that pesky thing between his legs at bay. It isn't easy. "Okay, now it's your turn to try it on me," he says.

Unbeknownst to him, Alexa is dealing with similar issues. That tingling she feels, not just between her legs but throughout her entire body, is normally reserved for guys she's involved with, not her own dad. His crotch rubbing against hers during those arm bar maneuvers got her juices flowing, unlocked the spigot, nudged it slightly from its off position. Now she's on top, her crotch against his, nudging the spigot a little further. She does her best to stay focused as well, listening intently as he explains the various hand positions and pre-armbar holds like the cobra. She goes through the motions, doing her best to suppress her urges. No mean feat, not with the friction of her body rubbing against his, not with her body heat rising and the commensurate rise in desire, inappropriate and alarming. At his prompting, she repeats the moves over and over until she feels ready to explode. "Okay, dad, I think I've got it. Let's move on to something else."

"Hope I didn't bore you, but practice makes perfect," he says. Both of them are now standing, toweling off.

She chuckles. "Bored is hardly the word I'd use. It's more like...well, interesting. I'll leave it at that."

Stimulating is the word that popped into her head initially. But tell him that? No way! In fact, hours after he calls it a night, Alexa, up in her room, is re-thinking the idea of Jim coaching her. He knows his stuff, sure, but how can she retain him as her coach while plagued with these incestuous urges? It would be one thing if they weren't related. Plenty of romantic/sexual liaisons begin as platonic business deals. But he's her father, for crying out loud! How does that work? It can't, it won't, not unless this is simply a fluke, a weird phase she's going through that will soon pass. One thing's for sure, she's hot as hell right now in the quiet darkness of her room, her imagination running wild. She's back in the basement, concocting scenarios that surely would not be allowed in the octagon. She hikes up her nightgown, then slips her finger inside her panties. She rubs her clit with one hand, her boobs with another picturing her dad between her legs. He's humping her on the mat, then on the sit-up board, then on one of the benches. Her breathing picks up as she strokes herself faster and faster, her mind spinning with variations on this improbable theme—Jim bouncing her on his lap, or doing her from behind, doggy style. She can almost smell his sweaty masculine scent, feel his hard muscular body, taste his thick salty cum. "Ahhhhhhhh," she cries out in her climax, mindful to keep her voice down, least she wake her parents or sister.

As the minutes pass, her breathing returns to normal, while her mind races with questions. Should she drop Jim as her coach? Keep him as her coach and hope it passes? Keep him as her coach with the idea of not only competing in MMA but turning her fantasies into reality? What perverted thinking that is! Answers elude her as does sleep. It's one in the morning already and she's got school tomorrow. She needs to sleep, to sleep perchance to dream—good dreams, she hopes as she fluffs her pillow, turns over and shuts her weary eyes.

************************************

Jim's at work, sitting at his gun metal desk, going over invoices. His brother Lewis is in the garage, inspecting work in progress. Lewis, younger by two years, sensed that something was wrong from the moment they both got in at their usual starting time of eight in the morning. "Nothing's wrong," Jim had said testily, and Lewis let it go at that.

Jim and his brother have always been close, confiding in each other about matters they didn't feel comfortable discussing with anyone else. Now, a day after his first lesson with Alexa, Jim could use a confidant. But how in the hell can he tell Lewis or anybody else how he felt on that mat in the basement? He can't, at least not yet. Right now he feels like a pervert. What guy wouldn't who thinks impure thoughts about his own daughter? The consolation he took after having great sex with Kendra last night is tempered today by feelings of guilt. Why? Because it wasn't Kendra he was thinking about. No, it was Alexa, sweet, hot Alexa peeling off her tight shorts, wrapping her smooth, powerful legs around him and begging him to fuck her: "Give it to me, daddy, give it to me. Fill my hot, wet pussy with that big, bad shaft of yours." It's enough to make him sick—sick with desire, that is. He's sitting here with customer invoices nursing a huge hard-on. Of course, there's nothing sexy about paper invoices or anything else in his cluttered, cinder-block walled office that would leave him in this horny, innervating state. And that includes the girlie pinup calendar that he and Lewis see every day.

Almost unconsciously, his drops his hand to his crotch and begins to stroke himself over his jeans. He looks through the glass at the top of his office door into the garage. He sees Lewis talking to one of his workman and hears the buzz of his shop's industrial equipment. If he doesn't stop, he'll shoot into his underwear, a messy business he doesn't need. Up from behind his desk, he ducks into the rest room and does what needs to be done. Relief comes quickly. But will it satisfy him for long? Somehow he doubts it.

********************************************

A few nights later, Alexa follows Jim to the basement for another training session. The questions of what to do continue to swirl in her head like laundry in a dryer. She remains conflicted, conflicted but also horny for the man who she asked to help her realize her ambition to fight in the octagon. Try as she might, she can't deny the attraction she now feels for her own dad. Is this some crazy fluke that will soon pass? She hopes so, sincerely hopes so.

Like last time, Jim demonstrates punching combinations on the heavy bag. He then allows her to try it. "You're getting there," he tells her, complimenting her on her punches and kicks. Next, she tries combinations on Jim, who wears mitts to absorb the blows. "That's it, snap those jabs. Okay, let me see a hook. Good. Now an uppercut. There, that's it. Now jab some more." She's feeling good, loose and wet from perspiration, while also reveling in her improved reflexes and the sharp crunching sound of her gloves hitting his mitts.

"Okay, it's mat time," he says after nearly a half hour of kicking and punching. "Today we'll work on more arm bar techniques and choke holds."

She's seized by a mix of joy and angst in anticipation of what she felt last time. Stay focused, she tells herself, as she and Jim slip and slide and crawl over one another, going through the bio-mechanics of arm bar and choke holds. Try as she might to force her brain into a state of denial, her body won't let her, won't let her ignore the weirdly erotic pulse of all this. She's beginning to suspect that her attraction for her dad didn't just start here. As a psychology major, she's studied the wonders of the unconscious mind, holder of repressed and suppressed feelings. Fraud might be passé, but modern psychology doesn't deny that the unconscious plays a role in human behavior. Perhaps it's an over simplification to suggest that training with her dad unlocked part of her unconscious. Then again, perhaps not, because why else would she be feeling this way? Why else would she start dry humping him from behind, grinding her wet pussy into his lower back in preparation to execute a choke hold?

"Hey, that's not part of the move," he says, swiveling his head backward. She's got her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. "You pull back as you squeeze. You don't, um, hump your opponent's body like you're in heat. Not unless you ARE in heat. Are you?" He chuckles the way people do when they ask something they know should be patently false but might not be.

She keeps her position but relaxes her arms and legs. "Ah, no, I guess not." Titters and giggles follow.

"What do you mean you guess not? Don't you know?" He breaks free and turns to face her. Both of them sit cross legged.

Keeping her head down, she says, "Dad, it's...Look, I'm getting strange vibes here."

When she says nothing more, he tucks his hand under her chin, lifting her head to face him. "Strange vibes? What sort of strange vibes?"

She struggles to find words that won't incriminate or embarrass her. "Um, well, strange vibes."

He nods, grabs his towel and wipes the sweat from her face. "Yeah, you said that. Don't be shy. Say what you need to say so we can continue." She looks down again, and then he says, "Does this have anything to do with what I asked you, about being in heat?"

She looks up and places her hands on his shoulders. "You're my dad and you're coaching me in mixed martial arts. I'm not supposed to be..." She looks away.

"Yes? You're not supposed to be what?"

She takes a deep breath. "I'm not supposed to be, well, sexually aroused from what we're doing here." She shakes her head, breathes deeply again. "I can't believe I'm sitting here telling you this."