Frida Magnusdottir, Legs of steel

My name is Frida. I am 5'11" and 155 pounds of sexy Swedish fury. I'm not ashamed to call myself a real blonde Bombshell. My body has been tightly toned from a lifetime of hard work, training, and rough sex, but by far my best feature are my legs.

When I was 15 I kicked a young male deer across the face so hard it's neck broke. At 17 I was fighting in brawls to support my family's struggling business. At 19 I killed my first man in combat as part of the Swedish military.

At every stage my body was battered, bruised, cut, and contorted in every fashion, but my legs never failed me. Not once. When I fell they dragged me up again and again until my opponents skull was under my boot or there face was buried between my thighs.

Always I have fought for my future and now that I am 28 is no different. My military service ended unceremoniously; I was thanked and discharged into a country of smiling condescending cunts. They reject what our people lived by long ago: the spoils of war. In my veins is the blood of norsemen and women that and slaughtered to carve their future. My countrymen ignore this, showing the world an outward perfect white face of peace and perfection, as if they are free from stain. I will not only show them the stain, but rub it in their faces.

In a small bar on the Gulf of Bothnea I was approached by a rather short , darkly tanned man that appeared thick as a brick wall; his knuckles bore scars earned from a hard life of fighting. I had attracted his attention doing one of my more popular drunken tricks of crushing a watermelon with my thighs; that one always gets the crowd going.

He told me I was being scouted based on my brawling career and military service to fight in the hellhole known as Nevada and get to embrace the old Norse tradition of conquer and fuck. How could I say no?