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Old 19-Jun-18, 07:37
wash3185 wash3185 is offline
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Default Re: Brutal Bridget: Headscissors and Facesitting with GF

Margarita Madness

[This is another story about Bridget. It happened only a few months after my last story about Bridget (see below). In the meantime, Bridget had added yoga to her other physical activities. The yoga only increased her strength and endurance. This story, like the last story, is a blend of fiction and reality. I tried to balance truth with telling a captivating tale. I want to avoid giving any spoilers or ruining the suspension of disbelief for those who prefer the exaggerations, but I am happy to clarify fact-vs-fiction in the comments after the story, or by private message,]

Bridget, having just finished final exams, made plans to meet her friends for margaritas. The finals period had been extremely stressful for Bridget. It had also been rough for our relationship. We had actually argued several times in only a few weeks, as compared to only a few arguments during the prior 2-3 years of our relationship.

Needless to say, Bridget was ready to blow off some steam. At 3:30pm, she texted me to extend an invite to the margarita happy hour:

“Meeting friends for margaritas. You’re welcome to swing by after work.”

“I think I will pass. It’s Thursday and I have a deposition early tomorrow.”

“Ok. Well, can you give me a ride home at least?”

“Sure. Be there at 6:30.”

Our exchanges had been fairly terse for a few days, and the tension around the apartment was noticeable. Bridget thought I was not supportive enough, and I thought that Bridget was too needy. I could tell she was unhappy that I passed on margaritas.

I left work and headed over to pick up Bridget, who had been drinking heavily for several hours. I texted Bridget that I was on my way. The restaurant was in an urban area, and parking was impossible. When I arrived, Bridget was not out front. So, I texted her again and circled the block. Still, no Bridget. I tried calling her. No answer. This basic routine repeated for about 25 minutes. Finally, at 7:00, Bridget texted me that she was waiting outside. I continued circling the block, and I picked her up.

We made small talk the entire way to the apartment, but the tension was obvious. In addition to the built-up frustration from finals, Bridget was clearly mad that I skipped margaritas. I was fairly confident that she made me wait 25 minutes, just to prove a point. Finally, as we were almost home, I confronted the issue.

“Why did you make me wait for 25 minutes? You knew I was coming to pick you up,” I asked.

“I forgot that my phone was off, and I lost track of time. If you would have just come over for margaritas, it would have been a lot easier. Why didn’t you just park and come inside?” Bridget responded.

“I am not your personal driver. I am not your Uber service. If you didn’t want to leave at 6:30, you should have just told me, instead of making me waste my time.”

We arrived at the apartment, and I exited the vehicle before Bridget could respond. I entered the apartment and was surprised that our dogs were not greeting me.

“Dogs are at my parents’ house. I thought we could use a night of intimacy, but you’ve clearly ruined that,” Bridget said, as she slid past me into the apartment, leaving a faint scent of tequila and margaritas, a subtle warning I completely overlooked.

It was winter time, so she was wearing a large coat, jeans, and a pair of Ugg boots. The jeans were the stretchy kind, the ones that resemble yoga pants. Her butt looked incredible. I followed her into the bedroom, as she began to undress. Even when mad at Bridget, I cannot be mad at her body. The yoga had only further sculpted what was already an incredible sight. She caught me gawking as she slid off her jeans, revealing a tiny black thong.

“I said you’ve clearly ruined our night of intimacy, so stop staring at what you can’t have tonight…. unless, of course, you’re willing to let me work out some of this pent-up frustration and anger,” Bridget said, as she continued to undress.

“What do you have in mind?” I replied.

I could not help it. The prior few weeks had been rough, and I was extremely horny. The fact that Bridget was now only wearing a black thong did not help matters.

She pivoted to her left so that her back was facing me, placed her hands on the bed, and bent forward slightly at the waist - providing the perfect view of her incredible ass. I was completely transfixed.

“I want to sit on your face, until I cum,” Bridget said.

“No problem.”

“I want to tie your hands behind your back, in case you change your mind.”

“Sure thing, sexy.”

Usually, Bridget sat on my face until she was almost finished, before sliding down and riding my cock to her climax. Assuming that she would do the same thing that night, I willingly and eagerly jumped on the bed, landing face down. Bridget methodically tied my hands behind my back. She then used another piece of rope to tie my upper arms together, just above my elbows. As she moved towards my feet, I started becoming nervous.

“Am I not tied up enough already?” I asked.

“Not for what I have in mind,” she responded quite coldly.

It was too late. She already had my ankles tied together as well. She finished the job by even tying my knees together. I was basically immobile, except my head. She then sauntered over to the walk-in closet.

“What are you doing? You don’t need to wear more clothes, just to sit on my face,” I said.

“I forgot to mention,” Bridget responded as she dug through her closet, “I want to sit on your face last... once you are done.”

“What do you mean, once I am done?” I asked somewhat confused.

Did she mean sexually, or physically? I was also nervous, as Bridget was sprinkling our conversation with the occasional giggle, a very disconcerting predictor for her mood. I was lying on my left shoulder and side, on the bed facing the walk-in closet.

Bridget emerged from the closet, wearing only a very short pair of black yoga shorts. Her incredible thighs looked as inviting and dangerous as ever, while her flat, toned stomach and delightfully perky nipples offered their own temptations. Bridget started to perform a number of yoga poses, before explaining what she meant and what she intended to do. Through her brief routine, she just stared and smiled, with the occasional giggle, like she was enjoying an inside joke for one. I waited, growing impatient and increasingly nervous. Finally, I broke the silence.

“Bridget, ‘once I am down’ …. Um, what did you mean?”

“I mean done, as in finished, dispatched, executed, as in no longer enjoying this exchange and truly wishing it would stop,” she said as she began crossing the room towards me. “I mean you will be wrapped up, over and over and over, by these smooth, monstrous, destructive pythons, until you have been consumed and drained, deeply devastated by the legs you worship so dearly. I know you love my pythons. I know this, you know this. Sadly, my pythons need more; they demand more, they crave … fear. Pure, simple, primal fear. The kind of fear that only shows itself through running in pure terror, or, when running is not an option, through …. tears. Crying. Maybe even uncontrollable sobbing,” she threatened as she slowly paced to the bed.

Considering Bridget’s past scissor performances (especially when drinking) and our recent fighting, I was actually quite scared. Like legitimately worried that Bridget might hurt me. Plus, I did have a deposition in the morning, and I did not want to risk any bruises or injuries. Seriously, Bridget was powerful enough to do damage.

“We need a safe word, Bridget. A safe word,” I blurted out as she leaned against the bed.

“You can pick a safe word, if you want,” she replied. “But tonight, there is no safety. You can beg and plead, and you might receive a brief respite. Then, the pressure will return, stronger and stronger. You will beg, and you will break, and you will cry.”

“OK, OK, OK, I believe you, I fear you, I fear your legs. OK. I’m sorry for being an asshole. You don’t have to do this. I have that depo in the morning.”

“Stop being a bitch. Are you picking a safe word or not?” she asked as she jumped on the bed, landing on her knees.

“‘Boat’ ... make the safe word ‘boat.’ And please don’t leave any marks,” I begged.

“Please don’t leave any marks….” she imitated as though I had forgotten part of my sentence. “One one-thousand, two one-thousand, thr--.”

“Please don’t leave any marks goddess. Please.”

“That’s better.”

During this last exchange, I rolled onto my back with my legs fully extended. My head was positioned towards the bottom of the bed, while my feet were just touching the headboard. Bridget was kneeling but almost crouched like a baseball catcher with her knees planted by my shoulders and her feet just behind (or above since I was lying down) ny head. Bridget’s magnificent thighs were exaggerated by my perspective and by pushing against her calves as crouched at the foot of the bed.

As our exchange ended, Bridget lunged forward and landed with her stomach on my stomach and her crotch reverse-straddling my throat. The positioning of my bound hands and arms made it impossible to lie flat, and my head was unavoidably elevated a few inches off the mattress. In other words, I had no chance to hide. A turtle without a shell. To make it even easier to pull my head deep into her death grip, Bridget more-or-less bearhugged my lower abdomen/back and rolled me onto my right shoulder and right hip. My neck was fully exposed for the strike of her pythons, but there was a hesitation.

“Oh no. It looks like somebody is in serious trouble already. I tell you what. I will be somewhat merciful. If you can start crying right now, and I mean right now, then I will let you go with only some light squeezing,” she offered.

I tried to conjure up the saddest memories in my life. Losing grandparents. Putting my dog to sleep. Anything to start the tears. I wanted to cry. I needed to cry. Anything to avoid embarrassing myself in the morning, when I had to explain busted blood vessels in my eyes and swelling around my face

“Too late!!”

Snap! The trap closed, and Bridget rolled me onto my back with her reverse headscissor fully locked in. My chin was positioned perfectly on the beautiful valley dividing the mountains called her butt cheeks. Bridget released her quasi-bearhug and placed her hands on the bed near my hips, with her palms down. She started to extend her arms, while arching her back and straightening her legs. Crossing her ankles increased her leverage even more. Then, Bridget just held me there, to enjoy my python prison. She was obviously holding back, content to punish me slowly but surely as the unrelenting pressure transformed into incomprehensible pain.

Oh, the fucking pain! The tension between our skin felt like it was ripping my neck to shreds. Her quads were swelling to massive sizes. My entire head was being devoured. The sides of my head, from my shoulders to my ears, were entirely engulfed by her thighs. The meaty prison blocked out all sound it seemed. Swallowing was hard, and speaking was impossible. As the pressure on my skull mounted, it was too painful to keep my eyes open, so I stopped trying.

I decided to escape. I needed to escape. She was going to kill me. She was that mad at me. I just knew it. Why the hell did I make her so mad?!?! I started to bring my feet underneath of my hips to prepare some type of escape, but my tormentor knew too much. I had trained her too well. She grabbed my knees, but the pressure relented. My senses were returning. I heard…. Laughter.

“Trying to escape? Oh, you have to be joking, right?” Bridget asked.

“I just panicked,” I responded. “I’m sor-”

Darkness, as Bridget sat down on my face, hard. I thought my nose was bleeding, or broken.

“Shut up. That question was rhetorical. Of course, you would try to escape, but there is no escape, except the one. We talked about it earlier: fear. You need to fear my pythons. That is your only escape, your only hope. We squeezed some tears out already, and that was certainly a start. Now, we need to continue. The pressure is about to return, and it is going to be stronger, just as I promised. In fact, I believe I promised it would be stronger AND stronger.”

Bridget hopped forward to my left side and landed on her knees, before performing a quick, low pivot to begin using her right to shoulder to push my legs towards the center of the bed. I offered some resistance, but was unsure what she was planning exactly. With so many body parts tied up, my options were limited anyway. I tried working my hands loose, but the knots were just too tight. I ended up just sort of trying to curl into a ball, to protect my neck if possible. Eventually, I was lying on my right shoulder and right hip, with my back facing the headboard and my knees pulled towards my chest. My head was near the left side of the mattress, with my feet near the middle of the bed.

From her position on her knees near my hips, Bridget decided to go for (what I would call) a rear reverse headscissors, where her stomach would be facing my back, her crotch would be pressed into the base of my skull, her thighs would be wrapped around my neck, her calves would be dancing just in front my eyes, and her ankles would be locked just in front of my face. Sensing - but not yet understanding - the danger, I poked my head up just enough to look over my shoulder. At that moment, I made eye contact with a tigress. an absolute man-eater, stalking her prey and waiting to pounce.

Fuck. All bets were off. I decided to roll off the bed, or at least try. If I could get to my feet, I could escape, or maybe free my hands. I started to roll onto my knees and stomach, to lunge off the bottom of the bed. Bridget used her bearhug technique to roll me onto my right shoulder, which agan exposed my neck to her waiting pythons.

Lying on her left hip, she slid her left leg into position first, slamming the top of her quad violently into the top of my right shoulder. With my head now resting on the inside of her left thigh, she scooted her crotch as close as she could to the back of my neck, at the base of my skull. I looked to my left (which was towards the ceiling based on where I was positioned) to see her right leg fully extended; the dangerous weapon was pointed straight up, with every muscle flexed for my admiration and intimidation. She slowly waved it side to side, just ever so slightly. I looked towards my left hip to see Bridget staring at me, staring at her leg.

“I like making you wait to suffer. The mental anguish is just as bad, if you ask me. You know it is coming, and you know you want it. But you don’t know how much you want, or how much is too much. Well, what is coming now is more than you want, and it is certainly too much for you to enjoy. No chance for crying to stop this round.”

Slap! Bridget’s right leg came crashing down, with the inside of her thigh brutalizing the left side of my face, as her pythons looked to reunite on their path of destruction. After the initial crash, my vision was clear just long enough to see her feet slithering around each other to form their deadly embrace. Once the ankles were locked, it would be over.

“Boat! Boat! Boat, Bridget, boat! Please, boat!” I pleaded, begged, and screamed. I was so loud the neighbors might have thought it was domestic abuse. I did not care.

It was too late; the ankles were locking. The pressure started to build immediately. It was intense and overwhelming. Again, my skin felt like it was being ripped off, as her thighs expanded to their full glory. She decided to pulsate the pressure, as she increased her overall effort. Then, the pulsating ended, leaving only the pressure. I could not hear or speak. I could not escape. I could not beg for release. I could only hope that this drunk, raging lunatic did not kill me. I was scared. I was fully and legitimately scared. I said the safe word, and she just blew right through it. What the fuck. What the actual fuck. I started to flex against the ropes tying my hands. Maybe if I pulled hard enough it would do something. Anything.

The pressure started to increase even more. Her thighs reached their maximum expansion: 23 inches each. 46 inches of man-devouring anacondas, slowly squeezing the fight out of their prey. I could feel my jaw sliding back and forth, trying to escape the pressure but finding no relief. My entire skull was being slowly but surely sliced off my body, or it felt that way. Then, the pressure stopped suddenly, and I felt a hand slide past the left side of my neck, grabbing my chin to pull my head up and away from my chest. Bridget quickly and ruthlessly positioned herself to grab my neck even more tightly, before blasting her rear reverse headscissors at full strength.

Everything went dark immediately. I was unconscious for some amount of time, some unknown gap in memory. One second my head is filled with splitting pain, and the next second I am floating pain free through a dark tunnel. Regaining consciousness, the spots slowly turn into a coherent picture, and I saw Bridget’s black yoga shorts lowering onto my face.

I was disoriented and confused. I had no idea where I was positioned, or if she even knew that I had passed out. I started to squirm, as I tried to form words.

“Bridget, wait, wait, wait….wait. Please wait. Mercy, please. I passed out, I passed out. Come on, please. I passed out.”

I saw light again and realized that Bridget had jumped off the bed. I was lying on my back, across the bed, with my head very near the edge. Bridget was standing on the floor behind me, looking down at me. She grabbed my arms under the armpits, dragging my upper body towards the edge until my head and neck were hanging off the bed. With my head and neck fully exposed once again, Bridget climbed back onto the bed, positioning herself on all fours with my head placed between her knees.

“Bridget, I said boat, the safe word, and I pass-”

“Out! I know you I did, I know. Stop whining. Your safe word cannot help you. My pythons demand your fear. We have had a few tears, and we have had begging, but we need crying. Actual crying, and so it continues.”

“Bridget, enough OK, enough. I want to stop. Please just wa-”

Bridget slammed down into a reverse throatsit, stopping any further protests. She then extended her right down to the floor behind my head, with her inner thigh pressing against the right side of my face. Her left leg followed suit, and Bridget stood up -- my head completely encased in her colossal towers of power, as she executed a merciless hanging reverse headscissors. I felt her slowly cross her ankles, before ratcheting up the pressure. The bed was placed close enough to the side wall that Bridget could arch herself backwards and reach the wall over her head to push for additional stability and pressure. This motion forced her muscular ass into my throat and chin, driving my head away from my shoulders.

Bridget switched back and forth between these positions -- standing upright and arching backwards to the wall -- for a few minutes. She was not trying to finish me, yet. She was letting her quads drain the last drops of my energy. She was not even trying. Gravity and leverage were doing all the work. In addition to the squeeze being applied by Bridget’s thick thighs, my arms and shoulders had started to ache and lose feeling from being tied together and stuck underneath my body for so long. Again, it was too painful to keep my eyes open. No sound could penetrate the muscles imprisoning my head. I was at her complete mercy. There was no chance of escape. No way to scream for my release. No possibility to tap, to offer my complete surrender. I was bordering on the brink of unconsciousness, and Bridget was just toying with me. This tigress was playful.

Suddenly, Bridget dropped forward onto my stomach, keeping her reverse headscissor secure but reducing the pressure. My head tilted forward, and I felt sweat running down my face. Except it was not sweat, or at least it was more than just sweat. My tears were mixed in. It was not quite crying. Bridget was literally squeezing tears out of me. I was speechless and immobilized, overwhelmed by Bridget’s brutal display.

Just as I started to think of what I should do, Bridget hopped back onto her feet and continued the onslaught. She steadily built up the pressure and started to arch backwards. I could hear her laughing, I looked up to see Bridget looking back at me, over her right shoulder. She squeezed harder, and the laughing continued. I could feel the laughter through her legs locked around me, With each laugh, a shock wave of muscle tightening would only worsen my predicament.

I closed my eyes, to try to ignore the pain. I knew a knockout was coming, and I knew it was going to be vicious. I just did not know how many knockouts. I also did not know if Bridget knew what the hell she was doing. I could not tell if she was paying any attention to whether or not I was conscious. The waiting was horrible. I wanted her to knock me out. I wanted it to end. I was not going to make it. I needed her to know when I passed out, so she knew when to let go. I started to tap my feet on the bed.

She started bouncing on the balls of her feet, a warning sign that the end was approaching. I opened my eyes, and I realized that the laughing had stopped. I saw Bridget looking back at me.

“There’s my little Thumper, tapping his foot. It’s ok. My! Your face is so red, whatever could have happened. Why, it almost looks purple. And what are these marks forming around your eyes. I sure hope those marks don’t last. It would be a real shame if my little Thumper was embarrassed at work tomorrow. You know, for a guy struggling against a mighty anaconda you made a bad decision picking to be a rabbit. It’s time to finish you off little rabbit. My pythons are ready to eat. No more struggling prey.”

She stood straight up and crossed her ankles. Bounce, squeeze, release. Bounce, squeeeeze, release. Bounce, squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze, release.

With each repetition, Bridget was coiling herself deeper and deeper, wrapping her finely-tuned. marathon-trained legs more thoroughly around my skull - the first piece of little Thumper to be consumed by Bridget’s pythons. My nose was buried in her ass, with only her tiny yoga shorts preventing my nose from cleaning her asshole. For the first time, Bridget decided to bring her butt muscles to the beatdown, and I was knocked out almost immediately.

I was not unconscious for very long, but long enough for Bridget to have repositioned my head slightly. Instead of my chin/nose pointing directly towards Bridget’s butt crack, my chin was placed just below Bridget’s right butt cheek. By rotating my head, Bridget made it easier for her legs to apply direct pressure to my carotid arteries. Otherwise, everything was the same. I was lying on my back, with my hands and my arms tied behind my back and trapped underneath my body. My feet and my knees were also tied together. I was lying across my bed with my head hanging off the side of the bed, and Bridget was standing with my head trapped in a hanging reverse headscissor, though the pressure was temporarily loosened. Bridget was working to get my head placed perfectly, as high and tight as possible while also rotating my head about forty-five degrees. She knew that I had been knocked out and was using my moment of weakness to go for the jugular, figuratively and literally (I think).

“Bridget. How many knockouts tonight? Can you tell me, please?” I asked in the most pitiful voice I could muster.

As she locked in her grip, she responded, “I already told you what needs to happen, and you don’t get to call me Bridget. I am master, or goddess, or princess of pythons, or whatever honorific title you decide to bestow upon your supreme queen.”

Bounce, squeeze. Again, I saw Bridget activate her glutes, making her butt turn into two giant mounds of muscle. Two, massive, 23-inch thighs powered Bridget’s efforts to annihilate my skull, as her unrelenting calves bounced my head farther and farther from my body. My vision started to streak, and dark spots started to form. The room started to fade away, and I lost consciousness, hard. I was gone.

I was lost for a minute, in the colloquial sense, as in I was walking out in the wilderness finding myself. I stepped out for a second of fresh air and took an ice cold bath. Then, I took a nap. During that nap, I had a nightmare that two. oversized, genetically-modified Burmese pythons escaped from a local laboratory and started crushing me to death as I slept. I tried to wake up from that nightmare. I shook violently, and I was awake.

I saw smooth skin and black yoga shorts in front of me. My jaw hurt; it was throbbing in pain. My eyes hurt. That felt weird, having my eyes hurt. I could not hear anything. What the hell! I was so confused, until I realized that Bridget’s thighs were still crushing my ears into my skull. Bridget was not looking back at me. When I woke up, I was shaking back and forth with my entire body. It felt like Bridget was actually trying to squeeze harder. Why was she trying to squeeze harder? What was she thin--

I lost consciousness again, though not nearly as hard this time. As I gathered my senses, Bridget was not squeezing as hard. She was talking. She was singing, sort of, and I could hear her.

“Thumper, little Thumper, why are you crying?” Bridget kept asking in a sing-song voice. “Thumper, little Thumper, why are you crying?”

“Bri--”

Jolt of power from her legs.

“Bri--”

Jolt of power from her legs.

“Goddess, my goddess, please let me go, I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to stop. I’m serious. Stop. You have to stop. Boat. Please master, please please. Boat.”

“Thumper, little Thumper, why are you crying?” Bridget repeated continuously, as I continued to beg for my release.

“I’m not crying. What are you talking about?”

“You’re right. You’re not crying.”

And the squeeze returned. And inevitably the darkness returned.

When I woke up, I was still trapped in steel, facing two volcanic glutes erupting at full strength. Bridget did not stop squeezing at all. She only paused to reposition, or to switch legs. Knockouts actually meant nothing. I was broken. Completely consumed and utterly exhausted. Totally devoured by two pythons, a pair of merciless thighs, developed from soccer, marathons, and yoga. I just wanted it to end. Anything for it to end. Yet, the unrelenting crush continued. I felt myself losing consciousness again. And I started crying. Actual crying.

The squeezing stopped, and Bridget started untying me. Eventually, I was lying with my head in her lap, with Bridget looking down at me, smiling.

“I know I have been difficult during finals, and I am sorry,” said Bridget. “I hope that was fun for you. Just a friendly reminder that I love you and I own you. You are just as needy as me, and I fill your need better than anyone. I think you are far too tired to pay your debt to your Queen, so I will wait to mount your face until another time.”

With that, Bridget bent down to playfully nibble at my nose, climbed to her side of the bed, and went to sleep. I went to assess the damage. It was bad.

I called in sick to work, and pushed back my deposition. I skipped work on Friday too, and my friend’s birthday party on Saturday. Bridget remembered most of what had happened, and it was definitely premeditated, 1in a positive way. Bridget was pretending to be angry, etc. She had planned to “reward” me for being so helpful during finals by squeezing the shit out of me. The other things were all role-playing ideas that she had developed with some help. She thought I would like it. She was right, and the games continued in the future.



HERE IS THE PRIOR STORY

Caveats: (1) I am not a story writer; (2) the dialogue has been changed slightly but is roughly 80% original; and, (3) please be kind.

You Are Over Your Time

Sundays are great. Sunday means I watch football while my girlfriend studies all day at school. As I watched the end of an exciting game, my girlfriend texted me that she was headed back to our apartment a little early so she could go to her parents’ house for dinner. I already had plans for the evening so the information, at that time, did not seem to impact me all that much. I was wrong. Horribly, yet wonderfully, wrong.

As some background, my girlfriend and I have been together for several years, living together for the past several months. During that time, I have slowly introduced her more and more to my fetish for wrestling and scissors. In the past six months, things have really accelerated. I showed her some clips from Reality Girls Scissors, and she learned quickly. In terms of appearance and physique, she compares quite favorably to Ashley Wildcat or Ariel X. Specifically, she is 5’9”, weighs around 130lbs with 23” thighs and 15-16” calves. She is a lifelong athlete who now trains for marathons and triathlons. Her legs are dangerous, and I can share other stories about her recent exploits; however, time to return to the story at hand.

I am sitting on our futon watching as the home team is moving down the field in an attempt to force overtime, when my girlfriend (who I will call Bridget for the sake of this story) comes strolling into the apartment.

“What are you doing?” she asks casually, knowing full well that I am deep into my Sunday routine of watching real football while cheering for my fantasy football teams.

“Watching and hoping that Green Bay can force overtime. I need some garbage time points from James Starks or I am sunk,” I reply without looking away from the tv.

Briget likes to study in yoga pants, and her legs and butt always look so magnificent in those pants. After my reply, she strolls past the tv into the kitchen and puts our two dogs in the backyard. As she returns to the living room, she stares at me impatiently as though I am delaying her in the middle of an important task. After a couple more seconds and a break in the action, my curiosity gets the best of me.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“I have to be to my parents in thirty minutes and I am going to sit on your face before I go,” she replies with the same casualness you would use when talking about picking up groceries. “Also, I have been studying all day and will not be showering so you know it’s going to be sweaty.”

(Side note: Bridget is admittedly not that excited by the scissoring and wrestling and participates simply because I enjoy them so much; however, she truly enjoys sitting on my face and it provides a nice tit-for-tat incentive to our exchanges.)

“Oh really, I did not realize that I signed up for that. The game is almost over if there is not overtime. Are you in that big of a hurry?” I respond

“Not really,” she responds and slowly strolls out of the room towards the bedroom.

I continue watching the game even as I hear scuffling noises from the bedroom such as the closet door moving and drawers opening and closing. Bridget comes back out of the bedroom wearing a t-shirt and cheekini-cut underwear with the t-shirt hanging just low enough to almost completely cover the underwear. For those of you unfamiliar with cheekini underwear, it is phenomenal. On this day, Bridget is wearing some bright blue ones that show just the right amount of her butt cheeks. Her thighs look so beautiful yet so deadly.

She strolls back across the living room, knowing full well that I am no longer watching the tv. She proceeds to close the blinds and curtains in the room, before turning to face me. She walks over in a deliberate and sensual way before straddling me on the futon and beginning to kiss my neck.

“Come on…. can’t I at least wait to see if they force overtime?” I protest halfheartedly.

“You are over your time. Now it is my time,” she whispers in a near growl in my ear.

Before I can offer any response, she manipulates the futon so that it changes from the “couch” position to the “bed” position. Then, she slowly pushes me back until I am laying down with my lower legs off the front of the futon and my feet on the ground still. She continues kissing my body working her way back to the neck.

“This is the part where I play nice, before I play really mean. I don’t like waiting, and you know I don’t like waiting. When I say I am sitting on your face, you are supposed to lie down and beg me to do so,” she says in between playful kisses and nibbles.

Normally, Bridget is not this aggressive. I mean, she can squeeze the absolute hell out of me and she has mastered a number of the moves, but she typically just goes from one move to the next without much banter. My heart was leaping with excitement at this new twist, but at the same time I knew I was probably playing with fire.

“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I just wanted to see overtime,” I reply, quite dumbly in retrospect.

“I already told you – ‘You are over your time.’ It is my time now. How about I squeeze you a little before we fuck?” she asks in a flirtatious manner.

“Sounds good to me gorgeous,” I respond, expecting some scissoring foreplay before sex. “How do you want me?”

She stands up and faces me. I am still lying on the futon (extended into a bed) with my back and upper body on the “bed” and lower legs off the front with my feet touching the ground. She turns to her left slightly more than 90 degrees so I can see the cut between her thighs and hamstring as she commands me to turn and lie down along the length of the “bed.” I oblige willingly, lying down on my back completely on the futon now with Bridget standing to my right. She walks the stairs on purpose to make her legs stronger; today, they look especially dangerous.

“Scoot to the end. I want your head right next to the edge,” she commands. She removes the t-shirt revealing a basic sports bra underneath. Her abs are not quite cut, but her stomach is flat and tones of musculature are just beneath the surface.

Again, I comply eagerly anticipating a pleasurable squeeze before some afternoon sex. Bridget had different ideas. The futon is set low to the ground; when I am lying down, I am close to the height of her knees. So the customary “standing reverse hanging off a bed” will not work; however, Bridget has mastered this technique where she does a reverse headscissor and uses her long legs to still reach the ground below. It is quite devastating.

On this day, she circles around to the top of the bed and stands with her legs straddling the space just above my head as she leans forward at her waist and places her hands on either side of me near my stomach. I am greeted with the magnificent view of her hamstrings and glutes, with the perfect blend of butt cheeks peeking out through the blue cheekinis. She slowly sways from hip to hip so all her leg muscles dance in an intoxicating way. I hear talking and realize it must be Bridget.

“…too distracted to even pay attention, huh?” she asks, flexing all her leg muscles as she bounces up on her toes. “I know you can’t stop looking when I flex like this.”

She is right. She is simply too beautiful. Way out of my league and her attraction to me makes no sense. And why she would agree to squeeze me and things like that is an entirely different matter.

“Are you ready for the squeezing of a lifetime?” she queries as she descends upon my face.

While Bridget is very skilled at applying the holds, she still needs help during the initial lockdown. As she lies down on my body and wraps her breathtaking gams around my head for a reverse headscissor, I just lie there and enjoy the view; I do not move a muscle. Usually, I lift my head to make it easier, and Bridget knows this. She closes her legs together and realizes that I have not lifted my head.

“Trying to make things difficult for me?” she coos gently, hiding her true intentions of wreaking havoc on my head.

“What do you mean?” I reply knowing full well what she wants.

“I need you to lift your head.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You will just make it worse for yourself,” she replies in an uncharacteristically cold tone, another hint that should have made me realize something was out of sorts.

“Ready?” she asks as she opens her legs and releases my face from their grip. “Lift your head, nice and tight. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand….”

I had lifted my head initially before she even finished saying ‘ready’ but apparently not high enough. I had to raise it as high as possible before she stopped counting. She closed the vice and I was all hers.

“I already reminded you that I don’t like waiting and yet you continue to play games and waste my time. I don’t know why you have to make things harder for yourself. Since I had to count to four before you finally listened, I am going to knock you out four straight times without letting go. Are you ready?” she inquires rhetorically.

During her brief speech, my mind and heart are racing. This is what I have always wanted, but have I gone too far? Is Bridget playing a role, or is she really going to unleash on me? Her legs have already knocked me unconscious a number of times and we have to be careful now when she has had too many glasses of wine, but she was never that aggressive about it – just sort of detached and matter of fact in her calculated destruction of my carotid artery. This day seems different.

Bridget issues her threat about four knockouts and stops talking. Before I can say anything, she is squeezing hard enough to prevent me from talking. I am sure that I am making noises, but they aren’t intelligible. Her steel cables called hamstrings are slicing into my jaw while her massive quads and merciless adductors are causing chaos for my neck. The pain is overwhelming, yet the view is incredible. Bridget has the form mastered: using her arms to extend upwards, pressing forward with her toes behind my head, arching her back in just the right way, and teasing me with gyrations of power from her incredible legs and butt. I can’t see the dimples that form on the sides of her butt cheeks when she squeezes just right, but I can feel them with my hands and they feel marvelous. My head is so high and tight that my chin is resting on her butt while she tries to send me to dreamland.

After what seems like only a few seconds (but simultaneously feels like an eternity), my view starts to stretch and spots are forming. The next thing I know, I am returning from a quick trip to dreamland only to realize that I am still stuck in Bridget’s dreaded reverse headscissor.

“Welcome back,” Bridget giggles excitedly. “That was like a baby knockout, but I guess we can count it.”

Baby knockout, what does she mean. My head disagrees strongly. My neck disagrees even more vehemently, but I am already strapped in for this ride. Bridget immediately clenches back down at full force, and I begin tapping immediately and forcefully. I haven’t even gathered my senses and she is trying to send me right back to dreamland. Honestly, I am starting to panic somewhat, but in the back of my head I am still thinking – this is Bridget, how bad can it be. I think that was my final though before the second trip to dreamland.

As the darkness fades and my vision returns, I realize that I am still trapped between Bridget’s massive and intimidating legs. My hands are tingling like I cannot believe, and the tingling seems to extend to my entire body. Back to back reverse headscissor knockouts and she did not even release the hold! It is like a dream but I am snapped back to reality in a hurry.

Bridget must have loosened her grip somewhat because my head is back down on the bed, but her legs are squeezed tightly against my skull to prevent my escape. This is my predicament when I return from dreamland the second time.

“That was a little bit better, but still not quite good enough. I tell you what. I am feeling generous. How about you lift your head and turn it like you showed me, and I will only knock you out one more time instead of two?” she asks, again sending pulses of tension through her incredible groups of leg and butt muscles.

The “turn” she is talking about is a little maneuver to apply more pressure directly to the carotid. I cannot claim credit for this innovation. Another contributor to this site provided the tip on one of his stories about wrestling his girlfriend. Anyway, the “turn” works as follows: for a reverse headscissor with your chin resting on/near the woman’s butt and facing directly ahead, you turn your head to the left or right 45 degrees, so that your chin is now resting on one of the butt cheeks. Similarly, for a front headscissor where your chin is resting on the pelvic bone of the woman, you would turn your head to the left or the right 45 degrees so that your carotid artery under your jaw is more exposed. It is sort of difficult to explain, but it works like a charm. Bridget can knock me out in seconds with far less effort that would be required otherwise.

“Are you really going to knock me out again?” I ask still recovering from the first two knockouts and somewhat scared of experiencing a third in such a short amount of time.

“Absolutely, and you are lucky that I am only doing one more. Now lift your fucking head and turn it before I change my mind,” she replies coolly and deliberately. Then adds, “Ok?” with an irresistible yet chilling giggle, similar to those employed by Andi the superstar from Reality Girls.

What choice do I really have? I can’t say no. This is my dream, or so I thought. I lift my head and place my chin on her butt, before turning it to the right as instructed. I feel the methodical squeeze begin immediately. I place my hands on her butt on caress the large dimples forming on the sides of her cheeks. She is talking but I cannot hear a word she is saying. Later I would find out that she was backing out of her promise to only knock me out once.

She stops talking. Now the real squeeze begins. The pressure is unbelievable. I don’t even have time to register the pain as the third knockout comes far too quickly and easily. I have no idea how long Bridget kept squeezing, or how long I was out. My last vision is of two gorgeous mounds of glute muscle balling up underneath blue cheekinis as my head is lifted higher off the bed.

This time, my body hits a new level of tingling when I wake up. I am legitimately in a panicked state at this point. I am completely disoriented and very confused. I look up to see the smiling face of my merciless tormentor. While I visited dreamland, Bridget had repositioned herself to a SGP except that my hands were near my stomach. To make matters worse (better?), she had also exploited my moment of weakness to handcuff my wrists together in front of my stomach. (Yes, we keep handcuffs around the apartment. It is what it is.) She must have stashed them nearby during her initial entry into the room. Clever girl.

While intrepid to an extent, I am also beyond horny at this point. I start kissing her inner thighs and begging her to sit on my face.

“Please sit on my face. I will do anything you want. You have earned it,” I beg.

“I know, but I am not done with you. I promised four knockouts and four it will be. All that is left is to decide the position. So pick the position,” she orders.

“No. No more. I don’t really want to get knocked out again. Three is enough. Just sit on my face instead; you can even keep the handcuffs on.”

“Blah, blah, blah. I said pick the position. Stop stalling and stop making me wait,” she snaps back. “And of course, the handcuffs are staying on. Like that was even an option. So which position will be your undoing?”

My head is still pounding and my vision is cloudy. I am not sure I even want to be squeezed anymore and this is supposed to be my fetish. I start thinking about the positions: front, straight, figure-4. Before I can pick a position, Bridget starts to reposition herself. She stops straddling my face and starts to slide down my body. When she begins to turn around, I get really nervous.

“What are you doing?” I ask nervously.

“You took too long, so I picked for you. I picked the reverse. You might be scared, but I know deep down it is your favorite. Just remember: you like this. When you wake up, I will be sitting on your face and you will begin pleasuring me.”

Damn, she is sexy. What have I done? Is she too dangerous now?

“Seriously, Bridget, we don’t have to do this. Let’s just go in the bedroom and I will let you sit on my face for days.”

“Stop whining. It is already done.”

With that statement, Bridget has completed her turn and is now facing away from me and straddling my stomach. She begins to slowly back her beautiful butt up my chest and towards my face. She keeps flexing and relaxing her gluts as she does so. Before I realize it, she is reverse straddling my face and wrapping her incredible legs around my head.

Fear takes over and I lie my head down flat. I really don’t want to get knocked out again. My hands are still tingling from the last time, and the handcuffs aren’t helping. I think my face is tingling. Or am I imagining things? My jaw is throbbing. Is that why my face is tingling? I’m close enough to the edge that I can actually sort of lower my head beneath the edge of the bed. I do so to try to avoid the merciless grasp of Bridget’s legs. She starts slamming her legs together repeatedly, smashing my face in the process and following each slam with a squeeze. With each successive slam, she squeezes a little longer and a little harder.

After I am not sure how many slam-squeezes, I start tapping feverishly. Of course, my wrists are handcuffed and my hands are trapped beneath Bridget’s body; so, my taps do not accomplish much.

Bridget ignores my taps but pauses long enough between slams to state: “You know what you need to do. Be a good boy.”

I obey. I lift my head and turn it slightly to the side.

“Higher.”

I comply.

“Turn your head more.”

Again, I obey: anything to make the squeezing stop. I am so disoriented at this point.

“Now, good night baby,” she coos.

The squeeze builds slowly and methodically. I am so weakened at this point that I begin tapping instantaneously. I am probably trying to beg though I doubt I could have produced intelligible words or phrases. I am sure that I even whimpered or made other pitiful noises of suffering as the vice-like grip of Bridget’s death trap crushes everything in its path.

She stops the buildup, well before her highest pressure but well after my pain level is immense. She holds this pressure for what I imagine to be hours, days, or even weeks. She is just toying with me, experimenting with her ability to push me over the edge. I would imagine that a couple tears have been squeezed out of my eyes at this point; Bridget’s squeeze can have that effect.

Finally, she mercifully ratchets up the pressure. I say mercifully because I would have given anything to end the pressure and the pain. I see the room fading away from me like I am falling into a deep steamer trunk, and then everything goes black.

I must have been out for a while. Even Bridget looks afraid when I wake up. Everything tingles. And I mean everything. Where the hell am I? Oh, it is my apartment. What the hell happened? Oh, Bridget knocked me out again. My senses start to sort themselves out. I realize that both of my arms are fully extended, still constrained by the handcuffs. It takes conscious effort to compel my arms to relax.

“What the hell did you do to me?” I ask Bridget.

“Too much?” she asks sweetly, returning to the Bridget that I normally deal with.
“I don’t know,” I reply quite honestly. “I think that was amazing.”

As I finish my statement, Bridget’s vagina descends on my face.

“Good. Now it is my turn.”
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Old 19-Jun-18, 14:54
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mixfightor mixfightor is offline
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Default Re: Brutal Bridget: Headscissors and Facesitting with GF

Thank you for sharing this with us, mate. You write very well.
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Old 19-Jun-18, 17:49
wash3185 wash3185 is offline
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Default Re: Brutal Bridget: Headscissors and Facesitting with GF

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Thank you for sharing this with us, mate. You write very well.
Thanks, I appreciate that. You should all thank boyandy too. If he had not shared his story about Kelly, I would never have shared this story.

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Old 19-Jun-18, 23:01
wow12 wow12 is offline
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Default Re: Brutal Bridget: Headscissors and Facesitting with GF

Great stories. Do you happen to have any images you are willing to share?
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Old 21-Jun-18, 19:56
wash3185 wash3185 is offline
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Great stories. Do you happen to have any images you are willing to share?
I have permission to tell the stories, not to share photos/videos. Sorry. Bridget and I are still together. Maybe I can share some photos in the future, if she consents. I won't share them otherwise. I do have lots of stories, and I plan on writing more regularly.
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