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Old 28-Jan-17, 20:45
Mongoose750 Mongoose750 is offline
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Default Re: BOS stories

Regarding your stories on paper, you could do the laborious task of rewriting them on computer. You have an audience waiting for them. Please, pretty please?
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Old 29-Jan-17, 05:35
cashley216 cashley216 is offline
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Default Re: BOS stories

Originally Posted by Mongoose750 [Only Registered Users Can See LinksClick Here To Register]
Regarding your stories on paper, you could do the laborious task of rewriting them on computer. You have an audience waiting for them. Please, pretty please?
Thank you for expressing that interest. It's good to hear, and I do appreciate it.

A lot of my stories are pretty long. But I will think about trying to find one way or another.
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Old 05-Feb-17, 08:14
cashley216 cashley216 is offline
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Default Re: BOS stories

This is a piece I wrote in the late ‘90s. It’s not a fictional story, but a memoir. It doesn’t have anything that’s meant to be erotic, but it is about one man's experience with the mixed wrestling fetish. It starts in the ‘60s. There’s nothing about sessions.


In olden days a glimpse of stocking
Was looked on as something shocking.
Now, heaven knows,
Anything goes.

(Cole Porter)

I am not old enough to be of the glimpse-of-stocking generation –except in the realm of mixed fighting. Once upon a time, believe it or not, images (still or moving) and stories about women beating men in fights were rare and difficult to come by. So, if you were a person of certain passionate tastes, you might end up devoting preposterous amounts of time and energy to pursuit of these images, even if you knew that what you found would be no more than the metaphorical glimpse of stocking.

To give you an idea of how tough times were: In the mid-1960s, I spent multiple evenings at home with the television on all night so that I might catch every repetition of a COMMERCIAL. It was for a weekly series called The Avengers. These particular avengers were British secret agents. Diana Rigg as Emma Peel was the best known female lead. (Before her – when the show was only seen in England – there was Honor Blackman, who went on to be Pussy Galore in Goldfinger and to do a self-defense-for-women book.) With each new episode, there would be a new commercial, and each commercial would show at least a glance of stylish Emma stylishly disposing of a bad guy or two. And each commercial would be repeated throughout more than one evening. And those commercials would be about the best thing going.

I believe The Avengers was the only prime-time TV series that always had a mixed fight scene or two. If there was another one, and I realized I had been missing it, I would have been one terribly frustrated young man.

In the late ‘50s or early ‘60s there had been a show – only for two seasons – called Honey West, about a female private eye who kicked ass regularly. I believe that was the only one before the Avengers. (There was, much earlier, if I’ve got the timing right, Sheena of the Jungle, but the title was the best part of that one.)

In the summer of 1964, on a pre-college adventure, I took a bus with a friend from Chicago to New York. I just wanted to see it, for reasons having little to do with the subject of this piece. However, wandering down 42nd Street in Times Square, I came upon a store called Keystone. It was the size of a keyhole; couldn't have been 10 feet wide. Therein, I saw something I hadn't seen before: Comic books featuring – to the exclusion of everything else – pictures of women beating up men and other women.

Thought I had died and gone to heaven. Could not believe it. What IS this place? Disoriented. I thought my overheated brain was playing tricks on me. I simply could not have been so fortunate as to come upon this. Here I was, looking for glimpses of stocking, and I had stumbled upon what was, for me, the equivalent of Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield and Bridgette Bardot – the big-name “sexpots” of the time – having every manner of sex with everybody, including me.

These weren't like regular comic books. They had no covers, and they had just a few frames per page. And they were wrapped in cellophane, so that you could only see the front and back pages. And they were very thin. But the action scenes were big and bold and clear. And the females were beautiful and scantily clad. The distributer was Peerless, and the artists included Eric Stanton and Gene Bilbrew (Eneg). Those names were new to me.

Perhaps heaven isn’t quite the right word for my frame of mind. There was an element of purgatory, too, because this stuff was awfully expensive for an essentially fundless kid. One four-page story cost $5. (If sold separately, a story would be folded in half inside the cellophane, so that you only saw the front page.) Four or five stories would be packaged for $20, that is, half a week’s worth of pre-tax pay at McDonald’s IF you could get 40 hours, which students couldn’t. The federal minimum wage was $1 an hour.

I bought as many stories as I could afford, went back to our room at the Y, looked at them (out of sight of my roommate, of course), was thrilled out of my mind, and went back for more. Within a couple of days, I had bought so many that I had no choice but to leave for home immediately, having run out of money.

To this day, I don't know how one would have learned about the world of Peerless and Stanton and all that if one did NOT stroll down 42nd Street. I never saw that sort of thing anyplace else.

The Peerless publications did have a mailing address on them. But that didn’t do me much good even after that trip to New York, because I would not have dreamed of having stuff like that delivered to my parents’ home; and apparently it never occurred to me that I could get a post office box without them know about it.

I settled for going back to New York the next summer. This time the purpose of the trip was entirely to feed the fetish. And this time I went alone, and I hitchhiked, to leave more money for you-know-what. People in my life thought I just had a thing about New York.

On this second trip, I discovered mixed wrestling movies, forerunners of the later videotapes. That required buying a projector, of course. I needed the cheapest I could get, which turned out to be one you held up to your eyes with one hand and cranked with the other. Not the ideal way to enjoy erotica.

I don’t remember the price of the films. (I believe the projector was $9.95.) But I know that in the early ‘70s – by which time I did have a post office box – one 20-minute wrestling film (silent) cost $50, more than a fourth of my monthly education stipend as a military veteran. So you picked your movies VERY carefully.

There were very few suppliers to pick from, and the movies were generally awful. The girls were often embarrassed, giggly, clueless, skill-less and muscle-less; and the guys were likely to be fat and bald. That wasn’t as true by the early ‘70s as it had been in the mid-‘60s. Mildred Burke, for example, had come along. But, still, you could only figure out what producers to avoid by trial and error.

One summer in the mid-60s, a fellow fundless underclassman and I went to San Francisco. (We found a deal whereby we could transport a car there and get the ride for free, paying only for the gas, and we slept in the car.) We were walking around that city aimlessly, when I suddenly – or gradually – had the sense that we had passed something that hadn’t quite registered on me, but was now registering. I had this image in my head that I know hadn’t been there ever before. It was, I thought, a printed ad for a movie, and it had lots of pictures. In my mind were images of women swordfighting with men. Asian women in old-fashioned costumes. I had the feeling that the ad must have been posted on some sort of post or stand on the sidewalk.

Now, you have to understand: I had no reason to be thinking about Asian movies. This was about seven years before the first spate of Hong Kong movies hit this country, during the Bruce Lee rage. I didn't even know there WAS such a thing as Asian martial arts movies.

So, as at the Keystone in New York, I questioned my sanity. Yeah, right, I said to me: a poster with a bunch of pictures of women swordfighting with men. Uh huh.

Then I thought: Wait a minute. If it were just my imagination at work – some variant of a hallucination – there would be no swords. I had no particular hang-up about swords. There’d just be men and women fighting. I mean, sure – definitely – if there’s a mixed swordfighting movie, I want to see it. But it’s not the ultimate dream.

I couldn't go looking for the poster, because I was at a total loss to explain to my friend why I would want to see it. I left San Francisco the next day without ever finding the poster.

1969. The feminist movement hits, bam, just like that. Ms. Magazine is born. It runs a story about how women are often featured as fighters –mainly swordfighters – in Chinese movies, or, more precisely, I suppose, movies from Taiwan and Hong Kong. It prints a list of theatres in several Chinatowns in the U.S. in which these movies were then showing up, and it prints posters from a couple of movies. I suddenly knew what I had seen in San Francisco four years earlier: We had passed one of those theatres. I now know which one, in fact: The Pagoda Palace, on Broadway, well down the hill from Chinatown, on the way to the wharf.

I developed a strong interest in living near San Francisco, Los Angeles or New York, the three cities listed as having about five such theatres. I ended up spending a large part of the ‘70s in California. I hadn't pursued the dream single-mindedly, but I damn sure hadn't forgotten it. Before moving to the West Coast, I had visited New York’s Chinatown several times, and I knew what was available. What was available was – for me, then – utterly wonderful.

For example, in the mid-‘70s, I once saw a movie in San Francisco's Chinatown that got to me as nothing in a theatre had since Russ Meyer's "Faster, Pussycat, Kill, Kill" in the mid-'60s. (That one had me literally shaking as I left the theatre. You have to imagine its impact in 1965 or so. It portrayed a whole different kind of woman. It may even have shaken up normal guys.)

The title of the Chinese movie was "The Female Chivalry.” It was a period piece. There was no skin. In fact, the female lead spent the whole movie masquerading as a man. It was one of those deals where nobody in the movie can discern her secret, but everybody in audience can.

Most guys who are into mixed fighting wouldn't find this movie very sexy, certainly not these days. (Guys who AREN'T into mixed wouldn't even see the movie as having anything to do with sex.) But I was blown away, because the heroine was totally scornful of her multitudinous male opponents. I just happen to love that. She would demolish them without seeming to expend any more energy than if she were moving a folding chair. The only impact of their actions was to amuse her.

It would have been a hundred percent better if she had flashed a little thigh here or there; a thousand percent better if the macho male characters had known that the smallish person who was casually beating them senseless was a woman. But, still, I was helpless. Beside myself, as they used to say. Though I lived and worked an hour from San Francisco, I went into town on two consecutive evenings to see the movie. Then I came again in on Saturday.

Everything was different on Saturday. The theatre, which was usually almost empty, was filled to the rafters. They even opened the balcony. The audience was mainly kids.

Who laughed. And laughed.

Every time the girl casually demolished one of the male warriors, so much laughter filled the place that the subsequent dialog was inaudible.

Eventually, I realized: Omigod! It's a KIDS' movie! This thing that was filling my thoughts, disrupting my life, making me useless at work, this thing that I perceived as an almost unparalleled exercise in erotica, was designed only to make children giggle.

I was starting to think I might be a little weird.

Having to drive an hour to share one’s adult time with a bunch of non-adults was only one of the many types of indignities lurking in the pre-VCR age for mixed fighting fanatics.

Of course, most victims of mixed mania in those days were not getting their kicks in Chinatown theatres. (Actually, I didn’t know of anybody else who was.) A much more common venue was the drive-in theatre. Movies that are still today in the library of any serious collector – the Ginger series, Policewomen, Delinquent Schoolgirls, Wonder Women (The Beautiful and the Deadly), Doll Squad (also known now by another name) – were drive-in movies. They didn’t have the sheer volume of mixed fight scenes as the Asian films – wherein the heroines often spent more time fighting than not fighting – but they were more overtly erotic. For one thing, the women actually dressed as women.

The fact that these movies seldom showed up in theatres was fine. Drive-ins were better in at least two ways: (1) You had a little privacy, and (2) you could turn the sound off on the other movie, the one you weren’t there to see. Or at least you could turn it down.

Still, if you were in a northern clime, you might not enjoy sitting in your car killing time between fight scenes. Drive-ins frequently showed three movies. If yours was showing first and fourth, you had an awfully long wait.

I happened to see the movie "Ilsa – Harem Keeper to the Oil Sheiks" – a drive-in movie, really – in an indoor theatre on Market Street in San Francisco in the early ‘80s, before I had a VCR. The Strand? I think so. It was showing with two other movies in which I had no interest. But it had one scene in which I had an out-of-control and obviously unhealthy interest: these two topless black women ostentatiously beat the holy hell out of a huge macho Arab, then ceremoniously relieved him of his manhood.

So, after watching the movie, I sat through the next two, because I wanted to see that one scene again. By the time I left the theatre, it was obvious that the staff had been talking about me and wondering if I was one of those guys who use a movie theatre as a temporary home, having no other. All eyes were on me as I made the walk of shame up the aisle – I liked to sit way up front, away from everybody else – and through the lobby. Talk about indignities.

At drive-ins, a guy was, at least, spared this.

These days I communicate occasionally over the internet with guys who share my interest in mixed. Sometimes they complain about the lack of really good stuff out there, about how nothing has shown up at the video stores lately. But, much as I enjoy griping myself, I can't join in.

After all, this spring, one comes across more mixed fighting on a single Monday night of television than one used to find in the mainstream media in an entire summer. There’s La Femme Nikita, on opposite Robin Hood (with a whole new interpretation of Maid Marion). Each of these almost always has mixed fight scenes, and some of them are really good, meeting most of the most common criteria – skin, attitude, technical competence, a degree of believability, even sometimes length.

Beyond these two, also on Monday nights, this spring there were two professional wrestling shows which toyed around the edges of mixed. One featured a beautiful, sexily dressed, muscular black woman (Jacqueline) who attacked male wrestlers outside the ring. It wasn't EXACTLY a fight, but it was close enough for the aged, and it was certainly different from the old days of professional wrestling.

Then – still on Monday! -- there was this new Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And for a few weeks there was also a series called Spy Game. They both could be pretty much relied upon to have something every week. Heck, even Cybil – also on Monday -- had a neat, leggy little mixed fight scene this season. I have now failed to capture it on tape twice, because of VCR conflicts. What an excellent problem to have.

Aside from Mondays, there is, of course, this matter of Xena and her various clones. Xena is, of course, the best show in the history of the world, from a certain perspective. But the best thing about it is that it has made the producers of every new adventure show include a female fighter. We have gotten to the point where NOT having a woman in the action is inviting a charge of political incorrectness. This fact, from the point of view of somebody who's fiftyish, is, well, let me put it this way: Am I dreaming?

Unmistakably, though, the best thing about the ‘90s is the VCR and, especially, the greatest of all inventions in the history of mankind, the fast-forward button. You can not only bring Ilsa and Ginger home; you can also skip the second and third movies on the bill; and you can skip all that stuff about plot and go right to the action.


But we haven't exhausted the ways in which today is better. There is also the matter of the price of wrestling videos. The $50 of the ‘70s would be $150 or $200 today. For that, you can now buy a lot more than one 20-minute tape. Meanwhile, of course, you can also rent or, using the internet, you can trade.

Meanwhile, you are much more likely to be able find stuff that suits your specific tastes.

And, as to the internet, even aside from trading, you can find folks who share your interests and who post information you find useful and never would have had before, information about where to find what you want.

And then, of course, there are free pictures and stories, in incredible volume. People used to pay good money for both, and could only find a limited amount.

We haven't even noted yet the advent of female bodybuilding and the prevalence of girl jocks generally. Cory Everson and Tina Lockwood are, literally, dreams come true. Stories used to be written imagining such women, but those stories were likely to be set in the year 2350.

Once in the mid-‘70s I saw an ad in a wrestling magazine for a little magazine about muscular women. The ad showed only a female arm in a flexed bicep pose. The bicep was not huge, but was decidedly cut and decidedly bulging and impressive. I showed it to a female friend, because it was just so odd I had to share it with somebody, and we both just laughed. It was more striking than – in those days – seeing a guy in a dress. We weren’t laughing at anybody. It was just that the idea of that kind of arm on a woman – and in that kind of pose – was, somehow, funny.

One guy asked me recently online if I had ever had a girlfriend who could wrestle and wanted to. The answer is "No; I'm from the ‘60s." I’m know some other guys have their stories. But the truth is that ‘60s girls – actually including some “tomboys” – thought wrestling and female muscles were icky. If you found one who was strong or had visible muscles, she’d likely be mortified to admit it. This was even true of many women well after the ‘60s.

All in all, if you had told me 30 years ago that things would become this good by now, I would have thought you were talking millennial nonsense. Thirty years ago I thought we might be flying to work by now and to stores. I certainly thought we'd be seeing each other during telephone calls. I thought we might have conquered heart disease and cancer. But this good? No way.
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Old 05-Feb-17, 12:15
james james is offline
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Default Re: BOS stories

Interesting peice. I certainly remember the lack of material available pre Internet, and that it was massively expensive.
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Old 12-Feb-17, 16:29
jimpriest15 jimpriest15 is offline
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Default Re: BOS stories

Thanks a lot for this memoir. It perfectly describes the situation in the old days when this objective lack of material (I grew up in Italy where it was maybe easier to watch the Avenger but where I discovered the Stanton, Eneg works only after the 20 years of age) made feel a teenager as if he was the only one in the world with a sensual passion for strong women.
This intro just to say that I have had, in this long time, the opportunity to read thousands of mixed wrestling stories and the best of all is - in my opinion - your "The driver's seat or Look Ma".
I've also a curiosity: did you ever write the second part of "Mixed movies: come of age"?
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Old 14-Feb-17, 03:25
cashley216 cashley216 is offline
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Default Re: BOS stories

Originally Posted by jimpriest15 [Only Registered Users Can See LinksClick Here To Register]
Thanks a lot for this memoir. It perfectly describes the situation in the old days when this objective lack of material (I grew up in Italy where it was maybe easier to watch the Avenger but where I discovered the Stanton, Eneg works only after the 20 years of age) made feel a teenager as if he was the only one in the world with a sensual passion for strong women.
This intro just to say that I have had, in this long time, the opportunity to read thousands of mixed wrestling stories and the best of all is - in my opinion - your "The driver's seat or Look Ma".
I've also a curiosity: did you ever write the second part of "Mixed movies: come of age"?

Thanks so much for that note, especially the part about Driver's Seat. Wow. High praise, indeed. I really appreciate it. My own tastes run to fight scenarios in which the guy has all the advantages in the world, and the girl still wins -- easily. I guess one could say that story took that concept to the Nth degree.

On the memoir: Oh, yes, how I remember that feeling of being the only person in the world with this hang-up! It was the way I felt until I walked into that store on 42nd Street.

I hoped my memoir would strike a chord with people of a certain age. I also hope it communicates to younger people that they shouldn't take it too seriously when old guys wax nostalgic about this or that scene or type of scene they remember from their youths. It was NOT the good old days.

Yes, I did a sequel to Mixed Movies, and then another. But I'm not comfortable with them. I'd have to work them over before posting them anywhere. I think I'd say they really weren't very good.

(I hope management of this forum won't object if I point out that some of the stories mentioned in this string are available at the Diana the Valkyrie site, specifically at the BOS bookshelf there.
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Old 14-Feb-17, 08:56
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Default Re: BOS stories

Originally Posted by cashley216 [Only Registered Users Can See LinksClick Here To Register]
Thank you for expressing that interest. It's good to hear, and I do appreciate it.

A lot of my stories are pretty long. But I will think about trying to find one way or another.
Please, please!
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Old 19-Feb-17, 01:03
cashley216 cashley216 is offline
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Default Re: BOS stories

At the Femdom Babe site at Clips4Sale, Robin has posted a new video called "Tease and Beat." It originated with a custom request from me. I thought some people might be interested in seeing the original scenario/script, so it is below. (I do not get a piece of the action.) Actually, this is not precisely what she started with. I cut out a couple of scenes from this version for length. And I added a little head-butt scene to the final version I sent her (which I can't find). And she doesn't stick to the script religiously. That's the arrangement we have: I want to see any inspirations she might have, and I recognize that some scenes work better in print than when you try to stage them. But Robin was very faithful to my request. Beyond the script, I sent her input about clothing and staging and general flavor and attitude. Here's the scenario/script, written as a story:

Tease and Beat (her title)

The first thing he saw was Robin standing there in her negligee, leaning back against the counter, with a look on her face that said she knew she would have his attention permanently once he noticed her.

“What’s this?” he said.

“This is me messing with your head,” she said. “Both your heads.”

He said, “First you say you don’t want to have sex, then you dress like this?”

“Am I a Grade A bitch, or what?” she said.

“I’m already so horny and so hard I can’t think about anything else,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “Putting you in that condition was lots of fun – and so ridiculously easy.”

“You know, if I raped you now, there’s not a court anywhere that would convict me,” he said. ‘You’re so asking for it.”

“Raped me?” she said. She laughed. “Sweetheart, I think it’s adorable that you think you could rape me. But the truth is you couldn’t if you had four more arms and four more dicks. But I hope you try, because the only thing more fun than working you up and then shutting you down like this would beating the crap out of you while doing it.”

“That’s it,” he said, and came after her.

She didn’t move until he was nearly upon her. Then she merely leaned back and put here foot into his gut and pushed. The man ended up up-ended on the floor.

She remained leaning back on the counter, in the same pose. He got up and approached her again. This time he grabbed her with both hands in a choke hold. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t indicate any concern, just smiled. Then she brought her hands up to his face. She put her palms on it and pressed with her fingers, in a kind of claw hold – or double claw hold. They stood there, each applying his or her hold, with the man showing more strain. Soon, though, she was able to push his head downward. He lost his grip on her throat as he descended to his knees.

She let him go and said, as his eyes now looked practically at her crotch, “So close, and yet so far, huh, Rapist Dude?” Then she slapped his face back and put a foot on his chest imperiously and pushed him to his back. She resumed her casual resting pose, leaning back on the counter.

“You should thank me,” she said. “I’m thinking the hard-on isn’t there anymore, is it?”

Furiously, he got to his feet and came at her again. He threw a right at her head. She ducked and brought her left hand to the back of his head and pushed his head down into the counter. Then she banged his head down again. As he stood there stunned, she pulled his sweatpants down to his ankles. Rising again, she waited for him to move. When he instinctively tried to pull his pants up, she pushed on his nearest shoulder in a short, almost gentle and feminine push, and he fell hard to the floor.

Mocking him, she said, “Help. Rape. Oh, dear, oh dear. What am I going to do against the big, strong man who is determined to rape me?”

As he looked up at her angrily, she said – speaking now in a normal tone of voice – “Well, I think the first thing I’m going to do is check to see if we’ve made any progress in bringing your lust under control. And there isn’t a thing in the world you can do to stop me. Get used to that.”

Hampered by the position of his pants, he was, indeed, unable to keep her from feeling his crotch.

“Yep, that did the trick, all right. Soft as a baby’s bottom. And it couldn’t have been much easier. Now I’m going to put it back hard again. And, once again, there’s not a thing you can do to prevent this, humiliating as that must be for you.”

With that, she grabbed his sweatpants from the position – bunch at his lower legs – rose to her feet and pulled them off.

“This is me stripping you, Rapist,” she said. “Consider it a favor, unless you wanted to try to rape me through your sweatpants.”

When she was done, he was still wearing gym shorts. He turned to his knees and started to scramble to his feet. But she dropped down on him with one knee on his back, and banged his head into the floor.

She flipped him over onto his back with a half nelson. And she threw her left leg over his torso, straddling him, immediately slipping her ankles around his, and spreading his legs hard. The pain in his thighs showed up in a grimace on his face. “Looks like your legs are no match for mine, doesn’t it, Raper Boy?” Then she took she took hold of his wrists and pinned them to the floor near his head.

Looking down into his face as he struggled against the pain, she said. “From this position alone I can make you as hard as I want or as soft as I want, for as long as want. Let’s go for hard first.”

With that she relaxed the outward pressure on his legs, leaned into him, so that their cheeks were touching and began to rock her mid-section sensuously into his mid-section. “You said, you were into rape, Sweetheart. Well, how’s this? Do you think a jury would convict me?”

“OK,” she said, “We’re going back to soft now.” She jerked her legs out wide. He grimaced again, and she knew she had him. She did it three more times, and got three more grimaces out of him. “That ought to do it,” she said. And, after making sure by checking his crotch with one hand, she said, “Wow. I can hardly find it at all.”

She leaned into him and kissed him on the cheek and said, “Like I say, Horndog: I own you lock, stock and whatever barrel I’m willing to let you have.” She gave him a gratuitous slap on the face, and stood and turned her back on him.

From right next to him, she said, “Here’s a little rear view for you, just to get you revved up again.” She patted her hair into place smugly and put her hands on her hips and cocked a hip jauntily.

Then she laid it on thicker. She stroked her legs, focusing his attention on them. She wiggled her ass and bent over so as to highlight it. She played with her clothing so as to expose a little more of her skin, lowering something temporarily, at both her lower and higher extremities. She bent toward him and cupped her breasts sensuously. She curled her fingers toward herself invitingly. She wetted her lips and puckered a little. All the classic moves.

“Come on, Rapeman,” she said. “You know you can’t resist me.”

He came toward her hard. She grabbed a wrist of his and swung him into a wall, back first. She was on him in an instant. She thrust a shoulder into his chest, banging him against the wall. She shot a punch into his gut. She slammed his head against the wall. Then she held the front of his hair and got directly in his face and said, “You’re a pathetic excuse for a rapist. You’re nothing. Here you are with the babe of your dreams, throwing herself into your arms, and you’re soft as a kitten. But I’m going to change that for you.” She pulled his head into the side of her neck, and she rubbed her midsection against his.

Then she said, “Well, that didn’t take long, did it. Sometimes I’m amazed at my own power. OK, here comes the softness.” She pushed his face away from her neck and slapped his face. That turned him somewhat sideways, and she position him so that his right shoulder was against the wall, rather than his back. And she locked in a bearhug that way, not facing him, but from the side, with her hands down low toward the thin part of his waste, where her strength was enough to hurt him and to put him entirely on the defensive as she squeezed.

Before long, her hand went down to his crotch, as her body continued to press him sideways into the wall.

“Mission accomplished,” she said. “Soft as a kitten. Prepare for re-launch.” Her hand stayed where it was. The man stayed where he was. Her other hand was on his butt, stroking him strategically. “And we have lift-off,” she said.

“Now, my little sex toy,” she said into his ear, “I can see that you’re still way too horny to function in civilized society. So, you see that bucket of water over there?”

He hadn’t noticed it before, but he did now.

“I’m going to put your face it. And it’s REAL cold. I think that should help. And, as you should know by now, there’s not a thing in the world you can do to keep me from accomplishing my mission, or even to slow me down. Against me, you’re just nothing.”

Still having him plastered sideways against the wall, she maneuvered his near arm between his legs, and used her hand at his back to come up between his legs and grab his wrist. With that control, she maneuvered him toward the water.

Now his head was just above it. Her weight was partially on his back. But he was resisting lowering his head.

“That’s it, Rapeman,” she said. “Fight me. I like that.”

But she put her left arm across the back of his neck and leaned, and he was slowly dunked.

She counted to 10 at a moderate pace, out loud, and let up. As he sputtered, she rucked his gym shorts down to his ankles again. And, with her hand, she checked him out.

“Oh, yeah: That worked VERY nicely,” she said. “Your thing is so small now that some people might have difficultly imagining that it could recover for a very long time. But they don’t know me, do they?”

Now she was splayed along his back. He was flat on his face. She was easily controlling him -- especially easily because of the position of his shorts.

Stretched on top of him, talking softly into his ear, she said, “Here’s one position for rape, huh, Rapeman? I could do you right now. Easily.” She gave him an idea of how that might go, her midsection pounding into his backside sensuously. “But I’m thinking you might prefer it the other way. So I’m going to make you hard again now, Lover Boy, because, I mean, you can’t rape me in your current condition, can you? So I’m going to give you a fighting chance. But then, just when you’re starting to have those nasty thoughts, again, I’m going to give your top head another nice little rinse, and wash them away.”

With that, she reached her right arm under his and back up over his neck in a half nelson and turned him onto his back and plastered herself on top of him and wrapped her arms around him, as if in a tight, romantic embrace, her hair brushing against his face. At first he struggled against her, but she held him effortlessly. But she wasn’t hurting him. Quite the contrary. He was getting into it, and he eventually leaned in. When she felt him stroking her, she let that go only as long as she thought necessary to achieve the desired results, then returned the favor by feeling him up a bit, and discovered that her task was accomplished.

Then she propped herself up with one hand on his chest and slapped him in the face, back and forth.

“How dare you get fresh with me, you rapist,” she said. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

She kneed him in the stomach twice, then pulled him to his feet by grabbing his short front as she stood, and she said, “Now I DEFINITELY think you have to be cooled off.” As he was catching his breath, she maneuvered him into a hammerlock, with her other arm around his neck in a choke. She pushed toward the container of water, then increased the pressure on the hammerlock and let go of the choke hold, so that he folded over to his knees, above the water. This time, however, she didn’t push his face into the water. Instead, she knelt and leaned on his lower back and put her hand on his crotch.

“Now, lover boy,” she said, “I want you to put your head in the water yourself, because you’re afraid of what I’ll do to you if you don’t.” She made clear what she meant. He had no room to maneuver. She said, “Put it in there and count to ten at the same speed I did. If you come up before your time is up, first you’ll pay the price, and then you’ll have to do it again, anyway.”

After realizing he had no choice, he did as he was told. When he came up, shaking the water off him, she said. “Good boy. That was enough to shrink you right up -- even with my hand on you.”

She rolled away from him a few feet and lay flat on her back, resting confidently, her hands behind her head. The leg nearest him was bent at the knee to be displayed at its most flattering angle.

She said, “Have I mentioned that this is all being recorded by three security cameras? The next time I tell you to humiliate yourself like that, you might want to think about what I’m going to do with the video.”

He practically dove on her. But she rolled away, gracefully coming out of the roll on her feet.

“That’s what I like to see, lover boy. Find the macho that’s still in you. You just know all this…” -- indicating her body – “ought to be yours for the taking, don’t you?” She beckoned the man on the floor toward her with her fingers, as the bent to give him good view of her cleavage. And she pursed her lips in a kiss. “Come and get me.”

He scrambled to his feet, becoming more awkward as this whole encounter progressed, and lunged to grab her and missed again, as she twisted out of his way. Now he was sprawled on the floor again, and she bent over again to resume the beckoning, kissing position. This time when he lunged at her, and she spun in a circle to avoid his grasp, she pushed him as he passed her, and he collapsed to the floor on his hands and knees.
She put her foot on his back and flattened him to floor as he was trying to rise.

“My goodness, you are pathetic, Mr. Raper Man. I feel like a master toreador toying with a crazed, stupid bull.” Then she moved away from him so that he could see her, and she imitated a bull fighter. He rose slowly. She walked slowly, seductively, cockily around him. As he watched and planned, she continued to take the the stance of a bullfighter with a flag, holding it at her side. Just as the color red infuriates a bull, the mocking movement infuriated the man, and he lunged for her, but missed again as she twisted away. He was off balance but didn’t fall until she kicked him in the ass.

Now her back was turned to him, and her hip was cocked in a provocative, insulting way, and her hands were on her hips. He lunged at her legs from behind, and she opened her legs and he fell to his face, and she sat the back of his shoulders, pressing him into the floor.

Then she slapped him on his head lightly and rolled backwards off him, to her feet.
He was slow to rise.

“Hmmm,” she said. “Sometimes the bull needs a special enticement, I guess. OK, I tell you what, Piggy the Bull. Since you’re just SO horny for me, I’m going to let you kiss me. But only on the one spot of body I think you are NOT lusting after. You’re just going to have to settle.” With that, she sat down directly in front him, spread her legs and put her hands being her head.

“No, not down there, silly,” she said. “Up here.” He still wasn’t sure what she meant. “I’m going to pit you sleep now, Horndog. And then, when you wake up, I’m going to do it again, just so you know that I can do it any time I want to. Easily. You need to understand that any time you’re conscious in my presence, it’s only because I’m permitting you to be.”

He lunged at her, and instead of dodging this time, she met him head-on, and in no time had him on his back with his face buried in her armpit. It took only seconds. Now she had one of his hands out of play, and the other was ineffectual. He was locked in.

She lectured him as he struggled and his efforts died out. “Enjoy this while you can, lover boy. It’s the best you’re gonna get.” Her hand felt at his crotch, and she smiled at what she found. “You’re definitely not finding this all bad, are you?” She kissed him on the forehead. “Sweet dreams, my pathetic little horndog,” she said.

When he woke up, she was back at the counter, in that commanding, standing position in which he first saw her. As his vision cleared, she said, “I decided to let you wake up at least one more time. You owe me your life, not to mention your new erotic interest: my armpits. She locked her hands behind her head and displayed them.” She walked toward him slowly.

“You know this is going to happen to you again, Mr. Rapist, don’t you? Right now. And there’s not a thing in the world you can do about it. The pit wants what the pit wants.”
His eyes darted around. She loved that. “Oh, isn’t that adorable!” she said. “The scary macho man is looking for a weapon to use against the big, old babe who’s kicking his ass. OK, fine with me. Maybe I’ll get you some if you wake up again.”

As she approached, he put out his hand as if to stop her. She said, “What’s this? All of a sudden you DON’T want to kiss me. Well! Now I’m insulted. Now you have to deal with the fury of a woman scorned. I’m thinking this won’t go well for you.”

She grabbed for a headlock, and got it and maneuvered until his face was facing into her armpit. She held him standing there as he struggled awkwardly. She walked him like that over to a mirror and she primped in it, while he struggled in vain. She made sure her hair was in place. She checked her make-up and examined her clothes for rips for spots.

Finally, she brought him to the floor. Again, she secured him in place. After just a few seconds, she checked his crotch for signs of life, and she was pleased.

When he woke up this time, she was standing above him, her legs athwart his chest, his eyes looking up her legs to her panties and beyond. It was a sight he would never forget. “I hope you’re surprised to wake up, horn dog. I wouldn’t want you taking anything for granted. You should be very grateful to me. But I’m going to do you even more favors. First, I’m going to turn and walk away, giving you a view to dream about the next time I put out to sleep. I want you to remember what you started out fighting for.”

She did as promised, then turned to face him.

“Now I’m going to give you the first shot, babe. Come on. Come at me. Let’s see what you got. After that, I’m going to come at you with one hand, which will be way more than enough.”

Rising to his feet and approaching her as she stood still, he suddenly threw a punch at her head, then a few more. They all missed, as she ducked or leaned back or to the right or left, as was called for, all while smiling at him.

“I didn’t say I’d give you the first FIVE shots, Piggy,” she laughed. “But OK.”

Suddenly her right hand came up in a backhand against his cheek. His head jerked back, and he found himself slapped in the face with her forehand coming back, then with a backhand again with the same hand. He was staggered.

“One hand, babe,” she said, matter-of-factly, holding it up. “One OPEN hand. I mean, I could close my hand into a fist, in that ever-so-manly way that you do. But I wouldn’t want to cut our fun too short. If I closed my fist, you’d be done already.”
He glared at her.

She put her hands on her hips. “Your turn,” she said.

He didn’t need any further urging. He came at her throwing bombs, but she back pedaled, or twisted or turned or ducked – even twirled -- and he hit only air. He was not swinging wildly and mindlessly. He was trying to stay calm. But, still, he couldn’t touch her. Then she moved toward him and blocked a few shots, rather than ducking them.
Then, using the same hand she had attacked him with, she slapped her open palm quickly into his chest three times, in three different spots, then hit him with a sort of karate chop on the side of his neck. He stopped in his tracks.

“Can’t move, can you, Rapeman? That’s my little paralyzer. Any time you ARE moving, it’s only because I have decided not to use it. She gave him one more thrust like that, and he sunk to his knees.

Standing above him, she put her hand under his chin. She had him looking straight at her crotch. She said, “And, again, so close and yet so far, huh, Babe?” Then she raised his chin higher and pointed it toward her face and told him, “Now I’m going to turn you back on.” She slapped his face back and forth with the same hand, hit him with the same sort of karate chop and she bent over and kissed him on the forehead. “That ought to do it,” she said.

Then she turned her back to him, and he found himself staring at her ass at very close range. She straightened her clothes and hair for a few seconds, letting him stare. Then she walked a few feet away and said, “Like taking, Candy from a baby,” as if she was talking to a camera.

“See something you like, Rapeman?” she asked, with her back still turned, then twirling for him. “I know how you get when you see something like this that you like, Piggy. And I do not approve.” She walked toward him. “No, no, no,” she said, wagging her forefinger.

“But here’s another chance for you. I have let you recover again and again, when I could have finished you off easily,” she said. “Go for it. That is, if you’re not too afraid of me.”

She did not raise her hands into fighting position. She had never done that yet.
He threw a left at her face, but she easily blocked it with her right forearm. He threw a right, and she blocked it with her left. A few more shots also got noplace. She smiled at him, and suddenly kissed him on the cheek. Then she slapped him with the same hand she had slapped him with earlier, her right. He threw his right at her, fist closed. She blocked it with her left and slapped him again with her right. He backed up. She came at him.

“I can slap you silly, Rapeman,” she said. She brought her right hand into his face again, this time with a backhand strike. “Just be glad I’m only using one hand, or you’d be down already. But you’re going down now, anyway.” With that, she again thrust the palm of her hand into his chest three quick times in different spots, and karate chopped the side of his neck.

He slid to his knees, his arms hanging limply at his sides. She lifted him back to his feet by lifting under his arms, and she backed him into a wall. She stood within inches of him, face to face.

“You still want some of this, Rapeman? Well, I’m going to turn you back on again, so you can go for it.” She slapped his face back and forth, karate chopped him and kissed him on cheek. “There, back to normal, pathetic as that is,” she said. “Now I dare you to try something.” She was again within inches of him.

He started to bring his right arm up, but she stopped it early with her left, actually keeping his arm down near his side. And she slapped his face with her right hand.

As close into his face as she could get, she said, “Try something else, Rapeman.” He started to bring his left arm up, but she squelched it just as she had his right. She was hardly expending any energy, at least not visibly. And she was utterly relaxed. But she was giving him no room to maneuver. Now she put both her hands on his face, each on one a cheek, and she pushed his head back into the wall twice, leaving him dazed. She kissed him on each cheek, then banged his head into the wall again, still not as hard as she could have.

She patted his cheek and said, “Pitiful.”

She sashayed back to the counter.

“I like to show you what you want but can’t have, Piggy,” she said.

She raised a leg in the air and ran her hand along it sensuously, straightening and bending it for his amusement, resting it on the counter.

“We both know how much that eats at you, don’t we, Rapeman?”

“And, of course, there are these.” She dropped her leg to the floor and over toward him provocatively and cupped her breasts. “These are WAY too good for the likes of you. I will let you look, but only because frustrating you so much is so much fun for me.”
She straightened up with a superior, almost sneering look and walked slowly toward him.

He felt his phone go off. It was in his pants pocket, and his pants were not far away.

She said, “I don’t appreciate being interrupted, Piggy, so now I’m’ going to take your phone. You’ll be the baby, and the phone will be the candy.”

He couldn’t have that, not with what was on the phone. He practically dove for his pants and retrieved the phone.

“My, my, my,” she said. “Now I know I have to take the phone.” She stalked him. She put out her right hand, palm up. She said, “It’s my phone now, Rapeman.” She slapped his face with her right hand, and took the phone out of his left with her left. “You really are incredibly pathetic, Rapeman.” She looked down at the phone. He reached out for it. She turned her back on him. But in the process of turning to her left, she swept her right foot as his ankle and swept him off his feet.

Now he was on his back staring at her ass.

Looking at the phone, she said, “Oh, this isn’t good for you, Piggy. No. No. No. You never should have let me see this.”

He got to his feet, and, as she turned back toward him, her right foot again caught him at his left ankle, and she swept, and again he was dumped on his ass.

“Try getting up again, Piggy. I dare you. I’ll put you don’t every time, using only this one beautiful leg,” she said, indicating her right. “It’s WAY too much for you.”

There followed three more attempts to rise. Each time she put him down, sometimes sweeping one or both legs out from under him; sometimes landing a foot in his stomach or chest or upside his head.

She now kept her leg in the air and stroked it provocatively. “You’re no match for this little lady, Piggy. She may be ever-so-delicately curved, and ever-so-enticing to your touch, but she can kick your ass from here to Thursday, and never break a sweat. You’re not going to stand up until she decides to let you.”

He had to rise to that challenge – or try to. But two more times she put him down. Finally, the foot at the end of the operative leg was planted on his face as he sat back against a wall. His hands tried to remove it, but the foot’s owner had all the leverage as she loomed above him.

She still hadn’t put down his phone.

Now she said, “You want your phone back, Piggy?” She held it in front him. “OK, after you take a little rest, you can try to get it. I’ll even let you stand up.” She tapped his face a couple of times, slapping it in more than one direction with her foot.

Then, taking her foot off him, she bent over at the waist to flaunt her cleavage at him; turned her back and bent over to flaunt her ass, and, while so bent, stroked one leg sensuously to draw his attention to it. As so doing, she smiled at him.

Then she went back to the counter and explored his phone, driving him crazy with her impudence.

“Give me the fucking phone, bitch,” he said.

She didn’t even look up from the phone. “I don’t see that happening, bitch,” she said casually. “But I’ll tell you what I will do: I’ll let you have it if you can so much as touch it.”

He came at her, grabbing. She laughed and pulled the phone away from his grab like a matador, and kicked him gently in the ass as he passed her, so that his gut hit against the counter. Stepping away, she dangled it in front him. When he tried to grab it, she would either pull it away or sort of slap him with it. Soon he was on his knees breathless. With a kick to his side, she put him on his back.

She said, “Be thankful I’m not going for you balls, Rapeman. We both know they are mine any time I want them.”

She went over to put the man’s phone in her purse and to retrieve a couple of items from it. She bent over it, know what he was looking at. When she turned back to him, he was just starting to rise. She put a foot on his chest to push him back to the floor flat. Then she trapped each of his wrists between the high heel and flat part of a shoe. She loomed above him.

“Here’s another view for you, Piggy” she said. “Eat your heart out.” He twisted and turned to find a way out, but only weakly. As he did so, she primped. She brushed her hair; she fixed her make-up in a hand mirror. She patted the bottom of her hair in a smug, self-satisfied way. Then she stroked herself and gyrated a little for the prone man’s amusement.

She looked down at him. She said, “I love the fear I see in your eyes. It turns me on.”

He said, “I’m not afraid of you.”

She laughed. “Oh, really? Then what is that I see. Here let me get a little closer.” She bent only at the waist, and her hands went to his throat. And she said, “It sure looks like fear. I’d like you to reconsider, Piggy.” She squeezed. “Is it fear or isn’t it.”
He resisted a little, but finally, in desperation, said, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” she asked.

He stalled just a little, but said, “It’s fear.”

She patted him on his cheek, and straightened up, releasing her hold on his throat.

“That’ what I like to hear,” she said. “Now say it in a complete sentence.”

He struggled against the realization that he had to say it, but he didn’t struggle long.
“I’m afraid of you,” he said.

“Oh, yes, yes!” she said, as if he had found her G-spot. “God, how I love to hear that!”
Leaning back over, she said, “I know you’re telling yourself you only had to say that because I’ve got your arms out of action. But that’s ok. I going mainly by the eyes, anyway. But, you know what? I need even more fear in those eyes. You know, there’s no end to the things I could do you now, Rapeman. I could go after your eyes with my fingers. I could choke you with one hand until you gasp for breath, then stick a finger or something down your throat until want to throw up. I could punch your lights out easily. Whatever. You’re so utterly helpless against me.”

With each of these possibilities, she offered a little demonstration of what she was talking about. Not much, but enough to be convincing enough to him.

“Ah, yes, there’s the look I’m going for. Thank you. Thank you. Now I’m going to return the favor. Instead of taking advantage of my superior position, we’re going to play to YOUR strengths. Stand up.” She stood aside and let him do so, which he did warily. When he was up, she raised her hands in front of him, her palms facing him. “Let’s see what you got she said.”

He couldn’t believe his luck. This was what he needed: A test of strength. Could it be real?

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I promise not to go for your balls.” As she smiled, he locked hands with her and put on the pressure. It had little effect, and she smiled. She said,

“Mighty brave of you not to run away, Rapeman, what with a lady’s my mighty armpits staring you right in the face.” As they stood in something of a deadlock, she suddenly twisted both her hands outward, so that his wrists were now pointing up, rather than down. And she put on the pressure. Successfully. He rose to his toes to ward off the pain. “I’m going to give you a ride up and down the scenic view of my body, Piggy. Right now, you’re going down.” She twisted her hands back into their original position and drove him to his knees. She held him there in pain. “What’s worst, Piggy,” she asked, “the physical pain, the humiliation of being brought to your knees by a girl, and with the cameras rolling, at that, or the fear of what I’m going to do to you next?”

He didn’t answer. She twisted again, and he was on his toes. He grimaced. She smiled.

Then again, and he was on his knees.

With his face at the middle of her body, she said, “All together now, Rapeman: ‘So close and yet so far.’ But, ok, I’m going to take pity on you and let you kiss me.” He paused. “Do it. I know it’s not exactly what you’ve been dreaming of, but we both know it’s as close as your gonna get. And – what can I say – I want to enjoy the symbolism of you doing it on your knees, against your will. So I’m going to put all the pressure on you that’s necessary to make you do it.” She demonstrated. And he did it.

“Pathetic,” she said, and pushed him onto his back with her control of his hands.

She straightened up. “Now I’m going to give you a very special look at the girly-girl bod that just did that to you, Rapeman, the body that you want so desperately, but are so helpless to get.” With that, she dropped down onto his chest with both knees, and, while he was trying to catch his breath, turned to face his feet, caught his hands under her high heels again and stood up. Now he was looking straight up at her ass.

“How’s that for a killer view, huh, Rapeman? Oh, you just want this so bad, don’t you?”
She stroked her butt, bent over, squatted and moved in a way that kept giving him new perspectives, each of which enthralled him.

She said, “I’ll bet you never could have believed you could be so horny and hate it so much, huh, Rapeman?”

Then she said, “Well, I guess we both know that if you’re going to have any hope at all of dealing with this” -- and she indicated her body -- “you’re going to need at least one weapon. So hold on a second.” She stepped into another room as he watched her ass longingly, and she came back with a knife and a two-by-four type piece of wood, maybe two feet long. She dropped them both at his side.

He picked them both up.

“Attaboy,” she said. “Give me a fight.”

He was cautious. She was not. She stepped into him. With one hand, she grabbed the wrist that held the knife, and with her other she immobilized his other arm, and she kissed him on the cheek, and she came away with the knife.

She discarded it onto a chair, and she said, “Now I’m going to take that away from you, too.” She indicated the piece of wood.

He raised in with his left hand. She stepped into him and slapped her left hand into his left bicep, which had the effect of loosening his grip. She slid the wood out of his grasp with her right hand.

Then she gave it back to him. That took him aback. She beckoned him to try again. He raised it again. This time she ducked under it, grabbed his armed wrist and put it into a hammerlock as she came up behind him. The wood came off into her hand. Holding his one arm in the hammerlock, she hooked her free arm around in front of him and handed him the piece. When he took it, she pushed him away.

When he turned to face her, he raised it above him. She grabbed it with both hands and brought it down between his legs and grabbed it from behind him by reaching through his legs from behind as she stood next to him. He was bent over, trying to hold on to it. After letting him struggle a little and walking him around like that, she put a foot on his ass and pushed him away. He stumbled to the floor, and she now had the weapon in her hand. She tossed it over to him, then retrieved the knife and did the same thing with it.
She sashayed back to the counter and resumed her default position.

She said, “Any time you’re ready again, Rapeman, I’ll be glad to toy with you some more. But this time I warn you: When this part of the evening’s entertainment is over, I’m coming for your balls. I think we both know they are the heart of the problem here. And I think we both know I can have them any time I want. I mean, once again, there’s not a thing in the world you can do to stop me. So you really better hope the knife and the board work for you.”

“I’m gonna kill you, bitch,” he said, holding both weapons and planning his attack.

She imitated him without moving. “I’m gonna kill you, bitch,” she said in her best masculine voice. Then she said, in her own voice, laced with scorn, “Please!” And, again, as a man, “I’m gonna to kill you, bitch,” she laughed. As she did so, she bent to slip off her high heels for the first time.

She wiggled her fingers toward herself in a come-and-get-me gesture. He came slowly. He brought the board toward her. She blocked it and kicked him in the stomach. He feel to his knees, and she took the board. His hand with the knife was on the floor. She stepped on it, immobilizing the hand, then swept the knife away with her bare foot.
She knelt down beside him, holding the board.

“Time to start worrying about your balls, Rapeman,” she said, “because I’m coming for them.”

She dropped the board and faked a move toward them with both hands. He jerked back and covered them with his hands.

She smiled. “OK,” she said. “You go ahead and defend yourself with your big, masculine hands, and I’ll come at you with my delicate, smooth, little girly-girl fingers with their pretty polish. And we’ll see who wins.”

He was kind of on his hands and knees, and not in a good position to back up very far. As she moved her hands in at him slowly, he tried to bat them away. But she caught one of his hands and bent a finger or two back firmly; in pain, he pulled the hand away. Now his hands were back toward crotch. She had one hand coming at his crotch from the front, and one from the back, up between his legs.

“I think I’m going to get there, Rapeman,” she said. “You’re losing to a girl yet again.
Yes, I’m almost there. Your defense is pathetic. Yes, and I’m in.”

She had him. She hadn’t hurt him badly, yet, and he was still trying to push her front hand away. But when he did, she caused him some trouble with the back one, and his hands flitted ineffectually between the two.

She was leaning on him, her chin on his back. She said, “You’re in a very, very bad way, Rapeman. I own you. You are mine.” She emphasized her point with her a little hand movement. His pain and fear were obvious. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
Silence. She goosed him. He jerked.

“Please,” he said.

“Please, huh?” she said. “Well, that’s a start.” And she applied more pressure.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’ll say you’re sorry,” she said, and hurt him again. “Also pathetic.”

She got to her feet, holding her two hands locked together and bringing the middle of his body up with her. His feet and hands were still on the floor and he was in pain.
“No!” he said. “No!”

Holding him there, she said, “I could end it all for you right here, Rapeman, couldn’t I?”

“Yes, yes!” he said.

“And in the most painful imaginable way, couldn’t I?”

“Yes, yes,” he said.

“Fortunately for you, however,” she said, “that’s not the plan.”

She gave him another taste of what she could do, and she dropped him. He crumpled into a fetal position moaning, curled toward her. She stood above him, her feet very close to his face and in his field of vision. She stood close to him to demonstrate to him that he was unwilling to attack her. She bent and brushed the back of her fingers against his face.

She kneeled next to him and put one hand on his crotch, over his hands. “Now I want to just drop your hands to floor because you know resistance is futile. I want you to just hope for the best.” He did as told.

To his surprise, she only held him possessively.

“Wow!” she said. “Are you ever pathetic. Hard to believe that just a few minutes ago you thought were going to rape me, isn’t it. Can you imagine how embarrassing that would have been for me if the word got out: that I let myself be raped by a loser like you? People would be like, “REALLY?? That pathetic loser? Unbelievable?” They’d say, “I would have picked her just on the basis of her armpits alone.” She move up toward his head and positioned him flatter on his back. “And you couldn’t blame, could you. They are pretty scary, aren’t they. I want you to look at my armpit now, Rapeman, and think about what a huge role it plays in your life now.” She maneuvered it over him as he lay prone, and she kept it there. “And I want you to be afraid. Be very, very afraid, Rapeman. Very, very afraid.”

After a clear demonstration that he was, patted him on his cheek. Leaned over and kissed him, then rose. She went back to the counter and resumed the position.
She resumed her look through his phone, and this time he let her.

Finally, she realized he wasn’t even going to look at her.

She said, “I wonder if I can still get you hard despite everything I’ve put your dick through,” she said. “Oh, who am I kidding? Of course, I can. But just to give myself a little bit of a personal challenge, I’m going to make you hard just using my feet.” That got him to turn his head toward her. “Whaddaya think, Rapeman? Think you can resist? I’m thinking that if you’re helpless against my pits, then I’ve pretty much got ALL the power here.”

She rose. “I’m coming for you, Pigster. Abandon all hope.”

He started to get awkwardly and weakly to his feet, facing away from her to get some distance before turning around. But she rammed an arm up into his crotch from behind, and, as he sought comfort on the floor, maneuvered him into a leg lock. He was on his backside, and her foot was in his crotch, and his legs were in position such that she could hurt him a lot, easily, without even going for his crotch.

She stroked him with her foot and distracted his attention from his pain.

“I think we have learned, Rapeman,” she said, “that if I want you hard, you’re hard.” Then she shot the foot that was on his crotch into his chest and stomach, leaving breathless and in pain. Waiting a few seconds, she then she tested his crotch with the foot and said, “And if I want our soft, you’re soft.” She stroked him again. “And hard.” She pressed her foot harder against his groin. “And soft.” She stroked. “And hard.” Once more to his stomach and chest. “And soft.” She did two more cycles.

She rose, lifted him to feet with her hands on the front of his shirt at the chest, and pushed his back against a wall. She put her face right in his, getting very, very close. “I hope you like my perfume, Rapeman. It’s called Devastation.”

Staying that close, her face in his, she put her hands up behind her head.

“Make a move, Piggy,” she said. “I dare you. Touch me anyplace. Go ahead. You know how much you want to. I know how much you want. You are so desperate to feel me up that it’s about to drive you totally freaking nuts. You’re so horny that I can literally feel it when we stand this close. And you want to hurt me so bad you can taste it. And you know if you don’t make a move now, it will haunt you all your life. So here we are. I’m putting it all in your face. Go for it. Touch me anyplace. I dare you.”
He didn’t.

“I didn’t think so,” she said.

She let the totality of his humiliation and fear sink in, just standing there, hands behind her head.

Then she said, “OK, Rapeman, the foregoing was an invitation, a dare. What follows now is an order: Kiss my pits.” He stared at her. “Do it, and do it right now,” she said. “Both of them.”

He did.

Then: “Now we go back to my generous offer, my dare,” she said. She raised her leg and rested her ankle on his shoulder. It was the leg that had beaten him up so thoroughly and so easily. “I know how much you’ve been wanting to get your hands on this baby all night,” she said. “Now’s your chance.” He didn’t make a move.

“No, huh?” she said. “Well, I guess this isn’t her most flattering angle.” She dropped her foot the ground, pushed the man down into a seated position, and stood above him. She positioned her upper thigh to be right in front of his face and said, “Go ahead, feel her up, Rapeman. You have never wanted to do anything more passionately in your life. We both know that, and so will everybody watching the video. Now’s your chance. I dare you. ”Getting no response, she repositioned herself so that instead of looking at the outside of one thigh, he was confronted with the inner part of her other thigh. “How about my inner thigh, Rapeman? Does that give you any ideas? Is that soft and girly enough to get you going. I’ve never met a pig like you who didn’t have inner thigh on the brain.”

“Pathetic coward,” she said as she turned her back on him. “Afraid of a hot little babe! How about if I get flat on back? Would that give you any courage?” She did so, and she spread her legs as wide as they would go and curled her finger at the man before her. “Come on, Rapeman. I’ll be glad to get your started on your little project.” Her legs closed and opened. “Come on. We both know how much you want it. This time I REALLY hope you accept my invitation, because these two beautiful ladies” – indicating her legs – “want to squeeze you to within an inch of your life. Actually, who knows; they might even miscalculate by an inch or two.”

He did nothing.

“OK, Rapeman, if you’re afraid to touch me without be ordered to, I guess I’ll do the touching.” She lifted him to his feet. “I’m going to work you over entirely with the asset of mine that you’ve been most staring at and drooling over all night, and in fact ever since we met, even more than my naughty thighs: my adorable ass. I figure that destroying you with it will have a certain symbolic value, you know?”

She turned her back to him and grabbed his wrists firmly in her hands. Then she began sensuously gyrating against him, giving him a sort of standing lap dance. When she knew he was hard again, she stopped rubbing against him and instead slammed her butt into him hard. Then she began to work him over again sexually, and repeated the cycle. After a total of three times, she was satisfied. She let go of his hands, and turned to face him and watched him slide to the floor.

She turned her back, stood directly in front of him, close to him, put her hands up under her hair, playing with it sensuously, as if in sexual pleasure, cocked her hip cockily, and made him look at close range directly at what he lusted after so much. She knew he wouldn’t dare touch it.

She turned to him and looked down at him. “You seem to have changed your views on the whole subject of raping me, Rapeman. But I gotta tell ya….” Here she bent and took hold of his shirt at his chest and pulled him toward his feet. “….I’ve come to like the idea of raping you. And I think I’ve whipped and scared you so thoroughly that you’d just relax and accept it, wouldn’t you.” She plastered his hands up over his head against the wall and held them there. That brought their faces very close together again. And she thrust her crotch hard into his, then did it again. And she started to grind on him. But then she said, “Whoops, I better not do that. I wouldn’t want you to climax. I like you best when you’re so sexually frustrated that you look at me like I’m a goddess.” She continued to thrust at him, though, as she said, “Now, while I’m doing you, Rapeman, I’m going give you some options as to how this all ends.” She thrusted into him. “Option number one” – she thrusted again – “is that I post the video online for all to see.”

With that, she flipped him over, so that he was facing the wall, and, again, she stretched him out lengthwise, so that his hands were above his head against the wall. That brought her mid-section and his ass into contact. And she came at him the same way, thrusting herself into him as she might if she were wearing a dildo. “Option number two” – thrust – “is, I tell the police what I found on your phone.” Thrust. “And I hold you prisoner here until they come for you.” Thrust.

“And number three,” – thrust – “ I keep you here and give you 24 hours to recover….” – thrust -- “from this appalling beating your taking.” Thrust. “And then we have a rematch.”

She thrust at him and flipped him back over to face her, and plastered his hands once again against the wall above his head.

“If you win,” – thrust – “you get the video and whatever else you can take.” Thrust. “If I win, I deprive you of the ability to ever rape anybody.” Thrust. “Forever.” Thrust. “Your call.”

She let go of his hands, and he slid down the wall, in contact with her body as he did so.

Looking down at him, she said, “You’ve got all the power, Mr. Man – to decide how I victimize you from here.”
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Old 19-Feb-17, 19:41
godoggo2012 godoggo2012 is offline
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Default Re: BOS stories

Good Stuff!
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Old 21-Feb-17, 05:28
l0000 l0000 is offline
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Default Re: BOS stories

I have been reading your work for decades. The first was "Hands on HIPS," still favorite. Another featured three girls robbing a poor man's apartment of his paintings while one of them beats him up. I would love to see at least these two placed here or on D the V.
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