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Old 17-May-20, 05:45
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Female Supremacy Amy and Andy: A Session

I've written a lot of stories, but this is the first I'm posting. I often like to write from the female perspective, and this story is written that way. It's a session wrestler having a session with a new client. I appreciate feedback, and please let me know if you like this style of story.

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I'll start with the basics so you understand what I'm about to tell you. I'm 26 years old and I have been training since I was 12. That's 14 years of training. 14 years of pumping iron, building endurance, becoming more flexible, and getting stronger every year. I love my muscles. Who wouldn't? My biceps are 16". My thighs are 25". Of course, I'm only 5'4" and 163 pounds, but how big are your biceps? How hard are they? Mine are like steel.

My client today is Andy, a new one. He's young, 22 years old, but not a first-timer. We exchanged messages and he told me he has had two sessions with other girls already. He says he likes wrestling, but nothing too serious. He likes it when a girl takes control. I wonder if he understands what he's getting himself into. This should be fun. For me, at least.

Andy didn't make any wardrobe requests, so I choose a tight, sleeveless crop top shirt. My arms look amazing. I do curls to give them a pump before he arrives. They are swelling and hard. My shirt reveals the bottom of my boobs (yes, I had them done). I turned the thermostat down to 67 degrees earlier and my nipples are about to pop out of my top. My shorts are short. Very short. And tight. My thighs stretch them and almost burst out. I've got four inch heels; you can imagine my calves for yourself. I don't have to tell you.

I've put my hair in a double Dutch braid. Each braid falls just past my shoulder blades. This does two things. It won't get in the way when I'm destroying this guy later, and young girls wear double braids like this. I'm 26, but I look 18. Maybe younger. Before Andy arrives, I rub my body down with shea butter. First my arms, massaging it in, warming up my muscles and softening my skin, then up to my shoulders. Next my abs and lower back. I'm obsessed with my own abs, to be honest. I run my fingers over them, up and down, tapping them and tracing their contours. I rub shea butter onto my chest, then my upper back. I take my time. You can't rush shea butter. It's slow to melt and absorb, but when it does, my skin is like silk. Pure pleasure to touch. If I let you.

Lastly, I treat my legs. I start with my thighs, flexing as I go. First my quads, then my hamstrings. The bulge of my hamstrings is the result of a lot of work. Heavy lifts. Weights that my clients couldn't budge. I slide my hands down my legs, all the way to my ankles, massaging the shea butter with slow, firm strokes. I move back up, massaging my calves, then take a second pass at my thighs, all the way around them. My hands are unable to get anywhere close to encircling their 25" circumference. I linger on them, admiring my hard work. It's so chilly in here with the temperature down, but my muscles are warming from the massage. When the shea has all disappeared, my legs are irresistible. My skin is intoxicating to the touch. Supple and firm, but soft and smooth. Taut skin over taut muscles. The allure of my legs has been the undoing of so many men... and women.

Andy messages me to say he's at the lobby. I send him my room number and tell him to show up in 10 minutes. I use the time to stretch. My shorts are tight, but they stretch. They look like jean shorts, but they have spandex in them. And when I say they are short, I mean it. You've heard of the fingertip rule? I wouldn't pass the wrist rule. I stand in front of the mirror and watch my muscles ripple as I first pull my arms across my chest, left then right, left then right, twisting at the waist as I go. I stretch my arms above my head, clasping my hands. I bounce my biceps a few times. I love the rush of power I feel as I watch them swell. Finally, I face away from the mirror and bend at the waist, all the way down, folding my body onto the front of my thighs, and touch my toes. I turn my gaze so I can see myself in the mirror. My hamstrings press together, forming a heart shape under my glutes. A hard, inescapable heart that can close a windpipe while I'm standing. I straighten my posture and arch my back, pressing my legs together harder, feeling their power. They are like a wall of muscle. I'm excited for my session.


Andy arrives on time. My clients don't want to wait a second more than they must to see me. I open the door and invite him in. He's about 5'9", maybe 170 pounds. Average. He keeps eye contact as I greet him, but when I look away to close the door, his eyes go straight to my legs. I lock the door, and fasten the chain. "You're trapped with me now," I say. He laughs. I grab his wrist and lead him to the middle of the room, my left hand holding his right wrist. I have a suite, and I've pushed everything to the edge of the room. I've covered the center of the floor with a big comforter. He's carrying a gym bag with a change of clothes for the session in his left hand.

Andy doesn't resist as I move him to the middle of the room. Nor could he if he wanted, though he doesn't understand that yet. Andy isn't fat, but he's soft. His wrist is slight. Not as small as mine, but not thick. I can tell just from looking at him and feeling his wrist in my hand that I'm a lot stronger than him. "Would you like to feel my power, Andy? Is that why you came?" He nods. His eyes are on my shoulders now. I stand close flex my left deltoid. It ripples and expands. His eyes widen. His right wrist is still in my hand. He instinctively tries to raise his hand to touch my shoulder, but he is caught. He doesn't try hard. Instead, he drops his gym bag and reaches across to my shoulder with his other hand. I intercept with my right, catching his wrist. He tries to keep moving his hand to my shoulder, but I hold it fast. Again, he doesn't try very hard before he gives up. He wants me to be in control.

Both of his wrists are now in my hands, his left in my right, and his right in my left. I move his right hand behind him and press it against his back. He resists weakly, but I quickly overcome him. I step closer and trap his elbow against his body in the crook of my arm, which frees my left hand from holding his wrist. I move his other arm behind him and grasp it with my left hand which I just freed, freeing up my right hand and arm completely. I pull his left arm tightly behind his back with my left hand and flex my left bicep to press his right arm against his body. He tries to twist free, but I hold him in place. I press his arm into his side with my bicep a little harder. He tries to step back, but I pull him against me, hard. My body is much firmer than his. I sense that he can now feel that I'm much stronger.

"Would you like to kiss my shoulder?" I flex it again, inching it closer to his face. He starts to lean toward it, but I grab his throat with my free hand, further immobilizing him. He struggles lightly against me. I feel that he has gotten hard. It's small, no more than five inches. Its poking my thigh. In my heels I am 5'8", almost eye-level with Andy, but my arms and legs are long for my height, so my waist is above his. I flex my quad against his hardness and continue to hold him tight, pulling him against me. I feel his hardness pulse. I relax and flex my quad two more times, very hard the second time. I crush his small hard-on. He winces and moans, caught between pleasure and pain.

"Sorry," he says. I could squeeze his throat and shut him up, but I permit him to speak. For now.

"For what? For that?" I ask as I lift my leg, stroking against him.

"Yes," he barely manages to say through a moan.

"Don't be. How could you possibly control yourself?" I ask. I lift my leg higher, stroking up and down from my knee to the middle of my thigh. I feel it throbbing. As he starts to get lost in the pleasure, I stop. I kick his gym bag to the corner of the room, move my hand from his throat to his shoulder, lean back, and pull him down. He tries to keep his feet, but I yank him down with both arms. We land on our knees. I reach behind him, grab his left wrist with my right hand again, and take his right wrist back into my left hand. I pull his arms away from him. He wriggles and resists, trying to keep his arms close to his body. I fall back on my butt, pulling him towards me, and spread my legs. He falls forward, his head precariously placed within reach of my thighs.


I pull his arms away from his body again, this time flexing my chest. He's looking up at me, and his eyes get wide as he sees my muscles swell and harden. He is so enthralled by my pecs that he forgets to even attempt to resist me as I pull his arms away from his body. I pull my legs up toward my body, bend them at the knees, then slide them up and straighten them between our outstretched arms, capturing his head. I clasp my ankles and lie back, dragging him forward. I slide my hands from his wrists to his hands, interlocking fingers with him. I bring his arms down to the floor, pulling them out and toward me until they are straight, then push back on his wrists. He tries to pull his hands away from me, but he is too weak. His arms are not as big around as mine. And not as hard. As I could tell right away, I am much stronger than him.

I flex my quads, one pulse, and he grunts. I release the pressure as fast as I apply it, then maneuver his head down, juggling it with my thighs until it is right where I want it. He is staring right at my abs. His gaze moves from my abs to my arms, then to my chest. He's looking at the underside of my boobs. He tries to move a hand up to touch my abs, but he can't free it from grasp. I press hard on his hands, bending his wrists back. He tries to pull away, but I hold his hands in place. He can't move them at all; I laugh at his effort. I raise my legs until my feet are pointing straight up, dragging him forward. His hands are held fast, wrists pressed against the floor, hands pressed back. He is caught. Helpless.

With his head trapped in my thighs, I flex my adductors slowly. The space between his throat and my legs gets smaller and smaller. He can't see it, but I can. I stare at him as the space closes. I see in his eyes that he can tell something is coming, but he doesn't know what. 3... 2... 1... my adductors reach his neck. Then I squeeze.

I feel his throat trapped in my thighs. I continue to squeeze. He is trying to breathe, but I've closed his windpipe. My legs are bulging against him. Swelling. Hard. He tries to talk. He can't. He tries to grunt. No sound comes out. Nothing comes in or out of his throat. He's getting nervous. I see the fear in his eyes as he realizes he can't breathe. He tries to pull his hands out of my grip with all his might, but it is futile. I flex my arms to emphasize the point. "Just tap if it's too much," I say. He tries to move his hand, struggling desperately to free it to tap. He tries to open his mouth to say something, but he can't make a sound. He tries to pull his head away. I squeeze harder. "Really, just tap at any time." I say. His eyes are turning red. I squeeze even harder. The blood to his head is being cut off. I can see his eyes losing focus. His eyelids start to flutter.

I stop the pressure. He gasps for air. His breathing is labored. He starts to speak, but as soon as he does, I squeeze him again.

"Gah grr grr-" is all that comes out.

"Nobody said you can talk," I say. He gurgles. I squeeze harder, flexing my adductors, shutting his airway again. The gurgling stops. He tries to free a hand, but in his struggles, he is only getting weaker. I squeeze harder, then release the pressure again. He gasps for air. I continue the cycle, bringing him to the verge of blacking out, unable to breathe, unable to move an inch, unable to tap. He struggles in vain. His face is red. He gasps for air when I loosen my grip. Again he tries to speak, and again I squeeze his throat wordless. "Err rrr," he gurgles out. I pulse my thighs. He grimaces and grunts with each pulse. His eyes dart left, right, up, down. He is looking for anything he can use. He is trying to find an escape. But there is no escape. I am not one to waste time with smalltalk or breaks. When my client arrives, I take charge, and I spend the entire allotted time for our session destroying them. I wear them down to nothing, to where they can't resist me, mentally or physically. I control whether they speak, breathe, or move. I decide if they get to remain conscious. And, so far, Andy was behaving well enough that I let him endure the pain and experience the thrill without making him to take a nap.

"Don't worry, Andy. You only booked me for an hour," I say as his eyes keep searching for a way out of my legs. "Only 50 minutes to go." He groans. I apply painful pressure. My legs swell against him. His face turns purple, and his eyes start to glaze over before I stop. I let go of his hands. He instinctively places them on my legs, tugging futilely at them. I squeeze again. "Nobody said you could touch me," I say. He quickly lets go, placing his hands back on the floor, tapping it in desperation. I release the pressure and he gasps for air. I lower my legs away from myself, tilting him away so that he can see me more easily. I put my hands behind my head and flex my arms. I bounce my biceps in turn, right, left, right, left. His eyes follow. "Now you may touch my legs, Andy," I say. He puts his hands back on my thighs. Again he tries to pry them apart. I squeeze. "Not like that," I say. "I want you to feel them." He starts to caress them. I flex them. He grunts and feels my quads, running his fingers over them, groping.

"Th-" he starts to speak again, and I squeeze his throat shut. He grabs at my legs, pulling.

"Did someone say you could speak?" I ask. I squeeze harder. He taps frantically on my legs. I pulse my thighs. His hands flop onto the floor and his eyes lose focus. I release the pressure and he gasps for air. "This is fun, isn't it? It's just what you wanted, right?"

An angry look crosses his face and he starts to answer me, but before he can say a word, my legs close tightly around his throat. "Arr," is all he manages to say before he is reduced to grimacing silently and turning purple. He reaches up for my legs again. This time I release quickly. I unclasp my ankles and pull my right leg away. I sit up and grab his left hand with my left hand, pulling it over my body. I snap my right leg back around him and wrap it around his neck and arm. I lock it into place, securing it under my other leg, my foot tucked behind my knee. He is in a triangle. He starts to say something, but I squeeze and thrust my hips toward him. "Rrr. Rrr. Arr. Gah," he gurgles. His breathing is labored. He is red. He is sweating. His face is exhausted. His eyes are bleary and bloodshot.

I squeeze him in pulses. He groans with each pulse. After he is dazed from the repeated pulses, I swivel my hips, and roll left. I rise to my knee as we roll, and I stop when I am on top of him in a triangle mount. My right leg is wrapped under his neck, my right foot clasped under my left knee, which is on the ground next to his trapped head. His left arm is trapped as well, pinned against his neck, his hand dangling uselessly. My thigh is firm against his arm and neck. I squeeze. He taps the floor with his free hand. He tries to kick his feet to move, but I squeeze him harder until he gives up. He lies still. I relax the pressure. I turn to look over my shoulder. He is sprawled behind me. I reach back and unfasten his belt. I unbutton his jeans, and unzip them. He gurgles.

"Oh no. The little guy went to sleep," I say. I squeeze him again and he grunts. He flails his arms. I lean across his head and grab his wrist with my right hand. I slam it on the floor. He strains to resist, but he cannot. His hand is, once again, immobilized. I squeeze him in the triangle, bringing him to the brink of unconsciousness, then release the pressure. He is disoriented, winded. I slowly increase the pressure again. He grimaces, but doesn't have the will to even struggle. Not that it would matter. I repeat the cycle. Slowly building the pressure, pressing my leg against him, then release the pressure. He tries to breathe when I let up, but I make sure his breaths are shallow. I smile down at him when he looks up. I brush his cheek, then his temple lightly with the backs of my fingers. His eyes are tearing up. His face is red, sweaty. "I could destroy you, Andy. Maybe I will."


After a few cycles, while slowly building the pressure again, I suddenly squeeze him hard, stunning him, then release the triangle. I spin around on top of him, lying with my pelvis on his chest and my knees by his head. I grab his left arm with my left hand and slide it down by his side. He tries to resist, but I force his hand forward. He is now lying on his back, both of his arms on the floor by his side, both pinned down by me. I scoot back, moving my pelvis toward his neck, and envelope his head with my legs. I scoop his head forward with my left leg then clasp my ankles together. His head is tilted up. He is trapped in a reverse scissor. He is looking right at my ass.

I squeeze, flexing my butt. He gurgles and tries to speak "Wa- err errrr," is all that comes out.

"What language are you speaking, Andy? I can't understand you," I say.

"Rrr err nnng," he replies.

I can't help but laugh. "That's not a language, Andy." I squeeze harder, now pressing my hamstrings together. My legs completely envelop his neck. I feel vibrations as he tries to speak, but only grunts come out. He starts to convulse as I squeeze harder. He tries to move his hands, but he can't wrest them free. I arch my back and straighten my arms. I flex them. They are bulging and firm, like stone columns pressing down on his wrists. That's for me. Andy can't see them, but I love feeling the flex as I pin his arms. He is utterly impotent; he can do nothing. I pulse my legs again and again. What little strength he has to attempt resisting fades. He stops even trying to move his hands. I squeeze harder and he starts to stiffen. I release the pressure and he breathes lightly. He no longer has the will to even gasp. I pulse. "Urr... gah... err..." he musters between pulses. He is reeling when I release the pressure again. Shallow, hoarse, labored breaths.

I pull his jeans down from his waist, revealing his boxer-briefs underneath. He doesn't cooperate at first, so I pulse my legs. He complies, moving his legs so that I can pull his jeans all the way down to his ankles. His shoes are still on, so I leave them there. Instead of worrying about his shoes, I take a moment to slip mine off. I loosen the pressure ever so slightly to do so, and he wheezes for air. I work them off with my heels and toes and kick them to the side. Now I place my toes on the floor, squeeze his head, and slowly lift my hips.

Andy is being pulled up from the floor. He grunts and lifts his hands to my thighs. He tries to pull on them, but I lift him higher. He is dangling by his neck. He grunts louder, trying to scream through his grunts. He tries to pull himself up with his hands. I press hard with my hamstrings and his grunting stops. He is struggling, twitching, trying to free himself from my legs. I push harder and his hands flop to the ground. He is starting to go limp, so I lower him to the ground and let up. He gurgles and wheezes.


Andy is already defeated. Even without putting pressure on him, he barely has the will to breathe. His arms are sprawled limply on the floor. I crawl forward, pulling myself with my hands, keeping his head secured between my legs, raising him into a seated position. He is sitting up, hunched forward. I am up on my hands, my thighs on his shoulders, latched onto his neck. My thighs are pumped, swelling with power. I squeeze, arching my back and thrusting my hips forward. My ass bulges, and his face is buried amid my thighs and ass. He struggles and brings his hands to my legs. I squeeze. If he could scream, he would. If he could struggle, he would. But he can't. His grip on my legs gets weaker. His hands fall from my legs. I release my grip and push down on his shoulders with my knees, forcing his head down. I press up off of the floor with my hands and vault over him. I slide to the floor behind him, landing on my knees.

I am now behind him, on my knees. He is still sitting, slumped forward, exhausted and gasping, his pants pulled down around his ankles. His arms are by his side, his hands on the ground to steady himself from falling over. I dip my right arm over his shoulder and under his neck. I bring my hand back up and secure it with my other arm in a sleeper hold, my left hand pressing on the back of his head. He is far too fatigued to even attempt to prevent this. His hands come up much too late. His right hand grasps feebly at my bicep, which is pressed against his neck. His left hand goes to my forearm. He pulls weakly. Even at full strength he would have no chance. Now it is a joke. I am in complete control. I laugh at him. "What are you doing, Andy?" He wheezes in answer.

"I asked you a question, Andy," I say.

He starts to talk, but I flex my bicep. It's like a boulder against his throat, and he can only grunt. I swivel him around so that we're facing the mirror. I squeeze and watch him turn purple in the mirror. He grasps with his hands. I release the pressure then squeeze again. His hands tense up. He tries to dig into my arm, to find somewhere to pull, but my lock is solid. His efforts weaken him more. "Andy, just look at yourself. What could you possibly do? Look at my arm. It's almost as big as your head!" I arch my back and press my body against him. I am so much harder than he is. I pull him up with my arm that's trapping his neck.

I laugh again and release my left hand, holding him in place with just my right arm around his neck and my body pressed against him. I hold my left arm to the side and slowly flex it into a biceps pose. I bounce it. I can see him staring at its reflection, watching as it swells and pops. He tugs at my arm with both hands, trying to create space between it and his neck. I respond by flexing my hard. He struggles, grasping with his hands, failing to find the strength to move my arm. I move my left hand back down and reapply the sleeper hold, arching my back, lifting him higher.

He grunts as I pull him up by his neck. He tugs weakly at my arms, copping a feel as he does. I flex it and he grunts. "Oh, you want to see this one too?" I ask. He can't speak. He can't move. He can't respond. I pulse my arm and flex my chest. My pecs bulge out, squeezing his head into my arm. His face turns redder and redder as he grunts and wheezes. I bring my left arm down and wrap it around his chin. I let go with my right arm and slip my left arm down to his neck, giving him a split second to gasp, before I flex and arch my back, sending him back to labored gurgles.

I hold my right arm out to the side, straight. I flutter my fingers, then squeeze them into and out of a fist, flexing my forearm. His bleary red eyes watch, but they seem unfocused. I reduce the pressure against his neck, then flex my right arm in a biceps pose. I bounce my bicep slowly, flexing and releasing. Once, twice, three times. He is able to focus, and he watches my arm in the mirror, hypnotized. "Oh, you like that," I say. He tries to nod, but I flex my chest against the back of his head, preventing him from moving. "You like it because I say so. I don't care if you agree," I say. I laugh as I flex. I bounce on my knees and toss my hair, giggling, as I increase the pressure with my arm and chest, crushing his head against me. He grunts and tugs at my arm. I laugh harder. He struggles more. He is so weak. I could do anything to him I want and he couldn't do one single thing to stop me. He must feel pathetic.

I am only 5'4", but since my legs are long for my height, and since he's kind of scrawny, I can envelope Andy in a body scissors. I place both of my arms around his neck, cradling his head in front of me. He grasps at my arms feebly, feeling them as he does. My left arm is still wrapped firmly around his neck, preventing him from talking, though I'm not sure he could talk even if he wanted. His will has been destroyed. I pull both of my fists to my shoulders, tightening my grasp on his neck. His eyes close and he is barely able to draw breath. He turns red, then purple. I flex my chest, pressing his head and neck into my arms. I feel him trying to breathe, but he can't. No air passes through his throat. He kicks his feet futilely on the floor and twitches. I squeeze harder. His hands fall away from my arms and drop to the floor. His arms are limp.

I roll my body backwards, lying on my back, and lift him onto me. I wrap my legs around him and lock my ankles. His arms, still limp by his side, and body are caught in my legs. I release the pressure on his neck by unflexing my chest, and he wheezes. I feel him straining against my arms. He can barely breathe. I bounce my bicep once, and he convulses and gags. I laugh. He tries to struggle. He tries to free his arms, but I crush them against his body with my legs. His arms are completely pinned against his body. I glance down past my legs and see his fingers moving, grasping at nothing.

"Oh, Andy. What are you going to do? Shouldn't you change into your gym clothes for this?"

He starts to reply, but I flex my chest. "Hrr. Rrng."

"No? Okay. I'm fine with this if you are. What do you think of my braids? I did them just for you. They're nice, right?" I ask without letting up the pressure. I feel him struggling, but he can't make a sound. I squeeze with my legs, crushing him. My thighs are pumped, hard. I giggle as I feel him squirm, unable to move his arms, unable to breathe, unable to turn his head, unable to do anything to change his circumstances. He is helpless. I arch my back and pull up on his head and neck with my arms, and down on his arms and body with my legs. "I could really hurt you right now. Do you want me to do that?" I ask, increasing the pressure everywhere. "Yes? No?" I ask, knowing he can't answer. He starts to go limp. I lower my back to the floor and relax my chest. I keep the pressure on his arms and body with my legs. His airway is open, but the pressure from my legs makes it hard for him to breathe. When he exhales his shallow breaths, I increase the pressure from my thighs, making each breath shallower and more difficult.

He is still. Unable to even squirm. I constrict him slowly. He can't do anything to stop the pressure. He is immobile. Depleted physically and mentally. He is limp. His fingers have stopped moving. He can't even make a feeble attempt at resistance with his arms, which are still trapped. Not that his weak arms could do anything against my legs, which have continued to swell. "Is this what you wanted, Andy?" I whisper to him. "Oh, Andy. Do you see how pumped my legs are?" Of course he can't see. I have his head and neck trapped. He is looking straight up. He doesn't even try to move his head to look down at my legs. "They are so pumped. So hard. I saw you looking at them before. Don't they look amazing right now?" I pulse them. I arch my back and flex my chest again. I flex my arms and tighten them around his neck and head. He doesn't even try to grunt. He is completely in my control. "Maybe you need a better view. You should get what you came for, right?"


I roll him onto the floor to my left. He collapses face down, wheezing. His face is red. His hair is disheveled and damp. His shirt is soaked with sweat. "You can't see anything from over there. That won't do," I say. I move closer to him and lift his head off the ground. I slide my left leg under his neck and bring my right leg over it. I turn his head to face me and clamp him into a front scissor. I prop myself up on my elbow and twist my hips so that he rolls onto his side. I reach down with my free hand and pull his head in tight. "Oh well, I guess you still can't really see my legs, can you?" I giggle and twirl my braid. "I bet you can feel them, though." I pulse my thighs. "Mmm, that feels so good. You're such a good training partner." I pulse harder, snapping his head and crushing his neck. He lies still, silent. "Let's have a little sightseeing tour, shall we?"

I pull my legs up closer to my body, bringing the top of his head just underneath my boobs. His forehead is pressed against my abs. There's no way he can breathe. A man with some sliver of will left might try to grab my legs, but his arms lie limp. "Those are my abs, Andy." I release the pressure on his neck and I hear him struggling to breathe. He is still trapped. I am still crushing him, but I give him just enough relief to breathe. He struggles and labors for air, wheezing and gurgling. I feel the heat of his breaths on my stomach. I flex my abs and pull him closer, pressing his nose against my firm stomach. "Pretty nice, right?" He doesn't have the will to respond. "I'm getting tired of the silent treatment, Andy. I asked you a question. Those abs are amazing, don't you think?" He starts to sputter something and I squeeze his neck with my thighs. "Rrgg," is all that comes out. I throw back my head and laugh, pressing his face against my body. I let him breathe again after a few seconds.

"You're so funny," I say. "Where were we? Oh, right. You're getting a tour." I lower my legs away from me, angling his head to move his gaze from my abs up to my boobs. I lower myself to the floor, to give him a better view. I run my hand over my nipples, which are still hard. His eyes are hazy, but I can sense a rush of excitement as he looks at the bottom of my boobs, exposed to him beneath my tight crop top. "Andy! So naughty. What would you even do with yourself if you got your face in there?" I pulse my thighs, then flex them hard, rotating them into him. He manages the tiniest grunt before he starts to black out, but I release the pressure. "Did you think you could just go to sleep? Not until I say so." I laugh again. I pulse some more, pressing hard against his jaw and chin.

"Hey, look at this," I say as I reach my arm up. I shift my hips, loosen my grip on him and reposition his head with my left arm and thighs so that he's looking at my right arm, then I clamp my legs together again. "You can get out of here as soon as your little guy is hard again. I'm going to make it easy for you," I say. "Remember when this was wrapped around your head? Remember when it was holding your hand down on the floor and you couldn't move an inch?" I slowly flex my bicep. I flex it hard. "Do you remember how much stronger it is than your little arms? Look how big it is, Andy?" I see a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He is struggling to concentrate, to will himself to get hard. I squeeze him to the brink of passing out, then release. He breathes shallowly. "You have to try harder, Andy." I bounce my bicep slowly. Flexing. Releasing. It swells, and I can see Andy's excitement. He remembers how much stronger I am than him, how he was helpless against my power.

I glance down and see a little bulge in his boxer briefs. "You can do better than that. Maybe you want to see the other one?" I roll right, pulling him up, then flopping him down on his other side. I reach down and adjust his head to direct his gaze at my left arm. I hold it out, and lean in a little closer to him. I flex. Hard. I hold the flex. "Mmmm," I say. His breathing is heavier. He's getting excited. His bulge grows. "You did it. I didn't think you had it in you, Andy. I'm impressed. I think you should get a reward."


I roll onto my back, dragging him with me. He is flat on his front, his head tight between my thighs. I reach down and grab his arms. I pull them forward, then take his hands and interlace my fingers with his. "Remember this?" He tries to grunt, but I squeeze against his throat to silence him. "I think you remember. This is where it gets fun." I slowly increase the pressure on his throat. I force his wrists back, straightening my arms, locking my elbows. I flex my arms. I see his eyes glazing over. His eyelids flutter, but this time I increase the pressure more. He twitches helplessly, then passes out. I keep the pressure on for a few seconds, then release enough for him to breathe. Seconds pass and he wheezes. He attempts to flail his arms when he comes to, but I control them. I don't let them move an inch. His eyes open, and I apply the pressure again. Hard. Crushing him. He tries to struggle. I feel his arms tug desperately. I don't let him budge them at all. His eyes glaze over again, and he sinks into unconsciousness. I release, but pulse my legs as he regains consciousness. He again tries to flail his arms, a natural reaction when some wake from an unconscious stupor, I've learned, and he again can't move them.

"It's weird you haven't had anything to say this whole time," I say, continuing to pulse him. He tries to make a sound, but I press my inner thighs against his throat to stop him.

"Nngg," he manages. I press his hands back hard, inflicting tremendous pain. I feel him try to pull his arm away with his shoulder, but it is wasted effort.

"No matter. We don't need to have a conversation for me to reward you," I say. I press harder against his hands, increasing the pain as I crush his neck. He blacks out again. I hold him unconscious, squeezing him for a few seconds, before I release him altogether. I let go of his hands. I push him away with my foot, rolling him over. I get up and go sit in a chair. He twitches and gasps. He flails his arms. He looks around, trying to figure out where he is, what's going on. He sees me, and a look of fear comes over his eyes.

"Lucky you. Time's up," I say. "Don't you dare say a word to me. Put the money on the table, and leave." He considers his options, then follows my command. He pulls his pants up, gets some money from his wallet, places it on the table (more than the agreed-upon amount), grabs his gym bag, and walks to the door. He is uneasy on his feet. He is red, exhausted. His legs can barely hold him up. They're like jelly. He turns to look at me as he opens the door. I hold my finger up to my lips then hold out my other arm and flex. I wink at him and run my hand lightly over my bicep. He wants to come feel it, but he doesn't dare. He averts his gaze down, then leaves. The door shuts behind him.
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Old 17-May-20, 17:09
[email protected] tonycaronna26@gmail.com is offline
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Default Re: Amy and Andy: A Session

Amazing recap of a session.
I’ve had similar repeated scissors but I wanted her to put me to sleep!
No figure four or standing headscissors both of which made me snore when I went to sleep
She laughed!
And repeated sleepers but here should have put him to sleep clearly and described him waking up!
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Old 15-May-21, 18:01
jalmohnson jalmohnson is offline
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Default Re: Amy and Andy: A Session

Perfectly written! Great session recap and the detail was 10/10!
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