The ironic thing, considering the way I wound up completely beaten and humiliated, is that what first attracted me to Alexis was that she was such a “girly-girl.” Not that she is small or dainty; in fact, she is a good-sized woman, tall and curvy with shapely thighs and just the right amount of flesh on her bones. I mean that she’s “girly” in the sense of always having her make-up perfect, always having her long nails perfectly shaped and painted pink, always making faces and squeaking “Eeewww!” when she sees a spider. And she had been attracted to me, in turn, because I was always a man’s man--fairly tall, strong, wiry and athletic. I was always there to take her in my arms when she was scared or upset, always there to open jars and move furniture, always there to do the man’s work when it needed to be done. When we made love I was always on top; there was never a question of doing things any other way.
Of course, our relationship had a downside. To be frank, she was bossy. She had a tendency to whine or nag or cajole until she got her way. And when she didn’t get her way, she pouted. It seemed to me she was a little immature, and a lot selfish. But so beautiful!
I was surprised, and even hurt, when she left me for Dustin. Dustin of all people…sort of a wuss, I always thought. Nice enough, kind of funny, but smaller and thin. He probably didn’t weigh any more than Alexis herself. She told me he made her feel “important.” Geez! She also mentioned that she had more fun with him, that they did silly things like wrestling around, and that he even let her win. Wrestling around? Letting her win? What a loser! And she left me for him? Good riddance!
Well, I wanted to think myself happy to be rid of her, but I really wasn’t. I missed her. Not that I would ever let her know that. As much as I wanted her back, my pride wouldn’t let me stoop to trying to win her away from him.
So it was quite a shock when Dustin himself called me asking for help. I was hesitant to talk to him, but the more he spoke, the more intrigued I was. His story was hard to swallow, and yet as soon as we hung up I was headed out the door to their apartment.
Dustin had told me how they had indeed started wrestling, playfully at first. It was fun foreplay, getting them both excited. To make it more interesting, he said, he had taught her a little about wrestling, and she had learned well. After a few weeks she was holding her own with him, usually avoiding being pinned. And then, amazingly, she had surpassed Dustin’s ability and began to defeat him regularly. He was obviously embarrassed to admit this to me, but his current situation had become unendurable. Alexis no longer wanted to wrestle just as a precursor to making love…now she took satisfaction in beating Dustin at various times of the day, for various reasons. If she had a bad day at work, she took it out on Dustin. If they disagreed about where to go out for dinner, she would wrestle him to submission and physically force him to give in. She had discovered a dominant, sadistic side to her personality. As much as he loved her, he didn’t want to be submissive. Try as he might, he couldn’t win against her in a fight any more.
I asked him what he wanted me to do about it, not sure I wanted to do anything. His story was rather hard to believe--a grown man unable to beat a woman in wrestling or fighting? Moreover, I wasn’t necessarily inclined to help the guy who had stolen my girl and now had problems with her. His request was most interesting. He wanted me to come over this afternoon and hide in his closet and watch; he was sure that she would start a fight with him when she got home from work. In the middle of the fight, he wanted me to jump out and intervene once she had become abusive. He figured that I could overpower her and force her into submission, making her realize what a bitch she had become.
I agreed to Dustin’s strange plea, but not because I planned to help him. Instead, I intended to watch and see if Alexis really did beat him up, then try to win her back to me; how could she prefer to stay with a wimp when she could come back a real man? It was a mean thing to do to Dustin, to not even plan to come to his aid, but the opportunity to use his weakness to get Alexis back was simply too enticing.
So I drove over to their apartment and was hiding in the closet when Alexis came home. She was more beautiful than ever, and just as feminine. Based on Dustin’s description of her newfound brutal streak, I was expecting her to be a little less “girly,” but her lipstick was as perfectly applied as it ever was, even at the end of the day, and her fingernails were still long and brightly painted. She and Dustin talked as she stripped off her clothes, revealing her red bra and panties, and I had to fight hard to resist the urge to jump out right then and ask her to come back to me.
I didn’t have to wait long before their conversation turned negative. She asked him if he had done the dishes, if he had picked up her dry cleaning, if he had done a whole list of errands for her. As soon as she got to a task he had not accomplished, she rose from the chair and stood over him where he sat on the bed. Her back was toward me, her hands on her hips…I had an excellent view of her round rear end, full but not fat, barely contained by her red panties.
“Why didn’t you finish it?” she asked, her voice more a threat than a question.
“I just--“
CRACK! Her slap was sudden and forceful, knocking Dustin off the bed. He started to get up and was met with a knee to his chest. He grunted and coughed. Alexis seized his right wrist and twisted his arm into a hammerlock and forced him face first onto the carpet. They were now facing toward me, only five feet away, and from the cracked closet door I watched in amazement as this very feminine, very beautiful woman straddled a full-grown man and forced his wrist between his shoulder blade. Her round breasts dangled down, hardly held in check by her lacey red bra. He cried out in obvious pain, but she just taunted him. “You’re such a wimp, Dustin. Such a sissy. Can’t even fight off a little ol’ girl, can you?” She pulled his head back by the hair, forcing his neck back at a violent angle. He actually whimpered in his agony. “Is the little girl hurting the big strong man? Poor baby,” she cooed. For his part, Dustin couldn’t even answer; his flailing legs and choked gurgle were the only replies he was capable of.
I couldn’t believe Alexis was doing this. The same woman that had shared my bed, who had always been so docile and doll-like, who came to me for anything requiring strength, was torturing a grown man! Perhaps because of my surprise, or maybe because she was so sexy in only her underwear, I felt myself grow aroused at the sight. I knew I was supposed to jump out right now and rescue Dustin--he was waiting for me to do so. And I had planned to jump out and simply try to win her away from him. Instead I stayed hidden, unable to quit watching the spectacle in front of me.
She didn’t disappoint. Still straddling Dustin, Alexis rammed his face forcefully into the carpet and held it down, digging her long nails into his neck. He squirmed but couldn’t escape, given that she had his arm trapped behind him. Then, rising to her feet, Alexis dragged Dustin up by his hair and started slapping him, hard, across the face, with both her right and left hand. He tried to grasp her wrists to stop her but she twisted out of his grip time and time again. Soon his face was red and swelled. Tears were running down his face, and he could hardly stand. I could tell he wanted to call me to come out of the closet, but he was so beaten that he couldn’t talk coherently.
Finally Alexis let her boyfriend drop to the floor. He lay there panting, crying, a mess. She stood over him, still taunting him for being a wimp. Slowly she sat down on his outstretched right arm, facing his head, and leaned over and grabbed his left wrist and held his left arm out to the side of his body. He feebly struggled but she clearly had him pinned. Holding his one arm secure with her left hand and sitting on his other arm, Alexis began her most brutal torture yet, applying a vicious stomach claw. Her long pink nails probed and pulverized his stomach, causing his whole body to twitch and jump in pain. Every so often she would reach further down and grab his manhood for a quick bit of torture or reach up and twist and pinch one of his nipples; but always she returned to his abdomen for her primary torture. When at last Alexis stood up again, Dustin was only barely conscious. He curled into a fetal ball and wept almost silently. I could only pity him.
My feelings toward Alexis, on the other hand, were mixed. My lust at her beauty and sensuality only increased by seeing this terrifying performance, and yet I had contempt at her callousness. Why had she been so brutal to a guy who seemed basically nice?
She turned around suddenly and gasped when I opened the closet door.
“My God! What are you--I mean…did you see…Oh God!” She stumbled over her words.
“I saw it all. Dustin told me everything,” I said. I looked down at him, still on the floor, completely out of it.
“Why are you here? I don’t understand…”
“I was supposed to help him. But…” I trailed off. Why didn’t I help him?
Alexis was regaining her composure. She looked at my crotch and saw the bulge in my khakis. “You got excited,” she said, “and couldn’t stop watching. Or maybe,” she began, pausing as an idea formulated in her mind, “maybe you were afraid.”
“What!?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” she said, take a step toward me. I stepped back involuntarily and she smiled and pointed a long, polished nail at my chest. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you? You don’t want to end up like that, do you?” She pointed to the lump of beaten man on the floor, still drooling.
“Actually, I was going to ask you to come back to me. But now, now I don’t think I want you.”
“Want me? You don’t deserve me,” she said. “You’re just a pussy like him.”
I laughed in disbelief. “Come on, Alexis,” I snarled. “You might have figured out how to beat poor Dustin up, but be real. If you tried any of that on me I’d put you in the hospital.”
Instead of answering, she stuck out her jaw and opened her mouth slightly, seductively. Slowly she edged the pink tip of her tongue out and slid it along her beautiful polished lips, a seductive taunt. Seeing that she now had my interest, she held out her hand and motioned me forward, her index finger beckoning me, her long fingernails waving me closer. I took one step, then another, as though being called by a siren. Alexis was so sexy…and she was summoning me.
When I was within three feet of this brunette bombshell, her right foot shot up and out, smashing into my impassioned crotch. I felt a surge of nausea rise in my abdomen and I dropped to my knees, cursing my stupidity. I leaned forward, my face inches from the carpet, and found myself staring at her lovely feet, her toenails as always perfectly manicured.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she said. “Thought you’d get a little action,” she said in a little girl’s voice. “What a dope you always were.”
Despite my pain, I wasn’t incapacitated, and her taunting spurred me on. I lunged forward and tackled her, wrapping my arms around her shapely legs, knocking her to the ground. We struggled briefly but my strength was too much for her, and second later I was sitting astride her silky stomach, holding both her arms down to the carpet. She bucked and struggled underneath me like a rodeo bronco, her teeth bared, her eyes flashing. I laughed at her efforts.
“Get serious, Alexis. You know I’m a man, an athletic man, and that you’re just a girly-girl. There’s no way you’re getting up. Go ahead and quit squirming before you hurt yourself.” I was enjoying the look of frustration on her face as I spoke.
“Let me up, you bastard,” she screamed.
“Not on your life. What is your problem? What has come over you?”
She stopped squirming and stared at me. Her eyes narrowed and she let out a slow breath. “Somewhere along the line I realized that I didn’t have to get pushed around by you men any more, just because you’re men. I’m tougher and stronger than Dustin, so why shouldn’t I use my power?”
“Well, you’re obviously not tougher and stronger than me, are you? What did I ever do to you?”
“For one thing, you hid in a closet and spied on me and Dustin! That’s pretty darn sleazy!” Alexis paused, panting, and struggled once more in my grasp. She couldn’t break her wrists free so she eventually gave up again and continued speaking. “And for another thing, I guess I’m just still pissed off about our whole relationship. You never listened to me about anything. You just made all the decisions for yourself…and I resent the hell out of that.”
She made me furious talking about our relationship that way, and yet sitting atop her, looking down at her heaving breasts and beautiful, angry face, I became aroused again, even after her having kicked my groin a minute ago. I ground my crotch into her stomach in spite of myself.
“It’s making you hot, isn’t it?” she said, grinning contemptuously. “Beating up a girl. Seeing me beat up Dustin. What a pervert…getting off on this.”
“Don’t give me that,” I said even though I knew she was right. “You’re the one who’s getting off on it. You started this, not me.”
“And I’m going to finish it, too!” she screamed and suddenly broke free from my grasp. I must have loosened my grip, because with a quick jerk and twist of her arms she had freed both her hands and was now clawing at my legs and chest. I tried to grab her again but her arms were a blur of motion as she attacked from beneath me. Somehow she managed to buck up and I lost my balance. We rolled across the carpet and briefly she straddled me until I threw her off again. Before I could pin her again she sprang to her feet and circled behind me. I rose to my knees only to have her wrap her right arm around my throat and squeeze violently. I tried to continue to stand up but she forced me forward, her strong thighs on either side of my back. I reached back to grab one of her legs and she caught my arm, further trapping me.
My size and strength advantage were temporarily nullified by her position, and she knew it. “What’s wrong, lover?” she whispered in my ear. I felt her tongue nuzzling my neck. I clawed at her forearm with my free hand, trying to get some air. “Has the little girly-girl got the big strong man in a teensy bit of twouble?” She stuck her tongue in my ear and I tried to pull away. She giggled malevolently.
Meanwhile I was trying to free my left arm from her grip but instead she secured her control by managing to grab my wrist. Given the leverage she had standing over me, and the fact that I was fighting to breathe, she succeeded in wrenching my arm into a hammerlock. I remembered what she had done to Dustin and began to panic. With her hips she was forcing me down to the carpet, while still strangling me with her right arm. I was only barely supporting my weight and hers with one arm, and I could tell that I couldn’t keep it up much longer.
In desperation I rolled, hoping to force her off and start again from a neutral position. Instead, she let me roll while standing over me, then planted her knees in my solar plexus, forcing the air out of me. I coughed and fought desperately for a breath. Now I found myself in a fetal position, on my side, hoping to suck in air. In my fog I could hear her taunting me, could feel her kicking me in the side, and I glimpsed Dustin, still lying pathetically on the other side of the room. Was I as pathetic as him?
Alexis stood over me. With mocking daintiness, she rolled me to my back and sat hard on my chest. I couldn’t prevent her from planting her knees on my biceps, pinning me painfully exposed underneath her. Her smooth, creamy thighs stretched tauntingly to either side of my face, her round breasts bounced a foot above my eyes. She grinned at me, her makeup still perfect. Once again, she ran her tongue around the rim of her lips, teasing, humiliating. I kicked up, as vainly as Dustin had. Alexis reached back and grabbed both my legs and pushed them forward, folding me in half. Now I was truly helpless. Her pink fingernails bit into my calves as she forced my feet to the carpet above my head. In the midst of the pain, the nausea, the humiliation, I wondered how—and why—such a beautiful woman could beat me so mercilessly.
Being bent in half, with her one-hundred twenty pounds on my chest, I got little air, so by the time she released me I was nearly unconscious due to hypoxia. So when she tied my feet together with my own belt, I couldn’t stop her. When she tied my hands together with her hose, I couldn’t stop her. When she ran her long nails up and down my body, up and down my manhood, all the while daring me to make her stop, I couldn’t. When she wrapped her long fingers around my neck and dared me to stop her from killing me with her bare hands, I couldn’t. I could only cry, salty tears streaming down my face, as she tortured me even worse than she had Dustin, twisting my nipples until they bled, mauling my stomach with her strong fingers and sharp nails, finally bringing me to climax so roughly that it was clear it was for her own pleasure only, none of mine. The last thing I remember before she smothered me unconscious, her warm hand over my mouth and pink fingernails pinching my nose, was the satisfied look on her girly-girl face.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Meredith beats me up (PG-13)
At first we were both giggling. Then it began to hurt. By the time I realized she was kicking my ass, it was too late to stop her. It began when Meredith, my new girlfriend, and I were talking about her day of waiting tables at a funky restaurant downtown. She was in a mood because a few patrons had come on to her. It's not hard to see why...in her early 20s, Meredith is perky and curvy in all the right places. Despite being barely five feet tall, she has a way of drawing all eyes toward her. She wears her blonde hair short, exposing her milky white neck and accentuating her full lips. She looks like a cross between an elf queen and a gymnast. Anyway, she was complaining about her rough time at work. One particular guy had been a pain. "I should have just slugged him," she said. "Like you know how to throw a punch," I replied immediately. I'm not sure why I said that. I mean, I had been being sympathetic to her...the words just slipped out. Her eyes widened and she scowled. "What do you mean by that?" she asked, immediately slapping at me playfully. "Come on, big guy, I'll go a round or two with you." She giggled as I stood up and continued throwing playful punches at me. I was laughing, too, now. "Be serious," I said while dodging her small fists. Her hands were much faster than I thought, but she hadn't managed to hit me a real shot yet. It was sort of like a fly attacking me...annoying, but not a real threat. "I don't hit girls, so this isn't fair," I said between laughs. Now we were both belly laughing even though she kept up her onslaught. "I don't care if you hit back or not," she said as she started to find a rhythm with her blows. "I'm still going to hit you, so you better defend yourself." I began to circle around, my hands raised in a boxing stance. I feinted a couple times to keep her off balance, but didn't try to throw a real punch. "Wait," she said. "I'm getting hot." With that she stripped her t-shirt off. She didn't have on a bra underneath. Her small breasts didn't really need a bra, being quite perky. She still had on her jeans, rolled up at the cuff. She kicked off her shoes, showing her red toenails. "OK," she said, assuming her boxing pose again, "let's go." One-two-three, she threw three wild punches, harder than she'd been launching earlier. These actually backed me up, but I laughed. "What's so funny?" she asked, and I realized that Meredith had stopped laughing. "It's just kind of silly," I said. Whap! She punched me right in the nose as I was talking. It stung like hell! "Damnit!" I shouted, taking a step toward her. Whap! She jabbed me in the eye--Whap!--and jabbed me again, this time in the cheekbone. I held out my hands and yelled at her. "Stop that!" "Come on, big guy!" she said. What had gotten into her? My face was stinging. She was too small to have done any damage, but those three blows had really stung. "I'm not fighting anymore," I said, starting to head into the bedroom. Meredith blocked my path. "Fight back or not, I'm still going to kick your ass!" she screamed gleefully and began throwing punches again. I managed to grab both her wrists and held her arms at bay until she tried to kick me in the crotch. I blocked her kick with my right leg, only to have her use the opportunity to twist her way from my grip. Whap! Whap! Whap! Just like that she hit me three more times in the face. I yelled at her to stop and grabbed at her wrists again. Meredith was fast and tenacious, though, and kept breaking away from my grasp. Whap-whap-whap! None of her punches were knockouts, but the cumulative effect was becoming devastating. Soon I dropped to my knees. Meredith seized my hair and pulled me forward. I was staring at her polished toenails when she hit me in the back of my neck, my kidneys, and the side of my ribs. She seemed to be learning how to punch more effectively the longer she practiced, and all these blows were painful. She released my hair and I sagged to the floor. For a few seconds I lay on the floor, spitting blood and trying to breathe, not really sure what was going on. Her attack had become vicious so quickly I'm not sure exactly when I started to lose my bearings. As I began to regain my senses, I realized that Meredith, all 100 pounds of her, was walking around me slowly, like a barracuda circling a larger wounded fish. I began to pull myself to my feet, only to have her step forward and take my chin into her small hands. She dug her fingernails into my cheeks and forced me to look into her steely blue eyes. I saw the excitement and superiority she felt as she held me in her grasp. Then I realized the utter humiliation of this little woman, no bigger than a girl, beating me so easily. My humiliation turned to anger. Apparently Meredith could tell that I was about to try to fight back. Without warning she leaned forward and kissed me, long and hard, driving her tongue into my mouth. Still holding my chin and grabbing my hair with her other hand so I couldn't twist away, she probed me violently with her tongue; it was not merely a kiss, it was a message that she was dominating me. Abruptly she pulled away. I gasped for air. She smiled. I was marveling at how sexy her red lips were, curled into such a triumphant smile, when in my peripheral vision I glimpsed her right fist hurtling toward my face again. This punch, finally, was hard enough to knock me out.
Why are long nails so sexy? (PG-13)
This story was inspired by Alexis Taylor (Shannan Leigh):
Nails
Alexis sat in the kitchen, wearing a short pink bathrobe, her feet up
on the chair in front of her. She was painting her toenails a dark
pink color to match her fingernails, which she had just finished
polishing.
Matt strode into the room wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He had just
come from a construction job. He worked as a carpenter. Matt
wrinkled his nose.
"Sheesh, woman, that smells awful!" he complained.
Alexis didn't bother to look up. "Too bad," she replied. "You know I
like to keep my nails nice and pretty."
"Geez," griped Matt. "You women spend so much time on your stupid
nails. And having long nails makes you practically helpless. You
can't do anything without worrying about breaking them or chipping the
polish. From now on, I forbid you to keep your nails long and painted."
Alexis looked up from her toes. "What?" she exclaimed, fire showing
in her pretty eyes. As usual, her lips were full sensual with freshly
applied lipstick. "What did you say?"
"You heard me, woman," said Matt.
Alexis rose to her feet and stood toe-toe with the larger man. She
held her hands in front of his face, her pretty nails in front of his
eyes. "Do my nails threaten you? Is that it?"
Matt laughed. "Not at all! They're just useless. Now trim them
before I teach you a lesson."
"I think you're the one who needs to be taught a lesson, big boy,"
Alexis replied, gripping Matt's chin with her right hand and digging
her long nails into his cheeks. "Two lessons, actually. I'm going to
teach you to appreciate my nails, and I'm going to teach you who the
boss is in this house."
Matt winced as Alexis drove her nails into his skin. Instinctively
his hands went to her wrist. She countered by attacking his abdomen
with the nails of her left hand. He yelped and then seized that hand
as well.
Now Matt held both of Alexis's wrists. "See, woman," he said, "I'm
the boss because I'm stronger than you are." He began twisting her
arms behind her.
Alexis squirmed and twisted and suddenly slipped behind Matt. In the
process she bent his right arm into a hammerlock and jerked his wrist
high in between his shoulderblades. He gasped in pain. She forced
him to his knees in front of her. Reaching around with one free hand,
she cupped his chin and jerked his head back, again driving her nails
into his cheeks. "What were you saying, little boy? Who's the boss?"
Matt refused to answer. He struggled and bucked, but Alexis was able
to twist his left arm behind him in a hammerlock also. Now he lay on
his stomach while Alexis sat on his lower back and tortured both his
arms. "Say it," she commanded. "Say that Alexis is the boss in this
house."
Matt grunted and moaned but refused to give in. Alexis grew impatient
with him. Standing up, she threw off her bathrobe, revealing a skimpy
pink bra and panties. She stood over Matt, hands on her curvy hips.
"Get up and fight like a man," she taunted.
Matt began to stand up. As he was rising, Alexis grabbed his t-shirt
and ripped it off. Before he could get to his feet, she kneed him in
the stomach then elbowed him in the back. He sank back to the floor.
She put her sexy foot on his neck. "Before I'm through with you,
honey, you're going to beg me to kiss my pretty toenails." He kicked
and thrashed helplessly beneath her foot.
Suddenly Matt twisted his body and managed to knock Alexis to the
floor. Before she could react, he scrambled on top of her. With his
superior weight and strength, he was able to pin her arms to the floor
and straddle her stomach.
"You got lucky for a minute, woman," he growled. "But I'm back on top
now. I can't believe you think you could actually fight with me. Now
tell me, who is the boss?"
Alexis smiled. "I am," she said calmly, and then she pushed against
the floor with her feet and bridged her body up in an arch. Matt
toppled off her and she sprang to her feet. Matt quickly recovered
and the two circled each other warily.
Suddenly Matt sprang forward and grabbed Alexis around the waist in a
bearhug. She gasped as he lifted her off her feet and began squeezing
the breath out of her. "Give up!" he grunted.
Alexis hung limply for several moments, fighting desperately to
breathe. With her last energy, she forced her hands onto Matt's face
and began clawing his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and resisted
the pain, still squeezing her tightly. As a last resort, she wrapped
her long hands around his neck. Her long fingernails dug into his
carotid artery. Slowly the pressure of the bearhug lessened as now it
was he who was losing energy. Finally he dropped Alexis and staggered
backward as he became woozy from her chokehold.
Alexis now went on the offensive. She reached down and grabbed Matt
behind the knees and swiftly yanked up on his legs, sending him
crashing to the floor on his back. The fall stunned him further.
Quickly Alexis unfastened his jeans and pulled them off his body,
leaving him only in his underwear. Grabbing his ankles again, Alexis
forced his feet over his head, bending him in half. He struggled
weakly, but once Alexis had him folded like a matchbook she sat on top
of him and he was completely trapped.
"I can't breathe," he panted.
"Tell me I'm the boss and I'll let you go," Alexis said calmly,
examining her nails as she sat on his legs.
"Never," he gasped.
"Too bad." She bounced on him several times, each time causing him to
scream louder, and then released him. His freedom was temporary,
though, as Alexis quickly crawled onto his chest and pinned his arms
to the floor with his knees. She leaned over him, her face inches
from his. "Like my nails?" she asked, giggling, holding her nails in
his face once again.
"No," he said weakly.
"Too bad," she smiled. She then covered his mouth with one hand and
squeezed his nose shut with the thumb and index finger of the other.
His eyes grew wide and frantic and he kicked his legs and squirmed
desperately, but he couldn't escape Alexis's grip. Soon his eyes
began to grow cloudy.
"Going to sleep?" Alexis taunted as she finally let him breathe.
"Don't you want to kiss my toenails first?"
Matt tried to shake his head, but Alexis had already rolled him over
to his stomach. Twisting both his arms into hammerlocks once more, she
held his head by his hair with one hand and stuck her feet in front of
his face. "Kiss," she commanded, forcing his mouth onto her toes. He
finally obeyed.
Alexis giggled. "It looks like you're coming around!" After he had
thoroughly kissed her feet, she rolled him back to his back. "Who's
the boss?" she asked.
"You are," he replied meekly.
"Yes, I am. Now you've got one more lesson to learn. You need to
appreciate my fingernails more fully. You need to learn to respect
them. Let's see what they can do, shall we?" And with that, she
began torturing the defenseless man. First she squeezed and pinched
his nipples. Then she tortured his crotch, giggling at his screams
for mercy. Sitting on his arms, she applied a two-handed abdominal
claw that made him twitch and quiver like a dying animal.
Finally Alexis hoisted Matt over her shoulders. She held him by his
thigh and his neck, her long nails digging into his skin. He lay
across her shoulders whimpering and begging for mercy.
"Just remember," Alexis laughed just before Matt sank into
unconsciousness, "that I am as tough as nails."
Nails
Alexis sat in the kitchen, wearing a short pink bathrobe, her feet up
on the chair in front of her. She was painting her toenails a dark
pink color to match her fingernails, which she had just finished
polishing.
Matt strode into the room wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He had just
come from a construction job. He worked as a carpenter. Matt
wrinkled his nose.
"Sheesh, woman, that smells awful!" he complained.
Alexis didn't bother to look up. "Too bad," she replied. "You know I
like to keep my nails nice and pretty."
"Geez," griped Matt. "You women spend so much time on your stupid
nails. And having long nails makes you practically helpless. You
can't do anything without worrying about breaking them or chipping the
polish. From now on, I forbid you to keep your nails long and painted."
Alexis looked up from her toes. "What?" she exclaimed, fire showing
in her pretty eyes. As usual, her lips were full sensual with freshly
applied lipstick. "What did you say?"
"You heard me, woman," said Matt.
Alexis rose to her feet and stood toe-toe with the larger man. She
held her hands in front of his face, her pretty nails in front of his
eyes. "Do my nails threaten you? Is that it?"
Matt laughed. "Not at all! They're just useless. Now trim them
before I teach you a lesson."
"I think you're the one who needs to be taught a lesson, big boy,"
Alexis replied, gripping Matt's chin with her right hand and digging
her long nails into his cheeks. "Two lessons, actually. I'm going to
teach you to appreciate my nails, and I'm going to teach you who the
boss is in this house."
Matt winced as Alexis drove her nails into his skin. Instinctively
his hands went to her wrist. She countered by attacking his abdomen
with the nails of her left hand. He yelped and then seized that hand
as well.
Now Matt held both of Alexis's wrists. "See, woman," he said, "I'm
the boss because I'm stronger than you are." He began twisting her
arms behind her.
Alexis squirmed and twisted and suddenly slipped behind Matt. In the
process she bent his right arm into a hammerlock and jerked his wrist
high in between his shoulderblades. He gasped in pain. She forced
him to his knees in front of her. Reaching around with one free hand,
she cupped his chin and jerked his head back, again driving her nails
into his cheeks. "What were you saying, little boy? Who's the boss?"
Matt refused to answer. He struggled and bucked, but Alexis was able
to twist his left arm behind him in a hammerlock also. Now he lay on
his stomach while Alexis sat on his lower back and tortured both his
arms. "Say it," she commanded. "Say that Alexis is the boss in this
house."
Matt grunted and moaned but refused to give in. Alexis grew impatient
with him. Standing up, she threw off her bathrobe, revealing a skimpy
pink bra and panties. She stood over Matt, hands on her curvy hips.
"Get up and fight like a man," she taunted.
Matt began to stand up. As he was rising, Alexis grabbed his t-shirt
and ripped it off. Before he could get to his feet, she kneed him in
the stomach then elbowed him in the back. He sank back to the floor.
She put her sexy foot on his neck. "Before I'm through with you,
honey, you're going to beg me to kiss my pretty toenails." He kicked
and thrashed helplessly beneath her foot.
Suddenly Matt twisted his body and managed to knock Alexis to the
floor. Before she could react, he scrambled on top of her. With his
superior weight and strength, he was able to pin her arms to the floor
and straddle her stomach.
"You got lucky for a minute, woman," he growled. "But I'm back on top
now. I can't believe you think you could actually fight with me. Now
tell me, who is the boss?"
Alexis smiled. "I am," she said calmly, and then she pushed against
the floor with her feet and bridged her body up in an arch. Matt
toppled off her and she sprang to her feet. Matt quickly recovered
and the two circled each other warily.
Suddenly Matt sprang forward and grabbed Alexis around the waist in a
bearhug. She gasped as he lifted her off her feet and began squeezing
the breath out of her. "Give up!" he grunted.
Alexis hung limply for several moments, fighting desperately to
breathe. With her last energy, she forced her hands onto Matt's face
and began clawing his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and resisted
the pain, still squeezing her tightly. As a last resort, she wrapped
her long hands around his neck. Her long fingernails dug into his
carotid artery. Slowly the pressure of the bearhug lessened as now it
was he who was losing energy. Finally he dropped Alexis and staggered
backward as he became woozy from her chokehold.
Alexis now went on the offensive. She reached down and grabbed Matt
behind the knees and swiftly yanked up on his legs, sending him
crashing to the floor on his back. The fall stunned him further.
Quickly Alexis unfastened his jeans and pulled them off his body,
leaving him only in his underwear. Grabbing his ankles again, Alexis
forced his feet over his head, bending him in half. He struggled
weakly, but once Alexis had him folded like a matchbook she sat on top
of him and he was completely trapped.
"I can't breathe," he panted.
"Tell me I'm the boss and I'll let you go," Alexis said calmly,
examining her nails as she sat on his legs.
"Never," he gasped.
"Too bad." She bounced on him several times, each time causing him to
scream louder, and then released him. His freedom was temporary,
though, as Alexis quickly crawled onto his chest and pinned his arms
to the floor with his knees. She leaned over him, her face inches
from his. "Like my nails?" she asked, giggling, holding her nails in
his face once again.
"No," he said weakly.
"Too bad," she smiled. She then covered his mouth with one hand and
squeezed his nose shut with the thumb and index finger of the other.
His eyes grew wide and frantic and he kicked his legs and squirmed
desperately, but he couldn't escape Alexis's grip. Soon his eyes
began to grow cloudy.
"Going to sleep?" Alexis taunted as she finally let him breathe.
"Don't you want to kiss my toenails first?"
Matt tried to shake his head, but Alexis had already rolled him over
to his stomach. Twisting both his arms into hammerlocks once more, she
held his head by his hair with one hand and stuck her feet in front of
his face. "Kiss," she commanded, forcing his mouth onto her toes. He
finally obeyed.
Alexis giggled. "It looks like you're coming around!" After he had
thoroughly kissed her feet, she rolled him back to his back. "Who's
the boss?" she asked.
"You are," he replied meekly.
"Yes, I am. Now you've got one more lesson to learn. You need to
appreciate my fingernails more fully. You need to learn to respect
them. Let's see what they can do, shall we?" And with that, she
began torturing the defenseless man. First she squeezed and pinched
his nipples. Then she tortured his crotch, giggling at his screams
for mercy. Sitting on his arms, she applied a two-handed abdominal
claw that made him twitch and quiver like a dying animal.
Finally Alexis hoisted Matt over her shoulders. She held him by his
thigh and his neck, her long nails digging into his skin. He lay
across her shoulders whimpering and begging for mercy.
"Just remember," Alexis laughed just before Matt sank into
unconsciousness, "that I am as tough as nails."
Mom wins (PG)
"Do you give up?" Mom asked.
"No way," I growled. Ok, so I was on my back, and my
forty-five-year-old mother was perched on my chest, he knees on my
biceps, and despite my squirming I couldn't dislodge her. But give
up? No way!
"You might as well give up, honey," said Mom, grinning down at me.
Her t-shirt was soaked from her workout earlier, and I could see the
outline of her large, matronly bra underneath. That didn't make me
feel any better about being stuck beneath her.
"Come on, Mom," I said, now panting underneath her weight. "You just
got lucky. If you hadn't tripped me and then bounced on my stomach,
there's no way you'd, uh, that you would have, uh..."
"No way that I would have beaten you?" grinned Mom. "Just admit it,
honey. Just because you're all grown up and have your own job now,
just because you're bigger than I am and you're a bigshot CPA doesn't
mean I'm not still the boss in our relationship."
"The boss!" I yelled. Furious, I bucked and squirmed but couldn't
dislodge my middle-aged mother. Her womanly hips were solidly pinning
me down. "You're not the boss of me!" I squealed as I kicked in futility.
Mom just laughed. "I'll make you admit it, then," she said. "If
pinning you doesn't prove anything, I'll just make you say it out loud."
With that Mom suddenly rose up and then dropped down viciously on my
stomach. I grunted as the air burst out of my lungs. Giggling like a
schoolgirl, Mom leisurely rolled me to my stomach, and I wasn't able
to resist. She grabbed my right wrist and twisted my arm behind my
back into a hammerlock. "Ow!" I screeched involuntarily as she jerked
my wrist high in between my shoulder blades.
"Say it," Mom demanded. "Say that I'm the boss!"
The pain in my elbow and should was intense, and tears began to well
up in my eyes. Nevertheless, I refused to submit.
"Have it your way, big boy," said Mom as she grabbed my hair with her
left hand and jerked my head back. I grunted in pain as it seemed
like she would snap my neck.
"Say it," she demanded.
I didn't reply; I was too busy trying not to cry to respond.
"You sure are a glutton for punishment," said Mom. "You're just
making it harder on yourself."
Helpless, I couldn't stop my mother as she twisted my other arm behind
my back and then sat on my crossed wrists. Now she was able to use
both hands to grab my chin and yank my head back. The only part of my
body that I could control was my legs, which I kicked in frustration
and futility. "Say it," Mom whispered in my ear.
"No," I managed to grunt.
"Well, at least I didn't raise a wimp," said Mom, "even if my son is
getting his ass kicked by his mother." She let my head fall to the
carpet and she rose off me. I lay on the floor, panting and moaning.
Mom planted her small foot on the back of my neck and pressed down.
"But it's just a matter of time until you give in," she said.
Eventually she lifted her foot off my neck. I slowly tried to get up.
When I was on my knees, Mom forced me into a kneeling position and
once again twisted both my arms behind my back. "Say it," she said,
yanking upward.
"No," I grunted, though I feared she'd break my arms.
Mom let go of my left arm but kept my right arm captive in the
hammerlock. Standing to my side, she used her fleshy thighs to hold
me upright and then began to dig the polished fingernails of her free
nand into my fatigued abs. She was both scratching me with her nails
and driving her surprisingly strong fingers into my muscles.
Meanwhile, she was still applying pressure on my arm with her other hand.
"Please, please, Mom, stop!" I screamed.
"Say it!" she demanded.
"I give up!" I whined. "You're the boss!" I whimpered. "Please let go!"
"Ok, honey," she giggled as she released me. I slipped to the floor
and fell to my side.
Here I was, a twenty-three year-old man, beaten and humiliated by my
own mother.
"No way," I growled. Ok, so I was on my back, and my
forty-five-year-old mother was perched on my chest, he knees on my
biceps, and despite my squirming I couldn't dislodge her. But give
up? No way!
"You might as well give up, honey," said Mom, grinning down at me.
Her t-shirt was soaked from her workout earlier, and I could see the
outline of her large, matronly bra underneath. That didn't make me
feel any better about being stuck beneath her.
"Come on, Mom," I said, now panting underneath her weight. "You just
got lucky. If you hadn't tripped me and then bounced on my stomach,
there's no way you'd, uh, that you would have, uh..."
"No way that I would have beaten you?" grinned Mom. "Just admit it,
honey. Just because you're all grown up and have your own job now,
just because you're bigger than I am and you're a bigshot CPA doesn't
mean I'm not still the boss in our relationship."
"The boss!" I yelled. Furious, I bucked and squirmed but couldn't
dislodge my middle-aged mother. Her womanly hips were solidly pinning
me down. "You're not the boss of me!" I squealed as I kicked in futility.
Mom just laughed. "I'll make you admit it, then," she said. "If
pinning you doesn't prove anything, I'll just make you say it out loud."
With that Mom suddenly rose up and then dropped down viciously on my
stomach. I grunted as the air burst out of my lungs. Giggling like a
schoolgirl, Mom leisurely rolled me to my stomach, and I wasn't able
to resist. She grabbed my right wrist and twisted my arm behind my
back into a hammerlock. "Ow!" I screeched involuntarily as she jerked
my wrist high in between my shoulder blades.
"Say it," Mom demanded. "Say that I'm the boss!"
The pain in my elbow and should was intense, and tears began to well
up in my eyes. Nevertheless, I refused to submit.
"Have it your way, big boy," said Mom as she grabbed my hair with her
left hand and jerked my head back. I grunted in pain as it seemed
like she would snap my neck.
"Say it," she demanded.
I didn't reply; I was too busy trying not to cry to respond.
"You sure are a glutton for punishment," said Mom. "You're just
making it harder on yourself."
Helpless, I couldn't stop my mother as she twisted my other arm behind
my back and then sat on my crossed wrists. Now she was able to use
both hands to grab my chin and yank my head back. The only part of my
body that I could control was my legs, which I kicked in frustration
and futility. "Say it," Mom whispered in my ear.
"No," I managed to grunt.
"Well, at least I didn't raise a wimp," said Mom, "even if my son is
getting his ass kicked by his mother." She let my head fall to the
carpet and she rose off me. I lay on the floor, panting and moaning.
Mom planted her small foot on the back of my neck and pressed down.
"But it's just a matter of time until you give in," she said.
Eventually she lifted her foot off my neck. I slowly tried to get up.
When I was on my knees, Mom forced me into a kneeling position and
once again twisted both my arms behind my back. "Say it," she said,
yanking upward.
"No," I grunted, though I feared she'd break my arms.
Mom let go of my left arm but kept my right arm captive in the
hammerlock. Standing to my side, she used her fleshy thighs to hold
me upright and then began to dig the polished fingernails of her free
nand into my fatigued abs. She was both scratching me with her nails
and driving her surprisingly strong fingers into my muscles.
Meanwhile, she was still applying pressure on my arm with her other hand.
"Please, please, Mom, stop!" I screamed.
"Say it!" she demanded.
"I give up!" I whined. "You're the boss!" I whimpered. "Please let go!"
"Ok, honey," she giggled as she released me. I slipped to the floor
and fell to my side.
Here I was, a twenty-three year-old man, beaten and humiliated by my
own mother.
Sybil vs. the Mattdog (PG-13)
One of many stories about the great Sybil Starr.
The Rematch
It had a year since Mattdog’s brutal series of matches against the beautiful but cruel Sybil Starr. She had defeated him soundly every time, and she humiliated him more than once. Now, a year later, Mattdog was ready to challenge Sybil once more. He was now fifteen pounds heavier, at 180, and a year of exercise had made him hard. Mattdog was fresh off a week hiking a section of the Appalachian Trail, so he was especially toughened, like the leather on his hiking boots.
As he and Sybil squared off in the ring, the contrast between them was stark. He was all man and masculinity: hairy, bearded, sinewy, and rough around the edges. Across the ring, Sybil Starr epitomized the feminine form: small, sleek, curvy, and polished. In her bright pink bikini, which hammocked her soft breasts and barely contained her firm rear end, there was no mistaking her for anything but a womanly woman. Her lips and nails were painted a light pink shade to accent her bikini, and her red hair was tied back with a pink ribbon.
Their match had simple rules: the two would fight until one competitor could no longer continue. Pins and submissions were meaningless. It didn’t matter what the pinfall count was; when one of the two said, “I quit,” he or she was quitting for good. One slight exception was that if either one was trapped in a hold that might cause permanent damage (such as a joint lock), he or she could yell, “Injury,” and the other would be obliged to release the hold.
The two approached each other confidently yet warily. Sybil lip curled in a slight sneer of contempt; after all, she had totally overwhelmed Mattdog on numerous occasions before. So she was surprised when he lunged forward. With his large weight and strength advantage, Mattdog drove Sybil to the mat hard. She grunted in pain as she dug his shoulder into her abs, forcing the air from her body. Despite her speed advantage, Sybil couldn’t react quickly enough as Mattdog straddled her chest and crossed her arms over her face. Bouncing on her prone, struggling form, Mattdog yanked her thin wrists until she screeched out loud, her biceps smashing into her cheeks as he wrenched her arms farther and farther out.
Sybil was about to shout “Injury,” fearing that he might dislocate one of her shoulders, when Mattdog abruptly rose from his position astride her slim body and pulled her to her feet by her curly hair. Just as she found herself standing up, Mattdog combined a violent clothesline with a judo-like leg sweep and sent her to the mat hard, flat on her back. Sybil landed with a thud and for a moment gasped silently as her lungs were unable to refill with precious oxygen.
Wasting no time, Mattdog rolled the beautiful woman to her stomach and dropped his full weight to her lower back. She yelped once more. She couldn’t resist as he pulled her arms over his knees and grasped her chin and yanked her back into a camel clutch. “Let go!” Sybil screamed.
“Do you quit, little girl?” Mattdog laughed in her ear. “You concede the match already?”
“No!” Sybil shouted. “Injury! You’re going to damage one of the vertebrae in my neck!”
Immediately Mattdog released the hold and let Sybil’s face fall to the mat. Sweat ran from her forehand and cheeks and puddle beneath her as she gasped for breath.
“Get up,” said Mattdog, standing over her. Slowly Sybil drew herself to her hands and knees. As her male tormentor took a step forward, Sybil launched herself like a human projectile and speared him in the crotch with a flying headbutt.
Mattdog crumpled to the mat. Despite the beating she had taken, Sybil was able to marshal her energies and take advantage of the situation. Straddling the bigger man, she tried to lock on a body scissors. Mattdog countered and prevented her from securing the scissors firmly. The two jockeyed for position, rolling across the mat. At first it seemed that Sybil was just seconds from trapping the bigger man between her lethal legs, but he kept forcing his way out.
For fifteen solid minutes (an eternity when wrestling), the man and the woman struggled on the mat for supremacy. Mattdog’s strength, especially in the upper body, and his weight were effectively balanced by Sybil’s speed and experience. A year ago the woman’s stamina and cunning would have allowed her to quickly wear Mattdog down and subdue him, but now he had more endurance and general toughness.
Their sweat intermingled as their bodies strained against each other. Every fiber and sinew of each competitor knotted and they groaned and growled. Soon they began employing dirty tactics, with Sybil giving Mattdog a painful wedgie, and Mattdog trying to attack Sybil’s breasts. Even those maneuvers couldn’t break the stalemate.
At last Sybil lay still for a moment, panting fiercely face down on the mat. Mattdog was on her back like a blanket, pressing his weight down upon her. He had been trying, without success, to secure her wrists and control her powerful legs. She had been trying to slide out from under him without allowing him any advantage.
For a moment they lay together. His mouth was by her ear; she could feel the warmth of his heavy breath. “It’s not like before,” he whispered. “I’m stronger now. Now you’re going to see how a man puts a woman in her place.”
“You’ll never win,” she grunted. “I own you.”
Mattdog licked Sybil’s ear tauntingly. “You can’t even move,” he chuckled, amused by her growling frustration. “You might have owned me once, but you’re mine now.”
As he spoke, Mattdog had unconsciously raised himself ever so slightly off Sybil’s body. Now he was supporting his own weight on his hands and knees. Sybil immediately took advantage of this tiny mistake. With all her might she thrust her hips upward and smashed her firm rear end into the bigger man’s lower abdomen. Sybil felt the air erupt from his mouth onto her cheek as he grunted in painful surprise.
In the split second that he was stunned from this maneuver, the sexy redhead reached over her shoulder and wrapped her arm around Mattdog’s head. Then, with all the strength she could summon, she snapped him face-first into the mat. It was only a short drop, but the blow temporarily blinded him with pain.
Sybil slid from underneath Mattdog and sprang to her feet. Her foe knew he had to get up quickly, too, or risk losing the advantage. He was too slow. As he reached his knees Sybil captured him in a reverse headlock and before he could react, she began ramming her knee into his solar plexus. Like a creamy white piston, she thrust her knee into his body two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight times. He was now limp in her arms.
Laughing, Sybil pushed his head in between her thighs and secured a standing head scissors. “Who owns whom?” Sybil mocked, but she knew he couldn’t hear her, since his ears were covered by her thighs. Mattdog’s hands clawed feebly at the woman’s slender but powerful legs.
Finally Sybil released him, only to ram him face first into the mat. Mattdog twitched a moment, then lay still. Sybil rolled him over with one delicate foot, which she then planted on his neck. “Give up, sweetie?” she asked.
“Bitch,” he managed to mutter.
“Oh, it’s not smart to say such things to someone who has her foot on your throat. I better teach you a lesson.”
Despite Mattdog’s increased toughness and fitness, he was once again at the mercy of his petite, sexy nemesis. He struggled in vain as Sybil pulled him into a sitting position and then wrapped his own arms around his neck. Placing a knee between his shoulder blades, Sybil yanked his arms backward, so that his elbows were crossed in front of him and his wrists were beside his ears. Her slim hands were steely in their grip on his wrists. She laughed as she increased the pressure, simultaneously choking him, stretching his shoulders, and torturing his back with her knee.
Sybil soon tired of that hold and let him fall to the side, semi-conscious. He was only dimly aware of her lying down beside him and sliding her legs around his body. Her powerful squeeze snapped him to attention, however, and he yelled out loud as she began pulsing her legs in rhythm. To exacerbate his misery, Sybil began to pinch and twist his nipples with her pink fingernails. Mattdog was helpless to stop her. He could only kick his legs in vain.
Soon even his legs stopped kicking and he simply moaned limply in Sybil’s leggy prison. Like a cat who wants to revive a dying mouse in order to have some more fun, Sybil released Mattdog and pulled him into a kneeling position. Holding his chin in her fingers, she forced him to look up at her. Mattdog’s face was squarely in front of Sybil’s bikini clad crotch; part of him was aroused by the sight of her womanly hips, the smell of her femininity inches from his face, the swaying of her sweaty breasts just above his face. But he was also frustrated and ashamed when she forced him to look into her eyes. Her face wore an expression of triumph and superiority…such a beautiful face, and yet so commanding.
“Say it,” she ordered him.
Somehow, Mattdog refused to quit.
“Good,” she said. “I want to have more fun.”
Stepping behind him and then over his neck, Sybil pulled his head back into her crotch and then spread his thighs apart with her feet. He was sitting on the mat, his legs in a V with her feet in between, his head caught between her thighs. Sybil then captured his wrists and jerked his arms upward, while forcing his neck and shoulders downward. Mattdog screamed in pain—it felt like she was going to rip his arms out of their sockets. Meanwhile she was squeezing his head and neck, and compressing his torso. He struggled helplessly as Sybil increased the pressure. “Injury! Injury!” screamed Mattdog. “You’re going to dislocate one of my shoulders!”
“No I’m not,” said Sybil. “I know human anatomy, and you can take it.”
“That’s not fair!” pleaded Mattdog. “You’re going to hurt me!”
“Aww, is the little girl going to hurt the big, strong man?” she taunted in a girlish voice. “Well, just tough it out!”
Mattdog’s pleas became incoherent and tears began trickling down his cheeks. Sybil finally release him and he slid to the mat, writhing in pain. As he lay at her feet, Sybil bent over and began drawing her fingernails down his body. Starting at his shoulders, she dragged all ten nails down his back and sides to his thighs, raising small rivulets of blood. Mattdog couldn’t stop her.
Sybil then rolled him to his back and sat on his chest, facing his feet. As he squirmed weakly underneath her, like an insect pinned into a collection, Sybil drove her nails into the skin of his stomach, executing a vicious double-handed stomach claw. She laughed at his squeals of protest.
“Tell me that you quit,” Sybil finally ordered.
“I quit! I quit!” said Mattdog, his voice filled with shame and fear.
“Who owns you?” she asked.
“You own me! Sybil Starr owns me!”
Sybil grinned and swiveled her position so that now she was facing her victim. She rested her knees on his biceps and stared down at him. Sweat dripped from her bikini-covered nipples onto his face. She put one of her hands over his mouth and pinched his nose closed with the thumb and index finger of her other hand. In a panic he kicked and squirmed, but he knew it was no use: Sybil had beaten all the energy out of him. He couldn’t stop her.
“Good night, sweet prince,” she whispered through her beautiful lips as he lost consciousness.
When he awoke, he found that not only was he nude, he was hogtied with Sybil’s pink hair ribbon.
The Rematch
It had a year since Mattdog’s brutal series of matches against the beautiful but cruel Sybil Starr. She had defeated him soundly every time, and she humiliated him more than once. Now, a year later, Mattdog was ready to challenge Sybil once more. He was now fifteen pounds heavier, at 180, and a year of exercise had made him hard. Mattdog was fresh off a week hiking a section of the Appalachian Trail, so he was especially toughened, like the leather on his hiking boots.
As he and Sybil squared off in the ring, the contrast between them was stark. He was all man and masculinity: hairy, bearded, sinewy, and rough around the edges. Across the ring, Sybil Starr epitomized the feminine form: small, sleek, curvy, and polished. In her bright pink bikini, which hammocked her soft breasts and barely contained her firm rear end, there was no mistaking her for anything but a womanly woman. Her lips and nails were painted a light pink shade to accent her bikini, and her red hair was tied back with a pink ribbon.
Their match had simple rules: the two would fight until one competitor could no longer continue. Pins and submissions were meaningless. It didn’t matter what the pinfall count was; when one of the two said, “I quit,” he or she was quitting for good. One slight exception was that if either one was trapped in a hold that might cause permanent damage (such as a joint lock), he or she could yell, “Injury,” and the other would be obliged to release the hold.
The two approached each other confidently yet warily. Sybil lip curled in a slight sneer of contempt; after all, she had totally overwhelmed Mattdog on numerous occasions before. So she was surprised when he lunged forward. With his large weight and strength advantage, Mattdog drove Sybil to the mat hard. She grunted in pain as she dug his shoulder into her abs, forcing the air from her body. Despite her speed advantage, Sybil couldn’t react quickly enough as Mattdog straddled her chest and crossed her arms over her face. Bouncing on her prone, struggling form, Mattdog yanked her thin wrists until she screeched out loud, her biceps smashing into her cheeks as he wrenched her arms farther and farther out.
Sybil was about to shout “Injury,” fearing that he might dislocate one of her shoulders, when Mattdog abruptly rose from his position astride her slim body and pulled her to her feet by her curly hair. Just as she found herself standing up, Mattdog combined a violent clothesline with a judo-like leg sweep and sent her to the mat hard, flat on her back. Sybil landed with a thud and for a moment gasped silently as her lungs were unable to refill with precious oxygen.
Wasting no time, Mattdog rolled the beautiful woman to her stomach and dropped his full weight to her lower back. She yelped once more. She couldn’t resist as he pulled her arms over his knees and grasped her chin and yanked her back into a camel clutch. “Let go!” Sybil screamed.
“Do you quit, little girl?” Mattdog laughed in her ear. “You concede the match already?”
“No!” Sybil shouted. “Injury! You’re going to damage one of the vertebrae in my neck!”
Immediately Mattdog released the hold and let Sybil’s face fall to the mat. Sweat ran from her forehand and cheeks and puddle beneath her as she gasped for breath.
“Get up,” said Mattdog, standing over her. Slowly Sybil drew herself to her hands and knees. As her male tormentor took a step forward, Sybil launched herself like a human projectile and speared him in the crotch with a flying headbutt.
Mattdog crumpled to the mat. Despite the beating she had taken, Sybil was able to marshal her energies and take advantage of the situation. Straddling the bigger man, she tried to lock on a body scissors. Mattdog countered and prevented her from securing the scissors firmly. The two jockeyed for position, rolling across the mat. At first it seemed that Sybil was just seconds from trapping the bigger man between her lethal legs, but he kept forcing his way out.
For fifteen solid minutes (an eternity when wrestling), the man and the woman struggled on the mat for supremacy. Mattdog’s strength, especially in the upper body, and his weight were effectively balanced by Sybil’s speed and experience. A year ago the woman’s stamina and cunning would have allowed her to quickly wear Mattdog down and subdue him, but now he had more endurance and general toughness.
Their sweat intermingled as their bodies strained against each other. Every fiber and sinew of each competitor knotted and they groaned and growled. Soon they began employing dirty tactics, with Sybil giving Mattdog a painful wedgie, and Mattdog trying to attack Sybil’s breasts. Even those maneuvers couldn’t break the stalemate.
At last Sybil lay still for a moment, panting fiercely face down on the mat. Mattdog was on her back like a blanket, pressing his weight down upon her. He had been trying, without success, to secure her wrists and control her powerful legs. She had been trying to slide out from under him without allowing him any advantage.
For a moment they lay together. His mouth was by her ear; she could feel the warmth of his heavy breath. “It’s not like before,” he whispered. “I’m stronger now. Now you’re going to see how a man puts a woman in her place.”
“You’ll never win,” she grunted. “I own you.”
Mattdog licked Sybil’s ear tauntingly. “You can’t even move,” he chuckled, amused by her growling frustration. “You might have owned me once, but you’re mine now.”
As he spoke, Mattdog had unconsciously raised himself ever so slightly off Sybil’s body. Now he was supporting his own weight on his hands and knees. Sybil immediately took advantage of this tiny mistake. With all her might she thrust her hips upward and smashed her firm rear end into the bigger man’s lower abdomen. Sybil felt the air erupt from his mouth onto her cheek as he grunted in painful surprise.
In the split second that he was stunned from this maneuver, the sexy redhead reached over her shoulder and wrapped her arm around Mattdog’s head. Then, with all the strength she could summon, she snapped him face-first into the mat. It was only a short drop, but the blow temporarily blinded him with pain.
Sybil slid from underneath Mattdog and sprang to her feet. Her foe knew he had to get up quickly, too, or risk losing the advantage. He was too slow. As he reached his knees Sybil captured him in a reverse headlock and before he could react, she began ramming her knee into his solar plexus. Like a creamy white piston, she thrust her knee into his body two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight times. He was now limp in her arms.
Laughing, Sybil pushed his head in between her thighs and secured a standing head scissors. “Who owns whom?” Sybil mocked, but she knew he couldn’t hear her, since his ears were covered by her thighs. Mattdog’s hands clawed feebly at the woman’s slender but powerful legs.
Finally Sybil released him, only to ram him face first into the mat. Mattdog twitched a moment, then lay still. Sybil rolled him over with one delicate foot, which she then planted on his neck. “Give up, sweetie?” she asked.
“Bitch,” he managed to mutter.
“Oh, it’s not smart to say such things to someone who has her foot on your throat. I better teach you a lesson.”
Despite Mattdog’s increased toughness and fitness, he was once again at the mercy of his petite, sexy nemesis. He struggled in vain as Sybil pulled him into a sitting position and then wrapped his own arms around his neck. Placing a knee between his shoulder blades, Sybil yanked his arms backward, so that his elbows were crossed in front of him and his wrists were beside his ears. Her slim hands were steely in their grip on his wrists. She laughed as she increased the pressure, simultaneously choking him, stretching his shoulders, and torturing his back with her knee.
Sybil soon tired of that hold and let him fall to the side, semi-conscious. He was only dimly aware of her lying down beside him and sliding her legs around his body. Her powerful squeeze snapped him to attention, however, and he yelled out loud as she began pulsing her legs in rhythm. To exacerbate his misery, Sybil began to pinch and twist his nipples with her pink fingernails. Mattdog was helpless to stop her. He could only kick his legs in vain.
Soon even his legs stopped kicking and he simply moaned limply in Sybil’s leggy prison. Like a cat who wants to revive a dying mouse in order to have some more fun, Sybil released Mattdog and pulled him into a kneeling position. Holding his chin in her fingers, she forced him to look up at her. Mattdog’s face was squarely in front of Sybil’s bikini clad crotch; part of him was aroused by the sight of her womanly hips, the smell of her femininity inches from his face, the swaying of her sweaty breasts just above his face. But he was also frustrated and ashamed when she forced him to look into her eyes. Her face wore an expression of triumph and superiority…such a beautiful face, and yet so commanding.
“Say it,” she ordered him.
Somehow, Mattdog refused to quit.
“Good,” she said. “I want to have more fun.”
Stepping behind him and then over his neck, Sybil pulled his head back into her crotch and then spread his thighs apart with her feet. He was sitting on the mat, his legs in a V with her feet in between, his head caught between her thighs. Sybil then captured his wrists and jerked his arms upward, while forcing his neck and shoulders downward. Mattdog screamed in pain—it felt like she was going to rip his arms out of their sockets. Meanwhile she was squeezing his head and neck, and compressing his torso. He struggled helplessly as Sybil increased the pressure. “Injury! Injury!” screamed Mattdog. “You’re going to dislocate one of my shoulders!”
“No I’m not,” said Sybil. “I know human anatomy, and you can take it.”
“That’s not fair!” pleaded Mattdog. “You’re going to hurt me!”
“Aww, is the little girl going to hurt the big, strong man?” she taunted in a girlish voice. “Well, just tough it out!”
Mattdog’s pleas became incoherent and tears began trickling down his cheeks. Sybil finally release him and he slid to the mat, writhing in pain. As he lay at her feet, Sybil bent over and began drawing her fingernails down his body. Starting at his shoulders, she dragged all ten nails down his back and sides to his thighs, raising small rivulets of blood. Mattdog couldn’t stop her.
Sybil then rolled him to his back and sat on his chest, facing his feet. As he squirmed weakly underneath her, like an insect pinned into a collection, Sybil drove her nails into the skin of his stomach, executing a vicious double-handed stomach claw. She laughed at his squeals of protest.
“Tell me that you quit,” Sybil finally ordered.
“I quit! I quit!” said Mattdog, his voice filled with shame and fear.
“Who owns you?” she asked.
“You own me! Sybil Starr owns me!”
Sybil grinned and swiveled her position so that now she was facing her victim. She rested her knees on his biceps and stared down at him. Sweat dripped from her bikini-covered nipples onto his face. She put one of her hands over his mouth and pinched his nose closed with the thumb and index finger of her other hand. In a panic he kicked and squirmed, but he knew it was no use: Sybil had beaten all the energy out of him. He couldn’t stop her.
“Good night, sweet prince,” she whispered through her beautiful lips as he lost consciousness.
When he awoke, he found that not only was he nude, he was hogtied with Sybil’s pink hair ribbon.
Humiliated (PG)
Wrestling Mom
It started out as a pleasant summer evening at my mom’s house. I was home from college, and my girlfriend Jill and I were hanging out in the den while Mom and several of her female friends (including Jill’s mom) were laughing and drinking wine upstairs in the living room. Rolling around on the floor and tickling Jill, I never dreamed this was about to become the most embarrassing night of my life.
My mother looks a lot like Annette Bening in the movie “American Beauty,” and she even sells real estate just like that character did. Fortunately, my mom is a little less high-strung than that. She and I have always been on good terms, and we joke around a lot with each other. I must say, though, that recently we’d been getting on each other’s nerves just a bit. I guess you could say we had been having a little power struggle since I’d been home.
Mom’s best friend happens to be Jill’s mother, Marilyn. That’s a little awkward, but both women are pretty laid back so it hasn’t been a problem. Jill and I have known each other since the third grade but only began dating when we were seniors in high school. We go to different colleges, so during the summers back home we’re inseparable.
That night, as I said, Jill and I were just messing around. Actually, we were having a tickle fight, which was a common activity for us. Both of us were laughing hysterically, me because I had pinned her down and Jill because I was tickling her unmercifully. “Let me go!” she pleaded between airless bursts of laughter. I refused and tickled her even more gleefully.
“You ought to know better than to get into a wrestling match, Jillie,” a voice said behind me. Surprised, I turned quickly and saw Jill’s mother standing in the doorway, laughing at her daughter’s predicament. At her shoulder were my mother and two other female friends. All the women were holding their glasses of wine and were grinning knowingly at us.
I hastily got off my girlfriend as the middle aged women sauntered into the room and seated themselves on the sofa and the recliner. Jill and I sat on the floor, and Jill tried to straighten out her clothes. Her mother continued her earlier statement: “I mean, Jill, if you can’t outwrestle your own mother, how do you expect to outwrestle Mark, here?”
“Mom!” Jill shrieked, embarrassment and anger in her voice.
“What?” asked Marilyn, feigning innocence. “You haven’t told Mark that your mom is the wrestling champion at our house?”
“No,” said Jill, “It hasn’t come up.”
“I’ve got to hear about this!” I said.
“Me, too!” said my mother, and the other women assented.
Marilyn laughed. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. I’m just teasing her. The other night we were playing around and she was so mad when I actually pinned her.”
“You got lucky,” muttered Jill.
“I can’t believe you let your mother beat you!” I blurted. Perhaps it was the loudness with which I made that statement. Maybe it was the contempt in my voice when I said the word “mother.” Maybe it was simply the wine my mom had been drinking. Whatever the cause, Mom appeared to take offense at my comment.
“You better watch yourself, little boy,” she said, poking me in the chest with the toes of her bare foot. “Don’t put us mothers down. We’re not helpless yet.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, pushing her foot away. “Like you could ever wrestle.”
The room got quiet. One of the other women snickered, “That sounded like a challenge to me!”
Mom pursed her lips and set her wine glass down on the coffee table. We locked eyes for a moment, and then she slid off the recliner and onto her knees on the carpet in front of me. “You’re on, little boy,” she taunted.
I was confused. My mother was actually going to wrestle me? She edged forward, her arms out. I scooted away, unsure, and in that instant Mom suddenly pounced. The ladies all whooped and hollered as Mom immediately dug her long, pink fingernails into my ribs and began tickling me, the way she had done when I was a just a kid. The truth be told, I was always very ticklish. Instinctively I curled up into a fetal position and tried to cover my torso with my arms. “Stop,” I giggled. Mom straddled my stomach and continued the onslaught.
Soon I recovered my wits and forced myself to withstand the tickling and actually fight back. I managed to grab both of Mom’s wrists and hold them at bay. We struggled for a moment or two until I managed to roll her off my stomach. Then I was able to pin her arms to the carpet by her head.
“See, Mom,” I said, still panting for breath after her tickling. “I’m just way stronger than you are.”
The other women were offering Mom encouragement. Even Jill was yelling for my mother. And Mom was struggling in my grip like a wildcat. She was wearing a pink tanktop, and I could see the slim muscles in her arms flexing and straining as she tried to break free. She squirmed and kicked her legs. I was surprised by her resistance. Was it the wine? “Come on, Mom, give up,” I pleaded. “You’re beat.”
Mom finally lay still for a moment. “Do you give?” I asked. She licked her lips, as if thinking about it. I noticed that her lipstick matched the dark pink polish on her fingernails and toenails. Suddenly she squirmed again and somehow managed to wrench her right hand from my grip. Before I could seize it again she had reached up and snatched the hair on the side of my head.
“Yow!” I screeched as she jerking my head down by the hair, forcing me to twist my neck. Apparently I lost my grip on her other hand, too, because her left hand suddenly gripped my chin and continued forcing my head to the side. By driving her sharp fingernails into the skin on my cheeks with one hand and nearly yanking my hair out by the roots with the other, she not only twisted my neck painfully to the side, she managed to throw me off her completely.
Now I was back on the carpet. Mom maintained her grip on my hair as we struggled. She straddled me again, but I was fighting back this time. I tried to roll to my stomach. On my back, Mom was able to use all her weight to push my head face-first into the carpet, using my hair as a convenient handle. I reached back to grab her wrist, but she only gripped my hair more tightly. I couldn’t believe how intense the pain was in my scalp as she jerked my head around by my hair! I rose to all fours, pushing my chest off the ground, but with a great surge Mom shoved me back to the carpet. Before I could rise again, she planted one of her knees on the side of my face and the other on the middle of my back. Still, she kept my hair twisted in her long fingers.
I couldn’t believe it! Mom had all her weight resting on my head and back, driving her knees into me, while controlling my head by her hair! The other ladies, and Jill, all cackled with excitement, cheering on Mom and taunting me.
Adjusting to the pain and catching my breath, I once again forced myself to my hands and knees. After all, I’m considerably bigger than my mother. Just as I was trying to rise to my feet, though, she managed to grab my left wrist and, before I knew it, she had twisted my arm into a hammerlock. I didn’t even know she knew what a hammerlock was! She must have seen it on a TV show. I gasped in pain, and maybe even whimpered, as she forced my wrist high in between my shoulder blades. Then she shoved me forward again.
I landed with a thud on the floor in front of the sofa, right at Jill’s mom’s feet. She lifted them up quickly, out of my way, but Mom said, “No, Marilyn, leave them there.” Forcing my face right at Marilyn’s red-polished toenails, Mom said, “OK, honey. Kiss her feet.”
“What?” I cried. The women all laughed hysterically.
“You heard me, Mark. Kiss her feet. If you want me to let you go, you are going to kiss everyone’s feet.”
“You bitch,” I snapped.
There was a pause, as the disrespectful word sank it. Suddenly Mom smashed my face into the carpet, blinding me with pain. My nose felt like it had exploded. She jerked me back painfully, hurting my neck. At the same time, she was twisting my arm so violently that I thought she would break it.
Leaning forward, she whispered into my ear, “What did you say, honey?”
“Uuuuhhhhh,” I gasped. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”
“I know you are, honey. Now kiss Marilyn’s feet.”
And so I did. One by one, toe by toe, I kissed all the women’s feet. Mom guided me down the sofa and forced my mouth onto each waiting foot. She even steered me over to Jill, who was beside herself with delight at the sight of me being controlled by my mother. “Lick in between my toes,” ordered Jill, loving the situation.
Finally Mom released my arm and let go of my hair. I curled into a ball and took turned massaging my elbow and rubbing my hand on the back of my head, wondering if I was bleeding from the scalp.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Mom asked. I looked up and saw her standing over me, gloating. There she was, an attractive, slim, forty-eight year-old woman, standing there in pink shorts and a halter top, and she had just kicked my ass. She pointed a long, polished fingernail to her feet. “Kiss them,” she commanded.
With tears on my cheeks, I leaned forward and kissed my mother’s feet. “We’ve got to get a picture of this,” I heard one of the women say. “Freshen up your lipstick,” another said. And so now, as a condition of my living at home this summer, my mother has forced me to keep a photograph of me kissing her feet while she applies new lipstick on the door to my room. Jill, for one, loves it.
It started out as a pleasant summer evening at my mom’s house. I was home from college, and my girlfriend Jill and I were hanging out in the den while Mom and several of her female friends (including Jill’s mom) were laughing and drinking wine upstairs in the living room. Rolling around on the floor and tickling Jill, I never dreamed this was about to become the most embarrassing night of my life.
My mother looks a lot like Annette Bening in the movie “American Beauty,” and she even sells real estate just like that character did. Fortunately, my mom is a little less high-strung than that. She and I have always been on good terms, and we joke around a lot with each other. I must say, though, that recently we’d been getting on each other’s nerves just a bit. I guess you could say we had been having a little power struggle since I’d been home.
Mom’s best friend happens to be Jill’s mother, Marilyn. That’s a little awkward, but both women are pretty laid back so it hasn’t been a problem. Jill and I have known each other since the third grade but only began dating when we were seniors in high school. We go to different colleges, so during the summers back home we’re inseparable.
That night, as I said, Jill and I were just messing around. Actually, we were having a tickle fight, which was a common activity for us. Both of us were laughing hysterically, me because I had pinned her down and Jill because I was tickling her unmercifully. “Let me go!” she pleaded between airless bursts of laughter. I refused and tickled her even more gleefully.
“You ought to know better than to get into a wrestling match, Jillie,” a voice said behind me. Surprised, I turned quickly and saw Jill’s mother standing in the doorway, laughing at her daughter’s predicament. At her shoulder were my mother and two other female friends. All the women were holding their glasses of wine and were grinning knowingly at us.
I hastily got off my girlfriend as the middle aged women sauntered into the room and seated themselves on the sofa and the recliner. Jill and I sat on the floor, and Jill tried to straighten out her clothes. Her mother continued her earlier statement: “I mean, Jill, if you can’t outwrestle your own mother, how do you expect to outwrestle Mark, here?”
“Mom!” Jill shrieked, embarrassment and anger in her voice.
“What?” asked Marilyn, feigning innocence. “You haven’t told Mark that your mom is the wrestling champion at our house?”
“No,” said Jill, “It hasn’t come up.”
“I’ve got to hear about this!” I said.
“Me, too!” said my mother, and the other women assented.
Marilyn laughed. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. I’m just teasing her. The other night we were playing around and she was so mad when I actually pinned her.”
“You got lucky,” muttered Jill.
“I can’t believe you let your mother beat you!” I blurted. Perhaps it was the loudness with which I made that statement. Maybe it was the contempt in my voice when I said the word “mother.” Maybe it was simply the wine my mom had been drinking. Whatever the cause, Mom appeared to take offense at my comment.
“You better watch yourself, little boy,” she said, poking me in the chest with the toes of her bare foot. “Don’t put us mothers down. We’re not helpless yet.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, pushing her foot away. “Like you could ever wrestle.”
The room got quiet. One of the other women snickered, “That sounded like a challenge to me!”
Mom pursed her lips and set her wine glass down on the coffee table. We locked eyes for a moment, and then she slid off the recliner and onto her knees on the carpet in front of me. “You’re on, little boy,” she taunted.
I was confused. My mother was actually going to wrestle me? She edged forward, her arms out. I scooted away, unsure, and in that instant Mom suddenly pounced. The ladies all whooped and hollered as Mom immediately dug her long, pink fingernails into my ribs and began tickling me, the way she had done when I was a just a kid. The truth be told, I was always very ticklish. Instinctively I curled up into a fetal position and tried to cover my torso with my arms. “Stop,” I giggled. Mom straddled my stomach and continued the onslaught.
Soon I recovered my wits and forced myself to withstand the tickling and actually fight back. I managed to grab both of Mom’s wrists and hold them at bay. We struggled for a moment or two until I managed to roll her off my stomach. Then I was able to pin her arms to the carpet by her head.
“See, Mom,” I said, still panting for breath after her tickling. “I’m just way stronger than you are.”
The other women were offering Mom encouragement. Even Jill was yelling for my mother. And Mom was struggling in my grip like a wildcat. She was wearing a pink tanktop, and I could see the slim muscles in her arms flexing and straining as she tried to break free. She squirmed and kicked her legs. I was surprised by her resistance. Was it the wine? “Come on, Mom, give up,” I pleaded. “You’re beat.”
Mom finally lay still for a moment. “Do you give?” I asked. She licked her lips, as if thinking about it. I noticed that her lipstick matched the dark pink polish on her fingernails and toenails. Suddenly she squirmed again and somehow managed to wrench her right hand from my grip. Before I could seize it again she had reached up and snatched the hair on the side of my head.
“Yow!” I screeched as she jerking my head down by the hair, forcing me to twist my neck. Apparently I lost my grip on her other hand, too, because her left hand suddenly gripped my chin and continued forcing my head to the side. By driving her sharp fingernails into the skin on my cheeks with one hand and nearly yanking my hair out by the roots with the other, she not only twisted my neck painfully to the side, she managed to throw me off her completely.
Now I was back on the carpet. Mom maintained her grip on my hair as we struggled. She straddled me again, but I was fighting back this time. I tried to roll to my stomach. On my back, Mom was able to use all her weight to push my head face-first into the carpet, using my hair as a convenient handle. I reached back to grab her wrist, but she only gripped my hair more tightly. I couldn’t believe how intense the pain was in my scalp as she jerked my head around by my hair! I rose to all fours, pushing my chest off the ground, but with a great surge Mom shoved me back to the carpet. Before I could rise again, she planted one of her knees on the side of my face and the other on the middle of my back. Still, she kept my hair twisted in her long fingers.
I couldn’t believe it! Mom had all her weight resting on my head and back, driving her knees into me, while controlling my head by her hair! The other ladies, and Jill, all cackled with excitement, cheering on Mom and taunting me.
Adjusting to the pain and catching my breath, I once again forced myself to my hands and knees. After all, I’m considerably bigger than my mother. Just as I was trying to rise to my feet, though, she managed to grab my left wrist and, before I knew it, she had twisted my arm into a hammerlock. I didn’t even know she knew what a hammerlock was! She must have seen it on a TV show. I gasped in pain, and maybe even whimpered, as she forced my wrist high in between my shoulder blades. Then she shoved me forward again.
I landed with a thud on the floor in front of the sofa, right at Jill’s mom’s feet. She lifted them up quickly, out of my way, but Mom said, “No, Marilyn, leave them there.” Forcing my face right at Marilyn’s red-polished toenails, Mom said, “OK, honey. Kiss her feet.”
“What?” I cried. The women all laughed hysterically.
“You heard me, Mark. Kiss her feet. If you want me to let you go, you are going to kiss everyone’s feet.”
“You bitch,” I snapped.
There was a pause, as the disrespectful word sank it. Suddenly Mom smashed my face into the carpet, blinding me with pain. My nose felt like it had exploded. She jerked me back painfully, hurting my neck. At the same time, she was twisting my arm so violently that I thought she would break it.
Leaning forward, she whispered into my ear, “What did you say, honey?”
“Uuuuhhhhh,” I gasped. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”
“I know you are, honey. Now kiss Marilyn’s feet.”
And so I did. One by one, toe by toe, I kissed all the women’s feet. Mom guided me down the sofa and forced my mouth onto each waiting foot. She even steered me over to Jill, who was beside herself with delight at the sight of me being controlled by my mother. “Lick in between my toes,” ordered Jill, loving the situation.
Finally Mom released my arm and let go of my hair. I curled into a ball and took turned massaging my elbow and rubbing my hand on the back of my head, wondering if I was bleeding from the scalp.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Mom asked. I looked up and saw her standing over me, gloating. There she was, an attractive, slim, forty-eight year-old woman, standing there in pink shorts and a halter top, and she had just kicked my ass. She pointed a long, polished fingernail to her feet. “Kiss them,” she commanded.
With tears on my cheeks, I leaned forward and kissed my mother’s feet. “We’ve got to get a picture of this,” I heard one of the women say. “Freshen up your lipstick,” another said. And so now, as a condition of my living at home this summer, my mother has forced me to keep a photograph of me kissing her feet while she applies new lipstick on the door to my room. Jill, for one, loves it.
Mistakes... (NC-17)
A match inspired by the great wrestler Mutiny
Mistakes
One
His first mistake was agreeing to fight her to begin
with. His decision was understandable, though; after
all, he appeared to have all the advantages. He was a
mature man in his late 30s, lean and muscular, in the
prime of his athletic life. Mutiny, on the other
hand, was petite and curvy, a sexy blonde in her early
twenties who looked more like a centerfold than a
fighter. The idea that she could overpower him was
ludicrous. His misgivings about the contest had
nothing to do with fear of losing; instead, he simply
didn’t want to give the impression that he was taking
some sort of advantage of a defenseless girl.
Two
His second mistake was agreeing to a submission only
contest. Given his size advantage, he might have had
a chance if he merely had to pin her shoulders to the
mat. It never occurred to him that a young woman with
such a beautiful smile and such a sexy, feminine body
would be able to inflict such pain upon him. In fact,
he didn’t realize that such pain was possible.
Three
Once the match began, he quickly committed his third
mistake, which was to stare at the pink tip of
Mutiny’s tongue as she licked her shiny lips in a
predatory manner. As he stepped forward, catching a
whiff of her perfume, he saw too late the blur of her
petite foot in his peripheral vision. Then he caught
her roundhouse kick just below his ribs and dropped to
his knees and bent forward. Although the vision of
her mouth was still in his mind, his eyes now tried to
focus on her feet. Her toenails were painted gold.
Four
His fourth mistake was lunging forward at her legs,
trying to tackle her when she thought he was still
dazed. The young woman skipped backward easily,
causing him to sprawl forward and lose his balance.
He heard her laughing gaily as she grabbed his hair
and jerked his head violently upward between her
thighs. Then he couldn’t hear anything as her silky
skin crushed his ears and threatened to crush his
skull. Within seconds he began to panic, a situation
that worsened as his petite opponent began to bounce
up and down on her toes, jarring his trapped head
further.
Five
His fifth mistake was clawing at her thighs in
desperation. Mutiny responded by seizing his wrists
and twisting his arms behind him in a double
hammerlock. Now he was completely helpless: he was on
his knees, his head trapped between her powerful legs,
his arms bent painfully into the middle of his back.
He thought his predicament could not get any worse,
but he didn’t anticipate her dropping her entire body
straight down and driving him face first into the mat.
Six
He didn’t make his sixth mistake until he recovered
his senses fifteen seconds later. Mutiny had rolled
him to his back and was now standing over him. “Do
you give up, sweetie?” she asked, her soft voice sexy
with her French accent. “No way! I’ll never give up
to a girl!” he growled. “It’s so cute that you’re
trying so hard,” she replied with a giggle, “but I’m
really going to torture you for being such a sexist!”
Seven
His seventh mistake was trying to fight dirty several
minutes later. Mutiny had just released him from a
camel clutch that nearly snapped his neck and which
had caused tears to run down his face. All the while
she had been taunting him, asking him how it felt to
be beaten up by a girl. “Don’t I look sexy?” she
asked, and he admitted that she did. “Do you get
beaten up by sexy women often?” she asked, giggling at
his humiliation.
When she finally released that hold he rolled to his
back. Mutiny leaned over him to continue her verbal
taunting, and in desperation he reached up and grabbed
her breasts and squeezed. At first the blonde fighter
was caught off guard and squealed in pain. Quickly,
though, she forced herself to fight through the pain
and retaliate. Her thin but strong hands found their
way to his crotch, and now it was she who squeezed and
he who screamed in agony.
Eight
His eighth mistake was not immediately submitting to
her once she seized his crotch. Stubbornly he refused
to give up. “Your squirming is delicious,” she said,
once again running the pink tip of her tongue over her
glossy lips. “I control you completely, don’t I?” she
asked. He didn’t answer, unless his high-pitched
whine could be considered a response. “Say it,” she
commanded. “Say, ‘Mutiny controls my body completely’
or I’ll have to prove it!” Still he refused. The
sexy woman rolled the larger man into a small package
so his rear end was in the air, and then she began to
pump him with one hand while squeezing him with the
other. He was completely at her mercy. Finally she
forced him to the brink and he exploded. “See? I
told you I was in complete control of you!”
She stood up and loomed over him while he lay on the
mat in shame and defeat. Mutiny put one of her slim
feet on his face and forced it into the mat. He was
barely conscious, and tears rolled down the side of
his face. With one eye he was able to gaze up at her.
From his vantage point beneath her foot he could see
her sexy legs, the curve of her womanly hips, her full
round breasts, her long blonde hair, and her
beautiful, mischievous smile, all stretching up away
from him.
Awed by both her beauty and her power, he avoided
making any more mistakes. “Please have mercy,” he
begged. “You win!”
Mutiny dug her toes into his cheeks cruelly. “I
know!” she giggled.
Mistakes
One
His first mistake was agreeing to fight her to begin
with. His decision was understandable, though; after
all, he appeared to have all the advantages. He was a
mature man in his late 30s, lean and muscular, in the
prime of his athletic life. Mutiny, on the other
hand, was petite and curvy, a sexy blonde in her early
twenties who looked more like a centerfold than a
fighter. The idea that she could overpower him was
ludicrous. His misgivings about the contest had
nothing to do with fear of losing; instead, he simply
didn’t want to give the impression that he was taking
some sort of advantage of a defenseless girl.
Two
His second mistake was agreeing to a submission only
contest. Given his size advantage, he might have had
a chance if he merely had to pin her shoulders to the
mat. It never occurred to him that a young woman with
such a beautiful smile and such a sexy, feminine body
would be able to inflict such pain upon him. In fact,
he didn’t realize that such pain was possible.
Three
Once the match began, he quickly committed his third
mistake, which was to stare at the pink tip of
Mutiny’s tongue as she licked her shiny lips in a
predatory manner. As he stepped forward, catching a
whiff of her perfume, he saw too late the blur of her
petite foot in his peripheral vision. Then he caught
her roundhouse kick just below his ribs and dropped to
his knees and bent forward. Although the vision of
her mouth was still in his mind, his eyes now tried to
focus on her feet. Her toenails were painted gold.
Four
His fourth mistake was lunging forward at her legs,
trying to tackle her when she thought he was still
dazed. The young woman skipped backward easily,
causing him to sprawl forward and lose his balance.
He heard her laughing gaily as she grabbed his hair
and jerked his head violently upward between her
thighs. Then he couldn’t hear anything as her silky
skin crushed his ears and threatened to crush his
skull. Within seconds he began to panic, a situation
that worsened as his petite opponent began to bounce
up and down on her toes, jarring his trapped head
further.
Five
His fifth mistake was clawing at her thighs in
desperation. Mutiny responded by seizing his wrists
and twisting his arms behind him in a double
hammerlock. Now he was completely helpless: he was on
his knees, his head trapped between her powerful legs,
his arms bent painfully into the middle of his back.
He thought his predicament could not get any worse,
but he didn’t anticipate her dropping her entire body
straight down and driving him face first into the mat.
Six
He didn’t make his sixth mistake until he recovered
his senses fifteen seconds later. Mutiny had rolled
him to his back and was now standing over him. “Do
you give up, sweetie?” she asked, her soft voice sexy
with her French accent. “No way! I’ll never give up
to a girl!” he growled. “It’s so cute that you’re
trying so hard,” she replied with a giggle, “but I’m
really going to torture you for being such a sexist!”
Seven
His seventh mistake was trying to fight dirty several
minutes later. Mutiny had just released him from a
camel clutch that nearly snapped his neck and which
had caused tears to run down his face. All the while
she had been taunting him, asking him how it felt to
be beaten up by a girl. “Don’t I look sexy?” she
asked, and he admitted that she did. “Do you get
beaten up by sexy women often?” she asked, giggling at
his humiliation.
When she finally released that hold he rolled to his
back. Mutiny leaned over him to continue her verbal
taunting, and in desperation he reached up and grabbed
her breasts and squeezed. At first the blonde fighter
was caught off guard and squealed in pain. Quickly,
though, she forced herself to fight through the pain
and retaliate. Her thin but strong hands found their
way to his crotch, and now it was she who squeezed and
he who screamed in agony.
Eight
His eighth mistake was not immediately submitting to
her once she seized his crotch. Stubbornly he refused
to give up. “Your squirming is delicious,” she said,
once again running the pink tip of her tongue over her
glossy lips. “I control you completely, don’t I?” she
asked. He didn’t answer, unless his high-pitched
whine could be considered a response. “Say it,” she
commanded. “Say, ‘Mutiny controls my body completely’
or I’ll have to prove it!” Still he refused. The
sexy woman rolled the larger man into a small package
so his rear end was in the air, and then she began to
pump him with one hand while squeezing him with the
other. He was completely at her mercy. Finally she
forced him to the brink and he exploded. “See? I
told you I was in complete control of you!”
She stood up and loomed over him while he lay on the
mat in shame and defeat. Mutiny put one of her slim
feet on his face and forced it into the mat. He was
barely conscious, and tears rolled down the side of
his face. With one eye he was able to gaze up at her.
From his vantage point beneath her foot he could see
her sexy legs, the curve of her womanly hips, her full
round breasts, her long blonde hair, and her
beautiful, mischievous smile, all stretching up away
from him.
Awed by both her beauty and her power, he avoided
making any more mistakes. “Please have mercy,” he
begged. “You win!”
Mutiny dug her toes into his cheeks cruelly. “I
know!” she giggled.
Katie's Homework Slave (R)
The Making of a Homework Slave
When Katie entered the office, without knocking,
Professor Franklin had his feet propped on the corner
of his desk as he reclined in his leather chair.
Surprised, he looked up from the Victorian novel in
his lap to the young woman who had just barged in on
his solitude.
Katie slung her stuffed backpack onto his desk with a
thud. Professor Franklin watched, immobile and
confused, as the slim, sexy blonde walked around his
desk and perched herself on the oak surface in front
of him. She wore a pink t-shirt that was at least one
size too small and which showed that she didn’t have a
bra over her firm breasts.
“Uh, uh, Katie, what can I, um, I, what can I do for
you?” stammered the English professor, nervous despite
being nearly twice the young woman’s age.
Katie put her flip-flopped feet on the edge of
Professor Franklin’s chair, her toes rubbing against
his slacks. Before she answered him, she pulled out
some lip gloss and smeared it over her full lips, then
traced her pink tongue in a circle around her mouth.
Finally she stared at the man, noticing that he had
put the large novel across his crotch. She smiled.
“It’s like this, Johnnie,” she said.
“Professor Franklin,” he interjected.
“Don’t interrupt!” she snapped. To punctuate her
command, she kicked the book out of his lap and sank
her heel into his groin. He groaned but didn’t speak.
Clearly he was confused and intimidated by this woman
barely more than half his age.
“It’s like this, Johnnie,” Katie said again. “I need
you to do my homework. I simply don’t have time for
all this. Now don’t get that look on your face; you
know I’m smart. I’m quite sure I’m smarter than you.
It’s not that I can’t do all this work. I just don’t
want to. And, therefore, little Johnnie, you are
going to do it for me.”
“But Katie—“ he began, then stopped as he saw the
young woman’s brow furrow.
Katie hopped off the desk. “Stand up,” she commanded.
Professor Franklin rose to his feet, as much to obey
as to shift the balance of power in the office. Now
he was looking down at his student, and he felt more
confident. Why had he been so nervous? He almost
laughed at himself for letting this little nymph
intimidate him. He was older, more experienced,
bigger, stronger, and wiser than Katie.
“Who is the boss here?” Katie asked. Suddenly
Professor Franklin’s regained confidence was shaken
once more.
“I am, of course,” he said, less forcefully than he
wished. “Katie, I’m your professor. It’s not
appropriate for me to do your homework. I think you
should go now.”
Katie stepped even closer, so their bodies were
touching. He could feel her perky breasts rubbing
against his chest. Her eyes smoldered.
“Johnnie,” she said slowly, “I am your boss, and you
will do my homework.”
SMACK! Before he even opened his mouth to reply, her
open right hand slapped him so hard on his cheek that
he actually rocked back a little bit. The vision in
his left eye was blurry. Tears welled up and he
blinked them back.
“What did—“ he began to say. SMACK! Katie slapped
him again, this time with her left hand. His head and
neck spun to the other side.
“Damnit!” he shouted and stepped back toward her,
intending to seize her wrists. Instead, Katie
pistoned her knee into his balls. He froze, feeling a
wave of nausea begin to rise from his crotch. His
mouth opened but no noise came out. Before he sank to
his knees, Katie rammed her knee into his groin two
more times. The professor crumpled to the floor, a
faint high-pitched whine escaping his lips.
“Lick my toes,” he eventually heard the young woman
saying. Apparently she had already commanded him to
do it twice, but he was having a hard time grasping
his surroundings through the pain. His teary eyes
gradually focused on her slim feet, inches from his
face. “Lick my toes, Johnny, and then tell me who
your boss is.”
Despite his agony, Professor Franklin refused to kiss
the admittedly cute pink toenails so close to his
mouth. “Get out,” he groaned. “I’ll call the
police.”
Katie giggled. “And tell them that a 100 pound girl
has been beating you up? Did you always think of
yourself as a wimp?” He felt her hands on the back of
his head and the collar of his shirt. She dragged him
to his feet, but before he could fight back she
squeezed his balls and forced him over his desk.
“Stop it!” he protested. “Let me go!”
“You don’t get it,” she said. “I’m the boss here.”
Holding him face down over his desk, Katie reached
around and unfastened his belt and his pants. Quickly
she slid his slacks and boxers down to his ankles and
stepped on them, pinning them to the floor with her
foot. He tried to push up from the desk but she
grabbed his hair and slammed his head into the wood,
twice. His nose exploded with pain. “Stop! Stop!”
he begged.
“It’s like this, Johnnie. I told you to do my
homework. You refused. And look what it got you. I
can keep hurting you. I can spank you right now, but
I’m afraid you might like it. So I’m going to ask you
some questions, and you need to answer them properly,
or I might have to hurt you in some really humiliating
ways. Now, who is your boss?”
“You are! Katie is the boss!” the professor blurted.
“Will you do my homework without a fuss?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Will you lick my toes?”
“Yes! Anything! Please don’t hurt me!”
Katie smiled and released the man. He slid to the
floor. “Lick!” she commanded as she sank back into
his chair. He quickly turned around and began to lick
her toes. It tickled, but she didn’t mind; it was
worth it to prove her superiority.
Ten minutes later, after explaining all the work
Professor Franklin had to do, Katie strolled out of
the office. She wasn’t lugging the heavy backpack,
having left that with her new slave. Instead, she was
counting out the tens and twenties she had taken from
the professor’s wallet. It was nice she had convinced
him to pay her for the privilege of doing her work.
“Ah,” Katie thought. “Life is good.”
When Katie entered the office, without knocking,
Professor Franklin had his feet propped on the corner
of his desk as he reclined in his leather chair.
Surprised, he looked up from the Victorian novel in
his lap to the young woman who had just barged in on
his solitude.
Katie slung her stuffed backpack onto his desk with a
thud. Professor Franklin watched, immobile and
confused, as the slim, sexy blonde walked around his
desk and perched herself on the oak surface in front
of him. She wore a pink t-shirt that was at least one
size too small and which showed that she didn’t have a
bra over her firm breasts.
“Uh, uh, Katie, what can I, um, I, what can I do for
you?” stammered the English professor, nervous despite
being nearly twice the young woman’s age.
Katie put her flip-flopped feet on the edge of
Professor Franklin’s chair, her toes rubbing against
his slacks. Before she answered him, she pulled out
some lip gloss and smeared it over her full lips, then
traced her pink tongue in a circle around her mouth.
Finally she stared at the man, noticing that he had
put the large novel across his crotch. She smiled.
“It’s like this, Johnnie,” she said.
“Professor Franklin,” he interjected.
“Don’t interrupt!” she snapped. To punctuate her
command, she kicked the book out of his lap and sank
her heel into his groin. He groaned but didn’t speak.
Clearly he was confused and intimidated by this woman
barely more than half his age.
“It’s like this, Johnnie,” Katie said again. “I need
you to do my homework. I simply don’t have time for
all this. Now don’t get that look on your face; you
know I’m smart. I’m quite sure I’m smarter than you.
It’s not that I can’t do all this work. I just don’t
want to. And, therefore, little Johnnie, you are
going to do it for me.”
“But Katie—“ he began, then stopped as he saw the
young woman’s brow furrow.
Katie hopped off the desk. “Stand up,” she commanded.
Professor Franklin rose to his feet, as much to obey
as to shift the balance of power in the office. Now
he was looking down at his student, and he felt more
confident. Why had he been so nervous? He almost
laughed at himself for letting this little nymph
intimidate him. He was older, more experienced,
bigger, stronger, and wiser than Katie.
“Who is the boss here?” Katie asked. Suddenly
Professor Franklin’s regained confidence was shaken
once more.
“I am, of course,” he said, less forcefully than he
wished. “Katie, I’m your professor. It’s not
appropriate for me to do your homework. I think you
should go now.”
Katie stepped even closer, so their bodies were
touching. He could feel her perky breasts rubbing
against his chest. Her eyes smoldered.
“Johnnie,” she said slowly, “I am your boss, and you
will do my homework.”
SMACK! Before he even opened his mouth to reply, her
open right hand slapped him so hard on his cheek that
he actually rocked back a little bit. The vision in
his left eye was blurry. Tears welled up and he
blinked them back.
“What did—“ he began to say. SMACK! Katie slapped
him again, this time with her left hand. His head and
neck spun to the other side.
“Damnit!” he shouted and stepped back toward her,
intending to seize her wrists. Instead, Katie
pistoned her knee into his balls. He froze, feeling a
wave of nausea begin to rise from his crotch. His
mouth opened but no noise came out. Before he sank to
his knees, Katie rammed her knee into his groin two
more times. The professor crumpled to the floor, a
faint high-pitched whine escaping his lips.
“Lick my toes,” he eventually heard the young woman
saying. Apparently she had already commanded him to
do it twice, but he was having a hard time grasping
his surroundings through the pain. His teary eyes
gradually focused on her slim feet, inches from his
face. “Lick my toes, Johnny, and then tell me who
your boss is.”
Despite his agony, Professor Franklin refused to kiss
the admittedly cute pink toenails so close to his
mouth. “Get out,” he groaned. “I’ll call the
police.”
Katie giggled. “And tell them that a 100 pound girl
has been beating you up? Did you always think of
yourself as a wimp?” He felt her hands on the back of
his head and the collar of his shirt. She dragged him
to his feet, but before he could fight back she
squeezed his balls and forced him over his desk.
“Stop it!” he protested. “Let me go!”
“You don’t get it,” she said. “I’m the boss here.”
Holding him face down over his desk, Katie reached
around and unfastened his belt and his pants. Quickly
she slid his slacks and boxers down to his ankles and
stepped on them, pinning them to the floor with her
foot. He tried to push up from the desk but she
grabbed his hair and slammed his head into the wood,
twice. His nose exploded with pain. “Stop! Stop!”
he begged.
“It’s like this, Johnnie. I told you to do my
homework. You refused. And look what it got you. I
can keep hurting you. I can spank you right now, but
I’m afraid you might like it. So I’m going to ask you
some questions, and you need to answer them properly,
or I might have to hurt you in some really humiliating
ways. Now, who is your boss?”
“You are! Katie is the boss!” the professor blurted.
“Will you do my homework without a fuss?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Will you lick my toes?”
“Yes! Anything! Please don’t hurt me!”
Katie smiled and released the man. He slid to the
floor. “Lick!” she commanded as she sank back into
his chair. He quickly turned around and began to lick
her toes. It tickled, but she didn’t mind; it was
worth it to prove her superiority.
Ten minutes later, after explaining all the work
Professor Franklin had to do, Katie strolled out of
the office. She wasn’t lugging the heavy backpack,
having left that with her new slave. Instead, she was
counting out the tens and twenties she had taken from
the professor’s wallet. It was nice she had convinced
him to pay her for the privilege of doing her work.
“Ah,” Katie thought. “Life is good.”
All relationships are about power (PG-13)
A story inspired by the great session wrestler Robin "Suzie" Johnson...
All Relationships Are About Power
“All relationships are about power,” she said. I
gritted my teeth, silently willing Dr. Johnson to shut
her pretty lips, but she continued. “In any
relationship, one person will control the other,
whether by force of will or physical force. Now
Kristie, in your story here, which character is going
to come out on top, Tori or Frank?”
I felt sorry for Kristie. A fellow student in this
graduate creative writing class, Kristie was having to
undergo the agony of having Dr. Johnson dissect her
latest short story in front of the entire room. Like
most of the students in this night class, Kristie was
a twenty-two year-old grad student, and she didn’t
seem equipped to take the scrutiny. I was the oddball,
an established teacher at a local high school who was
taking the course simply to improve my own writing.
Unfortunately, though, instead of developing my
writing I was only developing a hatred of the young
blonde professor, Dr. Johnson.
Kristie hesitated, unwilling to change either of her
characters, but Dr. Johnson didn’t let up her
onslaught. “Really, Kristie, do you think anyone wants
to read a story about two people who actually love
each other, share everything, and have no conflicts?
That’s pretty unrealistic, don’t you think?”
“I’d like to read about that,” I said, causing all
eyes to shoot in my direction. “I think we need more
stories with couples who share instead of fight.” I
could sense the other students tensing up,
anticipating a verbal battle. Kristie breathed deeply,
glad that I would now be the target instead of her.
Dr. Johnson’s eyes narrowed and her red lips pursed as
she examined me in the way that she might consider a
cockroach on the floor. I hated her. Despite her
beauty (her creamy smooth skin was accentuated by full
lips and silky, blonde hair) and youth (at 28, she was
the youngest tenured faculty member in the English
department), she had a reputation for being more
brutal on her students than the most traditional
balding middle-aged male professor. Half her students
didn’t even pass, and very few received A’s. A petite
woman, she wore clothes that showed off her trim,
athletic body; tonight she was wearing a flower-print
sundress that revealed her perky breasts and sinewy
thighs and calves. But nothing could reveal to a
casual observer her vicious streak, nothing except
being on the receiving end of one of her tirades. And
now she was about to unload on me.
“Oh, I see, Matt. Because you teach high school
English you know everything there is to know about
character development, right?” She didn’t wait for me
to answer. Instead she stood up and padded over to my
desk. The slap of her sandals on the hard floor
reverberated in the silent room. I drew back in my
chair involuntarily as she put her hands down, her red
nails on my notepad, and leaned over, showing me
cleavage if I had had the guts to look. “Do you think
you know more about writing than I do?”
“I know more about the world than you do,” I
responded, but not nearly as forcefully as I would
have liked. I felt my face burning, my pulse beating,
my palms sweating. I tried to meet her paralyzing
gaze. Within seconds I was staring down at her slender
hands.
When my head dropped, Dr. Johnson threw her head back
and laughed, truly finding something funny.
Straightening up, she tousled my hair and walked back
to the middle of the room. The faces around the circle
were confused. A few laughed with her, uncertainly.
“Come on, people, lighten up. Who was drawn into that
little drama? Who was on the edge of their seats,
wondering what would happen in that conflict? Would
Matt come out on top? Or would I crush him? I was just
acting to make a point. Conflict and power struggles
are the way of the world, and in a piece of writing
they generate interest.”
Everyone but me breathed more freely, and several of
the students wrote notes furiously. She had made her
point, and made it well. But she made it at my
expense, and I was still furious. I still hated her. I
wished I had never signed up to take this course.
After all, I didn’t need it. I’d been teaching for
years, and I didn’t need some arrogant woman ten years
my junior to tell me how to write or to manipulate me
like that. She actually tousled my hair, the way you
would a child’s. I didn’t need that.
When the class ended I strode toward the door
resolving never to return. I’d never have to see that
little bitch again. Needless to say, I was surprised
and angry when she met me at the doorway, blocking my
path.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” she said, seeing the
contempt on my face. “I was just acting to make a
point. Don’t take everything so seriously.” She
smiled, a warm, rich smile that bespoke genuine
friendship, and I softened my stance in spite of
myself. “Look,” she said, suddenly playful and
completely unlike her normal rigid persona, “why don’t
I cook you dinner tonight to make up for it?”
I was stunned. Seconds ago I had rejoiced in my
decision never to see Dr. Johnson again, and now she
was offering to make me dinner. She giggled at my
confusion. “Please, let me make you some pasta. I owe
it to you.” Her dimples outweighed my better judgment,
and in ten minutes we were in her car, heading to my
apartment.
If her class was hell, then conversation with her now
was heaven. No longer was she Dr. Johnson, but Robin.
She was charming, curious, respectful. She was also a
good cook. But underneath it all, there was still and
undercurrent, one which rose to the surface as we
washed the dishes together.
“I can tell you’re still annoyed about my comments in
class,” she said.
At first I thought to deny it, but decided to go ahead
and let my feelings out. “Yeah, I am. Mainly I just
don’t think that one person has to be in control of
another. I think people can be partners.”
“Oh, don’t be naïve. One person is always in control.”
“All right. Take us. We don’t have a relationship, any
attachment, so neither one of us is in control,” I
said. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, smiling.
“I’m in control.”
“Come on,” I argued. “Maybe you guide the
conversation, and you give grades in class, but right
now we are just two people talking.”
“Do I need to prove it?” she asked.
“How on earth would you prove it?”
“I’ll make you say it,” she said.
“You might be smart, a super-professor, but you can’t
outwit me into saying that.”
She giggled. “Ok, I won’t outwit you. I’ll overpower
you, if that’s what it takes.”
I stepped to meet her toe to toe and looked down at
her. We both laughed. I was six inches taller, at
least fifty pounds heavier. She knew that I ran every
day, swam three times a week, competed in triathlons
and other endurance events. But even though we were
laughing, she wasn’t backing down.
“All right,” I said finally. “Let’s go to the living
room where we have some space.” As she skipped ahead
of me, I wondered what was going on. Was she making
some kind of play for me? Was this her way of making a
pass?
When we got into the living room she pushed my coffee
table to the side and turned to face me. She extended
her hands, fingers spread, inviting me to a game of
“Mercy.” I shook my head in disbelief at this
challenge, and she shrugged sheepishly.
We locked fingers and began to test one another. Her
hands were warm and firm, and her thin fingers
stronger than I would have ever imagined. Even so, I
was stronger, and my size gave me an edge in leverage;
soon I was bending her wrists backward. Abruptly she
reversed our hands, spinning hers upside down, and in
doing so she was able to bend my wrists back and force
them upward. I yelped and rose to my toes to try to
escape the pain. But I ignored her taunts and slowly
managed to regain the edge, forcing her wrists back.
Her thin fingers bit into mine, her red nails dug into
the backs of my hands, but my strength was prevailing.
Our hands were sweating. Robin was no longer smiling;
now her teeth were clenched and the small, feminine
muscles in her bare arms were popping out. But I
continued to push her back.
Without warning, she slipped her right hand out of my
grasp and darted behind me, still maintaining her grip
on the fingers of my right hand. With a jerk she
wrapped my right arm across my neck and pushed me
forward from behind.
“That’s not fair,” I gagged.
“We don’t have any rules,” she hissed in my ear as she
forced me into a kneeling position. I found myself on
my knees, my head and shoulder on the cushions of my
sofa. Robin was straddling my lower back, forcing my
face into the cushions with one hand and pulling my
right arm tightly around my neck with her other hand.
She straddled my lower back, preventing me from
backing up or bucking her off. I squirmed and grunted
but couldn’t dislodge her.
“Who is in control?” she asked sweetly, her moist
breath tickling my ear. I refused to answer, bucking
instead in vain. She jerked my arm again and began to
cut off both my air and blood flow–humiliatingly–with
my own arm.
Using my left arm I tried to push away from the sofa.
Robin anticipated this move and released my head and
grabbed my left wrist. With a quick twist she had me
in a hammerlock. Now I completely immobile. I squealed
in spite of myself, whimpering in pain. “Big strong
man, big athlete…who is in control?” she asked in the
tone of voice a kindergarten teacher asks whether a
child would like to use the restroom.
After a minute, when it was far past obvious that I
couldn’t escape, Robin released me and stepped away. I
slowly turned and rose to my feet, massaging my arm
where she had twisted it behind my back.
“Who is in control?” she asked.
“You’ll never make me say it,” I spat.
“Oh, a little grumpy, aren’t we?” she said, her voice
wet with condescension. I was furious… and aroused.
She smiled, clearly aroused also. She began to step
out of her dress, showing a skimpy cotton bra and
panties underneath, and I stripped off my shirt. Her
smile remained but it was tempered with determination.
She knew that I wasn’t going to be a pushover. We
circled each other warily, and without talking we
understood each other: neither one of us was going to
roll over and be submissive. The winner would prevail
only through force, not by acquiescence.
She moved toward me and I tackled her, hard. Robin
grunted and tried to slide away but I quickly
straddled her hard stomach and secured both her
wrists. I wasn’t taking anything for granted this
time. My male size and strength were too much, and I
stretched her arms out to her sides, pulling them as
far as I could. She kicked her legs fruitlessly and
grimaced. I had her pinned beneath me. Her hair spread
out from her face like the corona of the sun. Despite
her anger, she was beautiful as she struggled
underneath me. “Who is in control?” I asked.
“OK,” she said at last as I looked straight down at
her. “You’ve got me pinned. But I can stay here all
night. You can’t make me give up.” A smug smile
crossed her lips. So I rose up a foot off her and then
smashed my butt down onto her stomach. She grunted as
the air shot out of her. I bounced again and again.
She was near tears, seemingly helpless.
“Who is in control?” I asked, feeling good, knowing
that I was in control. She didn’t answer, so I rose up
to splash her again.
In the split second I lifted off her, Robin managed to
pull her knees to her chest, blocking my splash.
Suddenly I was no longer straddling her. Now we were
rolling around the carpet, each struggling for
control. I managed to force her arms to the floor but
couldn’t control her legs, and she flipped me off.
Again and again the same scenario: as soon as I seemed
to pin her, she struggled and bucked and somehow
bucked me off. Minutes went by, then ten minutes. We
knocked the coffee table over. Books and magazines
were strewn across the floor. A lamp fell.
Eventually I found myself behind her, holding her in a
full nelson flat on the floor. I was exhausted,
holding on with the last of my strength while she
struggled beneath me. Our wrestling match had drained
me of everything. Sweat ran off my body onto hers. Her
hair, wet with perspiration, stuck to my face. She
tried to reverse head butt me but I kept my nose and
mouth out of harm’s way. My crotch drove down on her
rear end, and I could tell this infuriated her. “Who
is in control?” I asked her, my voice pleading her to
give up.
“I am,” she replied. As she spoke she reached behind
her head and clawed at my hands which were locked
together, securing the full nelson. She managed to
seize the fingers of my right hand and slowly but
surely pull it away. I fought gamely but couldn’t
match her strength or determination. Then she did the
same with my left. Suddenly she was out of my hold and
on her feet.
I had barely risen to my knees before she circled
behind me and shoved me to the floor. My reactions
were in slow motion. She grabbed my wrists and pulled,
while planting her foot in between my shoulder blades.
I heard her laugh as she yanked, two, three times.
When she release my arms they fell limply to the
floor.
Robin rolled me over and I could barely struggle as
she pinned me easily, crossing my wrists and holding
them to the floor above my head, then squeezing my
arms tightly to the side of my head with her milky
white thighs. She grinned like a schoolgirl as she
reached down with her slim fingers and pinched my nose
and covered my mouth. I could barely hear her asking
me a question as I kicked my legs feebly: “Who is in
control?”
I wanted to tell her she was in control. I wanted to
give up. But the tunnel vision had begun, with
everything around the edge of my sight becoming black.
My last memory was of her red, glistening lips
taunting me.
It must have been only a few minutes later when I
awoke. She was dragging me by the feet down my own
hallway, making horrible rug burns on my back. I tried
to grab at a doorway to stop her, but found that my
hands were bound with my own belt. She had stripped me
completely, and gagged me with my own underwear. I was
completely at her mercy…it was like a cavewoman
dragging a caveman back to her lair after conquering
him in battle.
Robin dragged me into my own bedroom and stood over
me. I tried to roll over, tried to get away. Her small
foot, petite, with perfectly polished red toenails,
was inches from my face. She used it to roll me to my
back again and then planted her foot on my throat. My
efforts to get away were was mild as a newborn
kitten’s efforts to escape a bear…nevermind the fact
that she resembled the kitten and I the bear.
“Who is in control?” she asked. I couldn’t answer
because her foot on my throat cut off my speech. She
giggled, then released me. Reaching down, she pulled
me to my feet by my hair and marched me in front of my
mirror. She yanked my head back and forced me to
stare. I saw bruises and abrasions all over my face
and body. Her face, still beautiful, glowed with sweat
and victory. She dug her red nails into my neck and I
winced and whimpered.
“Who is in control?” she asked.
“You are! Robin is!” I cried.
“God, I love teaching,” she said. When she let me go I
dropped to the floor at her sexy feet. I was broken,
and in love.
All Relationships Are About Power
“All relationships are about power,” she said. I
gritted my teeth, silently willing Dr. Johnson to shut
her pretty lips, but she continued. “In any
relationship, one person will control the other,
whether by force of will or physical force. Now
Kristie, in your story here, which character is going
to come out on top, Tori or Frank?”
I felt sorry for Kristie. A fellow student in this
graduate creative writing class, Kristie was having to
undergo the agony of having Dr. Johnson dissect her
latest short story in front of the entire room. Like
most of the students in this night class, Kristie was
a twenty-two year-old grad student, and she didn’t
seem equipped to take the scrutiny. I was the oddball,
an established teacher at a local high school who was
taking the course simply to improve my own writing.
Unfortunately, though, instead of developing my
writing I was only developing a hatred of the young
blonde professor, Dr. Johnson.
Kristie hesitated, unwilling to change either of her
characters, but Dr. Johnson didn’t let up her
onslaught. “Really, Kristie, do you think anyone wants
to read a story about two people who actually love
each other, share everything, and have no conflicts?
That’s pretty unrealistic, don’t you think?”
“I’d like to read about that,” I said, causing all
eyes to shoot in my direction. “I think we need more
stories with couples who share instead of fight.” I
could sense the other students tensing up,
anticipating a verbal battle. Kristie breathed deeply,
glad that I would now be the target instead of her.
Dr. Johnson’s eyes narrowed and her red lips pursed as
she examined me in the way that she might consider a
cockroach on the floor. I hated her. Despite her
beauty (her creamy smooth skin was accentuated by full
lips and silky, blonde hair) and youth (at 28, she was
the youngest tenured faculty member in the English
department), she had a reputation for being more
brutal on her students than the most traditional
balding middle-aged male professor. Half her students
didn’t even pass, and very few received A’s. A petite
woman, she wore clothes that showed off her trim,
athletic body; tonight she was wearing a flower-print
sundress that revealed her perky breasts and sinewy
thighs and calves. But nothing could reveal to a
casual observer her vicious streak, nothing except
being on the receiving end of one of her tirades. And
now she was about to unload on me.
“Oh, I see, Matt. Because you teach high school
English you know everything there is to know about
character development, right?” She didn’t wait for me
to answer. Instead she stood up and padded over to my
desk. The slap of her sandals on the hard floor
reverberated in the silent room. I drew back in my
chair involuntarily as she put her hands down, her red
nails on my notepad, and leaned over, showing me
cleavage if I had had the guts to look. “Do you think
you know more about writing than I do?”
“I know more about the world than you do,” I
responded, but not nearly as forcefully as I would
have liked. I felt my face burning, my pulse beating,
my palms sweating. I tried to meet her paralyzing
gaze. Within seconds I was staring down at her slender
hands.
When my head dropped, Dr. Johnson threw her head back
and laughed, truly finding something funny.
Straightening up, she tousled my hair and walked back
to the middle of the room. The faces around the circle
were confused. A few laughed with her, uncertainly.
“Come on, people, lighten up. Who was drawn into that
little drama? Who was on the edge of their seats,
wondering what would happen in that conflict? Would
Matt come out on top? Or would I crush him? I was just
acting to make a point. Conflict and power struggles
are the way of the world, and in a piece of writing
they generate interest.”
Everyone but me breathed more freely, and several of
the students wrote notes furiously. She had made her
point, and made it well. But she made it at my
expense, and I was still furious. I still hated her. I
wished I had never signed up to take this course.
After all, I didn’t need it. I’d been teaching for
years, and I didn’t need some arrogant woman ten years
my junior to tell me how to write or to manipulate me
like that. She actually tousled my hair, the way you
would a child’s. I didn’t need that.
When the class ended I strode toward the door
resolving never to return. I’d never have to see that
little bitch again. Needless to say, I was surprised
and angry when she met me at the doorway, blocking my
path.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” she said, seeing the
contempt on my face. “I was just acting to make a
point. Don’t take everything so seriously.” She
smiled, a warm, rich smile that bespoke genuine
friendship, and I softened my stance in spite of
myself. “Look,” she said, suddenly playful and
completely unlike her normal rigid persona, “why don’t
I cook you dinner tonight to make up for it?”
I was stunned. Seconds ago I had rejoiced in my
decision never to see Dr. Johnson again, and now she
was offering to make me dinner. She giggled at my
confusion. “Please, let me make you some pasta. I owe
it to you.” Her dimples outweighed my better judgment,
and in ten minutes we were in her car, heading to my
apartment.
If her class was hell, then conversation with her now
was heaven. No longer was she Dr. Johnson, but Robin.
She was charming, curious, respectful. She was also a
good cook. But underneath it all, there was still and
undercurrent, one which rose to the surface as we
washed the dishes together.
“I can tell you’re still annoyed about my comments in
class,” she said.
At first I thought to deny it, but decided to go ahead
and let my feelings out. “Yeah, I am. Mainly I just
don’t think that one person has to be in control of
another. I think people can be partners.”
“Oh, don’t be naïve. One person is always in control.”
“All right. Take us. We don’t have a relationship, any
attachment, so neither one of us is in control,” I
said. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, smiling.
“I’m in control.”
“Come on,” I argued. “Maybe you guide the
conversation, and you give grades in class, but right
now we are just two people talking.”
“Do I need to prove it?” she asked.
“How on earth would you prove it?”
“I’ll make you say it,” she said.
“You might be smart, a super-professor, but you can’t
outwit me into saying that.”
She giggled. “Ok, I won’t outwit you. I’ll overpower
you, if that’s what it takes.”
I stepped to meet her toe to toe and looked down at
her. We both laughed. I was six inches taller, at
least fifty pounds heavier. She knew that I ran every
day, swam three times a week, competed in triathlons
and other endurance events. But even though we were
laughing, she wasn’t backing down.
“All right,” I said finally. “Let’s go to the living
room where we have some space.” As she skipped ahead
of me, I wondered what was going on. Was she making
some kind of play for me? Was this her way of making a
pass?
When we got into the living room she pushed my coffee
table to the side and turned to face me. She extended
her hands, fingers spread, inviting me to a game of
“Mercy.” I shook my head in disbelief at this
challenge, and she shrugged sheepishly.
We locked fingers and began to test one another. Her
hands were warm and firm, and her thin fingers
stronger than I would have ever imagined. Even so, I
was stronger, and my size gave me an edge in leverage;
soon I was bending her wrists backward. Abruptly she
reversed our hands, spinning hers upside down, and in
doing so she was able to bend my wrists back and force
them upward. I yelped and rose to my toes to try to
escape the pain. But I ignored her taunts and slowly
managed to regain the edge, forcing her wrists back.
Her thin fingers bit into mine, her red nails dug into
the backs of my hands, but my strength was prevailing.
Our hands were sweating. Robin was no longer smiling;
now her teeth were clenched and the small, feminine
muscles in her bare arms were popping out. But I
continued to push her back.
Without warning, she slipped her right hand out of my
grasp and darted behind me, still maintaining her grip
on the fingers of my right hand. With a jerk she
wrapped my right arm across my neck and pushed me
forward from behind.
“That’s not fair,” I gagged.
“We don’t have any rules,” she hissed in my ear as she
forced me into a kneeling position. I found myself on
my knees, my head and shoulder on the cushions of my
sofa. Robin was straddling my lower back, forcing my
face into the cushions with one hand and pulling my
right arm tightly around my neck with her other hand.
She straddled my lower back, preventing me from
backing up or bucking her off. I squirmed and grunted
but couldn’t dislodge her.
“Who is in control?” she asked sweetly, her moist
breath tickling my ear. I refused to answer, bucking
instead in vain. She jerked my arm again and began to
cut off both my air and blood flow–humiliatingly–with
my own arm.
Using my left arm I tried to push away from the sofa.
Robin anticipated this move and released my head and
grabbed my left wrist. With a quick twist she had me
in a hammerlock. Now I completely immobile. I squealed
in spite of myself, whimpering in pain. “Big strong
man, big athlete…who is in control?” she asked in the
tone of voice a kindergarten teacher asks whether a
child would like to use the restroom.
After a minute, when it was far past obvious that I
couldn’t escape, Robin released me and stepped away. I
slowly turned and rose to my feet, massaging my arm
where she had twisted it behind my back.
“Who is in control?” she asked.
“You’ll never make me say it,” I spat.
“Oh, a little grumpy, aren’t we?” she said, her voice
wet with condescension. I was furious… and aroused.
She smiled, clearly aroused also. She began to step
out of her dress, showing a skimpy cotton bra and
panties underneath, and I stripped off my shirt. Her
smile remained but it was tempered with determination.
She knew that I wasn’t going to be a pushover. We
circled each other warily, and without talking we
understood each other: neither one of us was going to
roll over and be submissive. The winner would prevail
only through force, not by acquiescence.
She moved toward me and I tackled her, hard. Robin
grunted and tried to slide away but I quickly
straddled her hard stomach and secured both her
wrists. I wasn’t taking anything for granted this
time. My male size and strength were too much, and I
stretched her arms out to her sides, pulling them as
far as I could. She kicked her legs fruitlessly and
grimaced. I had her pinned beneath me. Her hair spread
out from her face like the corona of the sun. Despite
her anger, she was beautiful as she struggled
underneath me. “Who is in control?” I asked.
“OK,” she said at last as I looked straight down at
her. “You’ve got me pinned. But I can stay here all
night. You can’t make me give up.” A smug smile
crossed her lips. So I rose up a foot off her and then
smashed my butt down onto her stomach. She grunted as
the air shot out of her. I bounced again and again.
She was near tears, seemingly helpless.
“Who is in control?” I asked, feeling good, knowing
that I was in control. She didn’t answer, so I rose up
to splash her again.
In the split second I lifted off her, Robin managed to
pull her knees to her chest, blocking my splash.
Suddenly I was no longer straddling her. Now we were
rolling around the carpet, each struggling for
control. I managed to force her arms to the floor but
couldn’t control her legs, and she flipped me off.
Again and again the same scenario: as soon as I seemed
to pin her, she struggled and bucked and somehow
bucked me off. Minutes went by, then ten minutes. We
knocked the coffee table over. Books and magazines
were strewn across the floor. A lamp fell.
Eventually I found myself behind her, holding her in a
full nelson flat on the floor. I was exhausted,
holding on with the last of my strength while she
struggled beneath me. Our wrestling match had drained
me of everything. Sweat ran off my body onto hers. Her
hair, wet with perspiration, stuck to my face. She
tried to reverse head butt me but I kept my nose and
mouth out of harm’s way. My crotch drove down on her
rear end, and I could tell this infuriated her. “Who
is in control?” I asked her, my voice pleading her to
give up.
“I am,” she replied. As she spoke she reached behind
her head and clawed at my hands which were locked
together, securing the full nelson. She managed to
seize the fingers of my right hand and slowly but
surely pull it away. I fought gamely but couldn’t
match her strength or determination. Then she did the
same with my left. Suddenly she was out of my hold and
on her feet.
I had barely risen to my knees before she circled
behind me and shoved me to the floor. My reactions
were in slow motion. She grabbed my wrists and pulled,
while planting her foot in between my shoulder blades.
I heard her laugh as she yanked, two, three times.
When she release my arms they fell limply to the
floor.
Robin rolled me over and I could barely struggle as
she pinned me easily, crossing my wrists and holding
them to the floor above my head, then squeezing my
arms tightly to the side of my head with her milky
white thighs. She grinned like a schoolgirl as she
reached down with her slim fingers and pinched my nose
and covered my mouth. I could barely hear her asking
me a question as I kicked my legs feebly: “Who is in
control?”
I wanted to tell her she was in control. I wanted to
give up. But the tunnel vision had begun, with
everything around the edge of my sight becoming black.
My last memory was of her red, glistening lips
taunting me.
It must have been only a few minutes later when I
awoke. She was dragging me by the feet down my own
hallway, making horrible rug burns on my back. I tried
to grab at a doorway to stop her, but found that my
hands were bound with my own belt. She had stripped me
completely, and gagged me with my own underwear. I was
completely at her mercy…it was like a cavewoman
dragging a caveman back to her lair after conquering
him in battle.
Robin dragged me into my own bedroom and stood over
me. I tried to roll over, tried to get away. Her small
foot, petite, with perfectly polished red toenails,
was inches from my face. She used it to roll me to my
back again and then planted her foot on my throat. My
efforts to get away were was mild as a newborn
kitten’s efforts to escape a bear…nevermind the fact
that she resembled the kitten and I the bear.
“Who is in control?” she asked. I couldn’t answer
because her foot on my throat cut off my speech. She
giggled, then released me. Reaching down, she pulled
me to my feet by my hair and marched me in front of my
mirror. She yanked my head back and forced me to
stare. I saw bruises and abrasions all over my face
and body. Her face, still beautiful, glowed with sweat
and victory. She dug her red nails into my neck and I
winced and whimpered.
“Who is in control?” she asked.
“You are! Robin is!” I cried.
“God, I love teaching,” she said. When she let me go I
dropped to the floor at her sexy feet. I was broken,
and in love.
Page Wins (PG-13)
Mattdog vs. Page, Match 1
I had absolutely no doubt that I would win. After
all, I’m bigger than Page, stronger, older and more
experienced. And, of course, I’m a man and she is not
only a woman, but a pretty, feminine woman. How could
a female with polished fingernails possibly outwrestle
me?
We approached each other on the mats and she held out
her hands, her thin fingers spread out, challenging me
to a test of strength. She giggled as I arrogantly
accepted her challenge. We interlocked our fingers
and her dark-painted nails dug into my flesh. Page’s
sexy lips curled into a giggle as she tried to push my
hands and wrists back. But I was too big and too
strong, and within a few seconds I had forced her
backward to the mat. Quickly I tried to straddle her,
only to find her feminine flexibility and leg strength
posed a big problem. Somehow she had pulled her legs
up to her chest and was now forcing her feet into my
face.
“Kiss my feet now,” she laughed, “and I might not hurt
you too badly.”
“You’re crazy,” I snapped, trying to pin her while
twisting my face away from her slim, sexy feet. “I’m
on top of you, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Not for long,” she grunted. With a sudden twist, she
kicked me off and I rolled to the side. Our fingers
were still interlocked, and now Page was refusing to
release my hands. She persisted in trying to rub her
feet in my face. I began to get frustrated. Clearly
I wasn’t going to pin her from this position, so I
jerked my hands from hers and rolled away, bouncing
quickly to my feet.
“Afraid of me, big boy?” she taunted as she
straightened her sports bra and licked her lipsticked
lips.
“Not on your life,” I said. Before she could prepare a
defense I darted in and grabbed her right arm, ducking
my head under her shoulder, and wrapped up her right
leg. Standing upright I hoisted the petite woman onto
my shoulders. “Got you now, Page!” I shouted as I
began to spin her around.
“That’s not fair!” she shrieked, though I think I
heard her laughing. “Put me down!”
“No way. This is what you get for thinking you could
wrestle a man!”
“Oh yeah?” she replied. “Well, this is what you get
for wrestling a woman!” With that she reached down my
back with her free left arm and grabbed the back of my
shorts. Before I could stop her, she had yanked them
violently upward, giving me a painful wedgie.
I’m not sure exactly what happened next. Needless to
say, though, I was forced to let her go. Somehow I
wound up on my knees and I was reaching back to try to
remove the power-wedgie she had applied. Page quickly
took advantage of my position by seizing both my
wrists from behind and planting one of her feet in the
center of my back. Before I could resist she was
yanking my arms straight back and driving her foot
into my spine. I felt like she was going to break me
in half! She might be small and feminine, but her
hands are surprisingly strong: I couldn’t break free
from her grip.
Soon Page had forced me to my stomach. Now she was
standing with one foot on my back and pulling my arms
upward in a classic surfboard hold. All I could do
was kick my legs vainly.
“Is the little girl hurting the big strong man?” she
taunted.
“Let…me…go…” I gasped.
“Aw, it sounds like you’re having some trouble
breathing. Let me help you.”
Thankfully, Page released my arms, which fell limply
to the mat with a thud. Unfortunately, she dropped
her entire body weight on top of my shoulder blades.
I was unable to resist as she pulled my arms backward
over her knees and pulled my chin up, locking me in a
camel clutch. She leaned forward and whispered in my
ear, “Don’t you wish you had kissed my feet earlier?”
I couldn’t respond because Page then placed one of her
hands firmly over my mouth. My protests were muffled
in the feminine skin of her palm. Again all I could
do was kick my legs. Just when I thought my situation
couldn’t get any worse, Page pinched my nose shut with
the thumb and forefinger of her other hand. I could
hear her laughing at my feeble struggles. At first it
was simply humiliating to be helpless in the clutches
of a smaller girl; soon, actual panic set in as I
realized that I was completely and totally at her
mercy. As I strained futilely to breathe, my vision
began to narrow. I knew that I was about to pass out.
Finally Page released the hold and my head dropped to
the mat. She rose from my back as I lay there,
gasping violently for air. As I slowly regained my
senses, I realized she was now standing right in front
of my, one of her small feet inches from my face. Her
toenails were perfectly polished. “Ready to kiss it
now?” she asked, triumph in her voice.
“No way,” I managed to grunt, my male ego outweighing
my common sense.
“I was hoping you’d say that!” Page exclaimed. “I
want to kick your ass some more. Now get to your feet
and fight like a man.”
I tried to rise, but I was moving too slowly, so Page
“helped” me by grabbing my hair and pulling me up. I
was unsteady on my feet as I looked down at her. How
had this happened? She smiled up at me, and I
marveled at her creamy white skin, her bright eyes,
her sexy smile, her curvy female body. These were not
the characteristics of a person who could manhandle
me. I resolved to change the course of the match and
reassert my male authority.
Unfortunately, Page was not about to let me win, male
or not. As I stepped forward she put one hand on my
throat and drove her other fist into my stomach. It
wasn’t the most powerful blow ever, but it knocked the
wind out of me enough that she was able to force me
backward into the wall. Holding me there with one
hand on my neck, she clawed my belly with the nails of
her other hand, laughing all the while as I struggled.
After a moment she tossed me to the mat.
Straddling my chest, Page forced my arms above my head
and crossed them at the elbows, then held them both
down with one of her small hands. Twenty minutes ago
I would have been able to power out of this hold
easily, but in my weakened state she was able to hold
me there. With her free hand Page tickled, scratched,
squeezed, and pinched my arms, chest, nipples, and
sides. “What’s the matter?” she kept asking. “Can’t
get away from a little girl?” I was utterly
humiliated.
“Please,” I pleaded, practically crying. “Please,
stop. I’ll kiss your feet. I’ll do anything.”
“Of course you will,” she cooed. “But I’m not through
yet.” Page laughed and adjusted her position on me,
sliding her bottom down to my stomach and leaning
forward. Her breasts, encased in her sweaty sports
bra, loomed toward my face. Realizing what she was
about to do I squirmed madly, but she grasped my
forearms tightly with her slender hands and held my
arms straight out to the sides, pinning them firmly to
the mat so I had no chance to roll over or escape.
Under different circumstances I would have welcomed
the opportunity to bury my face in this beautiful
woman’s cleavage, but not now when she was using her
breasts as weapons of humiliation and domination. I
bucked and squirmed and struggled but she held me
tightly. Her soft, sweaty skin and the damp bra
engulfed my face. I could barely hear her laughing at
me. Soon breathing was difficult as I could only gasp
in the stale air I had just breathed out. I strained
against her with every muscle in my body, but I was
completely at her mercy. My energy faded, and I
remember going limp.
When I awoke she was sitting beside me on the mat, her
legs curled up under her in a girlish pose.
“Ready to kiss my feet yet?” Page asked.
I had absolutely no doubt that I would win. After
all, I’m bigger than Page, stronger, older and more
experienced. And, of course, I’m a man and she is not
only a woman, but a pretty, feminine woman. How could
a female with polished fingernails possibly outwrestle
me?
We approached each other on the mats and she held out
her hands, her thin fingers spread out, challenging me
to a test of strength. She giggled as I arrogantly
accepted her challenge. We interlocked our fingers
and her dark-painted nails dug into my flesh. Page’s
sexy lips curled into a giggle as she tried to push my
hands and wrists back. But I was too big and too
strong, and within a few seconds I had forced her
backward to the mat. Quickly I tried to straddle her,
only to find her feminine flexibility and leg strength
posed a big problem. Somehow she had pulled her legs
up to her chest and was now forcing her feet into my
face.
“Kiss my feet now,” she laughed, “and I might not hurt
you too badly.”
“You’re crazy,” I snapped, trying to pin her while
twisting my face away from her slim, sexy feet. “I’m
on top of you, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Not for long,” she grunted. With a sudden twist, she
kicked me off and I rolled to the side. Our fingers
were still interlocked, and now Page was refusing to
release my hands. She persisted in trying to rub her
feet in my face. I began to get frustrated. Clearly
I wasn’t going to pin her from this position, so I
jerked my hands from hers and rolled away, bouncing
quickly to my feet.
“Afraid of me, big boy?” she taunted as she
straightened her sports bra and licked her lipsticked
lips.
“Not on your life,” I said. Before she could prepare a
defense I darted in and grabbed her right arm, ducking
my head under her shoulder, and wrapped up her right
leg. Standing upright I hoisted the petite woman onto
my shoulders. “Got you now, Page!” I shouted as I
began to spin her around.
“That’s not fair!” she shrieked, though I think I
heard her laughing. “Put me down!”
“No way. This is what you get for thinking you could
wrestle a man!”
“Oh yeah?” she replied. “Well, this is what you get
for wrestling a woman!” With that she reached down my
back with her free left arm and grabbed the back of my
shorts. Before I could stop her, she had yanked them
violently upward, giving me a painful wedgie.
I’m not sure exactly what happened next. Needless to
say, though, I was forced to let her go. Somehow I
wound up on my knees and I was reaching back to try to
remove the power-wedgie she had applied. Page quickly
took advantage of my position by seizing both my
wrists from behind and planting one of her feet in the
center of my back. Before I could resist she was
yanking my arms straight back and driving her foot
into my spine. I felt like she was going to break me
in half! She might be small and feminine, but her
hands are surprisingly strong: I couldn’t break free
from her grip.
Soon Page had forced me to my stomach. Now she was
standing with one foot on my back and pulling my arms
upward in a classic surfboard hold. All I could do
was kick my legs vainly.
“Is the little girl hurting the big strong man?” she
taunted.
“Let…me…go…” I gasped.
“Aw, it sounds like you’re having some trouble
breathing. Let me help you.”
Thankfully, Page released my arms, which fell limply
to the mat with a thud. Unfortunately, she dropped
her entire body weight on top of my shoulder blades.
I was unable to resist as she pulled my arms backward
over her knees and pulled my chin up, locking me in a
camel clutch. She leaned forward and whispered in my
ear, “Don’t you wish you had kissed my feet earlier?”
I couldn’t respond because Page then placed one of her
hands firmly over my mouth. My protests were muffled
in the feminine skin of her palm. Again all I could
do was kick my legs. Just when I thought my situation
couldn’t get any worse, Page pinched my nose shut with
the thumb and forefinger of her other hand. I could
hear her laughing at my feeble struggles. At first it
was simply humiliating to be helpless in the clutches
of a smaller girl; soon, actual panic set in as I
realized that I was completely and totally at her
mercy. As I strained futilely to breathe, my vision
began to narrow. I knew that I was about to pass out.
Finally Page released the hold and my head dropped to
the mat. She rose from my back as I lay there,
gasping violently for air. As I slowly regained my
senses, I realized she was now standing right in front
of my, one of her small feet inches from my face. Her
toenails were perfectly polished. “Ready to kiss it
now?” she asked, triumph in her voice.
“No way,” I managed to grunt, my male ego outweighing
my common sense.
“I was hoping you’d say that!” Page exclaimed. “I
want to kick your ass some more. Now get to your feet
and fight like a man.”
I tried to rise, but I was moving too slowly, so Page
“helped” me by grabbing my hair and pulling me up. I
was unsteady on my feet as I looked down at her. How
had this happened? She smiled up at me, and I
marveled at her creamy white skin, her bright eyes,
her sexy smile, her curvy female body. These were not
the characteristics of a person who could manhandle
me. I resolved to change the course of the match and
reassert my male authority.
Unfortunately, Page was not about to let me win, male
or not. As I stepped forward she put one hand on my
throat and drove her other fist into my stomach. It
wasn’t the most powerful blow ever, but it knocked the
wind out of me enough that she was able to force me
backward into the wall. Holding me there with one
hand on my neck, she clawed my belly with the nails of
her other hand, laughing all the while as I struggled.
After a moment she tossed me to the mat.
Straddling my chest, Page forced my arms above my head
and crossed them at the elbows, then held them both
down with one of her small hands. Twenty minutes ago
I would have been able to power out of this hold
easily, but in my weakened state she was able to hold
me there. With her free hand Page tickled, scratched,
squeezed, and pinched my arms, chest, nipples, and
sides. “What’s the matter?” she kept asking. “Can’t
get away from a little girl?” I was utterly
humiliated.
“Please,” I pleaded, practically crying. “Please,
stop. I’ll kiss your feet. I’ll do anything.”
“Of course you will,” she cooed. “But I’m not through
yet.” Page laughed and adjusted her position on me,
sliding her bottom down to my stomach and leaning
forward. Her breasts, encased in her sweaty sports
bra, loomed toward my face. Realizing what she was
about to do I squirmed madly, but she grasped my
forearms tightly with her slender hands and held my
arms straight out to the sides, pinning them firmly to
the mat so I had no chance to roll over or escape.
Under different circumstances I would have welcomed
the opportunity to bury my face in this beautiful
woman’s cleavage, but not now when she was using her
breasts as weapons of humiliation and domination. I
bucked and squirmed and struggled but she held me
tightly. Her soft, sweaty skin and the damp bra
engulfed my face. I could barely hear her laughing at
me. Soon breathing was difficult as I could only gasp
in the stale air I had just breathed out. I strained
against her with every muscle in my body, but I was
completely at her mercy. My energy faded, and I
remember going limp.
When I awoke she was sitting beside me on the mat, her
legs curled up under her in a girlish pose.
“Ready to kiss my feet yet?” Page asked.
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