Spending Spring Break with my girlfriend’s family at the beach seemed like a great idea. First of all, I’d get to see Macy, my girlfriend, in a bikini all week. Second, her family would be paying for everything: food, hotel, transportation. Sure, it’s kind of a drag for a college senior to be at the beach with his girlfriend’s family, but the benefits seemed to outweigh the problems. And it’s not like we would have to be talking to her mom and dad, or even see them, every waking moment.
The first several days were awesome. Macy and I spent most of our time by ourselves, heading fifteen or twenty minutes down the beach or driving out to other restaurants in town. We had plenty of privacy, and we took advantage of it. But early in the mornings I let Mrs. Johnson make me breakfast, and she seemed to enjoy making me snacks, too, when we happened to be in at the same time. I wasn’t trying to brownnose or anything, but I think Mrs. Johnson liked me fairly well.
So everything was great until Thursday afternoon. Macy and I had just returned from a long walk down the beach, and she wanted to go inside and shower. Since it doesn’t take me as long to shower and change, I stayed outside for a bit talking to Mrs. Johnson. She was sunbathing on a large, pink beach towel just above the high tide line. I sat on the corner of the towel, looking out at the ocean but occasionally stealing glances at Mrs. Johnson’s long legs.
A brief description: Mrs. Johnson is about fifty years old, and she’s fairly attractive for her age. As I said, she’s got really long legs, though her upper thighs and butt have certainly begun to show some middle-age spread, and I suppose they’ve got their fair amount of cellulite. She doesn’t have the biggest breasts in the world, so she seems a little pear shaped. On this afternoon she was wearing an interesting white one-piece suit that was cut very high on the sides, showing all of her thigh and even some of her waist and lower rib cage. The suit was not very supportive, so her small breasts were sagging somewhat, as you might expect of a woman her age.
“Are you looking at my legs, young man?” Mrs. Johnson joked.
I hesitated, then went ahead and confessed. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said, trying to sound contrite.
Mrs. Johnson giggled girlishly. “That’s all right, hon.” She ran her hand up and down her thigh. “You know, they’re stronger than Macy’s.”
I didn’t respond at first. This was an odd thing for a woman to say to her daughter’s boyfriend. Her legs were stronger than her daughter’s? Why would she say that? And how would she know? This last question popped out of my mouth before I had a chance to think about it. “How would you know your legs are stronger?” I asked.
“Well, Macy and I wrestle sometimes,” said Mrs. Johnson. She smiled slyly.
I didn’t respond. But I did stare again at her long, middle-aged yet shapely thighs.
“Would you like to feel them?” she asked.
After a moment’s hesitation, I reached out my hand toward her smooth skin.
“Not like that!” she squealed, suddenly grabbing my wrist with both her hands and jerking me forward. “Like this!” Before I could pull away, Mrs. Johnson had snaked both her long legs upward and around my ribs. Instantly I felt the strength of her legs as she locked her ankles and began crushing my body between her thighs.
“What are you doing?” I gasped, both giggling and struggling. She still had hold of my right wrist with both her thin hands. With my left hand I tried to pry at her legs, but she was correct: they were quite strong. Within seconds I was in pain, and I was already having trouble breathing.
“Can’t get out, can you?” Mrs. Johnson teased, pulsing her legs to emphasize the point. I flailed about, embarrassed that a fifty-year-old woman was able to hold me captive with her legs, but couldn’t escape despite my struggles.
As I became more and more desperate I squirmed and bucked even more violently, but I only succeeded in turning myself to my stomach. This allowed Mrs. Johnson to twist my right arm into a hammerlock while she kept up the pressure with her legs.
“So, hon, how do my legs feel?” she asked.
“They hurt,” I grunted.
“Do you think my legs are stronger than Macy’s?” she asked, teasingly.
“Yes! Yes!” I yelped, kicking my own legs helplessly.
Mrs. Johnson grasped my hair with one of her hands while keeping the other on my right wrist. She jerked my head up out of the sand. “Do you give up, honey?” she giggled, her voice girlish and coy.
“Yes!” I blurted.
Mrs. Johnson released me and I rolled away. For a few moments I gasped and tried to recover my breath. Finally I sat up and looked at my tormentress, who was now sitting with her legs folded beneath her, watching me expectantly. She wore a grin of satisfaction.
“Want to have round two?” she asked.
“Uh...,” I stammered. This was all too weird. She kept staring at me. Eventually I remembered that I’m an athletic man in my physical prime and that I outweigh her by fifty pounds at least. My pride asserted itself.
“You just got lucky, Mrs. Johnson. And I wasn’t trying. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Wimp,” she said, slowly and mockingly.
“You’re going to regret that!” I said, falling into her trap and lunging forward. I quickly forced her to her back and pushed her arms over her head...but I allowed her to wrap her long legs around my midsection once more.
“Uuuuhhh!” I grunted as she squeezed. She laughed below me as I released her wrists and tried to pry her legs loose from my ribs.
With a powerful twist of her legs she threw me off her. Suddenly she was straddling my stomach. I was relieved that she released the powerful scissor hold, but before I could act Mrs. Johnson wrapped her legs around my own, then hooked her feet through my calves.
“This is called a grapevine,” she said, her face just inches above my own.
I groaned in agony. It felt like she was going to rip my knees and hips apart! I was so preoccupied with the pain that I didn’t resist as she grasped my arms and forced them over my head. Pushing herself up, her breasts hanging just over my face in her swimsuit, she was in complete control of all four of my limbs. I whimpered pathetically as Mrs. Johnson held me spread-eagled in the sand, her middle-aged woman’s body atop my twenty-one-year old man’s body.
“Give up, honey?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. Instead I squirmed and twisted with every ounce of energy I had. It wasn’t enough. I was pinned, and it felt like she was ripping my arms and legs off.
But being helpless and at her mercy wasn’t the worst part.
“Is that a banana in your swimsuit, honey?” she giggled.
Mrs. Johnson’s crotch was rubbing against mine. And, despite my humiliation and anger and embarrassment, my body was responding to the female friction.
Laughing at my frustration and humiliation, Mrs. Johnson abruptly released my legs from her grapevine. But she kept hold of my arms and held them pinned in the sand while she scooted up my chest. I struggled pathetically as this middle-aged woman planted her legs across my arms and sat up. I could see her self-satisfied smile above me, looking down past her sagging breasts. “Sweetie, I’m not even using my hands now,” she taunted, running her nails over my face menacingly. “Can’t you get out now?” Buck and squirm as I might, I couldn’t. I was completely at her mercy.
“My God!” screamed a familiar voice to my left. “You’re letting my mom beat you up! Get up!” Oh shit. Macy had chosen this moment to come out to the beach from her shower. “Get up right now!” Macy screamed. “I’m not going to date someone that my mom can beat up!”
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