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.

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.

Valerie (PG)

I wonder where Valerie is today?  *sigh*


*****

    When I was in college I dated a classmate named Valerie. She was attractive, with a sexy lopsided smile and curly brown hair that hung down below her shoulders. At 5’ 8”, Valerie was just two inches shorter than me, and at 140 pounds just ten pounds lighter. In the era of line dancing, Valerie was a two-steppin’, good-timin’ girl who filled out her Calvin Klein’s very well, and she liked the way she was my height when she wore her cowboy boots.
     
     One afternoon I was in her dorm room as she was getting ready to go to her teaching internship. An education major, she was doing student teaching at a local high school. We were going on a date later that evening, so she was dressing up a little more than usual for her teaching. I sat on her bed watching her put on her makeup, and then I lay back and stared while she put on her pink lipstick. (I’ve always had a thing for watching women apply lipstick.) As she brushed her hair, Valerie began double-checking our plans.
     
     “You’re going to be here when I get back, right?” she asked.
     
     “Maybe,” I teased. “Unless I get a better offer.”
     
     Valerie stood up and stepped over to the bed. Standing over me, her legs outside mine, she put her hands on her hips and glared down at me playfully.
     
     “Am I going to have to tie you up to keep you here?” she demanded.
     
     “You’re not big enough,” I taunted. And, based on our previous playful wrestling, she wasn’t. I always managed to escape from any hold she had tried to put on me. Nevertheless, Valerie hopped onto me, straddling my stomach, and grabbed my wrists and forced them down to the bed.
     
     “Looks like I’m big enough,” she giggled. I tried to bridge her off, as I always did before in similar situations...but with my legs hanging over the side of the bed, I had nothing to push down against!
     
     Unable to bridge, I began to use my arm strength and started forcing my right arm upward. Valerie struggled but my right hand and arm gradually rose and she couldn’t stop it...until, when my arm was directly above the center of my chest, Valerie got a brainstorm and grabbed it with both her hands. Although she released my left hand, given her position above me and the leverage she had, Valerie was able to quickly push my right wrist down toward my left shoulder.
     
     So there I was, with my right arm folded over my chest and Valerie holding it down by my left shoulder. Securing that arm with her stronger right hand, Valerie seized my left wrist with her left hand and somehow forced it down to my right shoulder. In other words, I had allowed her to cross my arms over my chest, up near my neck, and with her superior position I suddenly found that I couldn’t force my way out.
     
     Valerie seemed to realize that she had me trapped at about the same time I did.
     
     “You mean you can’t get out?” she asked, incredulous.
     
     I didn’t answer but instead squirmed and struggled.
     
     “Are you trying?” she asked.
     
     “Yes,” I muttered, kicking my legs and furiously trying to roll from side to side. With my arms crossed, I had absolutely no leverage to free myself.
     
     Valerie apparently didn’t believe I was really trying. She decided to force me into freeing myself. Still sitting on my stomach, Valerie’s knees were on either side of my ribs. A horseback rider, she had strong thighs...and she began to squeeze my body fiercely. Worse, she drove her knees into my ribs.
     
     “Stop!” I screamed.
     
     “Make me,” she taunted. “I can’t believe you’re letting a girl hold you down.” Valerie seemed annoyed that I couldn’t free myself.
     
     “If you don’t get out soon, it’s really going to hurt,” she said, frowning through her shiny pink lips. My struggling got me nowhere, she Valerie added to her punishment: she began digging the heels of her cowboy boots into my upper thighs, dangerously close to my groin.
     
     “Stop, please, stop!” I begged.
     
     At this point I began to get afraid. I was so frustrated that I couldn’t simply bridge her off or throw her off! And I was shocked by the anger my inability to escape seemed to instill in her. It was as though she was mad at me because I wasn’t being “man enough.”
     
     For several minutes (which seems like forever when you’re on the receiving end), Valerie dug and ground her knees and heels into my ribs, legs, and groin. Tears began to trickle down the corner of my eyes.
     
     Finally Valerie released my wrists. She pushed up the lacy cuff of her shirt and looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go,” she said curtly.
     
     She stared at me for a moment. SLAP! Valerie smacked me hard with her open hand. “You better be here when I get back.”
     
     I lay on the bed, silent and still, and listed to the sound of her cowboy boots click-clock down the hall.

Beat by girlfriend's mom (PG-13)

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!”