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Forum Saradas  |  Female Muscle Art - Female Muscle Fiction  |  Muscular Women Fiction  |  ★Memorable Author: [Jack Straw] Stories~collected
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Author Topic: ★Memorable Author: [Jack Straw] Stories~collected  (Read 48186 times)

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #30 on: June 30, 2008, 03:48:05 pm »
Reckoning,
by Jack Straw (part 5)


[...  continued]
She turned and caught the big fullback as Linda half tossed him to
her.  For Lance's benefit she lifted Kevin over her head.  Her breasts
stood out, huge and taut, occupying all of Lance's gray matter for the
time being.  He barely noticed that all her muscles bulged out in a
fashion he'd never seen on a girl before, and on few guys, for that
matter.  But muscles didn't scare Lance.  He was the strongest guy on
Kevin's team; having huge muscles himself, musculature on other guys -
- and now these girls! -- didn't impress him.  They looked good
though!  "A very nice package, VERY nice," he thought to himself and
was conscious of his underwear becoming wetter and stickier.  "God, he
had to have some of that," he said to himself.  A little three-way
action as soon as she did Kevin -- they seemed to be begging for it
and Lance was the man to provide it.  He was used to taking first and
asking later.  Still, something about this scene wasn't right.  What
was it?

As Mary lowered the squirming and cursing Kevin slowly to her
shoulders and then lifted him as high as she could again, her powerful
physique and feminine pulchitrude danced erotically.  Lance's tongue
literally hung out of his open mouth.  Mary winked at him as Linda
vaulted the fence once again to join him on the other side. 

Linda stood just behind the giant and molded her moist naked torso
against his back and rubbed one perfect leg along his inner thigh.
"Do you like strong girls, big fella?" Linda whispered in his ear and
rubbed his tush seductively.  "Well, I see that you do!" she giggled,
rubbing and kneading his butt flesh harder.  He looked down where her
eyes were merrily fixed and saw that his loose shorts were tented and
a small dark stain had appeared on the khaki surface.  Not one to be
sheepish, he smiled cockily back.

"Are you man enough to control that equipment and handle a couple of
girls like us, stud?" she breathed throatily.  Lord, they were
exciting!  Where had Kevin been hiding these gals? 

"Both at once, baby, or one at a time.  I'm your man!"  he replied
grandly.

"Oh, I think one at a time should keep you busy enough, Mr. Bigstuff.
But first let's watch the show."

Mary had seated herself regally on a sturdy bench and womanhandled the
violently squirming fullback until she had his belly across one
magnificently flexed thigh.  Her other powerful thigh was draped over
both his legs, immobilizing them.  One of her mighty arms had one of
his arms in a painful hammerlock and pressed down on his back with
such force his face was hanging down near the ground.

"Let's see now. One whack for each thoughtless month since we last saw
each other.  That would be 34, right?  Can you take it like a man,
without crying?" Mary asked in mocking tones.

Lance was beginning to sense what was happening but he still thought
this was part of a game.  It did seem that Kevin was fighting it but
maybe that was part of the game -- a weird game.  He didn't know that
his friend was into this sort of thing, but you never knew for sure
about anyone.  Who was he to judge?

"What happened to Kevin?  He looks really tired," Lance said, puzzled
by his friend's dragged out appearance.  "Too much of the old in-out?"

Linda chuckled.  "Oh, you naughty boy.  Such conventional thoughts you
have. Yeah, it's been a long morning for Kevie.  But I think he's
learning a lot."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the fence, Mary had proceeded to
thrash away at Kevin's exposed derriere.  "ONE, TWO, THREE,...!"  Each
blow with her open hand resounded like a shotgun blast.  Kevin,
despite his intention not to show that her spanking had any effect,
yelped in surprise at the unexpected pain.  Lance was startled by the
violence of the sound, and the large twitch of his friend's butt every
time a blow struck.

Linda rubbed against him in ever more arousing style, and whispered
throatily, "Would you like a spanking, big boy?  Have you been bad?"
She reached her hand inside his shorts and caressed the big leaking
boner.  "Ooo, you ARE bad!"

Lance's pulse raced and his breathing became ragged, but he managed to
gasp out, "Uh, no, no thanks, uh -- That's not my scene, baby, but I
can give you what you need, girl.  Trust me."  Linda giggled throatily
at his cockiness.

Kevin tried to kick and punch violently but was tied up so securely
that his movements and Mary's flogging only ground his cock against
her ultrafirm, ultrasexy leg.  In spite of himself and the pain and
the humiliation, he began to sprout a full-blown erection.  Mary could
feel it and did her best to abrade it toward ejaculation.  "You love
this, don't you, you big pervert?  You love being handled by a big
girl.  It's your secret fantasy.  Kevin Landis, sissy.  Don't forget,
Lance is watching, Kevie, and I don't think he approves."  Kevin
strained to prevent ejaculation.  "Just a few more," he thought
hopefully.  "God they hurt!  But I will NOT disgrace myself further!"
But, devilishly, Mary lightly massaged Kevin's tightening testicles
and flexed her leg in deliciously massaging waves of hot flesh along
Kevin's rigid prong before her next swat.  "That's not fair," he
muttered.  "Thirty one! ..." she announced with a hard smack and then
demonstrated her amazing strength by kneading her hand into his butt
and rotating it so that his cock was massaged to the edge of no
return.  After the next swat, she could feel his cock contract in
imminent explosion and parted her legs for Linda and, especially, the
nonplussed Lance to see, as Kevin spurted in impotent globs along her
thigh.

"Kevin, Kevin, Kevin, you naughty boy," she taunted.  "This is just
not acceptable behavior.  I'm afraid that deserves another ten smacks
at least."  And she continued, but Kevin realized she had been holding
back, for now the bruising and tenderizing was unbearable.  Blood
vessels were being broken, muscles torn and bruised.  What had been
hard, muscular glutes became a flaming mass of gelatin.  The pain and
humiliation were too much.  She was never going to stop until he
broke.  He began to sob.

She stopped and rolled him onto the ground.

"You know, Kevin, I tasted your spunk those many months ago, but I
wonder if you've ever partaken.  It's your chance to find out what
you've been missing.  Lap it up like a good dog, now, and I'll let you
go."

She stood astride him and pulled his head up to where his semen
coursed down her leg in viscous trails.  With no further prodding, he
licked.  He gagged at first at the mere thought of something so
repugnant, but he did it and the taste wasn't that bad.  The
humiliation, well, what did it matter anymore?  He was broken.  In
fact, as he licked, he unconsciously caressed her perfect skin,
running his hand over the perfect bulges of her calves and thighs, the
slender crock of her knees in between.  She WAS perfect!  He had been
a fool.  Looking up at her colossal form as she stood imperiously
above him, he worshipped her.  His resilient member amazingly rose up
from its limp coil to salute her once again, as he kneeled
respectfully in front of her.  He could not believe it; he'd never
recovered so fast from ejaculation, check that, two orgasms!

"Ooo, Kevin!" she breathed heavily, seeing his arousal, and becoming
charged herself from his strategic licking and ministrations.
"Perhaps there is some use for you after all."

Winking at the nonplussed Lance and her smirking protegee, Mary bent
down and lifted the big fullback into her arms.  She carried him over
her shoulder into the house with Kevin looking at Lance and Linda, a
sheepish smile on his boyish face.

"Lance," Linda said, "Looks like it's just you and me, now.  Before we
play many games, though, one of us has to finish mowing this yard.
How about a little contest?  You win and I mow the yard -- in the nude
if you wish -- and after that -- well, I'd be at your disposal so to
speak."

She pulled his head down and planted a long, breath-robbing kiss on
his willing lips.  By the time he managed to pull away, he was dizzy
with lust and lack of air.

"Now, about that contest -- it has to be something you're good at.
You look like a big fella.  How about WEIGHTLIFTING? You any good at
that?" she intoned huskily, massaging his palpitating cock.  "But
first, the rule of the day around here is no clothes, except for your
shoes."

An hour later, while Kevin dozed in utter exhaustion, Mary peeked
through the window to see a very nude, very large, muscular male
mowing the yard next door.

"Nice tush," she giggled. [THE END]

Stay tuned for more (but not many) stories by Jack Straw (btw posting is way less demanding than writing but Karma is always welcomed).


Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #31 on: July 11, 2008, 12:59:41 pm »
It's always good to see someone else according to your opinion; Jack Straw is/was for me a very good author.

Another story (on eof the last) shall follow very soon.

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #32 on: July 11, 2008, 04:54:38 pm »
Swordswoman!
by Jack Straw (part 1)


Leaning against a mossy rock on a cliff high above the stream of
his youth, Count Phillipe Beaufleur reflected back to the times
that they had played and fought in the meadow below.  One day in
particular had replayed itself over and over in his memory.  They
had been fencing--practicing, but as always it was more a
competition, a competition in which he was daily humbled. 

Marie had put him on his backside with one of her thrusts and was
continuing to chatter about the benefits of working with the
peasants, whom she never referred to as such and treated with
much more respect than the nobles of the district.  For over a
year she had spent a few hours every day in hard labor, such as
chopping wood, loading heavy barrels of apples or grapes, or
threshing grain.  The young count had often headed his afternoon
rides in that direction to watch her and had marvelled not only
that she more than kept up with even the biggest and strongest of
the men, but that they seemed to accept her as one who belonged.
It was especially surprising since no amount of grime, sweat, and
sturdy clothes could hide her extraordinary beauty and curvaceous
body.  He had tried to persuade his alluring cousin that she was
tempting fate, that one day a peasant would be so inflamed by her
presence that he would force himself on her.  But she had
laughed:  "Oh, cousin, one or two have tested my honor, but I
assure you I handled them quite easily.  And then the poor devils
had to contend with the others who rushed to defend me--quite
needlessly, but most gallantly.  Really, you misjudge them." 

The young count had been dubious, but knew any argument with this
fiery girl was useless.  A few times he had even joined her in
the fields but was embarrassed by how clumsy he was.  He was
mortified by the sly, contemptuous glances of the peasants, and
their stiff behavior.  He was obviously out of place and
unwelcome.  Why was she not, as well?  He had resolved not to do
it again and was annoyed that she continued to talk about it; it
only added to his current irritation at being bested at fencing,
a sport he loved and in which he had always triumphed against
others his age until Marie and her mother had come for this long
visit.  Both cousins were in their late teens and very
competitive.

"You should try it," she was saying.  "It's why I'm so much
stronger than you."

"What do you mean, so much stronger?"  he disputed as he sprang
to his feet.  "I'll admit that you're better than I am at fencing
today, but who says you're stronger?"

She giggled and thrust out her ample chest, straining the thin
fabric of her low-cut blouse and exposing the top halves of her
delectable breasts.  "Not only am I quicker and more skillful,
cousin, but it's obvious that I'm stronger."

As he started to protest, she said, "Look, it's easy to prove, so
that even you can't deny it.  Here, cross your sword with mine
and push."

He pushed energetically against her, trying to pin her sword
against her chest.  Instead, he found his arm giving way,
trembling with the effort of trying to prevent the cold steel
from pressing against his neck. 

She giggled, first at his shocked expression and then at his
frantic effort. 
He put both hands on his sword, but smiling triumphantly she
continued to force him backward, still using only one arm.  But
what an arm!  The forearm bulged out in veined ridges against her
soft, flawless, tanned skin and the biceps and triceps swelled so
much that they split her sleeve, exposing even more of the
awesome musculature.  She had always been athletic; in the rough-
and-tumble games of childhood she had been usually the victor.
But this was a revelation.  He was confident that few young
noblemen his age could compete with his strength, and he was a
good four inches taller than his comely adversary.  Nevertheless,
she was winning and winning decisively!

His feet slid backward until he was backed against a tree.
Though he grimaced and grunted with effort, she pressed his sword
against his taut skin.

"Admit it cousin!  I'm stronger!  One of my arms is stronger than
BOTH of yours!  Admit it!  Admit it!"  she exclaimed in rasping
phrases between grunts of effort.  Though she was overcoming him
as if he were a child, at least he was forcing her to show some
exertion.  But still she kept one of her hands stiffly behind her
back.

One of her breasts burst through her blouse as the flexing caused
it to pop out of confinement.  Her broad shoulder had swelled in
corded ridges as well and the ripped and stretched blouse
revealed the deep pectoral muscles that thrust out her heavy,
young breasts.  Far from being embarrassed at having her body
exposed, she teased her cousin with her eyes, drawing his eyes
downward to see what effect it would have on him.  He stared
appreciatively but was too engaged in trying to fend off her
sword to show any other reaction.

Panting in humiliation, he gasped out, "All right!  I guess that
today you might be stronger!  Let go!  Please," he begged.

"No, Phillipe, that's not good enough!  I'm MUCH stronger and not
just today, my weak little Phillipe.  Admit it while you still
can speak."  She was savoring this moment of truth, unable to
resist some vixenish teasing.  He cursed and tried to surprise
her with a burst of effort, but to no avail.  She smiled
gloatingly.

Phillipe gurgled and she relented a little.  "I admit it!  You
are stronger!" he rasped out. 

"MUCH stronger," she demanded.

"You--are--MUCH--stronger," he whispered.  She let him go, and
her demeanor suddenly serious and tender, asked softly "Are you
all right, Phillipe?"

As he nodded sheepishly, she smiled and goaded him jokingly,
"It's your own fault for being so stubborn."

Seeing that he was not angry, she became bolder and fixed him
with a tender look that he had seen before.  It confused him and
excited him.  He was deeply infatuated with his beautiful cousin;
he endured her teasing and incessantly combative nature just to
be near her, in hopes of moments like this.

"Feel my muscles, cousin," she demanded softly, running his hands
over her biceps, deltoids, and pectorals.  She pressed her strong
thighs against him and then devilishly guided his hands over her
large, firm exposed breasts and the moist deep cleft between
them.  He felt his erect member lurch painfully against his tight
pants, and she began to breathe in rapid bursts.

"Have you seen how strong my legs are?"  She let go and he
stumbled as she peeled off her lower garments.  "Feel them, my
dear Phillipe, feel them."  Their youthful passion wrapped them
in a spell and they forgot about time and place.  In a frenzy
they disrobed, caressed, and locked together.  In his youthful
excitement he ejaculated almost at once, but, hardly noticing,
she clamped him on top of her as she pulsated violently.  Her
bountiful, firm, muscular curves tossed him about as if he were a
frond riding the turbulent waves of molten lava from a volcanic
eruption.  Days afterward he winced from the pain of back muscles
injuriously stretched out by being molded over the outthrust
peaks of her chest, as she simultaneously kissed his willing lips
and massaged his reinflated member inside her scalding body.  At
the time though he felt only intense, hot, wet ecstacy.

After the glow of their coupling wore off, the count was seized
with guilt.  "We are cousins--what are we to do?"

"Don't worry, Phillipe," she soothed him as she caressed his
face. "We are not true cousins.  Your uncle was not my father."

"You are sure of that?  How do you know?" 

"It was subtle things about how he treated me.  He was very kind,
but... A couple of times my mother has started to tell me, I
think, but stopped."

He lay back, willing to believe--and content.

But, without warning, her mother had decided to leave the next
day, and, with tearful pledges of fealty and love, he and Marie
had departed.  As the years had passed and her letters had
stopped coming, he gave up the resolve to seek her out.  Although
he spent some time in Paris, he had returned to the estate during
the last days of his father's life, and now it was his.  It was a
responsibility he assumed reluctantly.  He loved the beauty of
the countryside but he chafed at the air of complacency he
observed in the provincial nobility and the tedium of running the
estate.  He longed to immerse himself in the discourse of free-
thinkers in the capital.  He had spent much of his youth absorbed
in books that imparted knowledge that meant little in the
countryside.  In truth he did not know how to run the estate;
most nobles did not, and his father's steward still administered
the daily routine.  However, one goal was forming in his mind,
and until he accomplished it, he had decided not to leave. 

He fretted over the injustice of the life of the peasant.
Perhaps it was homage to the memory of his dear Marie and perhaps
it was alarm at the portents of upheaval in his land.  But more
than that, it was incompatible with his notions of an ideal
society, gleaned from the writings of the Philosophes and their
precursors, that he had embraced privately since childhood. 

Whereas he, belonging to the First Estate, paid no taxes, the
peasants were saddled with all sorts of levies.  By law, they
were compelled to spend several days each year in labor to aid
the state and the nobility, such as repairing the road that led
to his chateau; he was required to do nothing.  He was devising a
scheme to use estate profits to pay the taxes of peasants who
worked his land and give them a chance to own more land so that,
with reasonable initiative, they could improve their lots in
life.  Now that his father was dead he could talk openly about
his ideas, but everywhere he met only scorn and ridicule.
"Charity is the business of the Church, my lad," one noble said
primly.  Other gentry pointed out that some peasants owned as
much land as many nobles and were relatively wealthy.  All it
took was hard work, they said.  But Phillipe saw that as a
convenient oversimplification; most of the peasants worked very
hard and barely scraped by, whereas these supercilious nobles
avoided the very idea of work as being unseemly to their class.

With this new interest in his estate, he even found himself
easing into provincial social life.  Gradually, memories of Marie
faded and he paid more attention to the women whom society
foisted upon him.  Many of them were but girls.  As was the
custom, they stayed in their bedrooms until noon, occupied with
their morning toilette and gossip.  Marie had despised the
physical passiveness, plump constitutions, and pale white skin of
such debutantes.  And Phillipe was generally of the same opinion.
Indeed, part of his cousin's allure had been her exotic sun-
bronzed skin and vigorous constitution.  Nevertheless, a girl
named Claudine had caught his attention.  She eschewed the gossip
of her friends and, like Marie, she provided intelligent
companionship.  Her frail beauty could not make his pulse race
like Marie had, but he respected her kindness and decency.  They
began to spend much time together.

Thus preoccupied, Phillipe had begun to accept the tranquility of
provincial life.  Perhaps he could make his mark in the world
from here.  The emptiness he often felt, he ignored, indeed, did
not understand until without warning Marie swept back into his
life.  Preceded by a hastily written note received in the
morning, she and her ailing mother arrived in the afternoon of a
warm summer's day. 

Sensations washed over him as if they had never left.  Marie was
now a mature woman, more robust than ever, full of figure, tall,
broad-shouldered, graceful, and beautiful.  No longer the
giggling girl, but still high-spirited.  The lapse of time was
forgotten; he was as infatuated as ever.  And--intimidated; he
measured himself against her and felt inadequate. 

She had been to America; that partly explained why the letters
had stopped. She had even FOUGHT in the war there.  He was not
surprised--whatever she wanted, no man could refuse, no man could
stop her.  The last two years she had been with the British in
New York as a spy for Washington.

"Phillipe, dear Phillipe," she grasped his hand.  "Sometime I
will tell you about it.  I could not even write to my poor
mother.  I fear that I am the cause of her ill health."

As the days went by, they had long conversations about the past,
about the intervening years, and about their troubled country.
She contrasted it with America.  "There the farmers and merchants
have joined with the aristocrats who opposed the British.  I
wonder how long it will last.  I saw terrible suffering among
those farmers--I hope they benefit."

She had been to Paris also and she knew about the discontent
among the bourgeoisie.  She was more sympathetic than Phillipe to
their cause; they wanted a political voice commensurate with
their importance to the state.  Phillipe saw them as profiteers
as bad as or worse than the nobles and the church, for they also
managed to pay hardly any taxes and benefitted greatly from the
foreign adventures that had bankrupt the government.  All his
sympathies were with the peasants, who, to his chagrin, despised
him.  Marie remembered her bond with the workers in the field,
but when he told her of his plans to help them out, she frowned.
"Phillipe, the poorest among them pay almost no taxes; it will be
of small consequence to pay their taxes.  They can scarcely pay
anything for more land; you would have to give it to them.  The
way to make things more just is to change the charter so that the
nobles pay their share of the taxes." 

"Ah, Marie, the revolutionary!  The nobles are almost in revolt
against the king as it is."

"Who said anything about a king?  We have no need of a king; the
man is incompetent anyway."

"You are right about that, but making us pay our taxes, which I
want to do, will not necessarily help the poor peasant."

"But it will make you feel less guilty about being a noble, and
it will make everyone who is not a noble less contemptuous of
them."  But, seeing his severe disappointment that she did not
immediately agree with his ideas, she tried to amend her
arguments.  "You're right,too.  At least your schemes can do them
some good, especially some of the luckier ones.  Perhaps I can
help you present it to them." 

Strangely, though they held hands and had passionate
conversations, they had not ventured yet into the physical
intimacy that they had shared just before their parting as
teenagers.  Marie was preoccupied with her mother's health and
both were aware of Claudine's despair at Marie's return.
Phillipe was especially confused, not wanting to hurt the gentle
Claudine but deliriously happy at the return of his first,
indeed, his only love. [continue...]

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #33 on: July 11, 2008, 04:56:14 pm »
Swordswoman!
by Jack Straw (part 2)


[...continued]
Phillipe was musing about this sudden complication of his life as
he relaxed in the warmth radiating from the rock.  He had
accompanied Marie as she visited fields, vineyards, and orchards
where she once had worked.  Most of the peasants still remembered
her and greeted her warmly, so much so that it seemed to extend
to Phillipe as well.  On the way back, instead of tarrying in the
woods they used to sport in, Marie insisted that they return to
check on her mother's condition, but, as she left him at the
stable, Phillipe decided to walk out to this place that he had
avoided in Marie's long absence.  He needed to think.

The young count was roused from his revery by voices from the
lonely trail in the woods below.

"So, out for a ride, your ladyship?" 

Phillipe saw that it was Marie, indeed, out for a ride.  Her path
was blocked by the captain of the local small army garrison.
Although younger than his father, the captain and his father had
been friends.  Phillipe despised him.  Clearly, the captain
thought the young count incapable of managing the estate and
treated him with a disrespectful, patronizing manner.   Without
being asked, he had rebuked the young count's idealistic schemes
for the peasants, which he had learned of through gossip.  "Might
makes right, my young friend!  Things are the way they are; you
cannot change them, nor should you.  The peasants deserve their
lot, they are capable of nothing more.  Besides, they are happy,
carefree in their poverty.  They simply don't have the
intelligence to take care of themselves.  They need us!"
Phillipe knew that the captain dealt ruthlessly with the tenant
farmers and it was rumored that he took advantage of their
daughters.

Down on the trail the captain continued, "Your ladyship is a long
way from safe quarters. I think you'd be much safer up here with
me.  There have been a lot of poachers around here lately."
Phillipe was shocked at the openness of his manner.  The path was
not that lonely; there was a chance he might be observed by a
passerby.  Did he think everyone feared him, that he could do
whatever he wanted, to anyone?  He started to call down to them
but, knowing that Marie could put any man in his place, he waited
to see what would happen.

"Thank you, captain, but I am quite capable of riding alone," she
said icily.   
"Am I not good enough for the haughty maid who pretends to be a
noble?" he said, taking offense at her aloof demeanor.

"I pretend nothing, captain.  I dare say I may have less noble
blood than you," she responded.  From his surreptitious perch,
Phillipe chuckled, knowing that the captain was very sensitive
about being the bastard of a noble.  Reflecting on what Marie
implied about herself, he remembered what she had said after they
made love those few years ago.

"So that explains why you are a peasant-lover," the captain said
contemptuously.

"I prefer the farmers to your company at any rate," she replied
evenly.

"At least today you are not dressed like the man you wish to be,"
he taunted.  Phillipe noted that she had changed her clothes
since he had left her and was dressed in a most enticing way.  It
was a thin, lacy, low-cut frock that exposed her captivating
bosom and every other voluptuous curve of her robust physique.
Typical of her manner, she had allowed the hem of her dress to
ride up so that a long creamy expanse of perfectly formed leg was
exposed; nor did she bother to cover it from the leering gaze of
the captain.  This was not at all her normal riding apparel.
Phillipe felt a familiar tingle in his groin.  Had she ridden out
to find and seduce him?

"I am myself, sir.  I pretend nothing and I do what I choose.
And at the moment I choose to put you out of my sight."  She
tugged gently at the reins of her horse to go around the captain.
But catching her off guard, he grabbed her arm.  In her surprise,
she lost her balance and felt herself wrenched from the saddle.
Gracefully, she landed on the ground.  As he laughed and held out
his hand, she grasped it firmly and pulled him face first out of
his saddle. 

"Now we are even, captain.  Please, let me pass and I will speak
to no one about this," she said firmly.

But the captain, finding himself at her feet in the dust of the
trail, was beside himself in rage.  He growled in fury and lunged
to tackle her but she leaped agilely out of his way, and he wound
up tasting dust once again.

Pulling a sword from a scabbard hanging from the horn of her
saddle, she again spoke without raising her voice:  "Captain, you
may know that I am an expert with the sword.  Do not make me
injure you.  Please let me pass." 

The captain laughingly drew his own sword.  "I will not let you
injure me, nor will I injure you.  I will merely disarm you and
spank your impudent behind."

Phillipe knew the captain considered himself invincible, but
Phillipe stayed in hiding because he knew what the captain did
not.  He knew Marie's skill and strength.  Perhaps he would not
have to deal with the captain after all.

For the first time, Marie showed irritation.  She sighed, raised
her sword and attacked.  The captain abruptly found himself on
the defensive.  It was as if he were at the center of a
whirlwind.  Her thrusts came from all sides.  She cut him and
ripped his clothes at will.  He became more and more maddened
with rage as she humiliated him with her superior skill. 

As she forced him deeper into the meadow from the trail, he
fixated on the rage to wound her, yet was impotent against her
skill and strength.  Phillipe noted that once the captain's
intentions became not just dishonorable, but openly violent as
well, Marie became openly belligerent also.  In the beginning he
had the impression that she wanted merely to be on her way, but
now she seemed determined to teach him a lesson.  She taunted him
relentlessly, with gestures and demeaning riposte, until the man
was gripped with a blind frenzy to make her pay for her lack of
respect.  He slashed furiously with his sword, grunting and
practically crying out with each blow, only to find her parry his
thrusts with ease and laugh out loud at his angry impotence.

Summoning the trick she had used long ago to make Phillipe
submit, she tied up his sword with hers and with only one hand on
her sword pressed his sword against his neck or chest.  Only by
placing both his hands on his sword and exerting all his strength
could he arrest her sword.  She on the other hand, used only one
hand and seemed hardly to exert herself at all.  It was  wondrous
to the mesmerized Phillipe to see how her arm would explode in
bulges and ridges of muscle as the captain brought both his arms
into play.  And even with both his arms against her one, he would
at first give way, though she still seemed to expend hardly any
effort, while he grunted and gasped for breath, red-faced with
grim effort and sweating in streams.  And the worst injury to his
pride was the triumphant, supercilious smile on her face as she
pressed him down further, fixing his eyes with hers as if to
extract his silent admission, "I'm nothing; you're stronger with
one arm than I am with two!  And you're still not breathing
hard!"  Then, magically, as he feared the blade would pierce his
skin, she gave way; he obviously wanted to believe that he had
forced her off with a last surge of strength, but had he?  He was
now fighting to salvage his pride.

Many times she ripped the sword from his hands and allowed him to
retrieve it.  She laughed and taunted, whereas he was grimly
serious.  She now behaved as if it were a game, as if she were a
cat playing with a mouse.  More and more, she tied up his sword
and though he pushed with both hands against but one of hers, he
always found himself overpowered, pushed backward at will and
finally dumped on his rear.  Always she allowed him to get up and
resume.  She toyed with him relentlessly.  The buttons of his
shirt and then his pants were stripped off.  Thereafter in the
clenches, when he was forced to use both hands against the single
arm of his opponent, his pants would fall.  The first time it
happened, she roared with laughter, and for the only time in this
unequal contest, he was able to push her off his sword.  Slowly,
all of his clothes were shredded by her sword.  His sinewy body
was more uncovered than covered.  Still, such was her skill that
he had not been seriously wounded, despite the violence to his
clothes. 

The next time she dumped him on his derriere, she stepped on his
sword and smiled down triumphantly, "Really, captain, this is
becoming boring.  Admit that I am far better and stronger than
you, apologize meekly, and let's be on our separate ways."
Keeping her foot on his sword, she reached down her empty hand to
help him up.

Glowering, he said nothing as he grasped her hand and gathered
his feet under him.  But his pent up fury suddenly exploded in a
flying tackle, his head and shoulder crashing into her relaxed
diaphragm.  Phillipe was astonished anew at the complete lack of
honor in someone who was supposed to have pledged his life to it.
Caught off-guard, she dropped her sword and tumbled backward with
the captain landing heavily on top of her in the grassy meadow.
As she struggled to catch her breath, he straddled her and ripped
open the bodice of her lacy frock to fully expose her massive
breasts, which, now released from confinement, burst firmly
upward through his hands impelled by the deep muscles of her
chest. 

Drooling at her voluptuous torso, he growled, "It looks like the
tables are turned, Swordswoman; perhaps it's time to put a new
sword in your sheath."  He ground his tattered pants against her
waist so that she could feel his sex appendage growing with
arousal.  He ripped away the remaining shards of his trousers.
Phillipe almost sprang up from hiding to intervene, but even at a
distance he could see the angry fire in Marie's eyes; he waited
for her counterattack.

Marie had regained her breath and calmly, almost gleefully,
smiled up at the man.  "You are such a foolish cur, captain.  You
haven't been paying attention; you're too weak to take me.  Your
male body is mush compared with my superior female physique."
Phillipe settled back in excited anticipation; she had now
explicitly made it a battle of the sexes.

She pushed the captain's hands aside, but he gripped her wrists
with his leathery hands and started to press them down to her
sides.  However, to his manifest surprise, he couldn't get them
all the way down.  Her arms, shoulders, and chest abruptly
swelled into jagged mountains of muscle that ripped her frock
further at the sleeves and sides of the bodice.  He pressed
harder and harder, grimacing with effort, but found his arms
inexorably being forced upward, despite his advantage of weight
and leverage.  With hardly any sign of exertion other than a
reddening of her face, she smiled smugly directly up into his
eyes, revelling in the shock of another haughty male suddenly
humbled when her musculature had been fully revealed.  His own
corded physique, now flexed to its maximum, which he had always
been so proud of, now seemed puny compared with hers.  The
deflation of his ego was matched by the deflation of his
softening prick. 

Phillipe, on the other hand, was flushed with arousal.  Since her
torso had been revealed in naked splendor, he had almost ceased
breathing.  And the flexing of that Amazonian torso into
magnificent peaks of muscular flesh had cast a spell over his
body.  Only his throbbing loins still seemed capable of movement,
and a sticky goo began to form in his trousers.  Later he would
feel guilty about this voyeuristic inaction, but for now he was
rooted to the spot.

"Big, aren't they?  Much too big for you to handle, little man,"
she taunted at the captain.  Phillipe wasn't sure whether she
meant her biceps or her jutting, heavy breasts that were even
further expanded than before.  Either set of bulges were enough
to discombobulate any man.  The feminine quality of her bosom was
beyond question, but the exploding peaks of rock-hard muscle that
had appeared all over her broad torso had a feminine, beautiful
quality as well.

As the big man almost stood in an effort to put all his weight
behind his arms and still gave way to her awesome power, he
didn't notice her legs quietly rising behind him.  With a swift
movement she brought her high-heeled riding shoes past his head
and clamped her calves around his neck.  With a vicious jerk of
her magnificently strong legs, she brought his head to the ground
and raised her torso off the ground.  Fearing strangulation, he
reached up to pull her legs apart, and, as he did so, she opened
her legs and shifted them downward so that both his arms were
trapped between her thighs against his ribs.  This maneuvering
had hiked up the hem of her dress so that her spectacularly
muscled legs were revealed all the way up to her broad, sculpted
hips.  Almost under his nose, the terrorized man saw another set
of muscles, her rock-hard thighs, suddenly expand into
spectacular relief.  The terrible constricting pressure pushed
all the air out of his lungs, making him grunt with a sickening,
"Huuugh!"

"What did you say?" she mocked.  "Were you admiring how sleek and
big these can get?  Too bad you can't touch them; you might
really enjoy your lecherous little self."  She stroked her hands
lovingly along the surfaces of her flexed upper legs.  From his
perch Phillipe mentally stroked them too and found them most
entrancing.  "Where was this leading?" he wondered.

As she eased up on the pressure to let her adversary breathe, he
whimpered, "Please let me go!"

"Why shouldn't I just crush you to death, you devious bastard?  I
offered to let you go once and look what happened.  You attacked
me and ripped my favorite dress.  So why should I take pity?"
She looked at his agonized face and shook her head, "Well, you do
look pitiful.  Such a weak little captain, not strong enough to
play with a real woman, I guess."

Pity or contempt apparently won out, for she loosened her legs
and sprang to her feet.  Smoothing her dress, she noticed a grass
stain on the back of it.  In her consternation, she immodestly
took it completely off to get a better look.  "You know, captain,
not only do you owe me and all womankind an abject apology for
being the miserable cur you are, but you owe me a new dress." [continue...]

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #34 on: July 11, 2008, 04:58:02 pm »
Swordswoman!
by Jack Straw (part 3)


[...continued]

"To begin a proper apology, why don't you kiss my big rear end?
That rear end that I believe you said you'd spank when you were
feeling so manly earlier.  But you really aren't much of a man
after all, are you little captain?"  she taunted.  "Come on, now,
a big fat kiss on the tush!"  And she thrust out her delectable
derriere toward the captain's face as he was coming slowly to his
feet. 

Phillipe was amused with her taunting, but he noted that the
captain seemed to be gathering energy for another charge.  It
occurred to Phillipe that Marie had not tried to injure or
exhaust the man.  He was still capable of much mischief.
Phillipe felt like crying out to warn her.  Sure enough, he saw
the captain clench his fist.

Marie's adversary put all of his body into one mighty punch into
her midsection as she twisted to watch his response to her taunt.
Forewarned, she tensed her legs and clenched her abdomen but did
not try to block his fist.  The captain, probably expecting to
sink his fist deep into her exposed belly, instead yelped in pain
as his fist hit her soft skin and then stopped abruptly as if it
had hit a granite boulder.

Marie turned contemptuously toward him.  As the incredulous man
grabbed his sprained wrist and then gingerly massaged his injured
arm, she stood, hands on hips, and taunted, "Come on, try again,
muscle man.  This time hit me hard!" 

He looked at her in openmouthed amazement, clearly wondering what
had happened.  And then, for the first time, he looked below her
awesome bosom at her trim but densely-muscled waist.  She relaxed
it and then clenched it for his benefit so that he could watch
the individual slabs of muscle settle into iron-hard ridges.  She
tapped it so that he could hear the deep thuds. 

"What's the matter?  Has your lechery made you weak, little
captain?  Hit me again and injure your other weak arm.  A woman
can be rather strong, don't you think?  A lot stronger than a man
if she works at it and I've worked at it."  Clad only in her
fashionable shoes and a thin garment stretched over her flaring
hips and her mount de Venus, she flexed all of her big, beautiful
muscles at once.  They exploded in such violence that one would
think the soft skin might burst.  And she made her bounteous
flesh dance for him, in peaks of rock-hard mountain ranges, from
one side to the other.  The high heels of her shoes and her near-
nudity enhanced the exotic femininity of her anatomy, a
combination of awesome power and pulchitrude.  The captain was
now trembling, his swagger completely reversed, openly admitting
his impotence and her utter superiority.

Slowly, menacingly, she advanced on the captain, her calf and
thigh muscles bulging with each step, "You see, I like men.  I
like them as companions, but never as masters.  And when a man
likes to abuse women, I say why not rape him, degrade him,
utterly crush him?  Because captain, I can do that and you can't
stop it.  Not now.  I was civil, you were not.  I asked for
passage, you attacked.  Now I'll enforce the penalty." 

Phillipe, who had experienced another--more copious--discharge in
his pants during Marie's flexing, wondered if things were going
too far.  What did she mean by rape and penalty?  Was she losing
control?

In confusion and terror the captain raced for his horse, but alas
for him the athletic Amazon easily caught up to him and tackled
him.  She stripped off his garments completely as he vainly
struggled to escape.  Placing one hand at his crotch and another
on one of his shoulders, she lifted him high in the air.
(Phillipe's member throbbed anew as her muscles and bosom
bulged.)

"I wonder, Captain, can I do this with one hand?" and, sure
enough, placing one hand in his midsection and removing the
other, she twirled around, holding him up by only one hand.  And
then she lowered him to her shoulder and with trembling, grunting
effort lifted the big man, who greatly outweighed her, with that
one hand.  Phillipe, spellbound by this incredible display of
Amazon strength, spent some more in his now very sticky pants.
The captain, fearing that she might drop him or, worse, fling him
to the ground, ended this awesome exhibition by grabbing onto her
neck with both hands.  She ripped his hands away and carried him
back into the meadow toward a big fallen tree. 

Seating herself on the tree trunk, she clamped the naked captain
across her lap and began to spank his bare behind with powerful,
bruising slaps.  "I believe you said something about spanking me,
dear captain.  Believe me, it's fun!  Too bad you weren't up to
it."   

Soon his derriere was blistered and turning purple from bruises,
but despite the pain, the rubbing of his penis along the soft
skin between her smooth, muscular legs was causing it to engorge.
Marie chuckled merrily and momentarily stopped her spanking to
stroke it with her hand. Devilishly, she rubbed his face along
the arousing contours of her upper legs and hips and waist, and
"accidently" caused his hands to brush her voluptuous breasts.
When the formerly stoic captain had broken down sufficiently in
bellows, curses, and sobs, she stopped pounding his rear, pushed
him off her, and lightly rubbed the toe of one arched boot
alongside his raging erection.  There was a large drop of precum
that she flicked toward the captain's face.

She laughed deprecatingly.  "So, it arouses the big army man to
be bested and punished by a woman!  But does it not get bigger
than this?  Such a little tool for such a lecherous man!"  In his
perch Phillipe subconsciously compared the size of his penis to
that of the captain's and found it wanting.

Marie seemed to consider for a moment and then, reaching into her
undergarment, she retrieved a condom, made of the best animal-
skin material of the times.  "La capote anglais," mused Phillipe.
Why had she been carrying that?  Had it been meant for him?  She
wasn't going to allow the captain to enter her?

The captain, obviously thinking that she did indeed crave his
staff, grasped at this opportunity to restore some semblance of
self-worth. "Oh, my lady, that cursed invention is not big
enough!  Besides, you will not get the true feeling."

"The true feeling of what?  A little finger?"  she chuckled.  "I
have to give you credit.  Despite knowing I could crush the life
out of you and tear you limb from limb, you are crude and deluded
to the end."  He attempted to rise but she held him in place as
she threaded the skin easily over his drooping appendage. 

"There, now!  I would not let your puny thing loose its worthless
discharge on me, you diseased cur!  You will please me, you will
serve me, you will worship me, and it will be on my terms, not
yours!  And in the end, you will know your true inferiority, my
little man!"  His member drooped still further at the contempt,
the controlled violence in her words and voice.  Once again, he
was overcome with fear of her; this was not to be pleasurable,
after all. 

"Let me up, let me go!  Do you not see you have spoiled your
chance at pleasure now.  A man can rape a woman, but a woman
cannot rape a man." 

"Yes, rape, now that is a subject of which you are an expert I am
sure.  But you've met your match," she hissed. "You are wrong,
swine.  There are many ways a woman can find pleasure on top of a
mere man, and I will extract them all.  Fight if you can, but I
will have my conquest and you will hate it and yet love it at the
same time.  You have already exposed your weakness." 

He struggled to escape, but it was futile.  Leaving in place the
layer of white linen that simultaneously covered and exposed her
delectable love channel, she held him firmly and mounted his
face.  His frantic movements evidently only served to stimulate
her further.  She clamped his face tightly with her thighs,
strong as a huge iron vice, and forced her sopping cleft against
his mouth, commanding, "Lap it with your tongue, like the dog you
are.  Lap or I'll crush your nose with it."  Still, she would not
expose her seeping orifice even to his oral fluids.  The cloth
became drenched with her orgasmic secretions and his drooling
saliva as he abjectly complied with each command and let his open
mouth be ground against her engorged clitoris and spasming
vagina. 

"That was good," she sighed. "See, even with a limp appendage,
you can still be of some use to a woman." 

He glowered in frustration and humiliation.  "Oh, poor, baby.
Have I been too rough for the soft man?" She caressed his cheek
and chest and ran his hands along the arousing contours of her
voluptuous torso.  Only a stone could not have been aroused by
her perfect body, her seductive manner, the warmth and soft
pressure of her body.  And  the captain was no stone; lust was
his biggest weakness.  He erected to full flower, stretching the
condom impressively. 

She straddled his large prong, grasped it gently, and plunged
down.  ("No, Marie!" Phillipe wanted to cry out.)  The captain's
prick disappeared completely in her slit.  Despite being sheathed
in the condom he had spurned, he gasped in pleasure.  He searched
her face for the shock of pain or pleasure of being impaled by
such a prodigious organ, but instead she merely smiled haughtily.
She read in his face the frustration at being trapped impotently
beneath her.  "So this is what you're so proud of.  THIS is what
is supposed to conquer a woman?  I'm trying to feel it, but it
seems too small.  Maybe if I push harder!"  She came down so
forcefully that she flattened his balls.  "Ooo!" she said as his
eyes opened wide at the painful shock. "I guess you must like
that, eh?" 

Slowly, she plunged up and down.  Despite whatever pleasure he
may have felt, the captain was kept from reaching orgasm by the
more and more forceful plunges on his groin.  Gradually, her
breathing became ragged, whereas the captain winced at the
obviously painful pumping on his abused member.  Suddenly, she
went berserk on top of him, wrenching his prick in vicelike
spasms and threw his body to and fro.  Phillipe, unable to avert
his eyes from this scene, was amazed anew at her strength, for,
though the man she had tamed was taller and heavier than she, she
cast him about like a leaf in the wind. 

She grabbed the captain's head roughly with one hand and thrust
his mouth against the stiff nipple on one of her large, firm
breasts.  "Suck it!" she commanded.  He sucked, first on one and
then the other, impelled by the overpowering strength of that one
arm.  He struggled against the painful stretching of his neck and
back, trying with both of his hands to push against her one arm.
The iron-hard bulging of the hugely exploded biceps panicked him
but strangely caused his softening prick to become rigid again.
In her frenzy to stimulate her tingling, orgasm-stiffened
breasts, she swung them back and forth against his face.  The
weight and firmness of those awesome globes blasted his cheeks
and dazed him with the force of the blows.  Was there no end to
this woman's power?  He was being pummeled into unconsciousness
just by the force of her lovemaking.  As a final wave of
sensations hit her, she appeared to focus her energy on the
muscles of her vagina, grinding down on his stiff member.  The
wrenching pressure caused him to gurgle in pain and try futilely
to extract his trapped penis.  She buried his head between her
breasts and rubbed them together with her strong arms.  Trapped
in this smothering hold, he jerked frantically, stimulating her
to still more violent spasms and flexing of her arms and vagina.
Robbed of air and grimacing from the crushing power of her
lovemaking, he passed out momentarily. 

Phillipe was simultaneously distraught and fascinated by what had
transpired.  He wished he had not witnessed it, but still could
not bring himself to leave.  He was disgusted and yet awestruck
by her libido.

As he revived, the captain peered woozily at her leaning back
with her arms behind her, catching her breath.  He was still
trapped beneath her, with his still erect penis inside her.  She
grinned down at him.  "There now, did I not say that you would
serve me, whether you wanted to or not?  How many women have done
the same for you?  You didn't care about their feelings did you
my little CAPTIVE captain?  Now you know what it's like.  Feel
degraded, unfulfilled?  Remember that."  She rose abruptly off of
him.  His erect penis encased in the animal skin slapped against
his lower abdomen and reminded him of his unfulfilled lust as she
turned to look for her clothes.

Spying his sword nearby, he grasped it and quickly thrust its
point against her naked back.  "Now, bitch, you will give me my
pleasure!" he roared. "On your back!" he ordered, bringing the
tip of the blade against her neck, and calmly she complied. 

"Yes, give it to me," she murmured and stroked his flagging
member to its former state of arousal as he straddled her.  He
had intended to remove the condom but was caught off guard as she
grasped his buttocks and thrust him roughly inside her.  Her
lusty response gratified and stimulated him. 

"This is what you wanted, wasn't it?" he gasped breathlessly. 

But, without warning, she sprang into action.  Quicker than a
striking snake, one of her muscular hands was clamped around the
wrist of his sword hand, immobilizing it and then crushing it
viciously, so that bone and sinew were mangled together and the
sword dropped harmlessly, its gentle clanking drowned out by the
bellowing of the injured man.  Still on the ground, she clamped
her smooth, granite-hard, muscular legs around him and squeezed.


"I could have disarmed you right away, you coward, but I thought
this might make a bigger impression on your feeble male brain.  A
man who gets between a real woman's legs better be INVITED!" she
said coldly, sending a crushing jolt through his midsection with
the last word.  "Otherwise, he just might find himself cut in
TWO!"  she hissed, increasing the pressure to match her words. 
He ran his hands desperately along the corded expanse of her
gams, clearly terrified at the steely density he felt, and
screamed as she crushed down.  Satisfied that he understood that
his health and life were at her mercy, she relaxed the awesome
pressure of her legs and concentrated her energy on the vaginal
muscles that entrapped his shrinking penis.  Her abdominal and
chest muscles flexed awesomely as she wrung his pulpy maleness
with her mighty love tunnel and laughed as he blubbered
incoherently and tried to extricate himself. 

"If only you could see yourself, dear captain.  You have me on my
backside where you wanted me, and your little piece of male flesh
is there inside of me but you don't seem to enjoy it at all!"
Relaxing her vaginal lock, she lifted him out with her legs.  His
limp, woefully stretched penis slipped out of the condom.
Clamped at the midsection between her lower thighs, he drooped
down on either side.  He was completely limp, utterly humiliated,
but she wasn't finished.  Neatly depositing him onto the ground
beside her, she rose and straddled him.

"Let me show you how superior the female is for love and combat."
Oblivious to his desperate squirming beneath her, she forced one
large breast upon the now fully exposed limp penis and tender
balls.  She pressed her torso downward, and, with her strong
hands sinking into the flesh of his buttocks, lifted his crotch
upward.   At first she rubbed him slowly with her large, heavy
breasts.  As his prick began to stiffen, her breasts stiffened as
well, the nipples becoming rigid and the areolae puffy.  To her
surprise (and Phillipe's incredulous stupefaction) the novelty of
these ministrations were arousing her sexually once again. The
pressure of her massaging breasts became more and more forceful.
Her nipples gouged into the sensitive head of the captain's semi-
erect penis and the rest of the breast, stiff with arousal,
bulged downward into his vulnerable testicles.  He thrashed to
escape the pain, but she restrained him by gripping his head
between her smooth vice-like thighs.  As the wave of surging
sensations took hold of her, she took a deep, deep breath and
flexed her immense chest. The extreme force of her thrusting,
ultrafirm globes ground his genitalia to a flattened pulp.  He
sobbed and screamed but this time she ignored him as another
orgasm wracked her.

"So, dear captain, what happened to that mighty organ of yours?
Pathetic, isn't it?  Is there ANY part of your body that can
match mine?"  She compared her huge hard biceps with his clearly
inferior one.  Her mighty, beautiful, flexed thigh with his much
thinner, white, hairy, ugly one.  Then she thrust out her
magnificent, large breasted chest.  "Clearly no contest there."

"And we've just seen that that little useless thing between your
legs is clearly no match for what's between mine!"  she
continued.

"Well, you are taller and heavier, but doubled up like this, it
hardly matters."  She pressed him upward by lifting upward on his
belly.  "Feel those FEMALE muscles my little man.  Just think of
what I can do to you if I want.  And I haven't forgotten what you
had in mind.  You've picked the wrong woman this time, CAPTAIN."
She amused herself by dropping him and letting him grovel at her
feet.

"So, captain, should I rip you apart with my bare hands for the
abominable way you have behaved all your miserable life,
including today?  You know I could do it, do you not?  I could
snap your limbs as easily as I can break this tree limb," she
said picking up a large tree limb that had fallen during a recent
storm.  She held it between her outstretched hands and, suddenly,
the muscles of her arms, shoulders, and torso bunched into
terrifying mountains of granite flesh.  The tree limb
disintegrated with a loud crack that caused the cowering man to
jump in sheer terror.  Phillipe was astounded at her strength; he
doubted any man twice her size could have accomplished such a
feat.

"I didn't intend you any harm, I truly did not!" the captain
blubbered out, trembling uncontrollably, completely unmanned in
his abject fear of this colossus of a woman.

"Well, perhaps not at first.  You merely wanted to intimidate me,
like you bully everyone else.  But when I stood up to you, you
did want to hurt me; you wanted to rape me.  And I'll not let you
forget it.  Repeat after me:  'I am little cowardly piece of male
jelly, not worthy to kiss the toes of your superior female
feet.'" [continue...]

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #35 on: July 11, 2008, 05:00:27 pm »
Swordswoman!
by Jack Straw (part 3b)


[...continued]

He did so, curled up in a trembling, limp ball, to protect
himself against what he expected to be a final onslaught from the
mighty woman.  And he almost fainted, simply from fright, when
she swooped down and pulled him against her vastly superior body.

"Now, tell me why I shouldn't crush you to a pulp, one bone at a
time!"  she demanded menacingly, constricting her arms in a bear
hug.  From his perch, Phillipe saw her astoundingly broad back
explode into ridges of muscle and the captain's eyes go white in
terror and sudden pain.  Concerned, Phillipe wondered whether he
would finally have to show himself to keep Marie from doing what
he would have thought previously would have been impossible,
squeezing the life from a man as big and strong as the captain,
and doing so effortlessly.  In this awesome display of utter
superiority over a large, vigorous male, she was the ultimate
embodiment of womanhood--supremely independent, brilliantly
intelligent, indomitable, voluptuous beyond belief, and, clearly,
much stronger than any man he had ever known.  It was terrifying
and exhilarating at the same time!

"No!" shrieked the man, desperately beating on her body in a
futile effort to get her to loosen her grip.  "Please don't kill
me.  I won't bother you again; I won't bother anyone again.
Please!"  he debased himself. 

Shifting her hold, she pressed his face between the awesome
mounds of her bosom until he was nearly suffocated.  As his body
slumped on the verge of fainting, she withdrew his face and asked
softly, "If I spare you, can you truly repent?"

Like a sorrowful child, he nodded weakly and she continued, "You
must suspend your will and focus all your thoughts on what I
say."  Phillipe marvelled that she had reduced this gruff and
vicious thug to such a state.

"Focus your eyes on my breasts and biceps at the same time.
Watch them flex and bulge and dance," she said rhythmically and
then repeated, in a sort of chant. 

Phillipe, relieved but puzzled, crouched back down.  "Now what?"
he wondered and then thought he understood as he noticed that the
captain seemed to be falling into a trance.  Marie had mentioned
that while in America she had learned a technique of mind control
from a British major who had lived in Egypt for a while.  Little
did he know, she had said, that she had used this technique
against the major's comrades later on.

"You must find a strong woman and serve her."

In rhythmic tones she chanted softly, "Man is weak.  Woman is
strong.  Woman guides pathetic man.  Man is helpmate of woman."
Somnambulantly, he repeated the words.

She forced him to kiss her body slavishly from the top of her
neck to her feet.  "Feel my body, feel its strength, its
hardness," she said placing his fingers on the smooth, soft skin
of her biceps.  "Try to dent it, with all your male strength,"
she commanded and flexed her arms into giant rocks of flesh.  He
tried but could not.  His cock, having engorged during this
carnal worship, leaped in rigid arousal.

"Kneel," she commanded.  He knelt, his arousal bobbing
agitatedly, but otherwise, he was calm, submissive, mechanical. 

"Feel the might of woman."  She flexed each muscle group and
voluptuous curve of her body as she guided his hands over her
awesome flesh.  "Your place is at the feet of your woman.  Your
greatest pleasure is to feel her strength.  Repeat and remember."
He repeated all she had said and continued to pay slavish homage
with his mouth and hands to her perfect form and awesome
strength.  In his spellbound state, he was still passive but his
breathing was becoming ragged and his cock was now monstrously
bloated and ridged with veins.  Flexing her mountainous biceps
and thrusting out her massive breasts against his face and hands,
she pressed her arched shoe against his rigid member, trapping it
against his hairy abdomen.  He toppled backwards, with her foot
still pressed against his cock, and spent in spurt after spurt,
splattering his face and coating his torso.  She moved away as if
to avoid being soiled by his discharge. 

He sought to grab her leg in worshipful supplication, but she
drew back imperiously.  "No, I am not the woman you seek.  You
seek another--and only by feeling her strength can you again find
pleasure, the great pleasure you have just experienced.  And only
by serving all women can you find satisfaction.  Your place is to
serve."  He repeated this, mechanically, for her.

"Now, kiss the grass and bare your rear end to me."  He did so.
Retrieving her sword, she said, "You will feel no pain now, only
later.  And when this heals into scars, it will remind you of
your pledge."  She proceeded to carve something with her sword
into the cheeks of his bruised rear end.  Almost absent-mindedly,
she said, "This one is the symbol for Womanhood," patting one
cheek, "and that's her sword.  They will remind you of your
inferiority, and the superiority of those you serve."  She
wrapped his bloodied derriere in the tattered remains of his
trousers.

Pulling his face into the deep chasm between her breasts, she
said, "You will sleep now for a short while, and when you awake,
you must begin your quest."  As he passed out from lack of air,
she dumped his limp form on the grass, and looked searchingly in
every direction.  Phillipe was thankful that only he had
witnessed this bizarre altercation; many simple folk would have
thought her a witch.  Looking at first relieved and then almost
somber, Marie donned her clothes and strode to her horse.
Mounting it agilely, she gazed fixedly not at the pathetic form
of the captain but at another spot nearer the river, a spot that
had great meaning for Phillipe as well.  Smiling sadly, she
turned the horse and cantered away.

A while after she rode away, the captain stirred, groaning in
pain.  Phillipe had walked down to trail and approached the
pathetic man.  Despite his contempt for him, Phillipe helped him
up.  "Captain, I think you should leave our district as soon as
possible.  There was a witness to what you did today and what was
done to you.  Soon your life would be miserable here."

"Hmm?" responded the man vacantly.  "Yes, I must leave.  I must
serve," he murmured.

Still skeptical, Phillipe frowned and said nothing.  He put the
poor man across the captain's horse and slowly rode back to the
chateau, lost in thought. [continue...]

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #36 on: July 11, 2008, 05:02:29 pm »
Swordswoman!
by Jack Straw (part 4)


[...continued]
"Phillipe," Marie called out to him, spying him in the garden.
"I must talk to you.  I have a confession to make."

"About this afternoon?" he blurted out.  Until that moment he had
not decided whether to admit that he had been there, but now he
plunged on.  "I saw what happened."

"You were there?  By the river? And did nothing?"

"Would you have wanted me to?  It didn't look like it."

"Perhaps you could have saved me from myself."  she looked down
and then into his face.  "You saw everything?"

He looked down without speaking.

"Not very gallant of you, Phillipe," she murmured sadly.  "I
suppose you think I'm a monster and harlot."

"You were magnificent," he said earnestly, and then hesitated.

"But .... ?  Yes, I suppose you think I went too far.  Well, I'll
not defend myself.  As I told the captain, I answer to no one but
myself.  I've learned to accept my passions.  Sometimes I seek
out men like him.  Today it just happened, but I enjoy bringing
down arrogant men, whom other men can't seem to control and can't
stop them from bullying other men and women.  And it inflames my
passion to defeat them, to master them in every way, EVERY way."
She stopped and looked up at his face, reading his conflicting
emotions, seeing the wounds from his knowing that she had sported
sexually with many men and, as he had seen, not having needed him
to derive intense pleasure.  It was only natural, but still it
hurt.  Gazing at him tenderly, she continued. "What I feel for
you is different, Phillipe; it's love--honest love."  The lusty
fire in her eyes caused his pulse to race and his loins to stir.
"I want you so much.  I've never stopped loving you.  I rode out
there to find you, to see if you wanted to... if you would have
me.  But now..."  She looked down and then away for a moment
before finishing. "It's for the best," she murmured cryptically.

She waited for him to speak and after a moment continued.
"That's what I came to confess.  Phillipe, my mother is dying,
and she told me this afternoon, after our ride, that she wanted
to talk to both of us together.  And I'm sure I know why.  I've
now figured out who my father was; it wasn't very difficult.  But
I wanted to pretend I didn't know -- for just a while longer.
That's why I was out at our meadow today looking for you."

Her eyes were full of tears.  "Oh, Phillipe, I love you and my
mother so.  I didn't realize how much until these past few months
with her and then the past few days with you, and, now, I'm going
to lose you both."  He hugged her almost reflexively and felt her
wet tears streaming onto his neck and shoulder.  It was
unbelievable; such a magnificently capable, independent,
incredibly strong young woman crying on his shoulder, leaning on
him for support.  He was deeply touched -- and, it must be
admitted, he was aroused sexually.  Had the moment been right, he
would have gladly carried her to his bed or allowed her to carry
him -- for her strength had always excited him.  But this was not
the moment and there never would be such a moment.  He also had
been struck by a flash of revelation.   But what did she mean,
that she would lose him?  They could still be together, couldn't
they, just in a different way.

She broke away and dried her eyes.  "That's my confession and now
we have to talk to Mother.  She's awake and waiting for us."

Phillipe followed her in a daze.  His world was turning upside
down, so soon after he had begun to feel truly alive.

He was shocked to see the condition of her mother.  She had
always been such a robust well-formed woman; the heredity of
Marie's awesome constitution had been obvious -- or at least half
of her heredity.

Her words were few.  Only five were needed really to confirm what
Marie and Phillipe had already guessed.  The rest of what she had
to say did not require words and she soon stopped.  Phillipe
quietly left Marie as she stayed at her mother's side.

__________________

A week later they laid her to rest next to the grave of her
husband, Phillipe's uncle.  It had been her wish; there had never
been any doubt about his devotion to her.  Marie and Phillipe
returned to his estate, and she prepared to leave for Paris.  He
thought they could still live together, but she knew it would
never work.  At their parting she molded herself against him and
pressed a long, breathtaking, heated kiss on his mouth.  The
prodigious thrust of her buoyant bosom pressed his overmatched
chest inward.  He could feel her other bountiful, perfect curves
firmly pressed against him, especially at his throbbing loins.
In her passion, she unintentionally almost crushed his ribs with
the awesome strength of her embrace.  He melted against her,
almost swooning.  But then gently she pushed him away.

"Goodbye, Phillipe.  Enjoy your life, wherever it takes you.  And
take care of yourself with the women here," she smiled, dropping
a sleek capote anglais into his hands.

She climbed into the carriage, waved as it turned onto the
entrance to the road, and was gone.

For a while Phillipe was lost; it seemed pointless to stay at the
estate but he did.  Gradually, he began to implement some of his
plans.  Some were accepted by the farmers, although with hardly
any of the gratitude he expected.  Others he came to realize were
foolish and naive.

Phillipe chased away all other women, allowing only Claudine to
get close.  Almost out of pity he married her; she was so devoted
to him.  He had begun to appreciate her beauty; she was more
slender than most of the other girls, except for the swell of her
pleasing bosom.  Graceful and not at all plain.  She could hold
her own in conversation.  But most of all she was so good-
hearted, especially toward him.  He was unswervingly faithful to
her.  And though he wished for a more aggressive lover, he did
his best to please her in bed.  She learned the pleasures of
orgasm and he dutifully guided their lovemaking so that she had
them; indeed sometimes she became so animated that Phillipe found
some measure of the lusty amazon he secretly craved.  But it was
only the shadow of what he desired; most of his lust was stoked
with fantasy--fantasies not about her.  In that way, he realized,
he was unfaithful.

They had children.  Claudine ran the household with a firmness
and vigor that surprised him.  Phillipe began to think more
practically about the estate.  His youthful, idealistic plans to
parcel it out to deserving tenant farmers were largely canceled;
he felt a responsibility to provide for his children.

Occasionally, he visited Marie in the city.  She consorted with
the avant garde of society, a lioness for change, and she
continued her unbroken string of conquests, some sublime, many
violent.  More than once she had goaded a humiliated rake into
challenging her to a duel and of course triumphed each time,
never killing but, nevertheless, seriously wounding her foe.  It
got her into social trouble, but slowed her down not in the
least.  When Phillipe visited, though, they never spoke of these
amazonian conquests, of dominant love or martial art.  Instead,
it was of the exciting winds of change in the capital, leading to
the first years of the revolution, which they championed, giddy
with the expectation of a just new society.  Their passion for
each other never abated, but they honored their parents and did
not couple.  Their love remained youthful by having reached
consummation only that one time so long ago.  Through all the
changes of the times and their lives, it seemed strangely
unchanged.

And then came the Terror.  Even Marie could not withstand mob
insanity.  She died not on the guillotine, but from musket shots
as she tried to help a friend escape arrest.  Not even her
natural armor was proof to blasts of lead and then the merciless
thrusts from a dozen blades on her fallen body.  Summoned from
the country, Phillipe numbly retrieved her cold, putrid corpse
from the hell of Paris.  He buried her next to her mother's
grave.

Like most other provincial nobles, Phillipe weathered the storm
of these times on his estate.  The peasants protected these
nobles and their land; they feared change as much as the nobles
did.

Finally it was over and the country convulsively embraced a
social order that to Phillipe's way of thinking was not much
different than before, except that the nobles and the Church had
less power.  Instead of a king, they now had a consul, who ruled
as a dictator and every day seemed closer to crowning himself as
king--or perhaps as Caesar, like the one who once ruled Gaul.
And it seemed that France was at war with everyone.

Phillipe stayed at home.  With the changes in laws, some of his
local reforms were no longer needed.  He pushed and helped, as
much as he felt he could, to build a small hospital and a school.
He tried to induce his farmers to try new methods of farming of
which he had learned by reading.  They did not trust reading and
frustrated him.  He loved his children and his wife, and, more
and more, devoted his attention to them.

But late at night after Claudine was in bed, he would see Marie
in his thoughts.  And in his thoughts she was forever brilliant,
invincible, supremely powerful--and insatiably lusty.  The chaste
Marie that he knew in Paris was somehow forgotten at this time of
day; at other times he honored that Marie as well.  In bed, often
when he drifted off to sleep, he had versions of the same dream.
_________________________

They were alone in his bedroom.  She drew off her cloak and
stepped toward him, completely revealing her naked, magnificently
powerful and sexually alluring body, omnipotent muscles bunching
and relaxing, legs bulging with each stride, trim corded waist
contrasting with incredibly broad shoulders and awesomely out-
thrust chest, her beautiful face challenging him imperiously,
seductively. He was raging in arousal just at seeing her fully
revealed and watching her move each delectable, intimidating part
of her anatomy--and also excited by the, as yet unspoken,
challenge to his manhood, which served him well in contests with
his own sex, but was so obviously inferior to her awesome
womanhood. 

Raising the sword at her side, she challenged, "Have you ever
fenced in the nude, cousin?  It looks like you have raised your
sword before mine, not very gallant," she laughed nodding toward
his midsection. 

And he noticed for the first time that he too was nude and
bursting with arousal, his engorged "sword" bobbing in
anticipation.  In his hand he found a real sword of cold steel
and raised it, mutely accepting the challenge.  He drew himself
up to his full height, so that he looked down slightly on his
comely foe.

"Two swords against one," she mocked amiably.  "It won't help."
And she engaged him and they struggled around the room.  Her
bewitching anatomy and the smell of her sex in the clinches kept
him bobbing, indeed dripping, in unrelenting arousal.  She bested
him at each thrust and parry, forced him ever backward until,
having pressed him against the bed, she ripped the sword from his
hand and cast her own aside as well.

"Now for some hand to hand combat."  She lifted and threw him
onto the bed and pressed her heavy, perfectly formed body on top
of his.  To please her, he struggled with his utmost strength,
but could not unseat her.  The rubbing of their flesh aroused him
unbearably and he erupted in gout after gout onto their tightly
meshed torsos.  She laughed throatily, triumphantly.

She forced his mouth against her breasts and below her breasts,
demanding that he lick off his semen.  Knowing that resistance
was futile, he did so first in revulsion and then, as she became
more and more aroused, he did it with  passion, gnawing on each
turgid nipple, licking the puffy areolae, feeling around the
endless, smooth landscape of each firm, bountiful breast.
Heeding her cries of ecstasy he ventured lower in his suckling
worship.  Finally, she forced her thatch against his face and
spent wildly in volcanic orgasm after orgasm, heedless of the
intense pressure of her mighty thighs on his captive jaws and
temples.  Her animal intensity caused him to swoon, but she
revived him with wet delicious kisses from head to toe.  He was
now raging with urgent erection again.

"I bet you'd like to get on top and put that in me, wouldn't
you," she taunted.  And he struggled fiercely to show her he
could, but alas he could not.  Still, not needing to expend much
of her limitless energy in fending off a mere male, she had
amused herself by fondling him during this unequal struggle to
such an extent that despite his grimacing and trembling exertion,
he was flushed with arousal and hugely erect, aching to be
satisfied.  She teased him by rubbing the seat of her sex around
his member but preventing its penetration by his impotent
thrusts. 

Finally, she relented and plunged down.  Hot flesh was enveloped
by hotter flesh.  And she held him there, and, giving him a taste
of the muscular prowess of her sheath, sent wave after wave of
constricting massage through his swollen prong.  He wondered if
she were going to bring to eruption in this manner, without any
pumping of their bodies, but just as he started to spasm into her
heated chamber, she shocked him by clenching the muscles that
trapped him in a  crushing vice.  He cried in pain and utter
amazement at her power.

"That's just to remind you who's in charge, my lover," she
whispered smugly.  Having thus prevented his release, she rose
slightly and plunged down on his still erect member.  As she
pumped more and more, she exulted as his member expanded further
and became even harder.  He could feel its veins and head bulge
out, and then he became acutely aware of her clitoris, engorging
to surpass his prick, not in size, but in hardness.  As she
plunged up and down, this steely female dagger gouged a painful
valley into his weaker male member.  She became more animated and
began to plunge down so fast and hard that his swollen testicles
were pummeled and squashed.  But he approached climax even as she
did and spent in spasm after spasm, combining with her own
copious flow into her voluptuous sheath.

Lost in her orgasmic flight, she clutched him suffocatingly to
her breasts and squeezed his prick in painful vice-like
contractions that wrung all the substance from his member.  Their
fluids seeped out of her vagina to course between them in sticky
rivulets and flooded the room with a the musky odor of orgasm.
Her mighty vagina continued to wrestle with his now woefully
overcome member.  Now receding in retreat to be wrung
ignominiously to a painful pulp of useless flesh, it had not been
up to the challenge of resisting her strength as long as she
wished.  But--it was only male; and he had given her some
pleasure.  Imperiously, she allowed his puny, limp member to drop
out of her powerful slit.  Surveying his spent form triumphantly,
she moved to his side.

And then -- her manner softened.  She lovingly pressed warm, wet
kisses on his face and neck and shoulder and heaving chest.  She
moved over him and locked him in gentle embrace.  Despite her
violence to his body and his utter exhaustion, he felt vibrant,
at last fulfilled.  "It was beautiful!" he turned to say but she
was gone.
__________________

The banging of the shutter in the cold wind of the winter's night
roused him slowly.  His sheets were drenched with a cold, gooey
deposit.  He turned to the slumberous breathing of his bedmate,
not the naked, gloriously nude Marie, but his gentle Claudine,
chastely covered in the thick nightclothes of winter.

Did Marie really visit him from another realm during his dreams
or was it, as he supposed, all within him?  If she witnessed
these fantasies but was not their cause, he hoped she didn't
mind.  At least, then, she shared his secret -- if nothing else.

John Stephens, 1995

[THE END]


FROM              THE AMAZONS ARENA BBS         702-243-7723/8982/9897

It's useles to add that comments are very welcomed.

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #37 on: July 16, 2008, 08:41:09 pm »
First of a three part story by Jack Straw

Glove Man
by Jack Straw
Part 1, Manbeater: the only female at a party wreaks havoc



Part 1 -- Manbeater

It was supposed to be a swimming party, but I was one of only
three guests to show up, and the only water on our bodies was
sweat from all the beer we were consuming.  The host was a
bachelor named Stan who was house-sitting for a wealthy couple
touring South America for a month.  Why they entrusted the place
to Stan is beyond me.  It had a large swimming pool and the four
of us were wearing loose sports shorts that could have been used
for swimming, but I'm sure the others had as little intention as
I to get wet.  We had come to ogle the babes Stan had promised
would show up, or at least I presumed that's why the others were
there.

This "party" had been one of my last options that day; at least
that's what I would have told anybody else.  My wife was on a
rare business trip.  I wanted to do something with the kids but
they begged off when friends called.  They were old enough that
we hardly saw them during the day on weekends.  They used to beg
me to do this or that with them, but now  -- well, I wasn't going
to beg, at least not yet. 

Rationalizing that it wasn't my fault but my family's by
abandoning me, I was in the mood to peek at the life of a
bachelor.  Stan was always bragging about this or that conquest,
although I knew it was mostly hot air.  The possibility, remote
as I thought it might be, that there would be some scantily clad
females was enough to lure me away from the other option -- the
always delightful afternoon of cleaning the gutters free of
putrefying debris from the trees that surrounded our house.

From the moment I arrived, though, I felt as out of place as one
of Monty Python's chartered accountants at a biker convention.
In fact, these guys fit the stereotype of the traditional biker
right down to the tatoos emblazoning each beefy shoulder and the
beer bellies swelling the lower halves of their tank tops.  But,
to have departed right away would have made me even more of a
wimp in their eyes than I already was.  So I stayed to have a
beer and then another.  Soon the bullshit started to flow, the
stories got richer and richer, time passed, empty beer bottles
mounted up, sobriety departed and I stayed.  It didn't even
matter much that I hardly spoke.  For some reason, I never
remember jokes and, even the ones I remember I can't deliver in
the laconic style these guys had long ago perfected.  Not that
most of their jokes were at all humorous -- crudity was the key,
any humor was superfluous.

One of the running gags was that Stan in all seriousness
continued to maintain that several "babes" -- and he "had a
stable of them" -- were still going to show.  That part was
mildly funny, because Stan didn't seem to realize how ridiculous
he was.  Looking back on the way things played out, however, I
wonder if maybe the joke was mainly on me.  If so, dame fortune
let me have the last laugh.

So how did I know these guys?  I'm the shortstop on their slow-
pitch softball team -- at least this year.  Except for softball,
I would not know these guys.  This spring I was looking for a
slow-pitch team, since I had decided my fast-pitch days were over
and baseball was a dim memory of the past.  A casual acquaintance
knew about these guys and, because they were supposed to be good,
I decided to try them.  They tried me and I stuck.  Personality-
wise, I felt isolated but I tried not to judge or be judged.  The
game's the thing.  The shortstop is chosen for defensive
purposes.  My job is to stop every grounder it is humanly
possible to reach between second base and our cement-legged,
portly third baseman, and to snag short pop flies.  It takes good
reflexes and some foot speed, both of which I was losing, but I
was still among the best in their league.  The other guys on the
team felt their missions were to hit the ball as far as humanly
possible, and these three, especially, were good at putting their
considerable weight behind their swings and lofting home runs. 

Remembering that all three of them worked at the same place, a
department store warehouse, I vaguely recalled that the third
baseman worked there, too, and asked about him.

"Well, get used to playing the rest of the season without him,"
grumbled our catcher.  "He just managed to rupture himself badly
at work this week."

"What -- a hernia?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's all the fault of that witch they hired for the
summer," joined in the other beer-swilling guest, our slow-
footed, but heavy-hitting right fielder.

"A witch?  They hired a woman to work with you guys?" I cut in,
suppressing a grin.  I knew these macho he-men wanted everyone to
believe their jobs were too heavy for a woman.  "Is she the only
woman there?"

"Yeah, in the warehouse she is.  They never should have hired
her.  A woman's not right for that job, and talk about an
attitude -- always pushing to show us up.  Everyone knows we can
work faster than we do sometimes, but the idea is to pace
yourself for the long haul, like we do."  The right fielder,
having put together three sentences without wetting his throat
was overcome at this point and had to take a long drink, allowing
the catcher to pinch hit, so to speak:

"That's why Phil is hurt.  She goaded him into lifting some heavy
appliance boxes.  God knows why.  He started screaming and we
knew he must be hurt bad.  We got there before the foreman and
covered up the truth.  If the company had found out that he was
lifting that shit instead of using the forklift, he'd have gotten
no workman's comp.  They're still suspicious about that and we
had a 'lecture' the next day about safety and all that crap.  All
because of that fuckin' bitch.  If Phil hadn't been involved, it
would have been worth it to snitch on her and get her ass fired,"
bellowed the catcher, now thoroughly out of breath and beet red
from anger.  The beer fairly sizzled as he quaffed a long one.

It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.  I had to meet
this gal sometime.  She must be quite a character to have
provoked such venom.  Perhaps I could drop by the warehouse some
day on some pretense about the softball team, I thought.

Stan's demeanor was different than his beefy friends.  He had
become almost introspective as soon as the subject of this woman
came up.  "Getting her fired isn't the only way to deal with a
bitch like her, you know,"  Stan said cryptically.  I had been
about to say something to egg them on, but Stan's manner and his
words made me want to change the subject.  Before I could think
of something, though, they piqued my interest in this woman even
more.

"She's not going to show, Stan.  Forget it.  That business about
armwrestling was just to get your goat," the catcher muttered
between sips on a fresh bottle.

"Armwrestling?" I asked.  Stan had seemed to imply something much
more ominous.

"Yeah, Stan told her after Phil got hurt that a girl had no
business doing man's work.  Well, PMS or something set in," the
catcher chuckled. "She started flappin' around, shooting her
mouth off.  Claimed she was stronger than he was -- stronger than
any two of us.  Challenged him to an armwrestling match.  Now
that's a good one!" the catcher said with a loud guffaw.  But, I
was only half listening.  For me, a new dimension had emerged,
one of age difference.  Up to this point I had assumed for some
reason that we were talking about a woman, who like us, was
middle-aged -- not a "girl."

Meanwhile, as if to rebut the claim by a girl that she was
stronger than he, Stan had walked across the patio to a weight
bench next to which a barbell with an impressive amount of iron
was resting.  I added up the weights and realized that it was
about twice what I ever managed to lift with my little set at
home.  Stan hefted it to his chest and shakily pressed it over
his head five times.  He was breathing heavily as he let it down,
but I was silently impressed.  His biceps, triceps and deltoids
were huge after this brief pumping.  He may have had a big gut on
him, but his chest was even bigger; it and every other part of
his body looked solid.  I was more intrigued about this "girl"
than ever.  I had to meet the woman who even in a heated moment
might challenge a behemoth like Stan to arm wrestle.

"So, what happened in the armwrestling match?" I asked in an
offhand way, trying not to show how fascinating I found all this.

"Oh -- well, Stan laughed at her but said if she was serious, to
come to the party today and be prepared to put her money where
her mouth was, but obviously, she's not showing, and I never
thought she would," the catcher said dismissively. 

"Never thought WHO would WHAT, Curly?" a melodious voice boomed
out behind us at the bald-headed catcher.  "And I thought *I* was
late.  Where is everybody, Stan?" 

My heart skipped a beat.  Now I was delighted I had stayed.  I
judged her to be about 25 years old -- tall, broad-shouldered
with an exaggerated hour-glass figure, clearly athletic, with a
face perhaps not lovely but nicely sculpted and dominated by her
intensely bright and penetrating eyes, and, as I was to find out,
possessed of a totally uninhibited personality.

She looked from one to another of us sardonically -- I was caught
in her spotlight before I could wipe the drool off my chin -- and
continued, "Where are the other women, Stan?"

"Linda, great to see ya!  Oh, the others are still coming.  I
expect them to get here any time now," Stan said earnestly, while
she could read on our faces that the rest of us were on the verge
of bursting out laughing.  In my case, though, a sobering
possibility had occurred to me.  I had assumed up to now that the
ridiculous lack of guests was a testament to the fact that nobody
really liked Stan; after all, he was a bully and a braggart, and
those were his good points.  However, the sense of unease I had
earlier at Stan's words was returning.  Still, I couldn't believe
these guys would risk anything illegal, especially in front of
me.

"Have a beer," Stan offered, popping the top off a bottle plucked
from his still mountainous supply, nicely frosted in tubs of ice.

"Hmmm, okay.  Sure, might as well.  It doesn't look like you'll
miss just one," she replied. 

Even in my inebriated state, I saw that she had sized up the
situation and was completely unconcerned, even quietly defiant.
I could sense even then that being the only woman with four
strong men, drunk enough to do things we wouldn't normally do,
was appealing to her.  In retrospect I feel that she knew exactly
what visions our hormone-driven minds were conjuring up, and she
revelled in it; it would make the day more fun for her.  I see
now that she had come expecting a dull party with an obnoxious
host, but this more intimate situation suggested a quite
different prospect, one that would have alarmed almost any other
female, but which she welcomed.  This powerful aplomb, as much as
her athletic hourglass curves, made my heart race and I was aware
that I was not too drunk to prevent a phallic salute in her
honor.


"Hi, I'm Linda," she thrust out a smoothly muscled hand attached
to a thickly muscled wrist and forearm.  As I rose and tried not
to flinch from her exuberant grip, Stan, the suddenly solicitous
host, introduced me as the shortstop on his softball team.

"So, you're a glove man," she said with what appeared to be a
modicum of respect.  "Slow pitch is a game for couch potatoes and
beer bellies," she turned to drink in the sudden red that flashed
onto the faces of our stout company,  "except for the shortstop
and the left fielder," she finished, turning back to me.

I grinned to let her know I was on her side in this opinion but
let it rest without a word in response.  I was fascinated with
her fearless goading of these guys.  Was she really as superior
as she seemed to think?

"How's Phil, guys?" she asked in what seemed a very sincere tone.

Still, inwardly, I winced.  She was like a matador inciting three
bulls.

"As if you care.  He's going to be out for at least three weeks."

"Look, I told him not to lift those cartons.  I knew they were
too heavy for him.  I told him I'd take care of it myself.  No
need to get the forklift for just two lousy items.  But after I
put the biggest one up on the stack, he had to try one himself.
You guys just refuse to admit how much stronger a woman can be.
If I hadn't grabbed it away from him as soon as he started to
collapse, he'd be in much worse shape, believe me."   She turned
to me, "I suppose they've been telling you all about lethal Linda
and how she breaks rules and puts good men in the hospital."  Her
story and the gleam in her eye had my member bone hard and poking
through the old jock I'd worn.

"Right, that's a good one, Linda.  You lifted one of those
cartons on top of a stack.  I suppose you pressed it way over
your head first, huh," the right fielder said in a tone as
sarcastic as he could manage.

"Look, I'm very sorry about Phil, but if he had listened to me,
he'd be here to rag on me along with rest of you.  I'm tired of
this silly macho delusion you guys have.  And there's only one
way to put an end to it," she said spiritedly.  "Stan, it's time
to put up your hand and prepare yourself for a bruising of the
old ego.  I had hoped for a bigger audience to witness your loss
but -- how about a little monetary prize?  I've got about fifty
dollars in my purse.  Are you willing to match it, winner take
all?"

"Can anyone else get in on the action?" asked the catcher.

"Sure, Curly, you're the next victim after Stan, if you like,"
she smiled sweetly.

"You really are full of it, aren't you lady.  No, I meant I'd
like to place a bet that Stan beats you in less than a minute.
And I'll give you whatever odds you like.  I've never seen Stan
lose at armwrestling in the bar we go to."

"You guys should spend more time at the gym and less at the bar.
Your muscles are all in your head," Linda snorted.

I cut in, "I'll take that side bet, Frank, but first I want Linda
to know that Stan just lifted that barbell over there five
times."  I needed to know whether she had real confidence, based
on real data, or whether it was bluster.  "Curly" -- Frank --
blinked and just stared at me in shock.

She stared at the barbell and then asked, "Pressed it or curled
it?"

"Pressed it with some difficulty," I answered looking steadily at
her and ignoring the glares of the males who disgustedly
considered me a traitor to their sex.

"Let me make you some money, Glove Man," she grinned at me.

[continue...]

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #38 on: July 16, 2008, 08:43:43 pm »
Glove Man
by Jack Straw
Part 1B - Manbeater: the only female at a party wreaks havoc -

[...continued]

"Okay, Curly -- " whoops, she had me saying it now, "Frank--" I
corrected myself, "fifty dollars."  Shaking his head at my
treason and what he thought was stupidity, or perhaps flirtation,
on my part, he shook my hand to seal the bet.

"Okay, clear us some room, guys," she said, settling her sexy bod
with feminine grace at the middle of one side of the big table we
had been sitting at and placing her elbow in traditional
armwrestling position.

"Oh, all right," Stan growled testily, "but I'm not going to go
easy on you.  I want you to agree that, if you get hurt because
of this, it was not my fault.  This was your idea."

"Oh, I'll not forget that.  Even now, you'd back out of it if you
could.  But you can't now.  I'm assuming that you'll hold ME
blameless for any injuries YOU suffer?" she taunted back.

He merely grumbled, "Let's get this over with."

They locked hands and, without seeming to exert herself much at
all, she was able to get him to really strain.  And within a few
seconds his hand hit the table with a resounding thump.  She'd
won! 

I thought "Curly" was going to faint.  Both of Stan's friends sat
in open-mouthed shock.  Stan was red-faced and looked like he
might bolt into the house at any moment.  "That wasn't fair," he
said, trying to laugh as if he hadn't been trying.  "I never got
a proper grip and you started before I did.  But if you want to
say you're better, go ahead.  I'm not interested in this."

She let go of his right hand with a smug look on her face, and
then, with a magnanimous air, announced to us, "Okay, you deserve
another chance.  Best two out of three."

"Hey, don't I get any say in this?  What about my bet?"  I was
trying to take the heat off Stan, because, although I despised
him, I was conditioned to be embarrassed whenever a female
triumphed over a male.  It was a perverse denial of the one thing
that infused my private fantasies.  Why was that?

However, she ignored me and grabbed his right hand again with
hers.  Stan reflexively tried to extricate his hand but, to his
obvious surprise, wasn't able to.   In fact he grimaced as she
grasped more tightly.

"Look, okay, but this is not a proper grip," he grunted.

Grinning superciliously, she let him arrange their hands as he
wanted, and let him push down first.  Stan forced her arm down
quickly almost all the way, but not quite.  It was obvious that
he was trying now.  His face was a beet red grimace and veins
stood out on his neck.  When he could not get her arm to move
down further, he rose in his chair to put more weight on his arm.

Linda began to chuckle at his effort and then to laugh outright
as she forced his arm slowly back.  Finally, she slammed it to
the table once again.

Stan's friends gasped; this was not at all what they had
expected.  They had been counting on her comeuppance.  Instead,
they were witness to as humiliating a thing a cocky jock could
suffer, being beaten convincingly by a girl -- a young WOMAN --
at least fifteen years younger.  Even I couldn't help being
embarrassed for Stan and our sex, but I of course was excited as
well.  My mouth was dry.

"I think this settles once and for all who's stronger Stan," she
tauntingly announced. 

Linda kept taunting and belittling him; it was obvious that she
was goading him into further confrontation.  Stan's face was
getting darker and darker.  He had to find a way to get even. 
"One more crack and I'm throwing you in the pool," he growled.

She giggled, "You and what army, wimp?"

"That does it!" he yelled, and he charged at her to lift her on
his shoulders but went stumbling behind her as she side-stepped
and pushed him.

Tauntingly, she turned her back on him and began to peel off her
clothes.  She had arrived in a loose half-sleeved swimming
jacket, a long, wrap-around skirt, and high-heeled sandals.  As
she removed the jacket to reveal a bikini top, I became aware of
two things.  One, it was obvious now how she could triumph at arm
wrestling, and two, for a heavily-muscled woman, she had very
large breasts.  She was obviously into bodybuilding and had been
for a long time.  And what a body she had built!  I was now hard
as a rock and sat spellbound hardly able to breathe, anxiously
awaiting the unveiling of the lower half of her awesome physique.

As she reached down to loosen her skirt, Stan tackled from behind
with a triumphant shout and they went rolling in the grass.
Linda managed to slip away and remove her skirt from luscious
long muscular legs.  Stan attacked again and the fight became
serious.

It became clear that Stan was overmatched.  She seemed to know at
least as much about wrestling holds and was faster and stronger,
and she was a big girl in every way except for her sinewy waist.
As her muscles flexed and bulged, although I guessed that Stan
was taller by at least four inches and heavier by as much as a
hundred pounds, she seemed to dwarf him. 

Her strategy, if she had one, seemed to be to wear him down.
She'd let him get her in a hold and then slowly reverse it.  Then
she'd put him in a strength-sapping hold such as a full-nelson
and ease up just enough so that he fought furiously to escape. 

At one point, out of breath and trembling with exertion, he
yanked off her top, perhaps hoping that she would run for cover
and that would end it before he collapsed.   But it didn't faze
her in the least.  Now completely bared, her large, jutting
breasts undulated with her movements.  My cock, which had been in
a wrestling match of its own with my old, torn jockstrap, became
rigid and poked wetly against my light swim suit.  It dawned on
me that her meaty globes were as beautifully tanned as the rest
of her. 

In retaliation she bent one of his arms behind him, forced him to
the ground, and with her other arm slowly removed his swimming
trunks and then his jock as he flailed away with his legs.  The
she turned him over and began to rub her breasts in his face
while rubbing one sleek, muscular leg along his stout, hairy
legs.  Soon he was sporting a full-blown erection. 

She giggled delightedly, "You like this, Stanley!  You really are
a wimp.  Is this what you guys had in mind?"

She insinuated her voluptuous, perspiring, body sensuously
against him, trapping him with those awesomely muscled limbs.
She alternately smothered him in the deep chasm between her
breasts and trailed those firm globes and their turgid nipples
down his torso as she clamped his arms to his sides with her
obviously stronger arms.  These ministrations had Stan writhing
in sexual frustration, his prick bobbing excitedly near eruption.

Though almost exhausted, Stan began to thrash around to escape
his humiliating predicament.  His face was as red as a ripe
tomato.

I looked furtively at the other men.  Their faces were as flushed
as mine undoubtedly was and, like me, they were swallowing
loudly.  I vaguely felt that someone should intervene to stop
this sex show with which Linda seemed intent on entertaining us
and humiliating Stan.  But it wasn't going to be me -- they were
his friends and yet they did nothing but leer.  Fully in control,
Linda turned nonchalantly, and, noting our lust-laden paralyzed
states, she smiled exultantly.

She clamped a scissors across his lower torso so that his bloated
cock was trapped under the velvety skin of one bulging thigh and
continued to hold his arms in a steely grip, eventually weakening
him to the point that she held both his wrists in one hand.  She
traced her other hand lightly over his torso.   Stan, now
exhausted, could only curse and did so loudly and vilely.  But
very soon he gave in to the inevitable.  We, his guests, still
sat spellbound without intervening to save him. 

The end came as Linda folded him against her in a bear hug that
lifted the huge man off his feet as if he were a toddler.  It was
a fitting statement of her total physical victory and, yet it
became a tool to send the overmatched male over the edge, as she
pressed his chest against hers and rubbed his cock between their
sweaty bellies, her trim corrugated muscle and his bloated beer
belly.  Stan in his exhausted, sexually dominated state, moaned
almost blissfully.  Apparently feeling Stan's prong contract,
Linda lifted him triumphantly overhead -- a prodigious display of
brute strength in itself -- and at that very moment in a stunning
proclamation of her dominance, he spurted in a milky eruption
onto his face, his chest, and then like a feeble fountain merely
dribbled out over the head of his spasming member.  No words, no
concession of defeat could have stated more aptly his utter rout
and her complete mastery, physically and sexually.

Laughing at how ridiculous he looked, she marched triumphantly to
the edge of the pool, still wearing the sexy high heels that
emphasized her spectacularly muscled but smoothly feminine legs,
showing off her outrageously heavily muscled upper body, massive
chest, meaty boobs, as she held him high over her head.  Then she
tossed him high into the air out over the middle of the water,
where he landed with a thunderous splash that sent spray almost
to where we sat twenty feet away.  Alas for Stan, the humiliation
continued.  He apparently swallowed water as he went in and
swallowed more as he was unable to keep his head above water as
he weakly flailed in panic.  Quickly tearing off her sandals,
Linda dove in to bring him to the edge of the pool, where she
hauled him up with one prodigious arm onto the grass.  He lay
there more dead than alive, wheezing and coughing, and trying to
draw a breath.

Her conquest of Stan emphatically complete, she switched her
attention to the rest of us, three hale and hardy males, slightly
drunk, red-faced, open-mouthed, dry of throat, and speechless.

She put her hands on her granite-hard broad hips, thrust out her
breasts intimidatingly, and tossed her head in silent challenge.
"What's next?"  she queried, totally in command of the situation,
despite being almost naked.

One of Stan's beefy friends managed to croak out to his cohort,
"Come on, Frank, let's cool her off!  She's begging for it."  And
off they charged, grinning, while Linda giggled and tensed her
body to ward them off.

Even as they grabbed her, she peered between their broad backs,
unconcerned, and taunted me, "Afraid to touch a girl, Glove Man?
They'll never get me in without your help." 

Sure enough she managed to hold them to a standoff close to the
edge and soon maneuvered them so that they were both closer to
the pool than she.  If she could manage to disentangle their arms
from her, a strategic push from her and they would be in the pool
instead of her.  At this point I intervened.  Thinking it would
be funny to send them all in, I sneaked up and pushed one guy as
hard as I could.  He fell toward the pool, pulling on her, and
she pulled on the other guy.  Perfect!  They all fell in with a
giant splash that just missed drenching me as I danced out of the
way. 

Once she surfaced, she proceeded to dunk the big guys one after
another under the water as they floundered clumsily each time
they surfaced.  Soon they were gasping for breath, spitting
water, and close to drowning.  It was hilarious and magnificent
at the same time; they were defenseless against this amazon.  I
laughed convulsively; after all, I was dry and safe, and they
were getting their just desserts.  But at the same time, I was
tremendously aroused.  Her awesome boobs were jouncing on
display, and her beautiful muscles flexed and bunched, her
animated face breathtaking in its beauty, and somehow the wet mop
of thick hair added to her allure.  The dryness in my throat and
the racing of my heart made the pitch of my laughter sound like a
teenage boy entering puberty.  And I felt like a teenager in
other ways as well.  I was conscious of the huge boner springing
out the side of my torn jockstrap, and I hoped the tenting of my
loose pants would recede before anyone noticed me.  No such luck!

"Hey, mister Glove Man!  You got me wet, and now you're going to
pay," she yelled playfully.  Leaving her two victims to try to
recover from her horseplay, she dove for the side of the pool, as
I raced away.  To my surprise, she caught me even before I had
time to run out of breath and slow down.  She tackled me gently,
turned me over, and stretched out her ultrastrong, heavy body
prone on top of me.  Face to face with this young goddess and
with her large firm breasts pinning me, I was close to
ejaculating in my shorts.  And she felt it.  Playfully, she
ground her crotch against mine and pinned my arms above my head.
In my younger days, I would have spurted right then.  As it was,
I was leaking pre-cum juices freely and making the inside sticky
where the outside was getting wet from her wet bikini bottoms.
Giggling impishly, she lifted me in the air, purposely grabbing
my crotch so that she could feel my joystick through the shorts.

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #39 on: July 16, 2008, 08:45:39 pm »
Glove Man
by Jack Straw
Part 1C - Manbeater: the only female at a party wreaks havoc -


[...continued]

"MISTER Glove Man!" she exclaimed in mock disgust, "You are a
dirty, dirty old man.  Such behavior must be dealt with.  I
believe a good old fashioned dunking is in order."  She literally
threw me, much farther than I thought possible.  I flew into the
water and far under the surface in graceless fashion.  When I
surfaced, she was waiting for me and dunked me under before I
could breathe.  She then proceeded to assault the other two, who
had been clinging to the side of the pool gasping and spluttering
and coughing.  Soon it was a dunk fest, with her on top and us
underneath.  She would push two down at once using the other of
us as an underground horse. 

Finally, three utterly bedraggled, bleary-eyed middle-aged men,
coughing and sputtering in unison, beheld her taunting us from
the edge of the pool, where she stood, hands on hips laughing at
us, and jiggling her tits back and forth at us in a triumph of
one sex over the other.

The other two guys struggled clumsily out of the water, one after
the other, and were effortlessly thrown back in.  Finally she let
them gang up on her, while I watched safely out of range.  They
tried to pull her back in, but, despite the huge advantage of
their combined weights, she pulled them in the opposite direction
toward the grass.  The bulging, the definition, the sheer
explosion of massive muscles all over her body and the way her
breasts shot outward with the expansion of her chest was
breathtaking.  I was so hard it hurt and the intensity of sexual
arousal had me perspiring despite being half-immersed in water.

I was jealous of these two guys grappling with her lusty
perfection completely bared except for a minuscule bikini bottom.

They were trying to salvage male pride by pinning her beneath
their considerable masses, which to me was hardly a victory if it
took both of them to do it.  I was lifting myself out of the pool
to intervene when I realized to my delight that she was also
winning this contest of strength -- handily.  One beef jerky was
being crushed between her thighs, her huge muscles etched in
granite ridges, while the other beer jock was trapped on the
ground face-down in a vicious bear hug.  She was so much in
command that she smiled at me as if to goad me into joining the
fray. 

Things came to an abrupt halt, though, with a gruesome crunching
sound.  Seemingly without meaning to, she had applied too much
pressure to her scissors and our catcher screamed in agony.  She
broke off her holds immediately.  The catcher clutched his ribs
in agony and gasped that he had to leave.  The right fielder and
I followed him out to his car, but he was in no condition to
drive.

"Look, maybe I ought to go to the clinic," he wheezed to his
friend, giving him the keys to his car, and off they drove with a
spraying of loose gravel as the tires spun out.

After assuring herself that he probably wasn't hurt as bad as he
thought and shrugging her shoulders, Linda had gone back to the
side of the house where the pool was.  I gazed at her swaying
hips until they swept out of sight, musing that now she had
eliminated a second guy from our team, most likely for at least
for a couple of weeks.

I headed for an upstairs bathroom to relieve myself before I
headed home myself.  The bathroom had a window that looked down
on the pool area, and, as I performed nature's ritual, I heard
Stan and Linda arguing.  Apparently, Stan was sufficiently
recovered that he wanted to wipe some of the luster off Linda's
absolute triumph over him and his friends to this point.  As I
washed my hands, I could see them and hear them distinctly
through the open window.

"What you need is a good hard fuck, slut," he said grabbing his
exposed privates.

She laughed and put down the towel she had been using to dry her
hair.  "THANK you, old man," she said sarcastically.  "And I
suppose you are willing to do me this favor?"

Stepping toward him, she rubbed her body sensuously against his
and gently caressed his crotch area.  Viewing the spectacular
sweep of her torso from the corded valley of her abdomen to the
Himalayas across her deep chest, I was struck by how perfectly
she would fit against the huge beer belly of our right fielder.
Stan was in much better shape than his friends, and the gap
created by her mountain and valley physique allowed Stan's
immediately erecting member to fly up unimpeded against his own
thick solid belly as she pressed her magnificent tits against
him, kissed the startled man on the neck, and held him closely
against her.

"Are you the man I've been looking for, Stan?  I need it bad."
she breathed hotly.

Breaking away from him, she took off her bikini bottoms and lay
down on the grass, beckoning him with crooked finger.  As Stan,
panting with lust, plunged down to mount her, she suddenly
pressed her legs together, covering the furry landing zone he was
aiming for.  She grinned up at him as his ample midsection
slammed into her bent-up knees.  Lying with her torso flat on the
ground, her hands laced together behind her on the grass and her
head resting on them, she grinned up at the surprised would-be
stud, angrily grunting to catch the breath that had been knocked
out of him.

"The prize is down there, stud," she teased, nodding her head
toward the pussy clamped from view between her iron-thewed gams.
"All you have to do is open the gates and I'm yours he-man.  But
I don't think you can do it.  I've got more muscle in my legs
than you do in your entire body, including the muscles in your
head, fat boy."

"You need to be taught a lesson, smartass," he snarled.

Stan was not fat and the muscles on his nude monstrous physique
bulged impressively as he furiously pried at the cleft between
her legs first just with arms, and then, becoming more and more
violently incensed, he pried with both arms and legs -- to no
avail.  With her upper torso completely relaxed, she seemed to be
expending no effort at all in repelling his savage advances and
insulted him further by laughing almost uncontrollably at his
frustration.  Finally, he began to pound his fists and feet on
her body, the vicious punches thudding against her steely body.
He rained them first on her legs and, when the only effect seemed
to be pain in his wrists and ankles, he pounded her tensed
abdomen, again with the only effect being that she laughed even
louder and taunted him to hit harder.  As he proceeded further up
her body in a maddened rage, she merely folded her arms to
protect her breasts from punches that he delivered with grunts of
energy, but which still had no effect on her impenetrable
physique. 

Nearly collapsing with exhaustion, the almost sobbing man threw a
final punch at her face, but she caught his wrist as it flew
toward her laughing visage.  Grabbing his other wrist, she beat
his fists together -- as if he were a child -- so forcefully that
he bellowed in pain and crumpled down beside her on the ground.

"Naughty, naughty.  Are you the kind of male who tries to cover
up his weakness by beating up on defenseless women?  Shame,
shame," she chided.

She clambered atop him, pressing his arms down and outward in the
classic pin, and overpowering his legs with hers in a grapevine.
She lowered her prodigious chest over his face, smothering him in
the deep chasm between her large globes.  From my surreptitious
perch, I was hard as a rock and dripping with arousal.

"I could smother you.  I could break your legs in half.  I've
done that to a man in this hold.  I could do anything I want with
you, old man.  You're completely at my mercy.  Not what you had
in mind when you invited me here, is it, you devious bastard --
the only woman with four men.  But you couldn't rape me, Stan,
not even all three of you.  You're not strong enough.  You're not
men enough," she spat out.

"As a FEMALE I am so superior, I can punch out your lights
without using my fists or feet.  You like to punch a woman's
breasts.  How about my boobs returning the favor?"  She twisted
her powerful torso from side to side, slamming her heavy
ultrafirm breasts into his jaw.  "I once dislocated a big
fellow's neck this way," she remarked.  Stan's head rocketed from
side to side, pounding into the ground on first one side and then

the other.  I believe with a few more blows she would have
knocked him out, such was the force of her blows, but she stopped
and gazed down imperiously at the woozy man.

"Are you ready to be a good boy?" she asked.  He nodded. What
else could he do? 

"Then stick out your tongue, Stanley boy," she demanded.  He did
and she lowered her breasts to run the nipples over his moist
tongue.  Even from my vantage point, I could see the nipples
swelling and the breasts hardening in arousal. 

"That's good.  Now suck them gently."  Soon she shifted positions
so that Stan could apply the same ministrations to her snatch.
She plopped it down forcefully on the cowed behemoth's mouth and
nose.  "Yes!  Yes!  You are good for something after all.  Keep
it up!  Yes!"  Her head thrown back, she lifted and rubbed the
protesting man's face against her wet honey pot.  Oblivious to
the man's muffled screams, she squeezed her legs tightly in the
throes of a violent orgasm.  As she slowly wound down, Stan's
head fell limply against the ground between her parted legs.

Seeing that he had passed out, she slapped him to revive him.
"You can't quit on me now big fella; you've really got me hot!"
she grinned down at him.  Still woozy, Stan blinked at her
stupidly and then, as sentience returned, quizzically.

She twirled her naked body onto the grass and pulled the
befuddled male on top of her.  She parted her legs in the ages-
old open invitation of a woman to a man.  "Come on stud, get it
up for me.  Show me your stuff, big man."

Her aggressive challenge obviously had Stan on the defensive, not
to mention the confusion of whether to trust her, but, shaking
the cobwebs from his lust-laden brain, he tried to retake the
initiative.  "This is what you've been wanting all along, isn't
it?" he said, no doubt hoping to sound masterful, but in his
underlying anxiety at being forced to prove himself, the words
came out shakily. 

"Well, COME ON," she taunted.  "Is this what you call a HARD
fuck, old man?  SOFT is what I'd call it so far," she giggled
reaching for his limp member.  Like almost any man in this
situation, Stan was finding that things were moving too fast.

"Hold on babe, you're rushing it.  Let's relax a little and start
again," Stan said, desperately struggling to gain some control.
But he had jumped into the barrel and now he was approaching the
waterfall whether he knew it or not.  He was stretched out on top
of her, braced on one arm, with the other hand reaching to
worship one of her firm hard-nippled melons, his limp member
nestled near her pubis.  As he reached to caress her breasts, she
raised her legs so that the thighs were snug against his middle
and her toes trailed sensuously along the backs of his stocky
hairy legs until they flicked against his ball sacks.  "Yes," he
sighed, "I can feel it getting hard."  He rubbed it back and
forth across her furry snatch.

"You want something HARD?" she hissed contemptuously.  "Feel
THIS."

Resting her head on her arms in languid fashion, she clamped her
thighs roughly around Stan's bloated torso.  I marveled at the
instant ridges that swelled up in those thickly muscled legs, so
alluring in feminine strength but once again being used as
instruments of torture.

"Ach --" Stan gasped and then wailed, "No!  What -- are -- you --
doing?  Stop, please," he wheezed in barely audible grunts.

"Stan, you are such a wimp.  I'm not even trying hard.  Imagine
what it would be like if I squeezed as hard as I can?  Here, I'll
give you a taste -- three quarter power," she taunted gritting
her teeth and raising her torso in the effort.  Her legs swelled
even further and straightened out in layers of ridged feminine
steel.  They sliced deeply inward on Stan's middle, causing
purplish male flesh to fold over her vise-like thighs. 

Stan screamed and then lost all capability of making a sound
until she relented moments later and relaxed her grip.  But as he
dropped his arms inside her legs to push them aside and escape,
she clamped her legs back together, trapping his arms against his
tender sides and even managing to entangle his legs so that he
was completely immobile.  In obvious pain he tried to get all his
thick muscles into play to force her legs apart, but once again
it is no contest.  She merely blew on her fingers as if nothing
were happening.  "How do you like our HARD fuck so far, Stan?"

Relenting once again, she pushed him away from her and stood up,
hands on powerful hips.  Stan grabbed his abused abdomen and
groaned softly.  She straddled him so that he had an unimpeded
view of all her parts.

"Stan, how could you presume to make love to me?  You apparently
don't have enough testosterone to keep it up long enough to put
it where it'll do some good, and you can't even take a little
squeeze.  If we continue, I'm afraid I'll kill you or put you in
the hospital without meaning to," Linda derided him.

Sick with pain and humiliation, Stan unwisely began to hurl
insults at her.  "You're just a musclebound bitch who wants to be
a man.  No man could want you anyway, bitch.  Only a miserable
lesbian looking for a dyke could want you."

Linda merely laughed,  "That's good, Stan.  I'm glad you still
have some spirit but you'll have to try harder.  I don't insult
that easily.  I know you want me.  You probably wank off at night
thinking about me.  You've already shown your colors, remember? 
But how about another contest?  I think I can get you so hot
you'll beg me for it.  I'll even make you fuck yourself, you'll
want it so bad."

And with that as her goal, she was all over the poor man.  Once
again she was rubbing her awesome naked flesh on his.  And as
night follows day, he was soon hard and beside himself in
delirious lust.  He did beg her to give him relief, but her
response was to make him lick and kiss her special parts.
Finally, he was at the point of no return. 

At that moment she did something so awe-inspiring that later it
would play itself over and over in the bijou of my mind.  She
swept the surprised but lust-enveloped man off his feet and
cradled him like a baby.  Placing one mighty arm under his white
tush and the other behind his shoulders, she flexed mightily,
folding his thick torso so that his cock pointed at his face.
Despite the pain and surprise, his orgasm continued unimpeded and
he spurted ridiculously on his face.

"See, you did fuck yourself, fat boy," she giggled, bouncing him
up and down.

But she didn't stop with that.  As if testing the limits of her
strength, she continued folding him.  The explosion of muscles
was like nothing I've ever seen, even on her previously that
afternoon.  It was an outrageous display of sheer brute strength.

It should have been enough that she was completely supporting a
250+ pound man in her outstretched arms, but in addition, she was
folding him like a closing suitcase against the resistance of his
leg, arm, ab and back muscles, not to mention the thickness of
his beer belly.  Stan was bellowing, first in embarrassment and
then in sheer pain, and struggling violently to get out of her
grasp or at least to counteract the ignominious constriction of
his thick body. 

The expansion of her bare chest was eye-popping.  Mountainous
ridges of muscles stood out all over her body in this Herculean
display.  How many such exercises must she have done to get to
this point?  What dedication, I thought.  I was leaking copious
sticky fluid onto my shorts and I could hardly breath. 

"Fight it, old man.  Give it all you've got.  Is this the best
you can do?  I could break your back, wimp, and you're too weak
to prevent it," she hissed. 

She was now clearly exerting herself, perspiring profusely, but
she was compacting him still further.  Audible cracks reached my
ears amid Stan's screaming.  [continue...]

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #40 on: July 16, 2008, 08:47:15 pm »
Glove Man
by Jack Straw
Part 1D - Manbeater: the only female at a party wreaks havoc -


[...continued]

"Now do as I say:  NO more ABUSE at work. I WILL break you in
half if ANYBODY does ANYTHING.  Now eat that spunk that you have
so disgustedly loosed on yourself."

She used his own hand to wipe the comical globs from his face,
forced it into his mouth, and commanded him to lick it off.  He
did so, gagging and almost whimpering.  "This is too much, you
crazy bitch," he whined. 

I shook my head in disbelief.  Did he have a death wish?

"Stan, Stan.  After all this, you would call me a bitch?  And as
for being too much, consider what you guys had in mind for me."

"You've got it all wrong.  You're just the only woman who showed
up --"

She cut in before he could go on, "I'd like to believe that, but
there is still the matter of your language.  All day I've been
sparing you, but now some bones must be broken.  Choose what you
want broken, Stan."  He kicked out of her grasp and leaped to
escape.  But before he had taken a step she caught him with one
arm and threw him roughly to the ground with it.

"Okay, I'll choose.  I'm going to break your nose with these two
fingers.  But to make it sporting, I'll give you a chance.  I
think that my FEMALE right arm is stronger than both your MALE
arms and legs combined.  I'm going to hold your head with one arm
and press down against both your arms and legs with just my other
arm until I grab your nose and twist it at the bridge.  If you
can keep me away for a minute, you escape.  Begin!"

As the day had proceeded, she had revealed more and more of her
prodigious strength.  Were there ANY males this strong?  Once
again I was spellbound as her nude chest, arms and shoulders
exploded in bombs of sensuous muscle.  Inexorably he gave way to
her flexing colossus, despite grunts of effort and panic at
suffering yet more pain.  His muscles stood out as well, but,
whereas when they had first faced off, his had seemed equal to
hers, they now seemed puny -- the beautiful female muscles
overwhelmingly superior to the homely male ones.

She soon had him so wadded up that she tweaked his nose
teasingly.  "Okay, here goes the nose!" she rhymed.

Stan lost it completely.  "No, no!  Stop, please.  I've had
enough. Enough. I'm sorry, I'm SORRY!" This last shriek escaped
his lips as she began to twist and I thought I heard a little
crack.  At that point, the effect of Stan's beers and his
complete unmanning at this last insult resulted in a stream of
urine that Linda adroitly managed to avoid.

"That's pathetic, Stan.  Too bad your friends missed that!  You'd
be a legend for sure," she derided him.  "Geez, it was just a
nose.  What if I'd chosen your jaw or your impotent little
balls?"

"I've broken my nose before.  And it hurt!" he whimpered.  "I had
to have an operation."

"It hurt!  It hurt!"  she mocked the big man.  "What a baby!"

She threw the thoroughly cowed and humiliated former bully toward
the house.  "Get out of my sight and don't come back out until I
leave, you blubbering wimp."

She looked up at the very spot I had occupied during their long
confrontation, squinting her eyes against the sun.  Then, wiping
her brow and rubbing the perspiration from her sexy intimidating
prow, she decided to leap back into the pool.
 
I slipped out through the front door, avoiding Stan, who I had
heard collapse inside the back door.  I then crept around the
house and, while Linda was swimming away from me, walked
rapidly toward my keys and wallet, and retrieved them from
where I had left them on a table.  But before I had taken two
steps away, I heard the sound one makes when emerging from the
edge of a pool.

"Enjoy the show, Mister Glove Man? or should I say Mr. Voyeur?  I
knew you were watching."

I turned around to face her. I didn't ask how she knew; goddesses
are omniscient.

Before I could think of a response, she burst out, "My, my, what
are you hiding in there?  You like muscles on a girl -- or is it
something else?"  She smiled knowingly, expanding her chest and
then flexing her arms."

As I have stated, she was not a beauty in the conventional,
societal use of the term, but to me she was a goddess.  And that
body was completely exposed, gleaming in the late afternoon sun,
with droplets and little streams of water causing her breasts and
nipples to stand at attention.  I was about to loose more juice,
and glancing down I noticed to my chagrin that my shorts had
dried sufficiently that the wet goo recently deposited was
showing through.  It was all the more embarrassing because of the
difference in our ages.

"Tsk, tsk. I must punish you for being a naughty voyeur, Glove
Man.  Are you in the mood for a little punishment?"

"I- I'm married," I croaked, thinking it might be relevant.

"So conventional of you.  Well, your wife surely understands that
a man must be punished for his sins.  Besides she's not here."

She leaped at me and in almost a single motion had my shorts off.

Now I was naked and my arousal could not be more apparent.

"A little sticky, aren't we?  Is this one of those old-age
control problems?" she observed sardonically.

"It's really your fault.  I think it may have something to do
with the way you're dressed," I croaked out, clearing my throat.

She chuckled, "There's something about you I like."

"Well, don't forget I bet on you," I reminded her.  Despite what
I had seen her do and despite my normal anxiety in the presence
of desirable women and despite her touching me with all her body
exposed, I was almost calm, except for rampant sexual excitement.

"Oh, I haven't.  Otherwise, you might be crippled too.  But you
should be thanking me; I made money for YOU.  Why were you here
today anyway?  -- Oh, never mind; it doesn't matter," she broke
off, signalling that our conversation was at end and my
"punishment" was at hand.

Deftly, she dumped me on the grass nearby and got behind me,
pulling the back of my head between her legs.  My hair was
resting on her hot, wet snatch, and her legs had my shoulders and
torso pinned.  My lack of resistance didn't seem to bother or
stop her.  I knew or thought I knew that a word of protest from
me would put a stop to whatever she had in mind, but I said
nothing, letting a girl barely half my age dominate me
completely.

She then bent over me, dangling her delectable chest over me, to
reach my legs with her hands.  And then she pulled my legs up
until my rear was up in the breeze and my feet hovered near my
shoulders.  I felt like a turkey ready to be carved.

"This is not very dignified, you know," I protested.

"Punishment is not supposed to be dignified.  You know you
shouldn't have been watching," she replied, "although I confess I
did prolong things a little for your benefit," she breathed hotly
in my ear.

Her hot and cold treatment of me continued, as she first amused
herself by reefing me back in excruciating pain, perhaps just to
reinforce her credentials as the manbreaker of the day.  Next I
became aware of her large, luscious, firm, and steaming tits
hanging over my head.  I fantasized about sucking on them.  Then
I became more aware of her sopping slit, burning with heat behind
my ears. I felt smooth, bulging leg muscles rubbing my chest and
inner legs.  Simultaneously, I discovered I had a painfully
aching, slimy erection that was being massaged by femininely
smooth calf muscles as they rippled with tension and relaxation.

Despite my embarrassment and not a little guilt, I was in heaven.

"I'm fascinated by your lack of self-control, Glove Man.  And
flattered," she murmured.  As if any man could have comported
himself differently, I thought but said nothing.  "I wonder if I
can deflate you as easily," she continued airily.  I didn't like
the sound of that but could do nothing as she pulled and parted
my legs with her mighty arms so that I almost fainted in pain.  I
was no longer so erect.

"Isn't this fun?" she exclaimed brightly.

"Are you asking my opinion?" I grunted sourly and she chuckled,
easing up her pressure. 

Once again she made me aware of her physical charms and again I
became urgently erect.  I could see the element of youth in this.
Sex and the sexes were still far from tiresome to her.  The utter
power of a female to control that silly-looking but fascinating
male organ can be an aphrodisiac.  Demeaning a worshipful older
man was no doubt exciting as well.  She crooked one awesome leg
so that she could lift and lightly massage my prick with her
toes.  She would stop and feel me palpitate with sexual
anticipation, often tittering softly with delight.  She was
playing me like a video game or a cat with a small prey, getting
off on the thrill of total sexual domination.


With her legs across my upper arms and her mighty arms still
immobilizing my trussed up legs, I was completely powerless, even
had I wanted to escape.  But I had no desire to escape.

I was going crazy with the sexual tension, and I could feel the
heat building behind my scorched ears.  Finally, she stroked me
over the hump and I spent, the goo dribbling along the my chest
and some squirting onto my chin.  That seemed to be a specialty
with her. 

Then she also came, violently, almost strangling me in the
process.  As she subsided, she released her hold and let me
recover.  I stared admiringly, as she partially covered her
unbelievable body in the clothes she had on when I first saw her.

Stooping to kiss my cheek, she ruffled my hair, now matted and
scented with her juices, and giggled, "Nice head of hair for an
old man. I've always wondered what that would feel like.  Try it
with your wife sometime."

Putting on her sunglasses, she sauntered off, both of us unaware
that we would meet again.  And the second meeting was to have
much more unsettling consequences for me.

(to be continued)

Soon to follow:  Part 2  The game 

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #41 on: July 23, 2008, 07:37:50 pm »
Here I post the second part of the Glove Man story

Glove Man, part 2
by Jack Straw
The game:  Some guys never learn ....



[Author's note:  I realize that if you've never played baseball
or softball, parts of this story will not have any meaning, but
so what?]


Part 2 -- The Game 

After that I didn't hear anything about Linda for a while.  Our
catcher, "Curly," was out longer than I expected, almost a month.
Phil never returned at all.  Stan and the other leviathan who had
been at the party moved gingerly for couple of weeks, but they
played.  Otherwise, we'd have been really shorthanded.  At the
games they refused to come near me, which was fine with me.  As
long as I got to play shortstop, that's all I wanted from them.
And with the men on our team dropping like flies -- merely from
the efforts of one female -- there was no danger I would be
replaced.

But after a month or so, when our season was winding down, it
emerged that Stan had challenged Linda and her women's team to a
softball game to disprove her disparaging views regarding slow-
pitch "athletes."  Clearly, she had gotten under his macho skin.
It was to be six innings at a very isolated field, first three
innings fast pitch and then three slow pitch.  In order to get

our guys to do it, Stan had brought a small keg of beer, but only
for our "victory celebration."  If the girls lost, Linda had to
pay for it.  In order to get the girls to show up, the
stipulation was that, if the girls won, Stan had to agree to pay
the entrance fee for a tournament they wanted to enter. 

Stan didn't bother to ask any of us to contribute, knowing that,
except for the catcher and right fielder, the guys on our team
had no great interest in being there, other than the expectation
of some young bodies that would be easy to look at.  Of course, I
gladly would have shared in the stakes just for the chance to see
Linda in action again -- or just see her, period.  Stan was so
confident that, in addition to what was already a considerable
wager, he had made a side bet with Linda.  It must be nice to be
a bachelor, I thought.

The ball field was way out in the sticks, a place that Linda had
suggested, according to Stan.  I had trouble finding it but still
showed up at my normal time before the game, time enough for
warming up and some extended ogling but not so soon that my
eagerness was too obvious.

Both teams were dressed in casual shorts, the girls shorts being
much tighter and the cloth thinner, stretched by some very sexy
hips and baring most of the expanse of their shapely (and
muscular) legs.  The men wore T-shirts, or after a while no
shirt, most of them seemingly eager to expose their bellies.
Some girls had on their normal loose game tops, rather
disappointing to the men in not revealing much on top, but
others, including Linda, had on stretchy halter tops, deliciously
revealing enticing cleavages and trim, flat abdomens (or corded
ones like Linda's). 

The difference in ages was surreal and embarrassing.  It was
definitely the dirty old men versus the young babes.  For the
most part, they were high-spirited, good-looking, and physically
fit young females.  We could feast our eyes on these delectable
examples of young womanhood without the watchful eyes of society
(our wives) to scold us; not a soul was there to root for (or
inhibit the wandering eyes of) our team.  The girls seemed to
enjoy and even laugh at the attention.  The times, they have a
changed:  In my youth it would have been unthinkable to have this
unnatural meeting of the sexes (and generations), with its
possibility of regretful consequences, especially given the
coquettish air of these girls.  However, some of the girls had
brought their boyfriends or a girlfriend.   Besides Linda by
herself had handled the three biggest guys on the team.  Why
worry? 

For my part, I had eyes only for Linda, and she occasionally
would glance my way and smile, as if at a private joke.  Our new
third baseman noticed where my gaze was fixed and said, "What a
set of muscles!  Do you know her?"

"Just saw her at a party once," I replied in vague
understatement.

There was a coin toss to decide who batted last, and the girls
lost; they would bat first.  Linda had devised an elaborate
system of umpiring that used players from both teams, and, to my
surprise, it worked.  There were no prolonged arguments about the
umpiring.

Stan had found a ringer to pitch the first three innings for us.
Linda had suspected as much and asked him wryly, "Where did you
find the ringer, Stan?  It won't help; you'll still lose." 

The first girl struck out, but the second one beat out a bunt.
Then Linda stepped up, a mountain of strength, although a speck
shorter than the average man.  Her forearms and biceps bulged.
Her legs bunched in colossal ridges covered with ultrafeminine
smooth bronze skin.  Her abs resembled the corrugated bed of a
pickup truck, bunching in different groups as she swung the bat
in lazy practice swings.  And her halter-clad breasts jutted out
and swung ever so slightly as she pivoted back and forth.  I was
in lust -- a ridiculously infatuated old man!

"Hey, man!"  our new third baseman broke me out of my mesmerized
stupor.  "Move back a little, she looks like she can hit."  I
almost chuckled at the understatement; she looked like she could
single-handedly mow us all down with a sweep of one mighty arm.
For the umpteenth time since I had started stealing looks at her
that day, I had a painfully constrained erection straining at my
jockstrap.  (This time I'd worn a new heavy-duty one.)  Oh, for
youth, and a second chance in life, I daydreamed.

After starting her off with a pitch off the plate and then just
missing with one high and tight, our ringer felt like he had to
throw a strike.  A foolish move, but one I was anxiously
awaiting.  I desperately wanted to see what she could do with the
bat, and show us she did!  CRACK!  It was a line drive that hit
in front of the left and center fielders and skidded like a shot
between them.  By the time the left fielder caught up to it, she
was rounding third and coasting home.  I didn't bother throwing
home with the relay when he finally got the ball to me.  The
girls were delirious and already congratulating their heroine. 
2-0, the men were down, and there was only one out in the game so
far!  But we managed to get out of the inning without further
scoring.

Linda was the pitcher for the girls, much as I had suspected.  It
became clear that if the game had been only fast-pitch, the men's
team would have been sunk for sure.  We could do nothing against
her.  Most of the guys struck out, disgustedly kicking up the
dirt as they headed back to the bench, muttering  with the
reasonable excuse that it wasn't fair -- WE never practiced
against fast pitching -- forgetting momentarily that Stan had
arranged for us to do that just that a week earlier.  However,
practice was one thing and facing Linda's pitching was another. 

I had faced many a good pitcher in my younger days, and she was
as good as any I'd ever seen.  She was knocking the macho out of
these macho men.  Stan, especially, had a hard time dealing with
the arrogant way she blew three straight pitches by him, putting
them right down the middle and challenging him to catch up to
their speed.  After the weeks of macho posturing about the game,
it was too much for him to swallow.  I almost felt sorry for him,
but, to her credit, Linda merely smiled triumphantly, as he
brooded darkly all the way back to the bench after missing the
third strike. 

I DID feel sorry for the girls' catcher, or maybe impressed is a
better word.  Batting against Linda's supersonic missiles was
merely humiliating; catching them, especially after fruitless
wild swings by our team, was risking serious injury.  But she was
gritty, the catcher was, and solid.  She managed to hold onto
almost every third strike and easily threw out the batters the
couple of times when she didn't.  Linda wasn't the only amazon on
the field.

I had the only hit off Linda.  As the ninth batter, I came up
after two outs (both strike outs) had been made in the third
inning.  I so wanted not to be embarrassed, my knees were wobbly
and my hands shook.  There was a look on her face that I couldn't
interpret or perhaps wanted not to -- amusement? compassion?,
passion? lust? or just plain battle lust?  I felt like the next
victim for the hangman, but, unlike my teammates, fast-pitch had
always been my passion.  Experience gave me an advantage.  I
swung late on her first pitch and fouled it weakly wide of first
base. 

Linda looked at me with what I think was a bit of respect.  After
all, it was the first time any of us had batted one of her
pitches forward.  As she was milling her arm with the next pitch,
I noticed her smile and I hit the deck as her pitch sailed inside
and nearly took my head off.  Her smile was even broader, but now
I too was smiling -- grimly.  Her brushback did me a favor; my
bout of nerves was gone and I was all concentration.  Perhaps, if
she hadn't knocked me on my keister, her next pitch would have
fooled me.  It was a change-up that, if I had been as nervous as
at first, I would have swung at too early and looked foolish --
probably her intention.  But instead I timed it perfectly and
with my pent-up rage, I hit it cleanly and as hard as I have ever
hit a ball.  Their shortstop hardly had time to start her glove
upward to reflexively protect her face before the ball whizzed by
her left ear.

Hands on hips, Linda grinned over at me when the ball came back
in from left field and I was standing on first base.  "Hey, Glove
Man, take it easy on our infielders," she laughed, clearly not
rattled in the least. The guy coaching first base for us was
clapping and whooping it up, foolishly thinking that the tide was
turning in our favor, but I knew I'd been lucky that Linda fed me
a change-up rather than her heat.  To add to my glory, I managed
to steal second base on the next pitch and proceeded on to third
base as the throw from the catcher sailed into center field.  I
felt really cocky, but my hamstring grabbed a little as I neared
third base and I knew I'd have to take it easy the rest of the
game.  The next batter struck out and that was the end of the
only threat we made while Linda was pitching. 

Clearly, our hope was to hang on during the fast-pitch innings
and then put them away during the slow pitch.  "Just wait," was
the word on our bench. It was a tacit realization that these
girls were better at their game than we were, but we had no doubt
that the tide would change once slow pitch started.  Being better
at slow pitch meant a lot more scoring than being better at fast
pitch; the advantages were all on our side.  Secretly, I wanted
the girls to prove better, but I didn't give them much chance.

In their half of the third inning, the girls had added to their
score with more bunts that our roly-poly third baseman couldn't
handle, a couple of walks, an error, and a booming triple from
Linda that our center fielder managed to catch up to because he
was playing so deep.  After Linda struck out the side in our half
of the third, sandwiched around my hit, it was 7-zip in favor of
the women.  Now it was the men's turn -- "beer belly" slow pitch.

At that point fate intervened.  The wind kicked up and started
gusting crazily in different directions.  Our normally dependable
pitcher (no longer our ringer, but our regular slow pitch
specialist) could not find the plate.  And the girls took
advantage.  Walk after walk ensued.  Soon he had walked in one
run and the bases were loaded.  At this point the wind died down
and the next girl popped out.  One down, not much damage yet, and
up to bat was Linda again.  She had been hitting ball-pulverizing
line drives during the fast-pitch part of the game, but slow
pitch is another matter.  Our guys still weren't concerned;
assuming that she never played slow pitch, they thought she'd
probably overswing and either miss the ball or pop up like the
batter before.  "Just make sure you pitch strikes," Stan directed
the pitcher. "We don't want any more walks." 

Linda was swinging a new bat this time -- the biggest, longest
softball bat I had ever seen.  Our catcher grumbled because he
had to back up for fear of getting hit in the head when Linda
swung.  I was wondering just how heavy that thing must be and
thinking I wanted to check it out after the game, when the
pitcher lofted his pitch.  As Stan had directed, it was a strike,
with a nice high arc, the type of pitch that is often popped up
or beaten in the ground.  But this pitch had a much different
fate.  When Linda hit it, it exploded off her bat.  I never moved
except to turn and watch its flight in amazement.  The left
fielder also merely turned.  It soared way over his head and
eventually landed on the fly in the grove of trees far behind
him.  It was easily the longest hit I had ever seen in softball.
In turning around, I had moved close enough to second base that
Linda pinched my butt as she rounded the base. 

[continue...]

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #42 on: July 23, 2008, 07:40:21 pm »
Glove Man, by Jack Straw
Pert 2B The game:  Some guys never learn ....


[...continued]
"Having fun, Glove Man?"  she called out, grinning seductively.

"Uh-huh.  The time of my life," I choked out, grinning back at
her.  She looked back again as she was rounding third.  Our eyes
locked.  There was definitely a bond between us.  It worried me.
I thought about my teenage daughter; except for the awesome
physical differences, Linda could be her older sister.  I was
definitely old enough to be her father.  I looked down and then
out to left field where the outfielders had finally decided to go
retrieve the ball.  They never found it.  The game was held up
for ten minutes while they looked, but then one of the girls on
Linda's team threw out one of their new balls.  The girls were
still jabbering and hooting.  I don't think even they had thought
they would dominate the game like this.

It was embarrassing to say the least.  My team stood stock still
in complete shock.  Even if we ended the inning now, it was 12-0.
Even assuming we could revive our spirits somehow, it was going
to be no cake walk.

"Come on guys, let's get this inning over with," Stan bawled out
darkly.  I looked at his face; it said someone was going to pay
for this.  I hoped things wouldn't get ugly.  I didn't worry
about Linda getting hurt but someone might.

We managed to get out of the inning, without further damage.  In
fact, it was probably my crowning moment of the day that ended
it.  I dove flat out to reach a short flare just behind second
base and flipped the ball to the second baseman to complete a
double play.  He was so surprised, he almost bobbled it too long
before tagging the base.  Again I was aware of Linda's eyes
devouring me as she trotted out and I trotted in.  I kept my eyes
down.

In our half of the inning, guys were clapping and yelling and
trying to regain some of their lost morale.  "This is our game
now.  Come on, let's get it going!"

It seemed to work for a while.  The first two guys up got on
base, but then their gal at third knocked down a hot smash and
almost made a double play out of it.  That seemed to give the
girls back their confidence, and the shortstop made a nice stab
of a line drive.  Two down and still no runs!  But the next
batter managed a squibber that spun crazily back and forth on the
ground and he beat out the late throw after it first squirted out
of the catcher's hands as she tried to pounce on it.  Well, not
too masterful, but the bases were loaded and Stan, our best home-
run hitter was up. 

Linda was now playing left field, a good strategic move I
thought, but she was playing too far in for someone as strong as
Stan.  The other guys on the bench whispered the same thing,
hoping that the girls wouldn't notice until Stan got hold of one.
Stan glanced out that way and smiled, probably for two reasons,
one that it should be easy to get it well over her head and the
foolish fielder was Linda, his nemesis.  Now he had a chance for
some pay back.  I secretly hoped he got too excited and muffed
it.  Little did I realize she was hustling him; she wanted to
make sure he hit her way.

Far from muffing it, Stan patiently waited for his pitch and then
crushed it.  The guys were on their feet, whooping it up, seeing
the imminent prospect of four quick runs and momentum shifting to
our side.  What they hadn't seen, but I had, was Linda sprinting
backward even before Stan connected.  At the crack of the bat,
she was already sprinting with her back to the infield.  As we
followed the long arc of Stan's drive, it was an amazing sight to
see her long powerful legs speeding her faster than the flight of
the ball.  In baseball parlance she "outran" it and then slowed
down to catch it over her shoulder gracefully, almost
nonchalantly, with her back to the infield.


I doffed my cap to her as she trotted back to the bench, her
teammates waiting to cheer and congratulate her.  "Glove Man
salutes Glove Woman -- make that Superwoman," I exclaimed with a
short bow. 

She actually blushed.

Inwardly I gloated at Stan's humiliation, but outwardly I gave no
indication other than to glance in his direction.  He struggled
to compose his face, but he could not hide an involuntary tremor
of his upper lip nor quell the glint in the eyes of one who feels
betrayed by the fates.

The rout continued as the girls batted in the top of the fifth.
More walks ensued as our normally dependable pitcher lost his
composure and a couple of solid line drive hits brought them
three more runs.  Linda wasn't their only good player; we were
definitely being outclassed.  Stan took over the pitching and
managed to get the first girl he faced to pop up.  Still, the
bases were loaded and the next batter was Linda. 

The infielders huddled with Stan at the mound and debated whether
to walk her, even though it would put us one more run behind.
The consensus was to try to make her chase a really bad pitch and
if she didn't, well, a walk was only one more run, not four.  I
could tell though that Stan didn't like it.  It was tacitly
admitting that she was too good for us.  I said nothing, because
I wanted to see her launch another satellite; I just loved
watching the supple interplay of her muscles and breathtaking
feminine curves when she swung the bat.  But while we talked she
came up with a taunting surprise for us.  It made the score and
the game secondary.

She swayed up to the plate wearing a bright, tight miniskirt and
sexy pumps -- red high heels on a ball field!  Whatever faults
she might have, shyness was not one of them.  All of us,
including her teammates, did a double take.  Our second baseman
swallowed his gum and had a coughing fit.  Guys and girls were
rolling their eyes at her audacity, once the eyes had popped back
into place.  She noticed what I'm sure was a mixed expression on
my face of incredulity at her sophomoric behavior and
ineffectually suppressed fascination with her overpowering female
sexuality, and she winked at me.

She had foreseen this type of strategy on our part well before
the game even started.  Once we found out that she was a one-
woman wrecking crew, we would just walk her to prevent home runs.
Her counter-strategy was to challenge our egos, especially the
mountain of testosterone now holding the ball.  By walking her,
he would emasculate himself, admitting that a woman in clothes
meant for a cocktail party could still outperform a big macho
stud like him.

"Don't let her get to you, Stan," our catcher said, soothingly.
"Stick to the plan."  But he was wasting his breath.  Stan had
been irritated that we had huddled in the first place; he didn't
want any acknowledgement of Linda's superiority.  Now that she
was emphatically mocking us, he was beyond reason.  Clearly, she
must have had this in the back of her mind well before the game.
Otherwise, why would she have even brought these clothes?  And
what was so fascinating that I had missed seeing her put them on?


As she salaciously wiggled her hips at him, Stan was so enraged
(and I'm sure sexually aroused) that he could barely breath.
When his first pitch went way outside, she taunted him, "Are you
admitting that you can't get me out, fat man?  You notice that we
don't bother to walk you guys.  We're not worried about YOUR
little swats, pantywaist." 

She knew how to push his buttons and the next pitch, to my
surprise, was a classic slow pitch strike -- I didn't know Stan
had it in him -- steeply it rose and then dropped straight down
like a hawk toward a mouse.  Linda tottered clumsily on her high
heels and appeared almost to lose her balance as she started to
wade into the pitch, but at the last moment pulled her bat back
and almost fell down.  It was all part of her act, but I was
nearly as taken in as everyone else, her teammates included.
They couldn't conceive of hitting a ball wearing high heels
either and clearly disapproved of her showboating.

The guys had not had much to cheer about so far, so Stan's
perfect pitch and Linda's clumsiness seemed like the comeuppance
she so richly deserved.  An inordinate round of "attaboy"s rang
out from my teammates, and the catcher, whose ribs were nearly
healed from the Linda's crunching at the party the month before,
yelled out, "Pretty, very pretty, Stan! One more like that one,
Stan the Man!"  Linda's strategy seemed to have backfired -- her
opponents spirits were rising.  But she looked utterly
unconcerned and then -- well, I've already emphasized that she
had absolutely no shyness about exposing her assets.  A bump-and-
grind stripper couldn't have captured the moment any more
brazenly than what she did next.

Calling time, she sauntered sexily over to the bench, slowly
peeled off her top to reveal the skimpiest string bikini
imaginable, then slowly dropped her skirt, stepped out of it,
revealing a thong bikini bottom stretched to the bursting point,
and bent over sexily as she placed her cocktail skirt on the
bench and smoothed it out in girlish fashion.  This motion caused
her delicious glutes to swell out against the stretchy thong and
I swore I saw pubic hairs winking at me through her parted legs.
It also swelled her hamstrings into mountainous ridges of
feminine steel, matching the awesomely bulbous calf muscles that
were flexed by the arching of her feet in her high heels.  I
moaned involuntarily and thought I heard other moans.  I was as
hard as a rock and seeping into my painfully constricting
jockstrap. 

Then she turned around and my knees gave out completely.  It was
a couple of minutes before I realized my parched mouth was wide
open.  We had seen most of her body all day, but, now nearly
naked, it was still more incredible.  I had seen this body
completely revealed before but the memory didn't match the
reality, and I have to believe that she had actually added some
weight and dimension since I had last seen her.  Her breasts
stood out easily half a foot from her chest, which already was
deep and thick itself, laced with the striated pectoral muscles
of the consummate bodybuilder that she was.  The shelf they made
over her slender, corded abdomen was impossibly spectacular. 

I marveled anew at the breadth of her shoulders and the jagged
boulders of her powerful deltoid muscles.  Having captured the
moment and all onlookers in an utterly unassailable spell, she
swaggered sexily back to the batter's box, her breasts jouncing
ever so slightly with each step.  She lifted the long, heavy bat
and ground it exaggeratedly with her strong hands, making her
jagged triceps jut out in intimidating dimensions that rivalled
her breasts.  As she stepped toward the box, she paused, looked
at me and winked.  I was conscious of a trail of drool at the
side of my mouth, which I wiped dreamily. 

She threw back her shoulders, which thrust out her fantastically
imposing bust, and swung the bat for a couple of practice swings.
Each swing caused her biceps to bulge outrageously and her chest
and breasts to swell against the flimsy bikini top.  It had to be
emasculating to Stan and the other big guys to see a woman with
such exaggerated hourglass curves but with muscles that were
bigger, much better defined, and obviously far harder than
theirs.  In short, someone who looked like she could take them
all on and clean their clocks without working up a sweat, but at
the same time had the curves of the sexiest stripper imaginable.
She had a way of turning any encounter with males into sexual
contest in which she utterly pulverized the male sex, all the
while keeping it aroused at a fever pitch.

My jockstrap was a sticky mess and I knew that soon a wet stain
would appear on my shorts.  A furtive look around showed that I
was not alone by any means.  Our poor second baseman kept moving
his mouth spastically gulping to get some moisture back into it.
Stan was clearly aroused as well, despite his anger. 

I was glad that none of our wives were present.  I glanced at the
girls' bench.  Some were hooting in giggly, high-pitched tones
and encouraging Linda on, but some were decidedly not doing so,
probably annoyed at Linda's showing off, and rightfully so I
thought.  She was not only showing up the men but also the other
women.  Even the girls who were cheering her were obviously
embarrassed.

"Ready to go, SLUT, or are you going to make us wait all day?"
Stan asked sarcastically. 

Linda wiggled her jutting ass sexily and grinned, "What did you
have in mind, fat man?  I know you can't see it over your big
belly, old man, but you're making a spectacle of yourself," she
taunted laughingly.

Stan's face went beet red, with embarrassment and anger, and he
bellowed, "It's going to be fun watching you fall on your ass
when you swing at this one, slut." [continue...]

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #43 on: July 23, 2008, 07:41:59 pm »
Glove Man, by Jack Straw
Part 2C The game:  Some guys never learn ....


[...continued]
Linda again wiggled her ass and then swung her prodigious upper
assets as well.  I knew that Stan was being hustled, but he fell

for it hook, line, and sinker.  He knew that he had one pitch to
waste and that she couldn't take another called strike.  He
figured she wouldn't take a chance if it was anywhere close to
the plate.  He lofted another perfect pitch, perfect in the sense
that it had terrific arc and looked close to being a strike, but
was really short and outside, so that she would have to reach for
it if she swung.  And swing she did. 

With any other hitter, Stan's strategy would have worked; it
either would have been grounded harmlessly if hit at all, or, if
the batter stretched and hit in the air, a harmless lazy fly
ball.  Stan underestimated her strength and forgot what a long
bat she had. 

This time her swing was almost completely with the upper body.
Because of her high heels, she could not put as much pressure as
normal on her legs, but mainly bent them (such a sexy sight!) to
help level her swing.  Yes, her power would have to come from the
upper body, but what an upper body!  This time, with the ball in
front of the plate and falling outside, she chose right field.
With all the coordination of her awesome physique, she timed the
swing perfectly and I watched the second longest flight of a
softball that I had ever seen.  The right fielder was caught
completely by surprise, never expecting such a blow from a right-
handed hitter.  It didn't matter -- even Linda could never have
caught up to it from where he was standing.  It fell far behind
him as he emerged from his shock and waddled after it.  After
several long bounces, the ball disappeared into another grove of
trees.  Another ball was lost.

Linda took her time rounding the bases, and I never took my eyes
off her.  It was breathtaking watching those mighty breasts swing
and jounce within her overstrained top, their motion damped by
the supple firmness of her youth and conditioning.  This time she
grabbed lightly at my tented crotch as she went by and giggled as
I leaped backward.

"Still having fun, Glove Man?" she jived.

"Isn't it obvious?" I replied dreamily and grinned
appreciatively. 

"Well, now that you mention it ..." she laughed, fixing her gaze
at my crotch area and twisting her head to keep me in view as she
approached third base.

As she jumped on home plate she pirouetted so that she faced a
dark-faced Stan.  "You know, Stan, girls -- SLUTS -- probably
have an advantage at hitting because of extra weight up here."
She cupped her heavy breasts.  "Now if you could just shift that
big gut upwards, you'd be awesome."  She was barely able to get
out the words through her laughter and puffed out her bust in all
its superior glory.  I thought I saw a strand of her top giving
way.  She turned and lifted two of her congratulating teammates
in the air -- way up in the air -- one on each prodigiously
bulging arm.  I was sure now that her top had burst because one
boob and its large nipple was completely bared.

As the right fielder tramped around in the woods searching for
the ball, one of the guys softly suggested that we quit -- just
call it a day.  "It's getting late, man.  I have better things to
do."  ("Is he gay?" I wondered.)

Stan would not hear of it.  He knew that Linda would never let
him forget this day; it would make two crushing days of utter
defeat for him and complete triumph for her in this battle of the
sexes and generations between them.  I could see that if he
didn't have some satisfaction on the diamond, he was going to do
something else, and that might be disastrous.  Besides, we had
completed only one of the three innings in the slow-pitch part of
the game, where he had been convinced that we would triumph.
Linda and her cohorts had put that premise into serious doubt but
Stan was adamant.

I proposed a compromise.  "Look, they are 19 runs ahead.  In our
league a game is called if the other team is 15 runs ahead at the
end of an inning.  They have two more outs coming, but if they
are willing we'll bat now.  If we score more than four runs, then
they get their last five outs and we finish the game.  If we
can't score that many, the game is over."  The others thought
that was okay if the girls agreed.  Stan was unhappy; he wanted
to beat them without any concessions or anything irregular, but
he went along.


I proposed it to the girls and they assented.  They were so
ecstatic about playing this much better than a bunch of
experienced older males, that, the sooner they got to
celebrating, the better.

"Can't take it any more, Glove Man?" Linda teased softly, gazing
up at me from where she lounged casually on the bench with her
jagged shoulders and arms splayed out on top of the backrest,
still all but naked.

My tongue caught in my throat as I gaped at her.  Being this
close to her turned me to mush.  "I wouldn't mind going on
forever," I croaked out, my honesty surprising me.

"Oh, games can't last forever.  Neither does life -- you've got
to seize the day," she said, stringing together enigmatic
cliches.

As I returned to our bench and told the guys that the girls
agreed to my idea, some of the girls were giggling and
whispering, and saying, "Okay, let's do it!"  I turned around
because I thought it had already been decided, but realized they
were talking about another "it," not my idea.  A few of them were
shedding their halter tops and shorts to reveal bikinis almost as
skimpy as the one Linda was almost wearing at the moment. 

"Hot damn!  I don't believe this!" our third baseman exclaimed.
Neither did I, but, really, it was not much more enticing than
the skin bared by the clothes they had shed.  No, it was stark
psychological warfare.  They were ridiculing us.  Flaunting
themselves in this way was psychologically akin to grinding our
cocks under their collective heels.  Our lust was tinged with the
anger of being so lightly regarded.

Linda was still the only one audacious enough to play in high
heels (or presumably to have brought them at all).   She

continued to wear them as she trotted out to left field like a
supremely developed exotic dancer.  I noticed that she seemed to
have made a temporary repair of the bikini strap that had broken,
but the way it strained under the pressure of her normal
breathing I did not see how it could long stay intact.

Our last inning started out well.  The first two hitters got on
and I brought one in with a solid line drive single to left
field.  It was fun watching Linda gracefully move that delectable
bare bod over to cut off the ball and throw the ball on a frozen
rope to third base, despite the awkwardness of running and
throwing in the high heels she so arrogantly had decided to keep
on.  I could have watched that symphony of muscle groups and
female curves all day. 

I had driven in our first run.  Against all conventions of our
normal play, I was the hitting star for our team, two hits and an
RBI.  Some quick mental math told me that I was only twelve
behind Linda's RBI output for the day and I smiled to myself.

Whether it was anger at being mocked by the way Linda and some of
her teammates were attired, or just the inevitable tide of a ball
game, our team continued getting hits.  We were, after all,
playing a game that was second nature to us.  The runner ahead of
me scored on another line-drive single, and I scored when the
girls' center fielder dropped a high pop up.  We had three runs
in and nobody out.  But then their amazon at third base made
another great stop on a hard grounder and stepped on third for a
force out.  Another single brought in our fourth run, but then
their short stop kicked a grounder toward second base and stepped
on the bag for a force out.  Two outs, but all we needed was one
more run to prolong the game.  Stan was whooping it up and even
some of my other teammates were half-heartedly cheering.  Our
next batter worked a walk out of their pitcher, and up to the
plate strode Stan, grimly set on getting some revenge and
restoring lost pride.

With all the possibilities in a baseball or softball game, it
amazes me that games so often hinge on one or two individuals,
with their strengths and weaknesses exposed for all to see.  As
in a Greek tragedy, the protagonists can't help themselves; they
are doomed to follow the script that their flaws have written.

Dwarfing their catcher, Stan swung his bat in intimidating
fashion a couple of times before stepping to the plate.  As he
swung, he peeked out to left field.  Linda stood nonchalantly
with her weight on one elegantly arched foot, seemingly bored
with the proceedings.  I wondered if she was hoping for the
chance to bat again.  She was a bit deeper than the last time
Stan had batted but still not nearly deep enough to catch one of
his normal power blasts.  All we needed was a little hit from
Stan, or a walk, and the game continued, with momentum perhaps
switching to us.  But Stan was after a larger prize and Linda was
inviting it.  I could hear him think and so could she:  "She's
baiting me again but this time there's no way she'll catch it,
dressed as she is."  I could almost hear that Greek chorus.

With all the effort he could muster, Stan waded into the first
pitch and sent it flying deep to left once again.  In his
eagerness he had gotten under it a little too much, causing it to
loft higher than his last one but it also was deeper.  Again,
Linda had retreated with the pitch, but instead of kicking off
her sexy shoes as I expected, she was running choppily at top
speed with those pumps making a bright red blur behind her.  The
athleticism required to run that fast in that way was astounding.
Again, I was seeping in my pants.  But I also knew that her head
had to be bobbing from the choppiness of her stride, due to the
shoes.  And with the extraordinary height of the ball's flight,
while it helped her get under it, it must have looked like twenty
blurred balls appearing and disappearing in different locations.
Yes, I heard the chorus, but of whose doom did it narrate?  As
Stan approached first base exultantly and his other teammates
cheered, I watched somberly.  I hate hot dogs, and usually, I'm
ecstatic about a hot dog falling on his or her face.  But I was
infatuated with this one, and I was disgusted that she was
inviting her teammates' contempt in this way.

And then it occurred to me.  She was doing this because otherwise
the game was too easy.  Merely beating a man at his own game was
old news to her.  She was so much better than the rest of us,
that she needed a handicap to make it interesting.  As the ball
finished its long arc downward, she leaped gracefully to her left
and speared it.  The stretching of her phenomenal body exploded
her overwrought bikini top at the peak of her leap, so that, as
the ball stuck in her glove, her top descended toward the ground.

She teetered as she landed, jouncing large-nippled taut breasts
that were bared for all to admire.

Simultaneously pumping one mighty arm in the air and using the
other to retrieve her torn bikini top, she high-stepped back to
toward the infield, a magnificent sight no matter what your
perspective.  Meanwhile, her teammates congratulated each other
with giggles, hugs, and high fives. 

19-4!  Youth and the female sex had won in a rout.

End of part 2

Part 3  Aftermath will follow, I hope you may enjoy what posted 'till now.

Offline elgat

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Re: Jack Straw stories
« Reply #44 on: July 31, 2008, 05:45:17 pm »
If this was Jack Straw's wish I think that, maybe, his stories should not even be publicly displayed here. So, what shall I do? I came up with the following solutions but I'm now asking you what one should I implement.

A) Delete this thread, removing all the stories.

B) Post the last two stories and then delete the thread after a few days (so that those interested can be able to see Jack's complete works)

C) Post the last two stories and let this thread stay here, ignoring the crisis of consience that took Jack Straw.


Maybe I'll add a proper poll to this thread but in the meantime pleas tell me what your opinion is.

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