She finds a host of scissor material on his computer and uses her own scissors to ‘cure’ him of his leggy obsession.
“That son of a bitch, that twisted, sick, fucking son of a bitch!”
Sharon seethed as she sat at her husband’s computer, having had to use his since hers was on the blink and he hadn’t fixed it yet. Sharon, a hairdresser, had done a search for ‘scissors’ on the computer knowing that the last time she’d used it she had downloaded some information on shears and other hairdressing gear, and she now needed to find it. What she did get when her search results came up opened her eyes and pissed her off. In folder after folder, there were scissor photos – and stories and clips but none had anything to do with hairdressing.
They were all about strong-legged women using their legs to put scissor holds on men, which involved wrapping their thighs or calves around the men’s necks, heads or bodies and squeezing hard. It was insane, she thought to herself, there were hundreds and hundreds of clips and photos of women squeezing men to the point of passing out and in some cases, actually passing out. The men were screaming in agony, it seemed, begging for the women to stop. There were black women, white women, Asian women, short, tall, thick, skinny, mostly pretty muscular and mostly pretty, and all of them dominating all these men in their legs.
Sharon didn’t know what the think. She and John’s sex life was solid, she thought, both of them 25 years old and very much in shape. In fact, Sharon was a part-time aerobics teacher and had just come in from a class, still dressed for it in her black sneaks, very short black, clingy shorts and black midriff halter, her long blonde hair pulled back. She flipped through clips and sorted through stories and looked at photos, her mouth agape – and her thighs and calves tensed.
“This shit must turn him on, the sick fucker,” she growled, crossing her legs, the tanned flesh tight from the muscle beneath. “He wants legs and scissors, he’s gonna get more than he ever bargained for!”
An hour later, John waltzed in from work and kissed his wife on the back of the head as she sat at his computer. Then he froze in his tracks when he saw what was on the screen. He backed up and Sharon spun in her chair, eyeing him coldly.
“Care to explain this scissor fetish of yours?” she growled.
“Fetish, what fetish?” he said weakly. “Aw, shit, Sharon, it’s just something I like to look at that’s all. Really, c’mon, what’s the harm?”
“There’s a shitload of this stuff here John, and it’s obviously shit you paid for with OUR fucking money!” she snapped, sitting forward, her legs spread as she leaned her elbows on her knees. “Our money, John! This shit ends now! You will be cured and you will be cured right fucking now!”
“Cured?” he asked. “What the hell do you mean, cured?”
Sharon smiled and stood up. And then climbed him like a cat over a fence, jumping up and grabbing his shoulders, walking up his thighs as he stood before her and planting her crotch right on his face, slamming her beefy thighs shut around his ears. Falling backwards, they both hit the floor hard, she on her back, he on his belly face down in his wife’s crotch, her muscular, tanned thighs framing his face, quads bulging and black sneaks crossed and resting on his back. The scissors was on. Her first. She looked down into his frightened, pained face and smiled.
“This what ya like, John?” she growled, throbbing her legs. “I watched this shit all fucking afternoon, so I think I know what I’m doing! Do I, John? Does my SCISSORS HURT?!”
She was leaning back against the couch, her thighs bending around his face like ribbons of muscled flesh, feeling his jawbones bend under her scissoring crush. HE pulled at her shorts, his eyes imploring her to stop, his mouth unable to speak but mouthing the words ‘I give’. She laughed. And squeezed harder, much harder, so hard tears ran from his eyes and her big tanned thighs quivered in the effort of scissoring his skull.
“S’matter, John, I thought you LIKED this shit!” she screamed down at him. “Tell me you love it, you twisted fuck, TELL ME!”
He couldn’t say anything, so she angrily spun him around for a straight headscissors, her lush thighs embracing his ears and folding around his jaw, crushing his entire head in her leggy lock. She leaned up on her elbows and looked down at his head, which was bright red in her scissors. She snapped her hips and he jumped in pain, and she did it again. Then she squeezed progressively harder until he screamed louder at each increase in pressure. She was toying with him, employing all the scissor tricks she’d seen in his secret scissor stash, and delighting in watching what it was doing to him. Far from liking it, he was in severe agony, begging for mercy. She leaned forward and held his hair with both hands, opened her legs at the thighs, leaving her ankles locked, and pummeled his skull by slamming her thighs shut on his ears, over and over and over, an endless stream of thigh bombs that nearly imploded his ear drums and made him cry real tears.
“Are…you…cured…now…John!” Sharon hissed, accentuating each word with an inward slam of her thigh bombs, the meat of her muscular upper legs slapping his face red. “Are…you…cured…of…your…SCISSOR…FETISH!!!”
“YES!” he screamed in between slaps. “I swear…no more…PLEASE STOP!!!!”
HE was truly in agony and he sincerely meant it, she felt. But to be safe, she locked up her legs tight and thundered down hard, feeling her adductors knife into his neck as she’d seen in one video clip after another, and seconds later, he was out cold. She knew it wasn’t fake, like some clips, as his body convulsed and he snorted in her scissor clamp, meaning his body was fighting to regain consciousness. Laughing, she let up and sat back, watching him twitch on the floor and come back to life, completely foggy and out of it until he rolled over – right into her crotch. Gently, she pulled one thigh to the side of his face and then the other, loosely locking the scissors on him. He groaned.
“Ya know, I’m glad you’re cured, John, because guess what?” she laughed with a hiss, scissoring him harder now. “I’m NOT! I just got the scissor bug and I got it big time! And you know what makes it more worth it? Knowing you now HATE to be scissored!!!!”
She squeezed and he screamed, one fetish dead, another new born….
The End
