Gail Force
Warning: contains explicit descriptions of sexual activity.Stepping onto her back deck, I found Gail Fratelli in her usual spot, stretched over one of those beach chairs made for Sun bathing. The kind where three sections fold into a sort of low-slung cot.
“Been working out?” She didn’t even say, hi.
I nodded. “I have.” My promotion had come with an increased per-diem, so in Bangor I’d sprung for a hotel with a reasonably well-equipped gym. When I wasn’t in a conference, meeting, or luncheon I’d spent practically every waking hour pumping iron.
Miss. Fratelli grunted. “Alright,” she said in her usual clipped speech. Shifting her broad frame, she rose out of the beach chair. “Lets go.”
She led me through the living room of her modified trailer, down the hall, and to her bedroom. Her prodigious rear swayed heavily as she walked, swallowing the neon crimson fabric of her thong. I’m not a small dude. Six-foot-two, two-twenty-five – mostly muscle, with broad shoulders. But I felt small behind Miss. Fratelli – with her thick, tanned muscles. I tried to shake the feeling off, reminding myself that she was half-a-foot shorter.
Besides, I thought,
when I measured last weekend, my biceps came out to seventeen inches! But hers were the size of my thighs. And I could grab her forearm with both hands and my fingers wouldn’t touch. Not to mention her thighs: wider than a thin man’s waist.
The moment I turned off the hall – my foot sinking into rust-colored shag – Miss. Fratelli spun to face me. She flicked her wrist, her manicured nails cut crimson streaks through the air. “Drop your drawers.” I stripped naked, my tumescence slapping against my tummy. Miss. Fratelli grunted. Crouching low, her breasts straining against the fabric of her bikini top, she motioned for me to come at her. It was a casually hurried gesture; a sort-of warning not to waste her time. I approached cautiously, arms out, ready to engage. She moved toward me in kind. When we were within inches, we both lunged.
After a moment of jostling, skin slapping against skin, we entwined. I got my shoulder into her mid-section, with one hand on her thick thigh. Miss. Fratelli held my other wrist, her opposite hand on my back. “Come on: push,” she commanded. I pressed forward but could not budge her. “That it?” She clamped down. I yelped, my wrist exploding in pain. Then she pressed my arm down. I tried to resist, but it was like trying to stop a car inching forward. Miss. Fratelli forced my arm behind my back in seconds. Switching focus, I redoubled my efforts to bowl her over. My feet slipped over the shag painfully as I struggled to move her. Sliding my hand to behind her knee, I tried pulling her leg off the ground, but couldn’t budge that either. The sight of her thigh – an obscene bulge of tanned flesh – made me feel sheepish for even trying. It also brought more aroused bloodflow down below. Since Miss. Fratelli held my left arm, I tried to shift right and slide around behind her, but she shifted with me. Then I felt her nails bite into my back. I resisted again. And again it was like trying to resist a moving car. Her one arm! Miss. Fratelli forced me right to my knees. But her crushing pressure did not relent. Instead, she bent me down till my chest pressed into the shag, then into the floor beneath. The thick fibers of the carpet dug painfully into my cheek as my saliva smeared over both. My knees cried out in agony and I was forced to extend my legs to relieve the pressure. Still she did not let up, grinding me into the floor till she forced the air out of my lungs. All-the-while she forced my arm up toward my shoulders, far beyond where it was meant to bend. My ribcage, too, bent beneath her overwhelming strength. I tried to cry out, but managed only a tiny cough. She held me squirming beneath her, secure as iron bars on a roller coaster. Frantically I tapped against her warm skin (slapping what I thought was her thigh, but I couldn’t tell for sure.) “Still can’t give me no challenge. A lady twice your age.”
“You’re... too... strong,” I replied in a choked whisper.
She grunted, “you’re ‘posed to get stronger.”
“I… tried. I… worked … out…” I couldn’t get air into my lungs. Miss. Fratelli was pressing too hard. I could feel the panic of suffocation creeping in. “...four... hours... a day!”
“Why not five?” The pressure increased.
I could only choke.
Finally, mercifully, the pressure relented. “We can go again. I go one-hand. But if you don’t give me no challenge, you get punished.”
I stood up, coughing.
While she backed up and resumed a wrestling stance, I nodded. She glanced down at my crotch and grunted. My penis was so hard it curled back. Miss. Fratelli placed her right arm (her strong arm) behind her back and shuffled toward me. Circling around her right side, I lunged for her waist, looking to pick her up and slam her. I managed to wrap my arms around her, but she snatched one and pried it off. I panicked, but was able to slip out of her grip via a thorough coating of sweat. Next, I reached for her head, trying to twist it down into a side headlock. But it was like pulling on a statue, and I succeeded only in bringing myself to her, our bodies colliding with a wet slap. Miss. Fratelli twisted in my grasp and bent over. While I desperately held onto my ‘headlock,’ her hand slipped across my thigh, just south of my crotch. Then she stood up, holding my leg. I hopped on the other to keep my balance, but Miss. Fratelli pulled my leg up farther, up over her head, till that one, too, left the shag. With my arms around her head, she held me like a bride at a wedding (except in one arm!) Then she lunged forward, slamming me to the carpet. For the second time, the air fled my lungs. Stars filled my vision. I coughed.
For what felt like forever, we just lay there: Miss. Fratelli sprawled over me as I struggled to regain my air, sucking in greedy, ragged breaths.
When I’d recovered enough to move again, I twisted onto my stomach and posted both hands, looking to push myself up away from the shag. But Miss. Fratelli shifted above me – her bulk nearly pulling me off-balance – and snaked her thick arm around my throat. Then she jerked it backward, her bowling ball bicep ramming into my esophagus. I grabbed her arm with both hands, one on that bicep, one on her thick forearm – my fingers folding down into its pronounced valley. Then I pulled for all my life.
Nothing happened.
I couldn’t budge Miss. Fratelli’s arm one centimeter, even with both of mine. Instead, she forced my neck backward, folding my back the wrong way till it erupted in pain. Once again I couldn’t get any oxygen, her huge bicep flattening my throat. “Pull,” she commanded.
“I… am,” I croaked.
“Harder.” I pulled with every ounce of strength I had, roaring (though it came out as but a reedy rasp.) “Make me feel it.” Picturing myself pulling her elbow to the floor, I forced all my willpower into my two outmatched arms. I still couldn’t budge Miss. Fratelli’s. She folded me till I was sure I would pass out, or my spine would snap, or both.
Finally, she let out a grunt and released me. I lay curled in the fetal position, coughing.
Then her hand was on my back again, this time sliding back and forth in a gentle, reassuring motion. A massive forearm appeared, covered in dark skin laced with tiny wrinkles. At the end, a papery hand criss-crossed with veins held a glass of water.
I accepted it. Miss. Fratelli gently but firmly sat me up. I drank. The cool liquid ran down my throat. She rubbed my back.
After a minute or two, I felt better.
“You alright?”
I nodded. “You don’t usually go this hard.”
“I’m pent-up.”
“You haven’t been wrestling men at Pinebarren’s?”
She shook her head. “Didn’t wanna get carried away.”
I caught her meaning. It felt good that she took our deal – our sort of semi-monogamy – seriously; that beneath her rough exterior lurked something deeper.
“Wanna try again?” she asked.
I nodded, regaining my feet with some difficulty. “Oh Hell yeah.” My legs shook and my body felt like lead. I stumbled and almost fell, but Miss. Fratelli held me up.
“I’ll give ya a bigger advantage.” She kneeled on her huge, circular bed. “If you can’t give me no challenge, it’s another.” Miss. Fratelli reached behind her back and pulled the string on her bikini top. It fell to the soft bearskin, revealing a pair of large breasts that, though pulled down by time, remained full and proud atop her powerful delts. Her thick nipples stood at rigid attention, surrounded by large, umber areola. “Motivation.” Miss. Fratelli grunted out a laugh and flopped back on the bed, her breasts moving like disturbed surface water. I hopped on top of her, squashing her soft mounds farther against the steely plates of muscle beneath. My penis pressed against the warm, inviting fabric of her thong. Her vanilla perfume mingled with the musk that infused the bedding – her musk; the scents floating upon the oppressive cigarette odor that lingered in her bedroom.
Miss. Fratelli stretched her arms over her head. “Keep me here till ‘three’.”
I grabbed her wrists and braced myself, my eyes glued to her breasts: two oversized pancakes topped with vertical Vienna Sausages.
“Ready?”
I nodded.
“One.” Miss. Fratelli pressed her arms up, instantly crumpling my resistance. I felt like a three-year-old trying to resist his mommy.
“Two.” She reached behind my head and pulled my face into her chest; snaking her other arm down my belly. Still clenching her wrists, I strained with all my might to try and stop her. My jaw clenched tight. But I couldn’t even slow her down.
“Three.” I shifted my arms to Miss. Fratelli’s shoulders, pressing down as hard as I could. Then I felt her slide her hand from my head down to my chest, the other pressing into my belly.
My vision became a blur. Sandalwood walls, white drop sealing, and that chocolate bearskin whirled about. After a moment of intense confusion, the soft fur of the bearskin kissed my bare skin.
I flopped over onto my back, her bedroom still spinning in my vision. Miss. Fratelli was on me in an instant, the weight of her thick, muscular frame pressing down painfully. Her soft, slightly papery skin slid against mine. “You ain’t strong enough,” she said, licking my neck. “That’s another one.” Next, she licked my cheek, then the other one, as the room finally stopped spinning. “You shouldn’t get no reward...” She slammed her mouth down on mine. I breathed in her cigarette breath and tasted the acrid remnants of black coffee. Then she pressed her tongue in. My front teeth exploded in pain and I was forced to open up. I pressed against it with my own tongue, but she forced it back till it piled against my throat and I gagged. Then she forced it to the side, pinning it against one cheek. I pressed back, but could not budge her tongue one centimeter.
Miss. Fratelli bullied my tongue like this for some time, interspersed with breaks when she’d suck hard on my mouth. “...but I’m pent-up.” She rose to her knees, grunting in concentration. I looked down and watched her remove her thong, revealing a prodigious tuft of hair – chestnut with streaks of grey – and swollen mound, beneath. Her clitoris was wide as a dime and long as my pinky finger to the first knuckle (and as swollen as I’d ever seen it.) She flung the crimson fabric away and reached down, wrapping her powerful fingers around me. “Pent up, too?” Miss. Fratelli squeezed it hard enough to make me wince (particularly terrifying as that was just her casual grip – I knew because I’d felt it plenty.) “Excited to see me?” She grunted out a laugh. Squatting down, Miss. Fratelli began slapping the head of my cock against her clit in rapid, rhythmic movements.
I nodded.
“Like that an old woman can overpower you?”
“Mmhmm.” Even as hard as I was, her clit was harder. My member felt like it was being jabbed against a piece of chalk.
Slap-slap-slap.“You need to get stronger.”
“I was working out like four hours a day in Bangor!”
Miss. Fratelli grunted. “Need a man can put up a fight.” She reached down (still slapping my cock against her clit with her other hand.) Her bulbous breasts – lined with stretch marks and crisscrossed by thick veins – swayed gently. “Get hornier when I beat him.” She caught my wrist and guided my hand toward her breast, her pull inexorable.
When it was halfway there, she stopped, letting out a grunt. “You gonna let a woman pull you wherever she wants? Be a man. Put up a fight.”
Slap-slap-slap. I pulled my arm back, staring at Miss. Fratelli’s bicep and marveling at its size: wide as a hardcover novel. My penis stiffened even further, slapped fast against her still-harder clit. She stopped my arm dead. I pulled harder. Hers wouldn’t budge. My eyes flicked from her bicep to mine, and back again. Miss. Fratelli’s was half-again thicker. A single vein ran down it – deep blue and wide as a milkshake straw. I tried jerking mine back, but couldn’t move hers a smidge. It wasn’t like wrestling even a really strong person. It was more like trying to rip off a single monkey bar. Her grip on my wrist tightened painfully. Then she began forcing my arm back up. I pulled back with everything I had, gritting my teeth. But it was like pulling against a tow truck winch. “I ain’t even trying,” said Miss. Fratelli. Indeed, her face – cheeks pockmarked from lifelong smoking, over elegant cheekbones – looked as relaxed as mine felt tense.
Slap-slap-slap. “Yes you are!”
She grunted. “Can’t even get a good pump.” She released her impossible resistance and I pulled her arm back. Then her enormous bicep flexed and my pulling was instantly overwhelmed again.
She went on like this for a good dozen reps. “Could do this all day and still not feel no burn.”
“God, Miss. Fratelli, you are so fucking str-”
Slap! She flopped down on top of me, her hot, slick skin smacking into mine like water during a belly flop. Her heavy frame pressed the air out of my lungs (despite her height, I think she’s pushing two-fifty, but she won’t say.) I heaved for breath, struggling against her warm, satin bulk. Her soft breasts squished deliciously between us, covering my entire chest.
Then they pulled along my skin as she shifted up. I thought she was coming in for a kiss, but instead she reached one massive bicep behind my head. Her other hand snatched my member, guiding it home. “Mmm,” Miss. Fratelli moaned. I’d never felt her so wet. She thrusted one time, slow. Her warm juices ran down my inner leg as she pumped again, checking the power of her huge thighs. Then Miss. Fratelli snatched my face with one manicured hand, squeezing so hard she threatened to press my teeth clear out of my gums. I reached up and grabbed her fingers in one hand, and thumb in the other, and tried to pry them apart. I couldn’t.
Still thrusting slow, Miss. Fratelli leaned over me and let one large breast jiggle into place over my forced open mouth, deep age ridges looming large. “Suck it.” Her bicep turned to steel, crushing my skull like a vice, and she forced my head up till my face submerged in an ocean of soft tit-flesh. That vanilla perfume painted my world. I pressed my tongue against her nipple as she released my jaw and snatched my wrist, slamming it down against the bed.
She continued to gyrate against me, each thrust coming faster, harder.
Suddenly, violently, Miss. Fratelli cupped my forehead and jerked my head back down – her huge arm like a cog in a piece of heavy machinery. With a loud pop, her breast flopped out of my mouth. “Get that whole tit in there,” she commanded, leaning over to drape the warm flesh of her breast over my face. She pulled back up with her vice-of-an-arm and I grabbed as much of her huge breast as I could with my free hand, stuffing it into my mouth. Though my jaw protested painfully against the overload of titflesh, I sucked hard as I could. Meanwhile, Miss. Fratelli pumped away, smushing my hopelessly outmatched penis. Miss. Fratelli pulled me in tighter, forcing even more tanned titflesh into my mouth. Pain exploded in my jaw and I pressed desperately against her chest. Miss. Fratelli ignored me and brutally slammed into my pelvis, forcing air violently past my nostrils. With each thrust, her massive bulk forced a little more air out than I could get back in. I was slowly suffocating.
She leveled out the speed of her fucking, but increased the power with every thrust, ramming me again and again, bouncing our bodies into the air. Miss. Fratelli growled louder, nearly screaming. Pressing her tit to the side and turning my head, I managed to eject the soft flesh from my mouth. After a few grateful breaths, I squeaked, “Is that…”...all you got? But I couldn’t bring myself to finish the taunt. My love for strong women was losing to sheer terror. It’s one thing to read muscle mommy fantasy on the internet, but it’s quite another to be under the massively muscled frame of one. Trapped helpless beneath a body capable of breaking all the bones in mine. Claustrophobia lurked in the edges of my mind. There I lay: held tight between Miss. Fratelli’s bulk and single monstrous arm. My one arm pinned hard. I pressed with all my might as Miss. Fratelli rammed away, but of course I could not move her arm one bit. I tried to bridge, but was slammed back down by her next thrust. I was trapped in ecstasy, my balls quickly heading toward release. But also in agony. Suffocation and claustrophobia are a potent combination, intwined in primal nightmare. And as Miss. Fratelli held me helpless in that thick, steely arm, slamming away with terrible force – the soft skin of her big breast and the vanilla scent of her perfume hovering over my face – a wave of wild panic welled up inside me.
What if she goes too far? What if she really hurts me? What could I possibly do about it? A six-foot-two, two hundred twenty-five pound, muscular man terrified and helpless beneath a fifty-seven-year-old woman. Her every inch, every movement, making clear she could crush him flat if she lost control.
And Miss. Fratelli seemed to have lost control. She slammed me harder, the power of her thrust dislodging her huge bed, its legs protesting with a loud screech. The pain in my abused pelvis became unbearable. Again, Miss. Fratelli slammed into me, bouncing us into the air, further moving the bed, shooting a new wave of pain through me. “Muh…” I choked on my words, the syllables swallowed by forced breath and fear. “Muh-Miss. Fra-a-telli... p-please... that’s t-too... hard!”
“Sorry,” she grunted, “I’m pent-up.” But she only pounded me harder. “I need this.” She slammed into me again. I struggled beneath her, bucking desperately. But she held me so tight I could do little more than wiggle. I stared at the bed frame, bouncing upside-down in my vision, hoping in my desperation that it somehow held a way out.
Looking back at Miss. Fratelli, I reached up and pressed against her chin. But she forced her head down till her ear was against mine, still pounding away. I pressed against her shoulder, her huge breast, then her tummy, as I squirmed my legs, seeking an impossible escape.
I never noticed my own orgasm.
But I sure as fuck noticed hers. Her arm tensed to a crushing pressure, hand clamping down on my wrist like a vice. I howled in pain as she spasmed above me, grunting.
Finally, Miss. Fratelli fell off me. I rolled to my knees. Cum ran down my leg and my heart raced. The tan of the walls, the brown of the bearskin, the ivory of the sheets, everything was delineated in high contrast through my panicked eyes, as I tried to swallow down my terror.
I felt a slap on my ass. Searing pain exploded through my left buttock as Miss. Fratelli sent me headlong into the headboard. Reaching out with both hands, I stopped myself just short of cracking my skull. “Wipe yourself down. We’re going again.”
