She does her best – and most lethal leg work – when men are sleeping…
Chrissie parked far down the dirt road near a camping area that was fairly deserted this late in the season. The rugged blonde jumped out of her pick-up truck, her mile-long legs whipping sideways out of the cab, booted feet crunching the soft dirt under her 200 pound frame. She pulled up her tight, short jean cutoffs that hugged the girth of her resplendent thighs, muscles erupting from the denim that squeezed into the flesh exploding from them. She bent and pulled up her low gray socks that topped her leather boots and straightened up to pull her hair back in the truck side mirror, her biceps swelling mightily, thick and tanned, exposed in her sleeveless flannel shirt.
“Let’s go ladies,” she said, patting each thigh as she talked to them, and then running like the wind into the woods, snaking around trees as if it were midday instead of midnight, thighs throbbing on impact with the ground, quivering into flexed steel.
Like a deer she ran, all six feet flowing muscularly, winding down unseen paths toward the campsite and the sole tent she’d seen earlier in the day. She waited outside the tent and heard the man snoring. She knew he was alone. Creeping up, she slowly and quietly unzipped the front of the small tent, crouching, quads rippling like liquid steel under the tight, tanned skin. She peered inside, her senses alive with possibility. She saw him in his sleeping bag, a cocoon bag zipped tightly around his neck to ward off the chill of the fall air. She saw her breath cloud in the air still air of the tent as she climbed stealthily inside, closing the flap behind her.
She looked at his small form in the sleeping bag and smiled; he was smaller than she’d though earlier, probably 5-4, 120 pounds, a tiny little middle-aged man with balding head and beard, a nature lover who loved getting away alone whenever he could. Chrissie sat down beside him, crossing her legs Indian style, the giant calves flared above her socks and boots, her thighs hard and waiting. She reached for the bag with both hands, bunching the fabric in them and slowly, quietly lifting it off the ground then gently slipping her giant legs around it. She fitted her thighs close to his body, her crotch snuggled against his side, and it wasn’t until she laced her booted feet together that he awoke with a start to turn to his side and stare directly into the glow of Chrissie’s face.
“What…” he said with the uncertainty of fresh consciousness in the middle of the night. “Who…”
She didn’t say a word, not now, not throughout. She looked at him, a Mona Lisa smile on her pretty face. He started to try moving out of the bag, but it was zipped tight to his neck and now his hands were trapped at his sides – which were wrapped up in Chrissie’s long legs. He looked down, frightened by what he saw: Chrissie’s tree-trunk thighs bronzed and big, around his tiny middle. He tried to sit up. Chrissie squeezed. He screamed in pain as he felt the cords of her adductor muscles slice into his belly and back.
“Pleae….miss…I don’t know what you want…money…my wallet over there,” he nodded furiously, eyes wide open and fully awake now, terror etched within them as he pointed the way with his head to his pants in the corner of the small tent. “Please…take it…”
Chrissie stared. And squeezed. He roared in agony, hoping someone would hear though he knew for a fact there was no one for miles. He looked down; inches away was the big woman’s top thigh, the one around his front, so big and so thick it spread like a meaty plank from just under his chin to his tiny waistline, it had to be 35 inches round, he thought for some reason, and hard as steel as it mashed his puny middle in its grip, forcing it down onto her other thigh, the adductor in that rock-ribbed limb pinching painfully into his spine.
“Ple…..” he tried and then could speak no more.
Chrissie looked at him, cocked head, a curious look, the look of a child who was pulling the wing off a fly just to see what would happen. Her mouth was closed, brow knitted in a questioning furrow as she continued to mount the pressure of her scissors against him, watching the air being squeezed from him, watching his eyes bug open, watching his mouth hang agape unable to scream, to talk, to beg, for the air being scissored from him, all voice gone. He begged with his eyes, imploring her for release, head lolling on skinny neck. Chrissie jolted him, punching her thighs hard on his crunched guts and his tiny body spasmed with the jolt, eyes closing quickly and quickly reopening to beg for his life.
She cocked her head the other way now, slowly, the bull neck corded above her giant muscled breasts that heaved sweatily in the cold air as she worked him in her thighs. The slow, steady squeeze increased. She felt something pop and watched is body snap up in the bag, his bony knees pressed against the silky fabric, his neck bleeding now as it was cut by the zipper of the bag around it. One rib caved, then another and a third, the jagged edges of the bones within tearing his insides up. And still he couldn’t scream because of the air squeezed from him, only a foamy ribbon of bloody spew oozing from his mouth as his eyes began their roll over to white as the end neared.
Now it turned pleasurable for Chrissie, watching him break in her thighs, the way it always did. Her own eyes rolled over white for far different reasons than his. Her thighs tightened and bore down deeper, biting into his flesh through the bag. She shook, rather her thighs shook involuntarily from the incessant inward squeeze, the way her thighs would shake after too many reps on the leg press machine at the gym that always resulted in men standing around, shaking their head at the insane blonde working the machine far beyond comprehension. Her thighs quivered and quaked and crushed, her entire lower body shaking and undulating with the finality of her death squeeze. She tilted her head back and pressed her crotch into his broken sides, feeling the bones grate against each other, feeling the inside of him bubble raw against her thighs. She bit her upper lip now, pinching it in her teeth, grinding her pussy through her shorts against him, feeling his broken hip bone on that side grind back as she scissored and squeezed and bludgeoned him in her thighs.
She came with a small yelp, the only sound she’d make, her mouth open to let it out, feeling and tasting the small trickle of blood drip from her upper lip to her tongue, savoring the tart bitterness of it, the salty tang, running a wet tongue soothingly over it as she snapped her thick hips and all-encompassing thighs on him, going over to her orgasmic world and leaving behind the one in which a huge muscular blonde girl was shaking and snapping her scissoring thighs with such brute force around a man trapped in a sleeping bag that his head whipsawed from side to side like a rag doll, his neck broken from the severity of the shaking, his insides mashed to a bloody pulp, his face a mass of ruptured blood vessels from the pressure, his eyeballs and nose and ears and mouth oozing red.
She came long and she came hard and she squeezed longer and harder, those thighs working toward each other on an unstoppable mission to scissor whatever lay between them out of their way until they could meet, having squashed the intrusion flat and away. By the time she stopped coming, her big body not shaking anymore with lethal orgasmic fury, he was long dead, his tiny body squeezed as flat as a tube of toothpaste. She giggled to herself as she loosened her mighty thighs and felt his destroyed little body try to rush back into some semblance of human shape. She finally unhinged her gigantic calves that had been wound round each other and slipped her huge bottom leg out from under him. She knelt by him and looked down, his eyes open and staring into space.
She crept out of the tent and raced back into the night…..
The End
