Chrissy Bikes
by Mr. Nobody
She pumps hard.


--This is adult fantasy intended for mature readers. Don't read it if you
think you'd be offended by either or both the sexual descriptions and the
depictions of erotic violence contained herein. --

She stood in the shower and let the beads pelt her back and shoulders as
remembrances of that afternoon swirled in her head. How good it had felt. A
sense of satisfaction, of skill, of strength, and a desire for more -- so very
much more. She worked the slippery film over her soiled skin, bending down to
let her hands caress the contours of her lower leg as she pointed her foot and
relaxed it a bit. Her hands travelled up past her knee, pausing to cleanse and
massage the hard mounds on the lower thigh. The soap etched away the sweat and
grime of the day, making its way up high between her legs. She scrubbed hard
in that spot, bringing herself to an erotic peak fueled further by visions of
what she had done a few hours before.

Drying herself off with a towel, she had nary a concern. The gravel driveway
left no tracks from her bicycle. Whatever blood had pooled around his head was
his, not hers. There were no prints; she'd used her biking gloves to make the
call and to drink her tea. No one had seen them in that isolated, wooded
setting. No one had heard them; she had muffled his screams so completely. No
motive. No one could connect her to him. Local police would undoubtedly
attribute the crime to transient intruders (owing to the extraordinary
injuries he suffered). Nothing was missing. It'd be chalked up as a
murder/burglary interrupted when the victim's family returned from a swim. An
undetected escape. An unsolved mystery.

Each day over the past four days, she had pumped her bike nearly twenty miles
to a commanding hill, stopping to watch a driveway in the distance. As
expected, the car climbed the drive and exited onto the forest road. They'd be
gone maybe two hours -- swimming, boating, sunning at the dockhouse -- miles
from the spot where she now stood astride her bicycle. Who they were, she
didn't know, and didn't care. A woman and two kids. Probably the mother. His
kids, hers, or theirs -- whatever. All she wanted was the guy who remained
behind in the house day after day.

The human body is resilient. The skeptic might claim that the force required
to, say, literally snap a neck or a back of a healthy adult male, snapping
them neatly and convincingly, would have to be extraordinary. But, if the
skeptic needed convincing, all they had to be was a fly on the wall in the
weight room to watch Chrissy do her leg routines. There was something
captivating, if unsettling, in this teenager's preternatural strength.

It is here where her intense workouts become fantasy planning sessions. She
gets hot and pumped up thinking about places, means, and victims. Breaking
bodies is sexy. In one scheme, she goes hitchhiking and asks her driver to
take some lonely spur into the woods. There she seduces him, fucks him, and
breaks him. He smashes a window with his thrashing feet while trying to break
free. She watches the torque of her scissors change the color of his face.

In another, she rides her bike to the lake late at night. Some local fool
soaks in the moonlit water, cooling off from the humidity. She sits on the
dock and beckons him. He swims over. A clasp of her feet around his neck, a
twist of her powerful legs, and it's over in a few minutes. Locals think it's
a beaver splashing.

Perhaps her most delicious dream is to take on a hiker. This part of the
country is festooned with trails. The prospect of encountering some guy,
seducing him, and then fucking him silly, seems plausible. She'd wrap her
pylons around him, making sure he'd be zipped up in his sleeping bag, and then
she'd bend and twist his body in all sorts of ways. Like a mystery, not
knowing what was breaking inside, she'd listen to his muffled screams and
squeeze until his fluids started to soak through the outer nylon fabric.

When she reaches this level of graphic intensity, she stops her repetitions
and opens her eyes to find her chest heaving and her body glistening with a
heavy layer of sweat. Her crotch itches for action. Her legs are large and
muscular. She examines them with pride, stroking the lean skin pulled paper
thin over her rugged, vascular thighs and calves.

She realizes that the man in that forest cottage -- oh so vulnerable, at that
-- is her best bet. She doesn't know him, and that makes it more inviting.
Some unfortunate soul crossing her path. She wants a true innocent, his face
frozen with a pathethic helplessness as she breaks him for pleasure, for
gratification.

It was three-thirty on the fifth day. Her fifth ride up that hill. The fifth
time the car drove away again. She coasted her bike down the drive to a
capacious lake home. It was hot and sticky. Twenty miles of grueling hills
covered her with a sheen of oily sweat. The skies were grey. A dense canopy of
trees darkened things, save a yellow glow from a light in the kitchen. Resting
her bike against a tree, she surveyed the place. If he wasn't alone, she'd ask
for directions and move on. That's all. If alone, she'd stay and break him.

Climbing the stairs to a deep porch, she knocked. He was about thirty-five, or
so she guessed. Relatively thin. Probably a jogger. The wire rim glasses
suggested an air of intellectuality about him. The story about a leg cramp and
her need to phone a parent for a ride home seemed to work. He ushered her to
the kitchen and motioned to a wall phone. She didn't look back; she knew he
was examining her. Acting to relieve the false pain in her right calf, she
struck up a toe raise that pushed her shapely legs to proportions that
transfixed him. Moaning loudly as if to derive comfort from the chance to
stretch her body, she placed the phone in the crook of her neck and extended
both arms up. Her arms came down to a double-bicep pose that showcased her
strong shoulders and back, her narrow waist, and buttocks that balled up like
marble inside her denim cut-offs. Her sexy sounds, her muscles crackling,
filled the kitchen.

The contrivance ended. She asked to sit on the porch in one of those large
Adirondacks until her ride came. He asked if she wanted a drink. She set the
iced tea on the arm of the large chair and turned attention now to her right
leg, extending it forward, massaging and moaning while smiling at the chiseled
muscularity of her calf. She didn't bother to glance up, for her seductive
self-absorption was immediately at work, entrancingly pulling at him. He
looked at his watch wondering how much time he had left before his family
returned.

The silence of her alluring worship broke with her forward comments about how
shapely her legs were. He knodded mechanically. So much more developed than
last year. So much sexier than other women around here. Right? He knodded
silently, watching the flexes, listening to her protracted moans. She looked
at him and sought confirmation, mid-flex, with a cute, devilish grin. Hard
bike rides will make her even more muscular by summer's end. Right? Again,
awed agreement.

Displaying a skill at seduction he never experienced before, she made him
tremble, overtaking him with her power. Alternating her legs and pointing her
boots to draw up mean flexes of calf and thigh, she weakened his resistance
with very frank talk about horny men, skinny wives, and things she does in
bed. Things ordinary women can't do. Your wife's legs this good? She asked the
question with a lick of her lips. The look on his face told her the answer.

Her audacity hardened his penis, pushing it against his running shorts. She
saw the bulge and smiled at it, her eyes flitting back and forth between his
crotch and his face, her thick tongue hanging out ever so slightly as her deep
breathing coaxed him to leak. He did. The spot on his shorts became larger and
larger.

On his knees within seconds, facing her, she placed her extended leg on his
shoulder. She told him to cool her off, pointing to the spot where he should
begin licking. He lapped up the sweat on her sumptuous calf with the flat of
his tongue. As she angled her head in sexy insouciance, she slumped back in
her chair, arched her back, and pushed up her pelvis. With his left hand
exploring the peaks on her thigh, he mopped the sinewy surface of her calf
with his tongue. She rotated her leg out a bit to let him get at the broadness
of her muscle.

With a determined look on her face, she watched him stare at her as she
unbuckled the top snap on her denims, her zipper releasing a compressed mound
of moist bush. Her right hand worked its way down into the curly hair. Then
one, two, and three fingers disappeared into a rapid masturbation. Her head
arched back dramatically. The moaning increased. Her teeth clamped hard on her
lower lip. Her upper lip curled into a sneer. With her eyes closed, her head
swaying to the motion of her hand between her legs, she flared her nostrils.
He was mesmerized by this sight. She was extraordinary.

Withdrawing her hand, she reached down and dragged her index finger along a
deep furrow on her thigh. He watched her wet finger trace the vein running the
length of her quad muscle. Placing the tip of the finger on his lips, she
rubbed him in a circular motion, then giggled and shoved her finger back into
herself for more lubrication. His mouth now shiny with her goo, she drew the
finger to her own mouth and slowly sucked on it, making sure he caught her
squinting approval of the delicious taste. The silence that befell the place
while she kept at this was testament to his complete surrender.

She stood up and he shuffled on his knees backwards to take his place on the
first step of the porch stairs. Now at an elevation that perfectly matched his
groin to her calves, he dropped his shorts and -- boing! -- his erection shot
forward to greet the pronounced interiors of her lower leg muscles. Ambling up
close to him so she could press his face into her bush, she placed her legs to
both sides of his penis, adjusting her feet to achieve the tightest of
compressions, and began her slow toe raises. The flexing action pulled him in
deeply. Placing her heels together and spreading her feet out, the backsides
of her muscles squeezed with such force he thought his engorged tip,
protruding out the backside of her legs, would be pinched off. With each
accompanying up and down motion of her body, she moaned as her hands pushed
against the back of his skull to nestle the hard parts of his facial features
deeply into her crotch.

Rocking his head with a circular motion while his tongue dug deeply, she told
him to suck on her clitoris as it protruded hard onto his lips. It felt like
the tip of a carrot to him. She didn't restrain herself, pushing his head with
such force he now found it difficult to gasp for air.

Directing him to pinch himself so that he wouldn't spurt it all away, she
released her leg grip and reversed her direction, now turning around and
calf-fucking him with her shapely ass to his face. With a full view of his red
tip moving up and down with her flexes, she achieved increasingly high raises
on the balls of her feet to exaggerate the pull on his shaft. Any second now
and he'd shoot.

Bending forward at the waist, she cupped her hands and caught a motherlode of
his spunk as he began jacking off. As the pearly goo pooled in her hands, she
quickly applied thick coats of it to the front and rear of her lower legs, as
if oiling up for a moment in the sun. She looked up to wink, asking if his
wife ever did this. Again, he shook his head, in silence, in surreal awe. She
examined her shiny hands, smiled at them, and licked them clean, making sure
the sound of her slurpy gulps poked at his psyche.

She turned around to face him, walking backwards and away from him, bending
forward and curling her finger in a come hither invitation for him to follow
her across the porch. He did so, shuffling on his knees like a child drawn to
the promise of candy. Her invitingly dirty talk was of a quality he'd never
heard before, a summons for him to do it with a young musclegirl possessing a
kind of savagely erotic hunger for raw, hard sex, and apparently able to
deliver on every aspect of it.

Standing in front of the panting man, she placed her legs together and
motioned him forward by pointing between her calves, telling him to put his
head in there first. As he complied to what he thought would be a few fun
squeezes, she gripped his neck just as she'd done moments earlier to his
penis. As she began to apply nut-cracker pressure by means of shuffling her
heels together, he yelped in pain, and, then, demanded that she release him.

She ignored his plight. He raised his arms in a futile attempt to pry open her
pincers, scratching her skin with his fingernails, but all this phased her in
the least. As he clawed, scratched, and pried at the big legs swelling against
his neck, the foreboding implications of what she might be up to began to sink
in. She began her fun.

A tingle of sexual arousal rose to a full burn as she looked down on his
struggle to get free. With a few more leg adjustments now firmly grasping his
neck, she fell forward in a controlled manner until she caught herself with
both hands to the sides of his butt -- as if in a push-up position. Her knees
digging into his back and the weight of her thighs driving his chest flat to
the floor, she held him in place. Now she began cork screwing his back with
her pelvis.

With her calves firmly clamping the neck, the grip bent his head up and back
with his face looking down beyond the arc of her calves to her boots firmly
pressed together. The pressure against the sides of his neck was chilling in
effect. So tight was her hold that he could not twist his head to either side.
How silly he appeared to her as she glanced over her shoulder, snickering with
a sadistic air about her. She watched her calves. They were very large and
pulled at his head, like a giant polyp being pinched off, creating an
extrusion force on his neck.

Ferociously struggling to release himself, he pressed his face down against
her calves in an attempt to wedge them apart. A few bursts of anger, curse
words, and now some sharp cries for rescue. She delighted in how much stronger
she was than him.

Looking now at his skinny legs before her, she watched as she made them
involuntarily wiggle in a way suggesting she was seriously injuring his neck
and spine. His spasms rapidly deteriorated into full-blown flails, deathdance
vibrations that delighted her. With a chilling playfulness that mocked him,
she tightened her neck clamp to stimulate more of these convulsions. A mien of
unmerciful cruelty overtook her, inducing more suffering and then watching it
play out in his graphic body movements.

Then, ever so slowly, she began bending her legs at the knees, pointing her
boots to swell her calves, and then lifting her feet in unison. The pressure
on his face spread away his lips until his teeth bore against her skin. The
force bent the frames of his glasses until his lenses popped out onto the
porch.

His bodily tremblings were ominous, and sickening, but not for her. A frenzied
attempt to leverage his body free by throwing her off balance in some way
failed pathetically and did nothing to stop the continued progress of her
legs. The backs of her calves had an absolutely suffocating effect on his
mouth and nose. She glanced back again to watch his head vibrate, wondering
how much more his neck could take.

In an attempt to break the seal of cum-shined muscle that flattened his face,
he managed to pop his face free and look to one side. He did not realize that
she allowed him to do this. She wanted to watch his face more clearly while
her legs pushed against the side of his turned head, an angle that would
permit greater damage to the neck. He was terribly imperiled by his own
miscalculation, and the expression of horror on his face let this be known
very quickly.

His resistance seemed futile and she went for the kill. Using her pelvis as a
focal point, she ground down to increase the turn-on. She felt herself
beginning to come. She pushed up with her arms, arching her head back as far
as it could go. Her barks confirmed the carnal crescendo and joined in
syncopation with the rhythm of her pelvis thrusts.

As she rotated her head back for a final look, the side of his face had now
grown dark and purple, his breathing reduced to a series of eratic shooshing
sounds blown through his puckered lips. An eye bulged, almost distendedly.
There was an otherworldly look about the man. She giggled and bit her lower
lip.

It felt better and better hurting him; each time he'd cry or groan, she'd let
out a squeak of sexy wantonness, hitting him with a wild look, another jerk of
her legs, and an advance in her hard calves. Her exhilaration was magnified as
his exhales now rapidly morphed into nauseating gurgles. She liked the sounds
he made.

With dramatic flair, she s-l-o-w-l-y arched her head and back to maximum
curvature, advancing her legs until -- yes!! -- her boots and her head nearly
touched. With an ominous, husky laugh, she thrust to complete the circle. It
broke his neck. A messy sound. She liked it; the sound of cardbord wrapped in
a wet towel, torn apart; the sound of fibrous rupture deep in the neck.

Her chesty exhale of sastisfaction immediately changed to a higher and then an
even higher pitch as she began a succession of quick, thrusting leg curls,
working the skull violently to tear his neck from his shoulders. Frenetically
bucking her mid- section against his back to get every ounce possible, her
yelps announced the magna-orgasm she had worked so deservedly to earn, soaking
her cut-offs and his shirt with her warm, sticky nectar.

As she wound down ever so slowly, his neck had been reduced to a swollen pulp.
Watching with wanton pride, she smacked his wobbling skull with her calf,
smacking it a second time, and then a third, bouncing him like a ball.

It had to end. A few moments later, ready to leave, she stood there sipping
her iced tea while staring at the crumpled husk on the porch floor. She felt
sexy to be so young and to have such strong, muscular legs. She had enjoyed
hurting him, had enjoyed how her legs broke him so convicingly. A warm rush of
satisfaction coursed her body at how bad his neck looked.

She closed her eyes and hissed with cat-like satisfaction as her hands
converged at the open top of her shorts, where they lingered, where they
started to pleasure her again. The girl's lower jaw swayed lazily to the
rhythm of her pelvis seeking fulfillment. With white-knuckled force, her
strong hands grabbed and wrung her wet denim shorts. She looked down and saw
her vaginal nectar and sweat foam up on her knuckles and fingers as she
squeezed. Stepping over the man's face, she let it drip on his neck, to the
red splotch on his throat where her legs had ripped the subcutaneous vessels
under his skin. She closed her eyes and smiled, and dripped.

Normal activities that evening. After showering, she went for a late bike
ride. She was disappointed. No one was swimming at the lake.