Squeeze and the city
by barbunny3111@yahoo.com 
The strength of a wife's thighs is put to the test either side of her husband's head. Will it pass? Will it pass away? 


"The doctor said the rib is broken in a very bizarre way" my husband informed
me as he was kneeling in front of me, as always, his face is pressed into my
naked crotch, his hands encircle my thickly-muscled thighs. If it wasn't for
the usual spousal body-squeezing of last night, and the rib snapping it
caused, it could be considered just another pleasant evening. Since my
now-husband, Jim, broke into my apartment some twenty years ago, I disciplined
him severely throughout our marriage. I remember the first night after our
wedding. He thought he was in for some huge-thighed, muscle-bound squeezing,
and other than that, we'll be like a regular, normal couple. Oh heaven how
mistaken he was.

It did take some serious thigh-crushes on the couch, when I'd put his beaten
head, while he still thought he liked that, in between my monstrous thighs,
and simply began squeezing. It was as simple as that. Pure pressure in both
sides of his head, applied by the ruling force of the household. My extensive,
female thighs. But as years went by, I managed, without his consent at first,
to create a real deference and admiration around the house to my appreciated
thighs. I had to overrighteously take my anger out on his inferior head for
some time, but than, when I came home from work every day, he was waiting for
me on his knees, on the floor, waiting for me to take my skirt off, so he
could jam his face into my nude crotch.

I remember the first time I came home from work, the day after he was
instructed to wait for me on the floor. He was there, and he did press his
face to my bare crotch. "Now what" he had asked me, raising his eyes to meet
mine, and at that moment I sensed a touch of masculinity, which had to be
suppressed. I didn't have to do much. I simply stepped forward, without saying
a word, engulfing his head with my atrocious thighs on both ends. I knew it
then and there, that I needed to crush his arrogance out of him with all the
power my thighs could muster in order for him to understand that it's not a
game any more. It's going to be a way of life for him. He would have to find
ways to please me, his beloved and very strong wife. He would have to be
creative in inventing customs that will satisfy me, fulfil my desires. Or
else...

There was no need for words. He WILL understand his place in the marriage
through the full pressure of my capable thighs, that were swallowing his head
now from the front, I thought to myself. I then crossed my feet below his
back, while his face was flattened onto my crotch, the very same crotch he had
hoped to have his fun with. Instinctively he brought his hands to my barbaric
thighs as I was standing above him, his compressed head is stuffed in between
those hydraulic forces of mine, causing his face to travel higher up my
thighs. I was trying to look at his eyes, but there was no way. His whole head
was squashed in my order-restoring thighs.

It was that ever-squeezing night, when I really got the point across. Or
rather in between. Every time I get back from work, where I have to suffer my
boss's macho attitude, I take it out on my poor husband in between my thighs.
He waits on his knees, and when I enter, he positions his head in place,
patiently waiting. I step forward close to his face, taking off my short
skirt, and stand there with my thighs slightly opened for the possible
squeeze. It's the same routine each and every day. My cherished husband is
educated to press his face to my nude crotch, while he stays on his knees. He
is not allowed to look up at my eyes. It is even prohibited for him to look at
them thighs. Thighs that, if I want to, could terminate his very own life in
between them. And then we would start talking as an ordinary couple about 'how
your day went'. The Only difference was that with this couple, the husband's
voice would reverberate in his wife's crotch when the how-your-day-went
routine went on. And, honestly, there was one more small, minor distinction
with this couple. The wife could literally kill her adorable hubby with the
strength of her tremendous thighs. It was as simple as that. And that simple
fact brought about the whole meaning of the matrimony.

I vividly remember the one time when I came back a little early, and he wasn't
there. The minute he had heard the door, he ran to the living room, sliding
into place on the floor, waiting with his head stooped for the awesome, divine
squeeze. He must have known there would be a squeeze-consequence this time,
there had to be one. Ever since we established this thigh-governing
potential-crushing rule of our house, there wasn't a day he didn't wait for my
crotch on the floor when I came home, not knowing whether this was a squeezing
day or not. There were days when I ingenuously conducted a traditional
conversation with my crotch-kneeling spouse. He would talk directly into my
crotch, looking, as ordered, straight ahead into my groin, not daring to
glance up at my eyes. But then there were the thighs days. I would do it in an
abrupt, sudden motion, while he was in the middle of a sentence. I would jump
in the air, as his prone head was there, patiently waiting, catching the sides
of his head with the powerful, inner thighs of mine and staying there in the
air, my legs pointing forward. He would stay erect as long as he could, his
hands grasping my outer thighs for support, as I sat on his shoulders, pushing
the back of his head further down onto my crotch, and slowly squeezing the
life out of him. At first, he would cave in almost before I even started
squeezing, and we both ended up on the floor, in he usual front-mangling
position. But as the squeezing nights passed, he was taught to control himself
in those thigh-jumping, slam-squeezing confrontations. He would manage to stay
upright for a long period of time, perpendicular to the floor, AND to my
embracing thighs. Thighs that controlled his head. Thighs that controlled his
whole world by the sheer strength of their owner, his delightful wife.

"You know I'm sorry," he had said to my crotch the night he was late, pressing
his face forcefully into his familiar spot, as if it would help him. He knew
he had to be punished tonight by the thighs that were harmoniously standing in
front of him, he knew he had to be educated, purified. "How could I know you
were coming home early? Please, I beg you, have a bit of considera..." he
wasn't able to finish his sentence. I jumped high in the air, in the so
to-him-well-known, feminine manner I always do, and slam-fastened my thighs
around his knowing head. His hands clutched, as usual, the squeezing thighs
that were getting closer and closer to each other, but the subsequent pressure
was everything but usual. As he stayed on his knees in the required vertical
position, I simply started to slowly increase the pressurizing capacity of my
horizontal, head-accommodating thighs. I wanted to tell him that I still loved
him, and that he should wait for my crotch, as he was told, even when I'm
early, but he wasn't within earshot anymore. His ears were engulfed by my
wicked thighs, thighs that when settled on a man's shoulders seem to go with
the flow. Or rather go with the squeeze.

If and when I decide to open up those tolerant thighs of mine, I thought to
myself as he was suffocatingly squeezed in between them, it would feel to him
as if he got a new lease on life, life that is literally held in my
controlling thighs. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Tonight, He will
have thighs written all over his face, I assured myself, as I turned on the
awesome pressure, clamping down hard on his easily-broken head with my
relentless thighs. I don't need any wind beneath my wings, I smiled. I need a
head between my thighs. A head to squeeze, to squash, to flatten. I was
amazed, actually, at the length of time he was able to stay on his knees,
carrying the full weight of my heavy thigh muscles. And I could tell his
insecure head had become thigh-wrecked by now. Any other male probably would
have become a repetitious statistic in between my pulverizing thighs by now,
but I knew my own husband. He will survive. Survive the full inward pressure
of my knowing-no-confines thighs. After all, he was used to that king of
pressure. Pressure that when I had asked him to describe, he said he couldn't.
He said it's like pornography, you can't describe it, but you know it when you
see it. 'Well, I guess it's the same with your thighs, ruler' he had uttered
while facing them, 'the pressure they can produce, you can't really describe
it, but you know it when you feel it'. And it was then and there, that I
figured it was time for him to get a genuine, authentic taste of my disastrous
thighs, so I severely tightened my grip on his still-perpendicular frame and
just let it happen.

All of a sudden, I came back to reality, and realized that my poor husband was
still in place, pressing his cute face into my naked crotch, while I was
daydreaming about all those past squeezes. Did he say he had a broken rib?
"I'm glad you were waiting for my gracious crotch down there, sweet, and I
have a special feeling tonight stirring through my head-friendly thighs" I
said to him without looking down, "but what was it that you've just said?" I
was getting ready for the squeeze. My housebroken marriage partner would
suffer tonight, as he never knew was possible, cause my thighs felt like it.
My thighs would not quit squeezing until they will satisfy their need to
crush. Crush the male head that unfortunately happened to be in between them.
But what was the thing about the broken rib?

"The doctor said the rib is broken in a very bizarre way" he mouthed to my
knowing crotch, as I remembered the sound body squeezing I administered on him
last night. "He said he could detect a strong female thigh marks near the
visceral area." And then it hit me. I don't know how I got the idea, but we
had to act quickly. "Well, Jim, I need you to listen to me, and listen
carefully. I want you to go to the other phone in the dining room, and listen
as I dial 911. It's a serious matter, so when I signal, you'll speak heavily
and imperfectly into the receiver. It's a risk we're taking, but there's a lot
of money to be made, so stay focused."

"Hello this is 911, how can I help you?" the female voice said.

"You've got to come quickly, I think my husband was beaten by the Dallas
strangler." I said to the phone, looking at Jim from the couch in the living
room, as he listened, realizing it was the overblown insurance money I was
after.

"The famous Dallas strangler?" asked the delicate, soft voice, as I saw my
husband delightfully smiling, willing to cooperate.

"You bet that's the one. Now hurry please, he has a broken rib" I stated,
making myself comfortable on the couch, as I realized my nude thighs were
vibrating with gratification at the thought of gathering all that money.

"But the Dallas strangler usually attacks the heads of her victims, breaking
facial bones, and fracturing the skulls of her poor male casualties, without
hurting their torsos." There was a moment of silence. I could see the smile on
my husband's face fading, as the realization of what had to be done sank in.
it was inevitable. I sorrowfully and slowly opened my colossal thighs, inching
my naked butt to the edge of the couch, looking lamentably straight into his
eyes across the room, as he was turning red, knowing the strength of his own
wife's thighs would have to be oddly utilized in order for the money to be
secured.

"Are you still there, miss?"

"Yes I am. And when I say it's the Dallas strangler, I mean it is her." I
emphatically declared, gradually raising my muscle-equipped thighs into their
regular squeezing position, smiling casually into my husband's overemotional
eyes from the wide space in between them thighs. "You just didn't let me
finish. She did all of those things to him, too. She did crush his head in the
known reverse squeeze of hers, and she did break several bones there too. I
don't care about the money offered to the next victim, as they had said on the
T.V, but please, we need some medical attention here and you better hurry up."

"O.K. Help is on its way"

There was another moment of silence. I could see the apprehension in my
husband's face, the fear in his eyes, as we both hung up the phone. He stepped
closer to where those dreadful thighs of mine were, the thighs that are about
to perform the most sacrificial act a wife could do on her husband. Squeezing
his head to the point of breaking. And the more pressure those horrifying
thighs apply, the greater the financial reward the couple will get from the
insurance company. The couple WILL get the reward, but it's doubtful if the
male end of the scam would get to enjoy any part of it.

He stood in front of my upwardly, huge thighs, shaking, frightened, gazing
toward the opening that his head will be voluntarily and deliberately placed
in soon enough. "I think we both know what we have to do, sweetheart" I
solemnly said to him, curling a finger at his trembling figure, spreading my
awaiting thighs a little further apart, to make a lot of room for his
breakable head to be bury in. "We better get it done as painless as it
possibly could be, darling. I'll try not to accidentally kill you with my
enthusiastically squeezing thighs."

He said no word. He just reverently stared at my bulging thighs, unbelievably
preparing himself for the most priceless offering a husband can provide for
his beloved wife. A head. A head to squeeze in between her
feminine-yet-persuasive thighs. A head to do with whatever she wanted to. A
head to break.

"You know that I love you unconditionally, and that we do it for the both of
us, honey, don't you?" I whispered to him as he quiveringly came closer,
taking hold of my obscene thighs, bracing for the deadly squeeze. "Wait" I
said. "I want you to look me in the eyes. I think you deserve it." He
unwillingly and listlessly raised his eyes from the crotch he was looking at,
gawking at my stern eyes. "I need you to know that no matter what happens in
the next few moments, I really love you, my sweet little hubby. And I would
never mean to hurt you in any way, shape or squeeze, but we really have to do
it. Now I want you to look me in the eyes and honestly tell me, do you
completely believe me?"

There was no reply. My loved husband silently bent his head downwards, pressed
his soon-to-be-broken face onto my expecting crotch, and waited. It was then
or never. The ambulance will be here any minute now. "Brace yourself, my
darling. Here we go" I said, slowly beginning the motion of the closing
thighs, closing on my own husband's head, closing on his world, closing on his
existence...

**********

"Something terrible happened," I said to the ambulance guys as they knocked on
my door. "Oh I'm so sorry. You were too late."

squeezing comments? i'd love to hear: barbunny3111@yahoo.com