Gone with the squeeze 
by Barbunny
The muscular thighs of a beautiful secretary educate her male boss, that the female thighs are the strongest part of her body. And then comes the twist. Head twist, that is.


"Have you seen Mr. Dominguez?" asked one of the prison guards as he passed by
the warden's office. "Haven't seen him around" I said, tightening the awesome
grip of my huge thighs around Mr. Dominguez's head. It's been several years
since I have become the personal secretary of the warden in the
maximum-security prison in the Dallas area, Mr. Dominguez. As always, he was
in his favorite, preferred position. I can only be proud of the fact that it
is HE, who invented this daily squeeze-pattern. He would slip his upper body
through the hole in the back of my chair from behind, placing the back of his
head on the seat of my chair, his face staring upwards, waiting. I was amazed
every time I entered the office, watching him in place, eyes closed, expecting
the murderous female squeeze that was about to take place in his own office,
at a male prison he heads. I would raise my skirt all the way, exposing a
gigantic pair of womanly-muscled thighs, as I strode toward my desk where he
was lying, half of his body is in the air behind my chair. I would hover my
naked crotch inches from his nose, knowing he wouldn't dare to open his eyes
to take a look, relying on his long-term memory, when my ample crotch had
decided to break his nose after a furtive glance. Since then, he never even
thought about opening his eyes, while my behind was in the vicinity of his
still-recuperating nose. He could officially be considered legally blind.
After a few patiently-awaited moments, I would, without notice, lift his head
skywards to my charming crotch, while at the same time I would sit on his
chest, closing both of my renowned thighs below the back of his head. Only
then, as I began the squeezing process, I would put back my skirt in place,
allowing its hem to hug my knees again. I know it's a tough job, but somebody
has to do it.

As a man, Mr. Dominguez could have only imagined how it appeared from the
outside. Outside of the feminine thighs that were daily engulfing his neck in
a way that made it practically impossible for him to get loose. A sitting
woman, with a bulging object captured in between her covered thighs, pressing
through her skirt. I was continually astonished at his ability to withstand
the full pressure of my compressing thighs, enduring the unnatural, cruel
angle in which his head was placed, perpendicular to the rest of his body. I
don't need to let a warden's head get in the way of my working day, I had
decided. A friendly head-squeeze here and there can certainly help motivate
workplaces in times like these, and may be worth more than your Christmas
bonus. But I quickly found out that the simplest clerical responsibilities I
had, caused my Berlin-style walls to crush the bones along the sides of his
head. The more relentless my thighs are to his bones, the bigger my bonus is
in the end of the year. As a result, every paper stapling, every pencil
sharpening, every stamp licking, causes the awesome crushing pressure to be
passed on to the consumer, as they say, in the form of neck to thighs
relationship. What a difference a mere few tasks - and a healthy pair of huge
thighs - can make. It was just amazing. There's an old saying among my past
employers: 'You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs'. Well, those
employers of mine came from all walks of life, but they ended up in all
squeezes of death. And the rest of them, as they say, are history. To me, it
seemed like every female secretary in the nation was doing her male boss the
way I was. It felt like it has become America's favorite pastime. Squeezing.
Managerial science tells me that, one way or another, the average male
employer is thighly squeezed twice a day, and significantly more if his female
secretary has tremendous thighs like mine. This results in an enormous
pressure buildup that can, later in the working life, cause an explosive and
embarrassing medical condition known as "the Sudden-Squeeze Death Syndrome"

>From time to time I would, sure enough, look back over my shoulder at my
firm-ative action, as he would call it, smiling to myself as I saw his
occasionally-twitching body, parallel to the ground, with his feet touching
the floor, his knees bent in a strange way. It was then that I always heard
those crushing sounds of his cervical bones. No wonder. My weighty thighs were
so tightly squashing his neck, that every secretarial, little motion I have
made must have placed him in a near-death situation. Not to mention actually
turning around in my chair to look to the rear. They say you can't drop a coin
when there's no slot, I thought to myself, but you certainly can squeeze a guy
to the point of no return in MY slot. 'Regularization of boss-employee
emotional closure' was what he called the squeezing, thighs-closure process,
and it has nothing to do with your digestive system. It is a euphemism for a
more conventional procedure, crushing the life out of a male boss. The
important thing is that this Mr. Dominguez, using his squeezed brain, has
found a new, innovative and - above all - pleasurable way to allow my annual
bonus to grow to new heights.

I stroked Mr. Dominguez's protrusive head, constricting my exacting thighs
around what was left of his crushed gullet, causing his
thighchologically-abused face to be craned toward my crotch with every
squeeze. The continuous, uninterrupted friction demonstrated by my concrete
thighs and the sides of his neck contributed, I knew, to global warming, but
thigh warming was much more pressing in those occasions. I could allow myself
to fall into sedentary meditation, knowing my boss was secured in the
most-protected, best-guarded prison in the world. A prison of the tyrannical
female thighs. A prison he should hope escaping from either when it decides to
open up its thighs, or when a 'terrible thing' happens. And we both knew
exactly what that meant. If I only wanted to, if I only felt like it, his
straight, vertical throat would be a bygone by the sheer strength of my
fear-inspiring thighs. After all, accidents do happen in prisons all the time.
But to him, as always, when things seem to be at their darkest, there's
perpetually a sign of hope. Though my thighs-control mechanism has been
incrementally harder to maintain, and though my cold-blooded squeezes raised
questions about the effectiveness of his masculinity, I could feel his
affection through the thigh fondling his hands were performing on my leg
muscles.

I remember the first time I came to the prison for the job interview. I
remember the deafening screams of the inmates, when they saw me for the first
time, walking into the prison's gym with Mr. Dominguez, as a part of the
facility tour. "I would love to spend the rest of my life between your legs,"
the toughest-looking prisoner shouted at me, wriggling his back in a
feminine-mocking way against a thin pole, much like the girls do in a
stripping joint. "I think I'll have to explain to that man a thing or two," I
said to Mr. Dominguez, hesitantly walking toward the inmate in a girlish way,
wondering how could this man tell, when the roomy, flowing skirt I wore hadn't
revealed much. "No, please, he could be very dangerous, don't get anywhere
near this guy" Mr. Dominguez yelled at me as I stepped closer to the man,
standing inches from his face.

"Please tell me your name" I whispered, slowly raising my arms to the pole,
holding it above his head. Expectedly, he smiled into my face, as I whisked
myself up in one motion, holding the pole, slipping my upwardly thighs in
between my arms, and ending the move halfway, my buttocks floating in the air
adjacent to his face. There was an uncompromising silence in the gym, as my
skirt sluggishly made its way down my voluminous thighs, exposing the
womanly-huge supremacy tools that were about to earn the respect they deserve.
I usually call it the benefit of hindsight, or, more specifically, the benefit
of a behindsight, when a man is confronted by my powerful behind, realizing,
for the first time, how strong it is, how dangerous it is to his face.

"Spencer," he fearfully said to my bare bottom, his voice barely above a
whisper, looking straight forward at the competent rump that was haughtily
presented inches from his eyes. That was all I needed to hear. I brought my
immense butt closer to his nose, touching it from both sides, and then I
slowly lowered my craggy thighs along his face, making sure his face is
feeling the insides of my unprejudiced thighs, until they were at his waist
level, horizontally positioned for the squeeze. There was no sudden,
spontaneous thigh movements, only successive, legato, gradual motions,
enabling the female thighs to take their course on the nearest poor victim. Or
rather around him.

"Please don't," Spencer hissed, looking at my outweighing thighs, as they
casually progressed toward his body, my hands still clasping the pole from
above for support. How dare he, I pondered to myself, not looking me in the
eyes, when pleading for mercy, asking for the preposterous request, that a
meticulous pair of female thighs be stopped in the middle of a squeezing
maneuver. My, oh, my, how dare he look at my thigh? I kept moving in, slowly
closing them thighs around the pole, AND encompassing his body all at the same
time. Foolishly, he raised his arms above my moving thighs, making way for my
terrifying objects of destruction to come closer to his torso. I progressively
brought those outrageous thighs of mine to the neighborhood of his sides,
introducing the inner, most-muscular part of them to the bones that were about
to be granulated

"please don't squeeze me" he said to my constricting thigh, looking at them
like a stillborn baby. In a matter of minutes, he is going to be more like a
stillsqueezed man, I mulled, as I slowly started to sandwich his body in
between my angry thighs. Thighs that can be only described as squeezateurs.
They lived to squeeze, they lived to crush, and they loved to overpower the
crestsqueezen man that happened to be dumb enough to get in between them. And
when they began to really take those squeezes seriously... oh, man, they
simply flocked closer toward each other by leaps and squeezes. I called them
squeezemongers.

"What was it you said about spending the rest of your life between my legs,
honey?" I asked, gradually contracting my furious thighs inwards, witnessing
the squeegasmic feeling of a man apprehending the simple fact, that it could
very well be the last moments of the rest of his life. And then it came. The
real squeeze. The real handling of the courageous male body with those
dreadful female thighs, putting forth the bodily corporal punishment they know
to bequeath so well. I looked at Spencer right in the eyes, and scrupulously
made it happen.

His tremulous hands groped my pivotally squashing thighs as they redecorated
his internal organs with full feminine power, the absolute silence in the gym
allowing the inmates and Mr. Dominguez to listen carefully. Listen carefully
and hear Spencer's back implode onto the pole from both sides by the sheer
strength of my barbunnyian thighs. After I secured his fractured back to the
pole in a horseshoe-shaped manner, I crossed my bulging calves on the other
side of the pole, allowing my hands to let go of the pole. Still looking into
his eyes, I casually leaned back in the air to the pleasurable, horizontal
position, increasing the pressure level of my squeezing thighs, thighs that
had to support the full weight of my respectable body, in addition to the
important task of flattening his torso onto the pole.

"This one is slated for the electric chair, so I don't think you should go
through with this," said Mr. Dominguez, as he heard Spencer's backbone
collapsing into the pole by the complete violence of my power-producing
thighs. "I believe it could be considered as a cruel and unnatural punishment,
prohibited by the eighth amendment, the way your mountainous thighs exerting
their jurisdiction on poor Spencer," he continued, not removing his gaze from
my effectual thighs. It looked as if he was talking straight to my thighs.
Now, wait a minute, I thought to myself, he WAS talking to my thighs.

Noticing the color of Spencer's face turned dark red, I've decided to put an
end to this absurdity. The inmates are going to respect the new secretary's
thighs, and there was only one way to guarantee that. It's so strange they
call it 'to be put to death', I mused. How can you be put to it? But then
again, it all came back to me, seeing how this Spencer is haplessly put in
between my solid thighs. Placing my hands on the back of my head, I began a
slow ascension, until my body arrived next to his, my gigantic chest engulfing
his head. I secured his face to my ample breasts with my arms clutching the
back of his head, and plunged back, taking his upper body downwards with me,
but keeping his waist anchored to the pole by the deadly thighs of mine. As I
saw the way his back dropped together with my bountiful chest, I understood
why they call it a 'backdrop'. The way his upper body rose and fell with mine
was like magic. It felt as if we were meant for each other...

After several pull-ups, I figured the time was right about now. In a one
bloodthirsty, cruel motion I...

To be continued. Barbunny3111@yahoo.com