The squeezer takes it all by Barbunny Huge thighs of a beautiful secretary vote off sixteen men by simply squeezing their heads, one at a time. Will they stand the awesome, majestic pressure? by barbunny3111@yahoo.com "Are you sure you haven't seen Mr. Dominguez?" asked one of the prison guards as he passed by the warden's office. "Haven't seen him today," I responded, clamping down on Mr. Dominguez's throat with my astrophysical thighs as I made myself comfortable on his crushed face. It has been months now, that my elephantine butt is habitually taking advantage of the squeezing procedure in the prison's warden office. It's a form of feminine squeeze that would be more cranially destructive to Mr. Dominguez in the long run than almost any other course of thighs' action. It all began a few months ago, when I walked into my office, looking forward to the usual, daily squeeze. It almost started to become boring, though whenever those killer thighs of mine take action, they are translated into a significant, lethal force. Force to be squeezed with. And than I suddenly saw it. It just stood there, majestically. It was a new desk, but one that did not distract the line of sight of the prison guards walking down the corridor. Underneath my new desk I saw Mr. Dominguez, the warden, lying on the floor, his unfruitful head is tilted on the seat of my chair, with his face looking upwards, waiting. Oh my, I thought to myself, I just can't turn a blind thigh to such an innovative behavior. I stepped closer toward my chair, lifting my spacious skirt, exposing the prison's weapons, as the inmates like to call my terrifying thighs. Those thighs of mine have become now a legend of the prison. Squeezing the newly-admitted, unruly inmate has become a long prison tradition, where I would place the new criminal's smiling head in between my skirt-clad thighs, and simply start squeezing. Mr. Dominguez calls it keeping him in custody. Thighs' custody. And it really wasn't in the eye of the beholder. It was in the thigh of the besqueezer. It wasn't simply a failure of his common sense, of his danger-avoiding instincts. It was a failure of his imagination. How could he have anticipated my feminine thighs to be so strong and deadly? How could he have anticipated that my huge thighs could give him the favored maneuver of the experienced, namely, the unconditional squeeze? From this first squeeze on, they belonged to my thighs, much like a marsupial belongs to his mother. I carefully mounted my chair, straddling Mr. Dominguez's body, contemplating what kind of a squeeze should come next. Lifting my skirt all the way, my solid buttocks hovering inches from his cowardly face, it suddenly struck me. The squeezing creativity of this guy could be taught in universities. His thighic inventiveness should be learned in the Pentagon as textbook cases. There was a simple fact I realized he took into consideration, as he was heavily gasping onto my levitating butt. There was no way for him to know WHEN my brutal bottom will decide to come down on his gasping face. He was taking in air in gallons, as if every breath was his last one. As if he knew my ominous posterior would not let him know when the squeezedown will happen. Knowing it was the 'squeeze of passage' of a lot of gratifying workdays to cum, I spread my thick cheeks above his expectant face, realizing the simple fact that once I jam those governing buns of mine onto his respectful face, he hasn't got much of a future ahead of him. Our federal penitentiary reports weren't accurate lately, and he said it was my fault. I have had it up to here with his macho character. Someone was going to barbarously pay for those inaccurate federal penitentiary reports, and it certainly wasn't going to be me. Letting him inhale my rear essence for minutes, I just crouched there, within squeezeshot, remembering how my thighs vibrated when he devotedly phrased the 'when the squeezing gets tough, the tough gets squeezed' motto. He always used to say that whenever he deliberately puts his head in the danger zone, after witnessing how my huge thighs make his own pale by comparison, it feels like he literally puts his own life on the line. Well, I thought to myself, it's about time I'LL put the line - butt line - on his life. And then, all of a sudden, the minute I felt no air drawn from underneath my muscular bottom for several seconds, my behind took advantage of the element of surprise. In a one bloodthirsty, swift motion I lowered the whole weight of my entire body onto his almost-at-the-limit-of-a-breath face, wondering what would happen next. To my complete consternation, his body jerked upwards the minute my imperious butt crushed his face against the chair, as if a great force was shoving his back from beneath. My understanding thighs did their magic right away, as if instinctively, hereditarily they knew what was about to happen. As his upper body was up for grabs in the air, his face crammed into my behind, they intuitively got closer to each other, in the ubiquitous, universal, feminine motion every woman knows all too well. It's called crossing the legs. I simply raised my left thigh, placing it on top of my right one, as if no male head was stuck in between them. It was as simple as that. Leaning back on my chair, I satisfactorily smiled to myself, looking down, admiring my thighdiwork. But the blame was resting squarely on the shoulders of Mr. Dominguez, in addition to my dramatic thighs. It was a surreal position. Surreal, but nice. His body was extending over my hard-as-stone thighs, in an arched, bridge-like manner, while his squashed neck was expendably wedged in between my commodious thighs, his face affectionately counterbalancing my behind. He literally was captive in my butt, but jeez, he should have known by now there are some cruel thighs out there. As for the mystery of his willingness to participate in such inexorable squeezing, that's a question that might never be answered. From that day on, it became a routine squeeze. A bit of human drama, instigated by a man whose ego was bigger than his ability to challenge my impatient thighs. And to think that it is his own office, and the most hazardous, thighly pressure occurs when I conduct the simplest secretarial duties. Every time I pick up the phone, every time I turn pages, he gets the awesome crushing pressure, absorbed by his poor face. Getting the better part of my lethal thighs, he's always about a squeeze away from being evenly flattened out, as I casually squeeze the flow of life out of him, barely blinking an eye. There are few things sexier than a pair of huge, highly crossed thighs crushing the male resistance out of their owner's boss. Which brings us back to the topic at thigh. I know he could fire me, and I know you should not bite the hand that feeds you, but you certainly should squeeze the face that services you. And service his face did. And then came the typing. An incessant, rhythmic movement of my hands that unintentionally caused immense pain to the male face under my butt. I wonder why they call it 'shorthand,' when it sounds more like thick thigh. The shredder-like thigh squashing was more detrimental to his head than anything known to womankind on the face of the thigh. Ever since I can remember, I had always had strong legs. But the way my tremendous thighs squeezed him, while his head was jammed underneath my behind, was not a pretty sight, though it unquestionably was pretty awesome. I sanguinely looked forward to squeezing him almost as much as I looked forward to my justifiably earned Christmas bonus. Sitting there on his expired face, keeping the forcible pressure on, I casually leaned back in my chair, thinking about the game I've played yesterday with the inmates, voluntarily accepting the uncompromising, horrifying rules of the tournament. It's simply called Survivor, and it was devised by - who else - Mr. Dominguez. There were sixteen volunteers, he called them the castaways, that were willing to deliberately, with self-premeditation, place their feeble heads in between my awaiting thighs, while in the most unsafe-to-males position. Stretched out, extended in the air, while I'm lying on the floor. That was good enough for my straightforward thighs, and too bad for them volunteers. The point was though, that I will honestly try to eliminate each inmate equally, by decapitating them, and the last one to survive my murderously squeezing inner thighs would get to escape the prison at night, with the blind eye of the warden. "What in the name of the Holly Thighs is wrong with you people?" I asked all sixteen prisoners that were humbly, speechlessly standing in the jail's basketball court when I entered with Mr. Dominguez. "You all must have a real short memory," I said, slowly raising my skirt, exposing the beheading thighs that were going to vote them off, one prisoner after another, by simply squeeze their heads in between them. The mere thought of squeezing the daylights out of them with my enraged thighs, and actually voting them off this way, preventing their chance to escape from the prison AND from my furious thighs, made me flex those feminine weapons of mine to the fullest. I never intend to cause any real damage, unless you count those concave areas down the sides of their faces. As I shifted my ambrosial thighs on poor Mr. Dominguez, clamping down on his quivering face with my behind muscles, I remembered how dignified was this immunity challenge. It was administered on a voluntary basis, much like the squeezedly voting-off process, but from my thighs' point of squeeze, it required much more expertise and ingenuity. There were eleven courageous inmates that accepted the thighly recommended immunity challenge. Holding the rope that hung from the ceiling high above my head, I jumped in the air, invitingly opening my thick thighs widely, waiting for the first poor baby to just step inside. It was the docile Mr. Falconer. He cautiously stepped into the still-oxygenated space between my eager thighs, placing his hands on the outer parts of their immensity. I looked straight into his eyes, as he looked at mine, and I could feel how frightened he was, exploring the enormousness, the monstrousness of the feminine thighs that were about to zoom in on his delicate middle from both sides. It was just like an introductory handshake, though in a matter of seconds there will be an explanatory bodyquake instead. It always amazes me how their pleadings for a PC could be much more persuasive with those supplicant eyes, when no words are spoken. But the only PC Mr. Falconer is going to get would be a Probable Crush from my educational thighs. I thought he knew better. After all their previous experiences in the prison with that portion of the female anatomy, namely my inviolable thighs, he should have known better. Studying my ever-growing thighs, his hands shaking, Mr. Falconer nodded his head in the affirmative, as if to tell me he's ready, as if my tempestuous thighs needed his pathetic approval. Smiling genuinely into his frail eyes, I slowly began closing them thighs around the sides of his body, satisfied to see him raising his arms to make room for the bulging, inner, female muscles that were about to get to know his body real close. Up, close and peripheral. Or, to be honest about the order, peripheral, close and up. I would not forget the second the thickest part of my adamantine thighs made contact with his palpitating median. He simply brought his arms back over my resolute thighs for support, knowing we're going somewhere he'll need those strong thighs to hold him tight, knowing he would WANT my thighs to squeeze him thightly and firmly in seconds. "Brace yourself, Mr. Falconer. Here we go," I whispered, my voice feminine and soft, as I crossed my jutting calves behind his back, having the wonderful, orgasmic feeling in my thighs, as his arms really clamped hard on them from all sides, encompassing the very weapons that were to destroy his body from the inside out. I lifted my oppressive thighs, his male body is femininely sandwiched in between them, as I watched his facial expression while his feet left the ground, hanging in the air. There was a minimal amount of womanly pressure that had to be applied in order for his suspended body to stay afloat, but of course I executed much more, exploiting the simple fact my unrelenting thighs were in full control of the squeeze. In the speed of a roller coaster I went up the rope, making sure my determined thighs were continuously parallel to the floor keeping his frangible frame in between them. Reaching the rafters about forty feet above the remaining fifteen survivors, I slowly, casually, straightened my energetic thighs down, moving forward on the bar. Swinging my legs forward hard and quick, I hurled Mr. Falconer into the air, keeping my hands on the trapeze-like bar that was hanging from the ceiling. He must have known by then, while his body was helplessly swayed in the air from side to side, that the intensity with which he was trying to hold on to my pendulum thighs, would not help him, if I were to decide to open them up in mid-swing. The force of those female thighs, accelerating from side to side in the air, while this pathetic male is hung in between them, would hurl his body into the air, his feeble attempts to clasp those hospitable thighs notwithstanding. What I like the most about my profession are the pthighchological aspects in those squeezed male minds. Maybe it's the direct, female pressure on their heads, that causes them to act in strange ways. This orgasmic irony, that no matter how deadly and cruelly I squeeze, he would still clasp my murderous thighs as if his life was on the line, always sends me over the edge. It's so paradoxical, so implausible. How possibly could that be? He even tried to constrict my already-squeezing thighs on his sides FURTHER! I could not believe it. He was so afraid of actually falling out of my thighs, that he verbatim fell FOR them, trying to bring their immensity closer together onto his compressed torso. I'm used to having my tyrannous thighs pushed and poked by the hapless males that are stuck in between them, but to actually have them males trying to squash that female muscular flesh onto them... Slowing down, I brought my formidable thighs back down, looking at his upper body, gasping for air, as I went into a vertical standstill, or should I say squeezestill, his trunk parallel to the floor. Taking a deep breath, I began the chinup squeezes. I swiftly, abruptly raised my staunch thighs in one motion to the parallel position, rendering his breakable frame perpendickular, while at the same time hoisting my body up with my arms, until my chin was well over the bar. It was then that I heard his bending ribs taking the full feminine pressure into consideration. Slowly cuming back down, I gradually lowered his powerless body aback, smiling satisfucktorily to myself. And then, after several chinups, I saw it. The rugged, craggy ceiling was only four feet away, and I knew his poor head could reach it if my thighs really tried to. In a one bloodthirsty, cruel motion I... To be continued. Barbunny3111@yahoo.com