THE DICTATOR WAS KINKY
By BOS


She certainly didn't look very frightening as she lay there, her black 
skin glowing subtly in the light that followed Dorker in from the window 
ledge. Her long legs were in the position of a standing model, though 
she was horizontal, face down. One was straight, the other bent at the 
knee. The result was to strain the nightie bottom just a bit, and to 
outline her own bottom against the delicate nylon. When she moved in her 
sleep, it was the interaction of the two bottoms that kept Dorker's eye, 
though her back was bare at and near the shoulders. Her long dark hair 
lay lightly on her shoulders and the mattress. 
     Dorker had been warned not to take any chances with her. Just do 
it. Don't give her a chance. She's big, they said, and strong, and she 
obviously  knows what she's doing. 
     But she didn't look so formidable on the bed. What she looked was 
irresistible. 
     Anyway, he told himself, since she was asleep, this could be done 
without the knife or the gun. If he used a weapon, that would change 
things dramatically in the eyes of the authorities on this island. Just 
having the gun was a serious crime. 
      He climbed on the bed as gently as he could, with the knife 
between his teeth, just in case. Gently, he kneeled over her, with his 
legs straddling hers. She stirred. He stopped moving. She moved just 
slightly, slowly, her eyes still closed. Storker watched her, alert to 
the possibility that she was awake and planning  something. When she 
stopped moving, she was more on her  side than her stomach. Her bare 
right leg was between Storker's. Storker was paying particular attention 
to her right arm, aware that it was her most  likely weapon for a first 
blow. But it didn't move. Instead, as she moved, it continued to stretch 
toward the edge of the bed. Her forearm hung over the edge. 
      The weight of her arm on her right breast produced a cleavage that 
caught his eye. For a moment, he hung over her, watching the tops of her 
breasts move slightly  as she breathed lightly. Even as this male 
indulgence just started to formulate, Dorker knew it was a mistake. 
      It prevented him from noticing what her right leg was doing. It 
was wrapping itself over the back of his left calf. As he started to 
sense this, she turned back toward her front, not violently, almost 
slowly. He would remember the movement of her breasts as she did so. But 
he wouldn't remember what went wrong: Suddenly, his right knee was no 
longer under him. Having wrapped her leg over his calf, she wrapped her 
foot under his ankle. As her body turned to the right. he lost his 
balance and fell on her. Her right hand had grabbed the sleeve of his 
right 
 arm, and. with both his right side props gone, he fell first onto his 
right side, then, as she continued to pull and turn, onto his back. This 
put part of his back over the edge of the bed, and he panicked, thinking 
that he was falling off. 
      He needn't have worried. She had him. 
      Indeed, by the time he stopped floundering, she had him good. He 
was lying on the bed on his left side, facing away from her. Her long 
right leg was draped over his legs and wrapped under them at the ankles. 
Her right arm was draped over his torso. It wrapped all the way over his 
chest and her hand was actually buried under his weight, with her long, 
slim, lovely fingers wrapped around the wrist of his left hand, which 
was immobile under his own weight. 
     His other arm was also immobile, caught between her long right arm 
and his body. 
     The knife was still between his teeth. 
     Armed, but not exactly dangerous. 
     He could hardly budge, not in any effective way. He tried moving 
every appendage, but none went in any degree in any direction that did 
him any good. She simply had him. 
     He couldn't get any sort of look at her. He felt something soft on 
his head, and he realized it was a pillow. Her head was on top of it. 
His was underneath it. When she moved, she made that a bit more true. 
More of the weight of the mid portion of her body was on his hip. And 
more of her pillow was on his head. 
     They just lay there. He kept waiting for her to say something as he 
struggled to move. But soon he heard not talking, but breathing. 
     She was asleep. The bitch is ASLEEP, he thought. This spurred him 
to suddenly greater efforts to gain release, but --- as if by instinct -
- she wrapped him more tightly and weighed upon him more heavily. She 
responded to his efforts almost as if she was being affectionate. She 
hugged hug him a little harder, snuggle him a little closer. 
     Yet still her breathing was constant. Still -- it was obvious to 
him -- she was basically asleep. He felt that she really hadn't noticed 
that he was trying to give her some trouble. 
     He knew that at some point in her takeover she must have been 
awake. But did that last long enough that she would even remember it? 
She was at least half asleep at all times, it seemed to him. She never 
moved very fast, and she seemed to move as much by instinct as anything. 
He wasn't sure she ever opened her eyes. His presence seemed to be as 
much of a problem for her as blankets falling off the bed in the middle 
of the night, or as becoming tangled in them. 
     Now, really, he was just waiting for her to wake up. 
    He let the knife fall from his mouth. 

                    ******************** 

The dictator was kinky. He liked to watch men and women fight. And he 
liked to see the women win. 
     Indeed, he liked the idea of a society in which men were physically 
afraid of certain women, in which any time a man met a woman, he would 
have to wonder if she could beat him up; and to wonder whether she 
wanted to. And whether she was planning to. 
     He offered to pay any woman who would bring in a man and defeat him 
in a fight in front of the dictator. There were certain rules, of 
course. No weapons. And the man must not be ill or injured or old or a 
mere boy, unless his conqueror were a mere girl. And a huge, fat woman 
could not expect to get much money for dragging in a tiny wimp and 
beating him up. The dictator paid according to how good the show was, 
and he had very strong ideas about what made a good show. Those ideas 
varied a bit from time to time. And he didn't express them directly to 
the  fighters, who actually never even saw him. He expressed his desires 
through his payments. As he went through  phases, word of those phases 
would spread through the country by rumor and word of mouth. 
     It was not a rich country, and it was getting poorer. People did 
what they had to do to make money. The women who pleased the dictator 
made outstanding money. 
     So, slowly, there developed a class of young women who made their 
livings by giving the dictator what he wanted. They would defeat a male 
in battle, then drag him to the dictator's headquarters, pulling or 
carrying or frightening him up the long outdoor stairs on the midtown 
building that looked like a museum on a hill. 
     The female fighters could tie up a man before  bringing him in, but 
only with a scarf, and only around his hands. Some of the women 
preferred to do it this way. Rather than drag in a beaten man -- thus 
taking too much of the uncertainty out of the impending battle -- they 
would bring in one who had only been captured. The rules said they had 
to do the capturing themselves, and could not sneak up on a guy. 
     The yellow scarfs the females used for this purpose became a widely 
recognized symbol of the dictator's game, as did the phrase, "I'm taking 
you in," which the women fighters were supposed to use to announce their 
intentions if the scarf was not present. 
     Behind the museum was a compound that the public knew nothing 
about. Within the museum was the arena/studio in which the fights took 
place and were videotaped, so that the dictator could watch them later 
at his leisure if he wasn't actually present. Nobody ever knew for sure 
if he was present. 
     Sometimes the dictator would provide men for the women to fight. 
The women could agree or decline. But the dictator much preferred that 
the women bring at least one man themselves, because that injected the 
effects of his kink into his society. He liked to fantasize about the 
scenes it created. 
     He made certain that the men fought with all their motivation to 
avoid being taken in. He got the word put out that the more harshly and 
humiliatingly they were defeated before him,  the more rewards the 
female got. This made the women highly motivated to inflict a special 
level of defeat. And defeat wasn't the only punishment for the men. Some 
of them were never heard from again. 
     And so the pattern had developed. A woman would bring in a man, who 
was examined for basic health and was given a suitable length of time to 
recover from the beating that had preceded his arrival. And the match in 
the arena would be set. 
     The fight would have one basic rule: The more  entertained the 
dictator was, the better for the woman. if the man won, what he did in 
the ring was entirely up to him. And, in that case, both fighters would 
be released to the outside world, with no reward and no punishment. 
     As to the confrontations that took place on the outside, there was 
also one basic rule: The relationships between fighters -- and possible 
fighters --- were not interfered with by the dictator's police, so long 
as  weapons were not used and nobody was ganged up on. If, however, a 
favorite fighter of the dictator was harmed by somebody wielding a 
weapon, the wielder was in deep shit. 

                     ******************* 

Attacking a fighter in her sleep was not against the law, just 
dangerous. Coy Salandra knew she was a prime target for any dumb 
testosterone case on the island. She was aware of that every minute of 
every day -- and night --including, at some level, when she was asleep. 
It was always there, part of the life she had chosen. She had decided to 
try to enjoy it. 
     When, a couple of hours after the arrival of her  nocturnal 
visitor, it was time for Coy to get out of bed, she wasn't exactly 
surprised to find a man in her bed, under her control. 
     Dorker's left arm and leg had been asleep for so long that he was 
wondering whether they were out of commission permanently. Indeed, even 
his right arm and leg were in less than perfect condition, having been 
imobilized under the lady's corresponding limbs for so long. As she 
stood above him, stretching her sleepiness from her body, and 
tantalizing the young man, she could see what his problem was. She went 
into her bathroom, unworried about him, especially because of the damage 
to his lower regions she had done in the process of climbing off and 
over him. 
    When she returned, she was no longer in the  diaphanous, short 
nightie that Akbar had been captivated by, so to speak. She now had a 
large towel in her hands. She was drying her hair with it and allowing 
it to cover much of her in the front, though not all that  consistently. 
She wore no clothes. Dorker was standing at the window, wondering 
whether his muscles could handle the downward climb as they had handled 
the one upward. Coy saw, as she had sensed, that he was a good deal 
smaller than her. Most men around here were. He was trim and athletic, 
but not exceptionally muscular, and a bit on the thin side. To be 
willing to mess with her, he must be either a complete fool or a 
foreigner. 
     "Who sent you?" Coy asked, as she tied the towel around her in a 
way that covered what a lady is supposed to cover, and tied it. He 
didn't answer. She turned her back on him and picked up her hairbrush 
and proceeded to put her hair in place, hardly watching the man through 
the mirror, but knowing that he was certainly watching her. 
     Then she turned toward him, pausing dramatically to look at him, 
but continuing to brusher her hair. She slowly walked toward him. He let 
her get closer than she expected to get. She hoped he hadn't lost all 
his fight. If she had wanted to bring about that effect, she would have 
roused herself from her drowsiness when he first entered her bed. 
     She stopped directly in front of him, her ample, enticing cleavage 
all but in his face. His eyes went hungrily to it, as it bounced as she 
brushed. Then his eyes went to her eyes, then back down to her free hand 
and her legs, watchfully. She feinted a quick step into him, her bare 
black knee threatening his groin. He jumped back reflexively, and his 
back was against the window sill. A little smile curled at her lips. 
Angrily, he dove at her, ducking his shoulder and ramming into the 
lady's belly. 
     She took a step back with one leg, even as she bent forward from 
the waist and wrapped her arms around his back. Under his belly, her 
arms connected. One hand continued to hold her hairbrush. The other 
locked around her wrist. And as he plowed into her, she lifted him with 
her arms, using his momentum against him. His feet came off the floor 
and described an arc, until his back came down on the lady's right 
shoulder. Her arms were still wrapped around his midsection. 
     He flailed around, until he realized that that just increased the 
pain on his backbone, which was  excruciating. Worse was the fear. He 
could imagine the backbone snapping at any second. He knew instinctively 
that it was never meant to be in this position. 
     Coy walked back over to her mirror and resumed brushing her long 
hair as the man came to terms with his situation. Her right arm was 
enough to hold him in place. The towel had come off her in the brief 
scuffle, but that hardly mattered. All the man could see was the 
ceiling. 
     "Who sent you?" she repeated softly, almost to the mirror. She got 
no response. So she briefly bent, then straightened her knees. That got 
a response, along the lines of "Aieeeee!! Don't. Don't. Don't." 
     She put down the hairbrush and picked up her lipstick and commenced 
to fixing her make-up with her free hand as her visitor dame to terms 
with his situation. 
     "Nobody sent me," he said. 
     She dipped her shoulder, and he fell to the floor, helpless to do 
anything to soften the fall. She bent over a drawer to pick out some 
pantyhose. He was, almost instinctively, turning over onto his stomach, 
then trying to rise to his knees. As she was pulling the pantyhose on, 
she stepped on his back, flattening him to floor with an "oof!" She 
walked over him toward her closet, and she bent over something and let 
him look at her enticing rear end, wrapped as it now was in the frilly, 
expensively feminine material that hugged her so tightly. She rummaged 
through something, and her hind end jiggled. 
     When she straightened up, she was fastening an equally frilly bra. 
So when she turned around, he saw nothing he wouldn't see on a beach. 
She had managed to go from covered to naked to covered in his presence 
without him catching the part in between. 
     He craned his neck to look up at her large, luscious, imposing form 
as she approached him. Unceremoniously, she reached her hands under his 
armpits and lifted the man to his feet. She wrapped her long right arm 
around his shoulders and started unbuttoning his shirt with her other 
hand. 
     "What are you doing?" he said unsteadily. 
     She paused before answering, continuing to unbutton. His hand -- 
the one the was not trapped between their two bodies -- went to her hand 
to stop her. She stopped. She smiled at him as he looked at her face, 
and she maneuvered his hand into a grip. She started squeezing. 
     Not long after the pain came into his eyes, he was shrinking to his 
knees. She dropped his hand and, once again, reached under his armpit 
and raised him to his feet. 
     "I'm taking ownership of you gently," she explained, in answer to 
his question. "If you'd rather I do it rough, I'll do it rough." Now her 
hand went to his crotch, and she grabbed him forcefully, squeezing 
gently. His hand that was not trapped between their bodies was partially 
immobilized by the pain of the recent squeeze and by the grip of her 
right hand, at the end of the arm that was draped over his shoulder. As 
he instinctively -- and under the weight of her arm -- shriveled up a 
little, folding toward the middle, she said. "But one way or the other 
you're going to know that I own you now, Macho Man. You're mine. 
Completely." 
     She was all but whispering, as her chin now rested on the nape of 
his neck. 
     He knew she was right. 
     She unzipped his fly as he waited to see what would happen. She 
played with him, first stroking him to  arousal, then squeezing him 
firmly. No matter what she did, it made him squirm. 
     "I can give you all the pain and all the pleasure there is in the 
world, Macho Man," she said. "And I can decide when I want to do what. 
That's a pretty good definition of ownership, wouldn't you say?" 
     Before he realized it, he was free. She was gone, and he was still 
curled up. He looked around and saw no one. He looked down the hall, and 
she was walking toward him, with a steaming cup in her hand. She stopped 
and took a sip of the coffee as he stared at her. She put the cup down 
and approached him, noticing that his eyes couldn't quite stay away from 
the cleavage and movement of her black breasts. He backed away this 
time, and formed the stance of a karate fighter. She grabbed his closest 
wrist, his left. She simply wrapped her long fingers around it. He tried 
to pull it back, but couldn't free it. In the struggle she grabbed his 
other wrist with her one free hand. Now she simply backed him up against 
a wall and spread his arms over his head, plastering them to the wall. 
His face, once again, was in her breasts. She pulled him off the wall 
and banged him back into it, his head hitting with moderate force and 
bouncing back into her breasts. She did it again. This time he 
controlled the flopping of his head a little bit and his body absorbed 
the blow, rendering him all but breathless. She did it again, then 
violently  brought his hands down to his sides and wrapped her fingers 
in his and bent his backwards, forcing him to go up onto his tiptoes in 
an effort to reduce the pain. Their eyes met, and a sneering little 
smile crossed the lady's lips. She brought her cheek down to his, and 
she just stood there, letting him inhale her distinctive feminine aroma 
as her lips played lightly at his earlobe. Her thigh felt him growing 
and throbbing. And suddenly she whipped his hands back over his head, 
still bending his hands backwards. This forced his face back down into 
her  breasts. He would have gone farther down, but her breasts stopped 
him. Then, indeed, she put more pressure on his hands and leaned back 
just a bit, giving him the much desired opportunity to sink to his 
knees. As he hung his head in shame there, she rubbed the side of her 
thigh along the same cheek that had just been touching her cheek. He was 
reduced to waiting for what she might do next. His fear did not prevent 
an erection from sticking out through the fly the lady had opened. Now, 
slowly, so that he knew perfectly well what was happening, she 
maneuvered his hands so that when she applied pressure on his fingers, 
he once again was forced to his feet. Now she simply stood there, 
pressing her body against his, impressing upon him the fact that he had 
given himself up to her, that he was only standing there waiting, his 
face in the lady's boobs. 
     Now she let go of his hands, which she had rendered totally 
useless. He looked at her in complete  helplessness. She brought her 
lips gently to his. Very gently. Not quite completing the kiss, she 
began rubbing her thumbs in little circles under his eyes. She continued 
as she drew her face back from his, disappointing him. Now she was 
applying a bit more pressure to thumbs. And a bit more. Instinctively, 
as she rubbed, he brought his hands up to her wrists. But he could not 
stop her. 
     She said, "I'm giving you two great big, beautiful black eyes, 
macho man. And I'm doing it the gentle way. One way or another, I'm 
going to do it. Consider yourself lucky." 
     He looked at her in stupification, and he kept his hands on her 
wrists as she did him. 

                    ************************* 

She had her breakfast, made some calls, watched some television and read 
the paper, all without dressing beyond her large, lacy black bra and 
pantyhose. She was, really, parading herself in front of him, forcing 
him to come to terms with fact that he was afraid to try anything. For 
he surely wanted to. 
     Oh, yes, he definitely wanted to. The big black woman was as sexy 
as any woman he had ever seen in person. Her long limbs moved with the 
certain allure of a cat, their muscles asserting themselves into 
powerful levers, then receding into inviting, tapering flesh. Her large 
breast bobbed and weaved as she moved, presenting themselves audaciously 
to his eyes, then resuming their place. Her bottom strained at her 
meager clothing, grabbing his eye and refusing to let go until she 
turned around, and her breasts grabbed. Her long, angular face  spoke of  
confidence about her beauty and the effect it had on men, all the more 
so as she lightly stroked on make-up that highlighted aristocratically 
high cheek bones that needed no highlighting. 
     She never said a word, never gave the smaller man any indication of 
how she expected him to behave. For a while he watched her from just 
that spot on the wall to which she had pinned his shoulders before 
presenting him with his shiners. When she went to the other end of the  
apartment and stayed for a while, he eventually followed. He had thought 
about climbing out of the window through which he had come. But he was 
afraid that -- especially because of his battered and sore condition -- 
she would catch him, and would be mad. 
      Finally, he edged his way toward the living room, where she was 
now sitting in a recliner, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of 
coffee. Somewhere, apparently in another bedroom, she had found and 
donned a skirt. But she was still covered up top only by her bra. And 
her feet were bare. 
       He wondered whether he should go into the kitchen and get a 
knife. But he thought better of it, content to take a seat on a nearby 
couch and simply admire her body, taking advantage of the fact that for 
the moment she did not seem to be mad at him. 
       He was closest to her femininely-covered, if rather large, feet. 
His eyes fixed on them. He wondered what he would do if she ordered him 
to kiss and fondle them. She saw where he was looking, and she spread 
her legs just a   bit, and his eyes wandered up her thighs to her 
pantyhose, all the more sexy because now she was in the skirt, and 
because now the view of them wasn't so blatant. He could not pull his 
eyes away from that spot where her thighs were thickest and softest and 
almost met. 
        She would never let a man have this view if he didn't know that 
she was not afraid of him. Letting him look under these circumstances 
was entirely different from normal circumstances. 
       When she started to rise to her feet, he flinched. But she was 
only going to finish dressing. When she had done so, she walked over to 
a walk-in closet off the living room and spread the door wide. There was 
a long   overhead rack, which she cleared of material as he watched her 
stretch this way and that from his rear view. In her high heels, her 
calves were entrancing, so long and so changeable in their shape as she 
moved; imposing and powerful one moment; fetching and graceful the next. 
        "You're spending the day up there," she informed her visitor, 
tilting her head toward the rack. He stood up and found himself edging 
along a wall that led to the hallway and away from the beautiful, tall 
black woman. He was shaking his head no. But she didn't waste any time 
discussing the situation with him. She strode across the room, raised 
his arm and ducked her head under it, throwing her free arm between his 
legs and lifting, until he was sprawled, face down, across her 
shoulders. She walked back toward the closet and jerked him from her 
shoulders up until her arms were fully extended above her head. 
   Then she basically threw him onto the rack. Then she grabbed his arms 
and pulled them behind his back and tied them there with a red nylon 
scarf. She didn't like the  idea of him masturbating in her closet. She 
closed the door unceremoniously and left him lying there in the dark. 

                          *****+*****+******* 

Coy was planning to give the dictator a show today, but she hadn't yet 
lined up a guy. She thought about her unexpected visitor, but he -- as 
yet -- inspired in her no novel scenarios that were likely to draw top 
dollar. The   dictator might have liked that scene in bed, but she could 
hardly reproduce it. Nor was she excited about trying to find out if 
somebody had sent this guy. She wanted to know, but right now she was 
primed for her show. 
        Her first stop of the day was at a gym she had been meaning to 
try. She was not exactly welcome. It was inevitable that the guys there 
would see a big woman whose flashy sports car demonstrated her wealth as 
one of those women they had heard about. 
     She knew all eyes were on her as she walked into the ladies locker 
room with her gym bag, and when she came out, barefoot, in a tiny gold 
bikini with frilly lace dangling from the skimpy top. She had a red 
towel hanging around her shoulders covering more of her lively bosom 
than the guys wanted it to cover. And she wore a frilly black skirt no 
more than eight inches long bouncing over her bikini panties. Nobody 
said anything to her as she limbered up and watched a wrestling match 
that was going on in a ring that was a foot off the floor and was roped 
off. 
    In the old days, of course, a woman like this in a gym like this -- 
full of a bunch of tough street dudes giving vent to their testosterone, 
not yuppies trying to ward off heart attacks -- would have been hit on 
instantaneously. But what if she was one of those women? And what if she 
decided to "take in" a guy who got cocky. 
    She knew that was their concern. And they knew that she knew. And 
she loved it. 
    The match she was watching was not of a particularly violent sort, 
but more along Olympian lines, wherein the idea is not so much to hurt 
your opponent as to pin him, or to come close to pinning him, thus 
winning points. It was clear that one of the men wrestling was better 
than the other. When, a couple of times, the lesser of the two men said 
he had had enough, the other guy encouraged him to keep going. Once, 
this required settling on the losing guy's back and encouraging him to 
try something. The third time the loser tried to quit and the other guy 
tried to keep him going, Coy stepped into the ring. 
    "I'll give you a workout," she said, knowing that all eyes in the 
gym were now on her overtly. The lesser  wrestler backed out: of the 
ring, and the remaining fellow smiled lamely and accepted the challenge. 
He was Asian and a good deal shorter than the black woman, but also  
stockier. He wore only shorts and wrestling shoes,  choosing to show off 
both his tattoos and his muscularity, which was not really exceptional. 
     Coy knew that he would be eager to "muscle" her, in the vernacular 
of wrestling. He would try to use his strength more than speed, skill or 
endurance to win. It was a tendency that a certain type of male couldn't 
resist when fighting a woman. But she thought he was a fool to think 
himself stronger than her. 
    Her long legs provided a tempting target. He thought that going 
after them would be a way to get her down on the mat fast. And he was 
eager. As he came low at her, she let him have the leg he was going for, 
and she used her flexibility -- which exceeded that of the guys he was 
used to wrestling -- to lean all the way over his back and grab him with 
both arms wrapped around his waist. So when they went to the mat, the 
lady's legs and torso made a sandwich of the man's body. From there, 
using a degree of strength that was the second surprise for the man, Coy 
simply lifted and threw the man in a somersault past her. Though the 
somersault catapulted him toward his back, he instinctively turned 
toward his stomach, worried more -- as a wrestler in this style should -
- about his shoulders touching mat than about anything else. That was 
one reason his lithe opponent was able to surprise him yet again. When 
he realized how things had come out, he realized that the lady was in 
control of him, not to mention ahead on points if anybody had been 
counting. She had followed him through his somersault, and when he came 
down into contact with the mat, she came down into contact with him. She 
was on her knees, behind him, with her long right .arm wrapped around 
his stomach. 
     Not only that, but she was still moving, as if this was all part of 
one sequence. She was up on her toes even as she kneeled, and she was 
springing across the man, even as she held him around his waist. The 
result was that when she dipped her head so that her shoulders drove 
toward the mat, her momentum lifted her male package off his knees and 
into the air, where his body described a circle. When he came down on 
his stomach, he had lost more points to the wrestler in the frilly gold 
bikini and tiny, because she had exposed his shoulders to the mat. 
     The men watched anxiously. It would not be precise, however, to say 
that Coy was robbing them of their  manhood. Actually, Coy was arousing 
their manhood, in the most fundamental sense. They kept looking -- 
despite themselves -- for those cheap thrills that came with the 
instantaneous sight of her boisterous breasts bouncing and chafing at 
their confinement as Coy passed through an especially attractive 
position. When she was leaning over her opponent, the men in front of 
her hoped she would stay there for a while, moving without actually 
changing  positions. So did the men behind her. A little jiggle  would 
cause her tiny excuse for a skirt to flap in a way that kept their eyes 
glued in anticipation. They  experienced the occasional instantaneous 
payoff, as her bottom proved way more than a match for her tiny bikini 
bottoms, as her dark buttocks protruded boldly. 
     One fellow who was enjoying the rear view was the owner of the 
club. Coy had recognized him from his picture in the window. He had a 
huge, unkempt beard and long, messy hair. Much as he enjoyed the  
scenery in the spectacle before him, Arnaldo did not like the plot, at 
least the beginning of it. He definitely did not want to see Coy defeat 
one of his guys. 
     Arnaldo was thinking about whether he should fight the bitch. He 
would love to get his hands on her, but would be mortified to lose. And 
as to that fucking museum where women were  supposed to be beating up 
men, he didn't quite know what to think. A part of him thought he would 
like to check it out, that he could beat any bitch, and that doing so 
could bring great notoriety to him and the gym. 
     But a part of him knew that some pretty tough guys refrained from 
bragging when they came back. 
    "Come on, Chen," Arnaldo yelled as he looked at Coy's enticing ass. 
"Get serious and show the bitch what you 've got." 
     Hmmm, thought Coy, what have we here? A candidate? She wanted to 
see. 
     So she stood up, with her arms still locked around Chen's waist. He 
went with her, taking yet another  circular tour through the air. She 
threw him all the way up over her shoulders. He came down on his 
shoulders with a thud the likes of which was seldom heard in that gym. 
Coy watched him as he turned toward his stomach, this time without his 
customary speed. She settled on top of him possessively, knowing that he 
would not be hard to control for a while, that she turn her attention 
elsewhere. 
     Immediately upon seeing Arnaldo, she knew that he was one who had 
yelled. Their eyes locked, and she thought about him as she flattened 
her current opponent to the mat every time he tried to prop himself up 
on one hand, or one elbow, or one knee. Absently, almost gently, she 
would fold his most aggressive arm back under his body, or pull his 
farthest ankle toward her, so that his knee would collapse inward. 
     Arnaldo was not the only one in the audience she was contemplating 
though. There was one guy who stood out for his height. He had a nice 
body, but his face was  impassive. She wondered whether the fact that he 
was as tall as she was and in good shape would get her the kind of money 
she was looking for today. 
     There was also a very young, baby-faced guy who caught Coy's eye, 
in part because his eyes were absolutely transfixed upon her. He was 
taking in her performance as if it were the most awesome, exciting, 
riveting thing he had ever seen in his life. Coy knew that the boy was 
aware of nothing else in the world but what was going on in the ring. 
Checking the gangling youth over, she thought she could enjoy giving him 
some more of her. 
      But now Arnaldo was right in front of her as she kneeled behind 
and to the left side of the Asian. Keeping her eyes on Arnaldo, she 
clasped her hands behind Chen's neck, having weaved them both up from 
under his left  armpit. It was a three-quarter nelson, and if Chen's 
strength had been close to a match for the wrestler in the gold bikini, 
he would have been able to break it, just by arching his head upwards. 
He had better leverage in that position than she had. 
      But the girl -- muscling him -- pulled his head down toward his 
chest and toward herself, Her eyes held  Arnaldo's as fiercely as her 
hands held Chen, so hard that even the sight of her bulging breasts -- 
pressing hard into the Asian's back -- could not hold Arnaldo's full 
attention. 
     She was playing with Arnaldo's head even as she played with Chen's. 
But that wasn't enough for her. As she held the Asian in this 
undignified position, she lightly stroked him with her finger on the 
back of his neck. She wanted him to have sexual thoughts, to never 
forget for a minute who was working him over. 
     Because Coy had Chen's far ankle stymied between her right calf and 
thigh, he could not avoid the pin through any technique. He couldn't 
roll or create any sort of movement that. might create an opening. 
Strength was his only hope. The woman had decided to make it that when 
she concluded that he thought strength was his long suit. 
     His head bent closer and closer to his chest, and closer and closer 
to the mat. Finally, the point of no return had come, and the lady 
combatant pulled his head so far that his shoulders were on the mat. 
     He was not only pinned -- in the technical sense, that his 
shoulders were in contact with the mat -- he was stuck. That is, he 
would stay pinned just as long as his opponent wanted him to. He was 
totally helpless. 
     So he just waited there for the woman to make the next move -- with 
his ass sticking up in the air, making him feel all the more foolish. 
For a while, she sat there, totally, relaxed, totally victorious, 
stroking the beaten man's neck with a light, feathery, sexy touch. 
     She let Chen up, but rather than let him decide whether he was 
ready for more, she engaged him  immediately. She wrapped her right hand 
over the back of his neck, but this time from the front, as the two 
wrestlers faced each other, bent at the waist, with each having a hand 
on the back of the other's neck. It was the classic jockeying position. 
     Coy, who knew that Chen's mind was now hers to do with as she 
pleased, made sure that she and her opponent were cheek to cheek. She 
knew he would enjoy that, that he would be experiencing a sensation 
different from any he had experienced in any other match. But Coy was 
thinking mainly about Arnaldo. She maneuvered Chen until her ass was 
pointing jauntily at the loudmouth in the audience. Then she maneuvered 
back and forth a little, so that her little skirt would hop around. 
     Chen tried a few moves, but Coy countered them and kept the man in 
the cheek-to-cheek posture, which had the effect of focusing Chen's eyes 
on his opponent's chest at stunningly close range. Her little movements 
around the mat may have caused others to monitor the whereabouts of her 
skirt and bikini bottoms, but those movements were causing Coy to 
monitor her bra and its impudent prisoners. 
     Then, once again, she surprised Coy, doing a move he had never 
imagined. Her long right arm came down off his neck and wrapped around 
his knee. Instinctively, he shot his knee backwards. Or tried to. It 
would not go. Meanwhile, the woman had maneuvered her head into a  
superior position relative to the man's, so that his was under her 
chest, in contact with what had become his favorite part of her anatomy. 
But he soon learned that the lady was doing him no favor. Once his head 
was under her chest, it was no  trouble for Coy to start folding his 
torso back toward her knee. Now her hand that was not on his knee 
reached toward it, and her hands locked, with the man's head and knee 
between them. So scrunched up was he that his mouth could  have kissed 
his knee. 
       Then came another surprise -- to everybody. Coy -- who had gone 
to one knee in the process of pushing the man's head toward his knee -- 
now straightened up. In so doing she lifted the man completely off the 
mat. 
       She held him like a little bundle that got smaller and smaller as 
she squeezed and as he started worrying so much about what was next that 
he lost his concentration about fighting back. He couldn't figure out 
exactly what he should be most worried about. 
       Coy now walked over to Arnaldo, and stood in front of him with 
the ball that had once been Chen. 
       "Does this look like fun to you, Ape Boy," she asked. "You think 
you'd maybe like to play with me?" 
       Her descent into name-calling was a reference to Arnaldo's most 
unusual physical characteristic: He was hairy not just on his head and 
face, but almost everyplace on his body, including his back, but 
especially his chest  and arms. He seemed to Coy to take pride in that; 
else why the unruly beard, bushy mustache and the long, black hair. 
       "I've been looking for somebody to play with  today," Coy 
continued, "but I play kind of rough, and I'm not sure any of you little 
guys would be safe with me." 
       Arnaldo was not little. He was certainly shorter than Coy, but 
stockier than Chen. And if his muscles were not quite as defined as they 
once had been, they were big enough to cause him to show them off. He 
strutted around  the gym in nothing but wrestling trunks, not even 
letting his paunch embarrass him. It, too, somehow became a symbol of 
his macho qualities, the way he carried it. 
       Her words had backed Arnaldo into a corner. 
        "Any time, bitch," he said, with his usual  cleverness. 
       Coy smiled and put Chin down on his feet gently. As he was still 
finding his balance, she turned him to face Arnaldo. Then, standing 
behind the man who was now simply her prop, she wrapped her arms around 
his chest, all the while looking in Arnaldo's eyes, which was easy 
enough, because she was that much taller than the Asian man. She locked 
her hand over her other wrist and started  squeezing, though the naked 
eye could pick up no evidence that she was exerting herself. The first 
evidence was in Chen's face. It showed pain, then fear. His hands 
starting tearing at Coy's, but he might as well not have bothered. She 
just kept slowly increasing the pressure. Now his legs were alternately 
coming off the mat in involuntary spasms caused by his fight against the 
pain. He was simply  writhing in the lady's arms, pathetically 
demonstrating his impotence against. At one stage he looked like a child 
whose problem was that he needed a bathroom. 
       Arnaldo saw two faces in front of him: the agonized male 
wrestler, and the relaxed, taunting black, female beauty. They were 
virtually cheek to cheek, forming a tableau that Arnaldo and the men 
standing behind him would  never, ever forget. 
       When Coy thought she had made her point, she let Chin drop to the 
mat. He was unconscious. One of his cheeks hit the mat. The other was 
soon under Coy black foot. She stood there until she was sure that this 
image, too, was now indelible. 
     Then she turned her back on the speechless Arnaldo and walked 
casually back to the ringpost behind which she had placed her gym bag. 
Knowing that every eye behind her was on her bottom and every eye in 
front of her was on her chest, she casually and slowly bent over the bag 
from her waist, unzipped it, looked through it a bit and removed her 
yellow scarf. 
     Nobody was surprised. 
     She walked back to the center of the ring, holding the scarf at 
arms length from her body and letting it dangle from her right hand, for 
all to see unmistakably. 
     "Somebody's going to take a little ride with me, fellows," she 
said. "Who's it going to be?" She did a full, slow 360 in the center of 
the ring, moving in the style and with the grace of a model -- all legs 
and confidence. It was as if she was showing off a beach outfit. 
     She walked over to the ropes and began parading around the ring, 
dragging her silk scarf behind her like a shawl. She actually brought to 
mind one of those round girls at boxing matches, except that at one 
point she had to step daintily over the inert body of one of the 
fighters. Her arm was hanging over the top rope, and the scarf was 
passing in front of the faces of the various men. She enjoyed this -- 
showing her black, unavailable body in front of this group of horny, 
macho dudes, nearly all of them white or Asian or some combination. 
     Each of the men knew he did not want to be chosen. None was certain 
that all the talk that was going around about the dictator's museum was 
true. But none wanted to personally test the theory, or to risk a public  
confrontation with this black bitch. Private? Yeah, maybe. That could 
turn into something good. But public! No way. There was no up side, and 
the down side was very steep, indeed. 
     So the men let the scarf pass in front of their faces. 
     Coy stopped at the tall, lean one. She stood staring down at him 
for seconds, then slinked herself to the floor, under the bottom rope. 
Standing eye to eye with him now, she sensuously slipped the scarf 
behind his neck, so that it hung from him in, indeed, the position of a 
scarf. But each end was in one of her hands. 
     He could hardly just stand there now. His hands came up to hers, 
which was a mistake. Before he knew it, one end of the scarf was wrapped 
around his right wrist, and she was stepping back sharply. He followed, 
because of the tug of the scarf. She stepped into him suddenly, her 
thigh coming up hard into his stomach. When he brought his free hand 
toward his pained midsection, she wrapped the scarf around it, then 
effortlessly passed it up through his crotch and under the band of his 
jock strap in the middle of his back, where she secured it with a knot 
as the man was hobbling with the pain and the fear brought by the 
proximity of the silken material to his balls. When she completed the 
move, Coy stepped back. He never stopped moving, being unable to catch 
his balance. When he fell to the floor, he realized that any effort he 
might make to free himself from the scarf ran the risk of stripping 
himself of his wrestling trunks and jock strap. 
     So he just lay there, and it was over. 
     But Coy decided he was not her man for today. He lacked the special 
personality characteristics that might help to put on a show the 
dictator would especially enjoy. 
     The tall man cringed away from her in fear as she bent over him. 
But she only removed the scarf -- with one graceful movement that the 
guys couldn't follow -- and patted him on his now half-exposed white 
rump. She moved on. 
     She stopped at the young boy, the one who seemed most excited by 
her very presence, most transfixed by this whole scene. As she neared 
him, she could sense his excitement all the more. 
     He was actually shaking. Her perfect calm just made him all the 
more nervous. Her hand -- the one carrying the scarf --- came up to his 
chin and stroked in a way that --- gentle as it was -- would have 
brought the boy to sexual- climax had she continued much longer. And she 
leaned down and kissed him gently on the lips, a long, lingering kiss. 
As they kissed, she dropped the scarf into her free hand, which went to 
his swollen crotch and wrapped the scarf around it even as they kissed. 
When he realized what she was doing, he jumped back. But it was too 
late. The jump caused him to hurt himself, and the beautiful black girl 
in the gold bikini had no trouble after that tying his two hands to his 
crotch, with the tail of the scarf hanging down between his legs like a 
third leg. The white boy didn't fall. He just looked up at his feminine 
conqueror in total helplessness. If his swelling went down, he might 
have been able to make some progress toward escape. But Coy didn't give 
that a chance to happen right away. "Awww," she said, with mock-motherly 
concern, "did you hurt yourself?" So saying, she pulled the boy's head 
into her bosom and held it there. 
     Suddenly, though, she was gone, and he was free and falling, to hit 
his head on the edge of the ring. Coy was simply continuing her tour. 
She enjoyed have the room in the palm of her hands this way. She 
captured and released two more men -- Arab brother who has been working 
out together and who, she knew, did not approve of modern women. She 
tied them together with her scarf. 
     Releasing and ignoring them, she approached Arnaldo. 
     "I'm taking YOU in, Ape Man," she said. "I think my horny friend, 
the dictator, will just love the little beauty-and-the-beast number we 
can do for him. Do you want to go quietly, or should I use my flimsy 
little rag here to make you helpless as a tiny little puppy doy on a 
leash." 
     Arnaldo made a grab for the garment in question, saying, "Gimme 
dat, you fuckin' whore," but Coy snapped it back out his reach while 
simultaneously moving her head toward him and kissing him chastely on 
the cheek.  Meanwhile, as he was confused and flustered, she  
transferred the scarf to her other hand behind her back. Then, with a 
snapping motion she had not used on the other men, she wrapped it in a 
complete circle around his neck. She tugged on both hands, hurting him 
and scaring him, He pushed her away from him, but she held the scarf and 
pulled him after her. Turning her hip into him, she  flipped him onto 
his back by pulling on the scarf. From there, it was a simple matter to 
tie his hands together when they came up to stave off the choking. To 
finish him up into a nice package, Coy then ran the ends of the scarf 
behind the man's head and tied them around his hair, making a sort of 
pigtail to which his hands were attached. 
     His position was now roughly that of a man who had been told by 
bandits to stick-'em-up. When he pulled against his bondage, he pulled 
his hair. Nevertheless, he rolled around frantically -- indeed, like a 
mad dog --pulling and bellowing and cursing. He made it to his feet, and 
he continued to thrash around, careening this way and that, as the 
crowds of gaping men skipped backwards to give him space. Finally, 
though, he ran out of steam and got tired of hurting himself. He kneeled 
in exhaustion and frustration, his forehead resting on the ground. 
     Coy picked up a loose towel, walked over to the self-downed man and 
authoritatively straddled him. She wrapped the towel around his neck and 
a nearby post, so that he couldn't leave while she was getting her 
shower. She then sauntered into the ladies locker room as the men 
watched her departure. She showered, made her self all fresh, and put 
her pantyhose and high heels back on. In her own due time, she made her 
way back out to the gym, and with all eyes still on her -- even though 
the men had gone back to their various pieces of equipment -- untied the 
towel, and put her right hand on the man's fuzzy top and raised him to 
his feet. 
    Then, standing in front of the man, with her hand possessively, if 
gently, on his hair, she said. "Give me some trouble, sweetheart. That 
would be LOTS of fun." 
    They both knew that he could not fight her. He had never relied on 
his legs in combat, and they were now all he had. 
    She put him in the front seat of her flashy sports car and allowed 
him to enjoy the sight of her powerful,  silken leg as she manipulated 
the powerful machine toward the dictator's complex. When they arrived, 
she led him gently, but firmly up the long, long stairs. Few people were 
watching their climb, because guards decided who was allowed to get near 
the complex. 
    Once they were inside the door, the man was led in one direction, 
and the women in another. When their turn arrived -- a decision made by 
whatever authorities on whatever grounds they wanted -- both were lead 
back to a private room, with soft plastic walls. 
   Each entered from a different door. They both understood that they 
were there to do combat, and that some person or group was watching, 
either live through the walls or later on the video Videotapes that were 
being made. 

                             +*******+****+ 

Arnaldo entered the fight room a few minutes before his opponent. He was 
wearing long shorts and a loose fitting, armless jersey, as well as 
sneakers. They had allowed him to dress as he pleased. 
     He paced nervously, trying to convince himself that the black woman 
couldn't be as tough as she seemed.  Obviously, she was great with that 
fucking scarf, but his understanding was that there would be no such 
extraneous factors allowed in the ring. Besides, she had had the element 
of surprise going for her against Chen, who wasn't that tough, anyway. 
These thoughts had started in the car, even distracted as he was by the 
figure beside him. By the time he entered the special room, he was 
psyched; ready to go, He paced now, slapping one fist into his other 
palm. 
     Coy was watching him, knowing that the wait was getting to him. 
When she finally entered, she was no longer in her gold bikini. 
    She didn't seem dressed for a fight at all, but for a fancy date. 
Her hair was done up high on her head, above bare shoulders and a tight-
fitting, black, sequined dress that was slit up one leg. She was in 
heels, though the moderately soft floor must have made moving on them a 
problem. 
     "Let's get it on, bitch," Arnaldo said, striding across the room 
purposefully. Coy gestured in a way that indicated that would be fine 
with her. As he came at her -- not wildly, but determinedly -- she 
suddenly ducked her head and somersaulted passed him. He was not 
expecting anything like that. For one thing, she did not seem dressed 
for such maneuvers. For another, somersaulting passed somebody was not 
Arnaldo's idea of an attack. 
     She came to her feet with amazing grace, with Arnaldo having spent 
the last instant or two watching the area between her legs for cheap 
thrills. He could not help himself. 
     It was another instant or two before he felt the breeze. 
     On her way past him, Coy had reached out for his trunks and yanked 
them down. They were now around his knees. As he reached down to pull 
them up, Coy ducked her head again, but this time ran right toward him. 
Because of the position of his shorts, he could not separate his legs 
enough to take a stable position, The woman bulled the man into the wall 
-- hard, shaking him up. And when she had him there, she once again 
pulled his pants down, this time to his ankles. 
    She stepped back. And she straightened her hair and her dress as he 
pulled his shorts back up. When he was finished, he came at her slowly. 
Murder was in eyes. The woman backed up; the devil was in her!. She put 
her hands out in front of herself, as if to ward of the attacker. The 
man grabbed them, interlacing his fingers through hers. Now they stood 
in the classic test of the strength, all four hands engaged. 
    Arnaldo found the woman difficult to put down. He was not surprised. 
For one thing, her height advantage gave her useful leverage. For 
another, he had known she must be strong. 
    When they locked, he realized that he had never before done this 
with anybody whose fingers were so long or, for that matter, whose 
fingernails were. Or whose fingernails were red. 
    Arnaldo was pushing the woman slowly, deliberately around the room, 
and he felt confident that he would prevail. He was less worried about 
her strength than about her pulling some damn trick. He worried less 
when, sure enough, she started to go down to her knees. Ah, that felt 
good. This was more like it. This was just where he wanted the bitch. 
But it turned out she wasn't going to her knees, but to her back. Better 
yet, he thought. Then he realized this could be a mistake, because.his 
crotch would be open to an attack from her feet. And he tried to free 
himself of at least one of her hands. But her long fingers were wrapped 
around him decisively. 
    He found himself suspended in the air on her, with the soles of her 
high heels pressing into his guts, and the heels themselves scratching 
and scaring him. 
    Then she suddenly spread her legs, and he fell down upon her, her 
long limbs wrapped around him. Her legs were completely bare now, her 
dress having fallen back to her waist. 
    She continued to hold his hands, and as he climbed to his knees, he 
leaned forward and, with the advantage of his higher position, he thrust 
all four of their hands to the mat over the woman's head. He smiled 
nastily, lustfully down at her. 
     But he was fighting the wrong fight. When the woman tightened her 
legs, he understood that. 
    Arnaldo may have thought that he had learned of the woman's strength 
by watching her at. the gym. But she knew the opposite was true. Her 
techniques at the gym made little use of her greatest strength: Her 
long, sometimes lean, sometimes bulging legs. The sheer power of her leg 
muscles combined with the length of those limbs to create a sort of 
torque that was simply mind boggling to those who had experienced it. 
    Arnaldo had just become one of those. Suddenly he was less concerned 
about winning than about living. The power in the lady's magnificent 
thighs made butter of the  muscles that he still tried to convince 
himself were present under his beer gut. 
    He now sat in pain. There was no counterattack available except to 
simply punch the woman in her face. But her legs kept him in place, and 
that place was too far removed from her face for him to do any damage. 
    Now she started teasingly inching her fingers toward his body, along 
the floor, then up his torso, under his jersey. He tried to push the 
hand away, but suddenly her other hand was in play, and, with it, she 
pulled the jersey over the man's head, rendering him naked above the 
waist. She waived the jersey in front of him tauntingly, but pulled it 
out of his reach when he swiped for it. She noticed that any movement 
now caused him pain. 
    Without releasing her antagonist, Coy now scooted her body backwards 
until her back was propped up against a wall. In the process, the skirt 
of her dress was largely mutilated and began tearing off of her. 
     Now, sitting upright and looking down at her quarry, Coy noticed 
that his face was basically in her crotch. Her legs were around his 
upper chest, more than her stomach. It was not where one normally 
applied a scissors, but it had worked if the applicant was strong 
enough. 
     But now she simply unlocked her legs. 
     After a second or two, the man realized he was no longer being 
held. He was surprised. He looked up,  expecting trouble, but the black 
beauty just looked down at him peacefully. Then he began to painfully 
climb out from between the lady's legs -- probably not reflecting on the 
irony of him wanting to do such a thing. 
     She let him get to his knees and start to rise to his feet, but 
then she clamped around him again, and squeezed. Immediately, his 
departure was thwarted. She squeezed his ribs until he slowly sank back 
to the floor, his head now resting on her again. 
     Then she let him go again. But, again, she still sat there, with 
her legs ready to act. This time he decided to attack by slugging her 
hard in the head as often as possible. But before he got the first punch 
off, he was hers again, gripped by legs to which he -could not even pose 
a serious challenge. She wrapped them around his belly and basically 
flung him backwards, so that he would have been flat on his face on the 
floor if her legs were not beneath him. 
     Again, she unlocked her gamular vices. This time he tried to roll 
over one of them. But she raised it,  blocking his escape. So he tried 
to duck under it, but she lowered it too fast. 
     Now she was laughing at him. So he lunged violently over the leg, 
but not quickly enough to keep the resting, laughing woman from locking 
its ankle with her other ankle and putting the man back in his place. 
She gave him an extra couple of squeezes this time, before letting go. 
His head fell into her crotch again, causing her to wonder if this was 
totally accidental on his part, and to conclude that it probably was, so 
out of control of his own body was the male fighter. 
     Now he lay there with both her feet flat on the floor, so that her 
knees were a foot off the ground and surrounding the man's head. 
    She said, "You know, Arnaldo, you are one ugly son of a bitch. In 
fact, I think you're about the ugliest son of bitch I've ever seen. All 
that hair! Yecchh! And I think I'm going to do you a great big favor: 
I'm going to take it all away from you. And I mean ALL." 
     This little speech was enough to make the man stir and look up at 
her. But she lightly -- but informatively -- wrapped her legs around him 
again. He stopped stirring as he watched her reach over to the door they 
were near, prop  it open and reach into the hallway. Then she pulled in 
a very small black bag and let the door close. 
    He stirred some more as he saw the big scissors, but she tightened 
some more. His head fell into her crotch, and she began cutting away. 
     There was nothing he could do to stop her. And she took her time. 
When his head was nearly bald, she  retrieved some shaving cream from 
the bag. When he felt her applying it to his head, he stirred himself to 
new resistance, but she said, "Careful, now, babe, you wouldn't want me 
to cut you, would you?" 
     When he was bald as a baby, she tilted his face up toward hers and 
proceeded to take his beard away from him in the same manner, and his 
mustache. She was meticulous, taking whatever time she needed. The 
position was excruciating for the man. 
     When she was finished, she leaned forward over him -- causing his 
face to press into her crotch with new force -- and shaved the back of 
his back, talking about how "icky" it looked and felt, and about how he 
should really be thanking her. 
    Leaning over him even farther -- making full use of her height and 
special flexibility -- Coy now pushed the man's shorts and jockstrap out 
of the way and shaved his ass. 
     Now she pulled the man's head up to face her by his chin. 
     "Say thank you," she said. 
     When he didn't respond immediately, she increased the angle at 
which his face was pointing up. 
     "Thank you," he gurgled. 
     She kissed him on the forehead and released her holds and got to 
her feet. He sprawled on his face, thankful for the release from the 
various forms of pain she was causing him. 
     Bringing her fashionable left shoe under his chest, she rolled him 
over onto his back. She looked down at him and laughed. 
     "Right at this moment, Arnaldo, my pal, you're  looking about as 
ridiculous as any man has ever looked in the history of the world. But 
there's one thing that would make you look even more ridiculous, and 
that's fighting me now as I finish the job, with sharp implements in my 
hand and very, very close to very delicate parts of your body." 
     She kneeled next to him, getting no ridiculous  resistance as she 
slowly and delicately shaved his chest. Her touch was such that his 
interest in her was soon  apparent to the naked eye of those watching. 
     Then she did his armpits, stretching his arms above her head and 
burying his face in her own armpit  possessively as she worked on the 
pit across his body from her. As an afterthought, she took his eyebrows. 
She stripped him completely and did his legs next, working her way up 
toward his crotch. He had trouble lying still as she finished him off, 
but he came through with little more damage than a couple of nicks, 
unless you count the affectionate squeeze she gave him when she was 
done. He had been expecting worse, 
      Then Coy went over to her little bag and retrieved something. She 
came back to the motionless, hairless man and placed one foot 
ceremoniously on his chest as she languidly brushed her own long, 
luxuriously dark hair. 
      Then she looked down at the man and said, "You will remain in 
exactly that position for 10 minutes after I'm gone." 
      She left, and he remained. 

                              ****+*+*+*******+* 

She asked for and received permission to take Arnaldo back to his gym. 
The dictator enjoyed that idea. 
      The guys would not have recognized the proprietor had he not been 
with Coy, who had her arm solicitously wrapped around his shoulder. The 
fact that he was wearing his usual wrestling trunks also helped to 
identify him. 
      Coy showed him off, turning him in a little circle and having him 
raise his arms. 
      Then she looked around for the young boy who so adored her. She 
traded Arnaldo for him, wrapping her arm gently but commandingly around 
the shoulder of the pale white boy. 
      She said, in front of everybody, "I'm going to be back, Arnaldo, 
my friend. And I want to find you here. If you're not here, I'll come 
looking for you, and I'll find you. When I get here, I want you to be 
completely hairless. I will check EVERYPLACE," She made a feint toward 
his crotch, making sure that everybody understood what she was saying. 
He flinched. 
    "In fact," the female conqueror continued, "I've got a little sister 
who would be very pleased if I made it her project to make sure that you 
stay completely the way we want you." 
    Then she turned and led the baby-faced young man to her car. 
    What with him and guy waiting for her in her closet, Coy was looking 
forward to an enjoyable evening. It had been the kind of day that turned 
her on. All the guys. All the body contact.  All the skin.  All the 
action.  How was a girl supposed to stay cool. 
    Even  before they got to her car,  Coy was caught up in  her 
thoughts of the day passed and the evening to come.  She made the baby-
faced young man walk ahead of her, and she watched his tight rearend. 
    When  he  reached the car,  he turned back toward  the  tall black 
woman,  but,  with a hand on his shoulder,  she turned  him back  toward 
her low,  red sports car and pushed him face down on its  top.  She 
stood behind him,  pressing her body  against  his suggestively,  
reveling  not only in the feel of his tight  young body,  but  in  his  
obedience to her,  and  his  fear,  and  his embarrassment. 
    From behind, her hands roamed playfully over his chest, even 
unbuttoning his buttons. 
    "Just relax, white sugar," she said. "There's not a thing in the  
world you can do about this,  and it doesn't exactly  hurt, anyway, does 
it?" 
    She  had intended just to feel him up and shake him up a bit before 
depositing him in the car.  But once she got started,  she had  
difficultly stopping.  One more step,  she'd  tell  herself. Then, 
again, one more step. 
    Before  she knew it,  her hand were at his pants.  To  light 
resistance,  she  was undoing his clasp and his fly.  He squirmed with 
his hands on hers,  but that only made it more fun for  her, and only 
slowed her down a bit. 
    When his fly was down,  her hands went immediately to  his white 
underwear,  were she folded her long,  manicured fingers -- with her 
long red nails --   around his bulge.  She felt him jerk at her first 
touch,  his rearend jutting suddenly backwards into her crotch.  She 
smiled,  her mouth opening now in a manifestation of sexual  arousal.  
Her longest finger insinuated itself under  his pants  and  made direct 
contact with the boy.  Again  he  spasmed backwards, and again she 
smiled. 
    He was trying to hold up his pants, while trying to fend off her 
advances.  Suddenly, she ripped his pants down to his ankles, then,  
when he instinctively reached down for them,  she did   the same   to  
his  underpants.   Then  she  wrapped  her  long   arms possessively  
and seductively around his  waist,  squeezing   him, playing with him, 
pressing her loins against his naked rearend. 
     "Why don't you pick on someone who can defend himself." 
    The voice came from behind Coy.  She had forgotten there was anybody 
back there. 
    She  turned  around,  with the boy still in her  grasp.  His hands 
went to his genitals, to cover them. Only after turning did  Coy  
realized  that her fun at the expense of the boy  was  being watched by 
a whole group of guys from the gym, who had gathered on the sidewalk. 
     The  one  who  had  spoken  had a  look  on  his   face  that 
identified him. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he was off average 
height.  He  stood  there in  form-fitting  workout  clothes.  She 
hadn't seen him before. He might not know the history of that day at the 
gym. 
     "Trouble is, white sugar," she said, "there's not a guy here who 
could defend himself against me for minute.  The difference between you 
and pattycake here is that he knows it." 
     "You talk big," he said, stepping forward. 
     Coy turned the boy toward her, and bent over and hoisted him onto 
her right shoulder.  He was bent over her at the waist,  and his white 
bottom invited the attention of all. 
     She  walked  slowly toward her challenger,  her  right  hand 
wrapped around the boy's waist and her left playing lightly at his 
exposed flesh. 
     "Tell you what,  mighty mite," she said.  "Why don't you and me  
take it on home to my place.  That way,  we can get down  and dirty and 
not have all these sorry motherfuckers watching us. And if you win,  you 
can always bring me back here and show them what you can do to me." 
     He paused, smiling a little.  
     She  clinched the deal with the ever reliable, "You're  not scared, 
are you?" 
     Still  holding  the  boy on her  shoulder,  she  opened  the 
passenger door of her car and,  with a sweeping gesture,  invited the 
man to get into the front seat. 
     Shrugging and smiling,  he did so. Coy closed the door after him  
chivalrously,  and walked around to the  other  door.  After opening  
it,  she unceremoniously dumped her package in the  back seat. Then she 
stepped  into her place,  leading with a long leg that was totally 
exposed by the process.  Smiling herself, then, she drove off  with  her 
two pieces of sexy male cargo.  She was looking forward to a 
wonderful, wonderful evening. 

The End.