THE GIRLS
By BOS

     Word spread quickly about the rebellion of the girl 
gang members.  It got distorted in the retelling, of  
course, until nobody knew what to believe.  Some of the 
versions were less remarkable than the reality.  Most  
involved weapons, which in reality had never been used.  
But eventually one version or another got to the ears of 
every gang member in the entire metropolitan area, not 
just the part of the city which had been involved.  The 
versions had two common threads; (1) The girls were in 
revolt and (2) they were not to be taken too lightly.
     The response of the male gangs was predictable, 
simple and unanimous.  This revolt had to be put down.  
Hard and fast, before the word got beyond the gangs and 
into the community at large.  Such a development would 
destroy the prestige of the gangs, undermine their 
authority in shakedowns and wreck havoc with the macho 
image that was, after all, the whole point of belonging to a gang.
     As quickly as the word had spread about the 
rebellion, just that quickly did the word spread about the 
response.  The Girls (that was the gang name the girls had 
taken), who had taken up residence separate from any male 
gang, were to be searched out and taught a lesson.   
Tonight.  All the male gangs deployed themselves in the 
effort.
     The Girls had not heard. As  a group of them was 
cutting through a park, there appeared a strange group of 
guys.  At first the guys seemed to be members of a hockey 
team. They were in uniform -- except for the absence of skates 
-- and they were each carrying a stick.  They had black 
eyes and other bruises, indicating recent fights on the 
ice, and they were slapping the sticks in their palms or 
swinging them around as a cop swings a billy club.
      The Girls were immediately on guard, just because the guys 
were guys.  But when the stick wielders surrounded them 
and began slapping the sticks in their palms in unison and 
rhythm, the Girls knew for sure what was in store, though, 
they didn't yet know the reason for sure.
     The leader, a tall fellow, approached Ginger, a sexy, 
not so tall blonde whose leg muscles were apparent under 
her short skirt, but whose arm muscles were hidden by a 
sweater.  He grinned like a hyena as the stick tapped 
against his palm again and again.
     Said Ginger, "You're in 
my way, happy."  Angered by the appellation, the leader 
began swinging the stick around like a martial arts  
expert.  Over his head, between his legs, behind his back, 
twirling like a baton around one arm then the other.  In 
every conceivable pattern, the stick flew menacingly.
     Unimpressed, Ginger took two quick steps forward, stuck 
out one hand and grabbed the stick in mid-revolution.  
Nobody had ever done that before as far as the leader 
could remember.  So he had no tricky response.  He simply 
tried to yank the stick out of Ginger's hand.  It didn't 
come.  Then he tried to twist it loose.  It still didn't 
come, even though he had both hands on it.
     Ginger pulled it a little closer to herself then, with her free hand, 
reached out and grabbed the leader's throat.  He twisted 
his head in an attempt to escape the lock, but she held 
him easily.  Then she started to squeeze.  He could see 
that he had to get out of that hold, but doing so would 
require releasing the stick.  He tried releasing with one 
hand, but his grasping at Ginger's forearm with that hand 
alone was ineffectual.  When he felt the muscles in her 
arm he knew immediately how she had been able to grab and 
hold on to the stick, the only weapon he really felt  
comfortable with.  Her arm was like steel.  He clawed and 
pawed but he felt like a child attacking an adult, even as 
he looked down at Ginger.
    Still, he could not quite bring 
himself to release the stick.  It was his main thing, his 
element, his hope, his identity.  Without it he knew he 
was just another street punk.
    He tried pushing her arm that was holding his neck
forward while he stepped backwards, all the time gasping 
for breath.  But she just walked after him.  Soon he  
backed into a tree, thus ending his retreat  
unsuccessfully.
    Ginger pushed with her one hand.  Now, 
desperate, he let go of the much valued stick completely.  
But it was too late.  Holding the stick high for everyone 
to see, Ginger pushed and squeezed with her other hand.  
The leader was gasping for breath and soon tearing.  She 
held him there almost too long,  He slid slowly down the 
tree.  Finally she let him go.  He lay face down on the 
ground, all but unconscious.  Slowly, deliberately, she 
undid his belt, pulled down his tight jeans and sexy  
underpants, bared his ass and stuck his stick in.  Then, 
like an explorer planting a flag and claiming a territory, 
she put one foot on the leader of the boys and one hand on 
the vertical stick and looked back toward the other Girls 
and hockey players, displaying her catch.
      The Girls giggled and applauded, and the guys gulped 
and gawked.
      The guys were now thinking about some of 
those stories they had heard.  The Girls, having seen the   
leader disposed of so easily -- and knowing how leaders 
are chosen -- considered what activities lay before them a 
lark.  They started advancing toward the boys with slow, 
melodramatic movements, raising each leg high and bringing 
it down very slowly, mocking the boys with wild-eyed, 
eager, menacing looks on their faces.  The boys found 
themselves backing up even as their eyes wandered to the 
girlish legs that came out from under slit skirts as they 
were kicked immodestly into the air.
     Perhaps "girlish" is the wrong word for those legs.
Alluring, sexy?  Yes. But  also powerful, dynamic,
muscular, indeed, threatening.  
     The occasional glimpse of a colorful panty or a little 
beaver augmented the "girlishness" to be sure, but in no 
degree detracted from the threateningness.  Indeed, such 
glimpses only accentuated the frightening audacity of the 
females  behavior.  Thus, the almost involuntary male 
retreats.
      Perhaps, though, it was precisely one of those  
glimpses which prompted the action of tough, little Tony 
Polsante.  Tony was something of a hot-head anyway, given 
-- like a lot of little guys in tough neighborhoods -- to 
more than his share of macho trips.  Weightlifting, 
streetfighting, hard drinking, tattoos, the whole bit.  
"Let's get 'em, guys," Tony yelled, as he started running 
toward the Girl in front of him, swinging his hockey stick 
like a madman in wide circles over his head.  Contrary to 
Tony's expectations, he attacked alone.  Far from being 
energized into a cohesive attack unit, the remainder of 
the hockey players just stood and watched as Tony  
attacked, eager to see him demonstrate a potential for 
male success this day and place.  The Girl Tony came after 
--- one of those who had not that day donned all of the 
accoutrements a lady normally dons before affixing her 
slit skirt -- was Saundra.  Now Saundra was not exactly  
scared by Tony, who -- totally consistent with his  
ambitious personality -- had selected to attack not a lady 
his size or nearly his size, but one of the biggest of the 
Girls.  She was statuesque at 5' 10", with 40" boobs and  
a low cut, form-fitting knit sweater which accentuated 
those boobs and, in fact, did not even cover them  
completely, but rather left tantalizing glimpses available 
through a sort of mesh.
      Saundra thought that Tony was, as he came hurtling 
at her like a banshee, cute.  It wasn't really the 
intended effect, flattering as the judgment might have 
been under other circumstances.  She had no real interest 
in hurting him, but no real reluctance either.
     She decided to play his game. As he 
approached her, she ducked under the high stick -- which 
wasn't easy -- and put a body check on Tony the likes of 
which he had never experienced before.  At the right 
moment she simply thrust her impressive hip at the chest 
of the speeding young man.  He hit the 
ground with an ignominious "splat!" and, as if by reflex, 
began to get up almost immediately.  He renewed 
his attack now, however wobbly.  
He came at the bemused Amazon before him, again swinging 
the stick above him, though this time with somewhat  
reduced velocity.  This time, just like Ginger, Saundra 
simply grabbed the stick in mid-flight.  
     Now the boy and Girl stood on opposite ends of the
weapon.  He pulled violently, but nothing happened.  
Nothing!  Now Saundra, enjoying the attention of
the crowd, decided to show off a 
little.  She let go of the stick with one hand, pulled  
back on it slightly, then quickly rammed it forward into 
Tony's belly. He collapsed on 
the ground, rolling back and forth, moaning about an 
injury, holding his gut.
    It occurred to Saundra that Tony by now was probably 
not perceived by her colleagues as a particularly menacing 
opponent, one whose defeat would be much of an 
accomplishment.  So she decided to end it, which was 
probably OK with Tony by now, too.  As he curled into a 
fetal position, she reached into his groin and -- against 
feeble opposition -- undid his belt.  Then she pulled down 
his pants over his ass -- now upraised toward the sky by 
her efforts -- and, just as Ginger had before her,  
inserted the stick into the designated slot.  Then she 
posed in what had quickly become the accepted way for 
this outing: her foot on the small of Tony's back, her 
hand on the end of the stick, his face pointing toward the 
adjacent ground.  So much for Tony.
    Now the other Girls turned their attention toward the 
other boys.  The boys, who were, generally speaking, not 
too bright, tried quickly to assimilate things.  They 
couldn't have been too surprised to see Tony manhandled by 
the Amazon, who, after all, looked like she ate more than 
his body weight for breakfast; and as for the demise of 
their leader, well maybe they should just avoid Ginger.  
As these and less optimistic thoughts ricocheted through 
the boys' already disheveled heads, the Girls went back
into their slow attack routine, exaggerated steps, exposed 
panties and all. They were enjoying the hell out of this.   
    What broke the dam and started the general mayhem was 
when little Wilhelmina, a black girl, facing Billy Joe 
Dilling, who she knew by reputation to be a  vicious 
racist, suddenly altered her slow approach with a 
frightening -- to Billy Joe -- lurch forward.  Billy Joe, 
who, like many racists, had always nurtured in a corner of 
his mind unspeakable fears and suspicions about the  
characteristics and abilities of the objects of his
hatred, abandoned all thought and simply reacted.  He 
turned tail and ran off through the park just as fast as 
he could.  
     From there on it was every man for himself.   
Some ran, some stayed and fought.
    Willye ran after Billy Joe, calling out, "Hey, come on 
back, white boy! Here's a chance for you to get some 
of me. Don't you want none?  I know you white trash 
boys jes love girls like me, don't you?  Don't tell me you're one of 
them yankee faggots."  That one hurt.  "I know you  cain't 
be scared. Surely not of a girl."  
     Billy Joe was beginning to feel like an absolute asshole, 
running away from this black chick like this, Willye  
yelled, "Hey, Billy Joe, what would your good ole boy 
buddies say if they could see you now."  Finally Billy 
Joe's pride got the best of him. Besides, he knew darn 
well that Willye was catching up to him anyway. "Damn, 
she's fast," he thought.
    He stopped and turned around to face his mini-skirted 
pursuer.  Then, in an attempt to regain his masculine 
dignity, in a momentary display of courage, he waxed so 
bold as to throw away his stick, his beloved ally. Said 
Willye, "Well now, that's real brave of you, silly Boy.  
But I'm still gonna shove that sucker up yo' white ass.  
What you think of that?"
    Said Billy Joe, "Come on, dark meat, let's see what 
you can do."  He took off his shirt, exposing a thin, 
wiry, tattooed body.
    The Girl said, "You might as well take off your 
pants, too, white trash, because if you don't, I will."  A 
crowd of innocent bystanders -- unaware of the larger  
clash back where Billy Joe had run from (else many would 
have abandoned the entire park in fear) -- watched now as 
the white guy and the black girl stalked each other, both 
puffing with the exertion of the run, him taller, her 
stockier.  Playing now to the crowd, Willye, always the 
exhibitionist, tore off her own shirt, revealing a braless
chest of 38" breasts that riveted the eyes of the male 
spectators even to the point of distracting them from her 
arms, which, if it had ever occurred to them to look, they 
would have noticed where muscular enough to make her male 
enemy's look like broomsticks. Like the other Girls, Willye 
had spent months in the gym before the big break with the
the male gangs. The Girls had taken advantage of the fact
that the boys always left them with nothing to do, just as
prisoners take advantage of weight-lifting equipment 
when there is nothing else to do.
     Just so Billy Joe would not miss the point,
Willye now placed her hands behind her head and
wiggled her biceps for him.  The onlookers -- who 
had no idea in what context this confrontation was taking 
place, who knew only that they had just seen a tough 
looking teenage boy running from a smaller girl -- now 
stood agape.  Billy Joe gulped; he was disoriented and 
nervous.
         Willye continued to hold her arms like that as 
the combatants came closer to each other.  Very close.  
Then, suddenly, as his eyes continued to wander over her 
torso, the girl  boldly  stepped in, reached out with     
both arms and simply grabbed his upper arms, one 
unimpressive male bicep in each hand.  They felt to her 
like little plums, slightly rotten.  She just stood there 
now, arms outstretched, pressing his arms into his body     
and squeezing his biceps in her strong, hands as her own 
biceps flared for the amusement, amazement and, in some 
cases, no doubt, arousal of the spectators.
     He was hurting.  Everybody there could see that.  
He could squirm and twist a little, but he could not
move his arms at all. She was methodical and patient, 
beating this street punk with sheer, simple application
of strength,  the pain becoming more and more
excruciating as her fingers dug more and more deeply 
into his biceps.  The hold and his struggles to remove 
himself from it were sapping Billy 
Joe of his strength.  Even his knees were now giving out.  
In fact, soon she was actually holding the boy up with her 
outstretched arms,  His head was eventually bobbing and 
rolling about on his shoulders, his eyes losing their 
focus, then tearing up.  Then, pulling himself together a 
bit, he was shouting at her in frustration, "Goddamn you, 
bitch, all right, all right."  But she would not let him 
go.
      So he struck out with the only weapon at his 
command.  He kicked her. His legs were weak and  
uncontrollable, and his kick served merely to demonstrate 
to all concerned how hopeless, desperate and defenseless 
he was against the strong Girl.
      Looking down at his feeble offensive, then
back up into his eyes, Willye sneered at him.  
Then, in disgust, she threw him against a 
tree.  Shaken by the impact, he slumped to the ground,      
knowing his arms were useless.  When she walked over to 
him, she simply placed her hand on top of his head.  
Exhausted both morally and physically by the run, the 
squeeze and the jolt, he let her.  Then, again, she began   
to squeeze.  This time the pain was even slower in  
building, but finally Billy Joe, who perhaps had not even 
understood until it was too late that the hand on the top 
of his head was engaged in a notable offensive maneuver, 
was in agony the likes of which he had never experienced 
before. He felt like his head was in a vice.  He was 
groveling and crying and swearing and, finally, pleading 
as he tore ineffectually at her hand, lacking as he did 
both leverage and strength.  Some of the spectators     
couldn't believe, couldn't even understand what was 
happening.  Soon some couldn't watch anymore.

         "Give me your belt," the standing girl said to 
the boy sitting at her feet. Hardly hesitating, he  
complied. She let go of his head. "Now lie on your 
stomach," she commanded.  Though the girl had no hold on 
him at all now, the boy knew when he was licked.  He 
complied.  "Show me your ass, white boy."  He rucked down 
his own pants.  She put the stick in just as her 
colleagues Ginger and Saundra had in their 
victims. Then, stepping in front of him, turning her back 
on him, knowing he was way beyond the point of even  
thinking about launching an attack, however long she might 
pose an inviting target, she bent over and, with her left 
hand, grabbed the top of his head just as she had been 
holding it earlier.  Then she proceeded to drag Billy Joe 
back to the main field of action whence he had run from 
her, her catch lying flat on his stomach, bare-assed, 
impaled with his own hockey stick -- his own weapon -- with his 
head -- not his hair, his head -- firmly in the Girl's 
grasp.  As the spectators made a path for the conquering 
black vixen, they couldn't help staring.  "What's the 
matter?" she said.  "Never seen a fight before?"
         When Willye got back to the main fight venue, she saw 
a dozen new male victims, each with a hockey stick  
protruding vertically out of his naked ass, each content 
to just lie there looking asinine rather than risk     
offering any further resistance,  She also saw another 
dozen fights still going on, though most were nearing 
completion.  In one, little Kathy Goldberg had Willye's 
cousin John up against a tree with his stick held 
crosswise between them,  their arms stretching all the way 
out.  Both were pushing on it with all their might.   
Slowly the stick came closer and closer to John's neck as 
his arms bent more and more.  Soon, though Kathy    
practically had to stand on her tip toes to do it, the 
stick was touching John's neck.  By now Kathy knew she had 
him.  She savored the moment, pressing the stick toward 
John only very, very slowly, watching the panic then near 
insanity enter his eyes as his Adam's apple came under 
more and more pressure.  She pushed more and John's 
gurgles became fainter and fainter.  Finally he slumped to 
the ground, defenseless against the impending impalement 
of his taut black ass by the stick wielded -- now -- by 
the apparently inoffensive little Jewish chick.  The event 
filled Kathy with an excitement she could hardly control, 
and she went looking for another ass, any color, any size.
        Another Girl, Violet, found her success to be the 
cause of more sexual excitement than she could handle.   
She had her hockey player up against another tree, one end 
of his stick sticking in his gut, the other end in her 
right hand.  As she pushed with that hand -- successfully 
overcoming all his attempts to delay the progress of the 
stick toward the tree  --i.e., through his body -- she was 
using her other hand to massage her various sexual organs, 
a sight which drove her victim bananas with lust, fear     
frustration and shame.
       "Drop your pants," she managed to 
say to her frightened victim between her own pants.  He 
did as he was told, never taking his eyes of the  
half-crazed girl before him.  Then she had him turn 
around; she inserted the stick and resumed her mono-sexual 
activities.
        Gina DeNucci, the little firebrand who had  
demonstrated the strength of her legs to the guys in the 
stadium the other night (in another BOS story called Gang
Fight), stood crouched, rubbing her hands 
vigorously up and down her mini-skirted, huge, muscular     
thighs.  The satisfaction of having already disposed of 
two male hockey players today, combined with the  
anticipation of still more action, was almost too much for 
her, as one of the stick boys approached her cautiously.    
She knew what was in store for him, and she could  hardly 
wait.  He was confused by her actions and put off guard.  
Then, suddenly, as he neared her, she leapt directly up 
and wrapped her hands around a tree limb.  Then, as he 
stood with his mouth open in astonishment, she wrapped 
those incredible thighs around his head, which promptly 
all but disappeared from view. 
     That was it. The boy had had it. There was no
way he was going to be able to extricate himself
from between this little chick's thighs. Gina had
enough experience by now to know that. And he  
knew it.  He dropped the stick, and his hands clawed at 
the luscious pillars enveloping him.  He pushed and pulled 
and pried and tugged, but it was all a useless charade.  
He was hers.
       His helplessness turned her on.  She squirmed 
around even as she hung from the tree, thus pressing her 
panties even more firmly against his mouth,
thus turning herself on even more and causing him still more 
suffering (in the form of oxygen deprivation) and  
humiliation, thus turning her on even more.
      Gina was thrashing about more and more violently now, 
her head back in ecstasy, her eyes glazed.  Back and forth she 
threw her male opponent as if her were a rag doll.  Again and again 
he was jerked off his feet completely, his entire body 
weight supported in the air by Gina's incredible thighs.  
Now Gina was aware of others present,and that spurred    
her to an even greater and more prolonged display of her 
dominance over this boy who used to think of himself as a 
tough guy.  (Any thought about his former presumed self  
image, gang activities and chauvinism provided still   
more sexual excitement for Gina.)  She wiggled so that his 
face was completely smashed into her crotch.  Then, up and 
down, back and forth, she toyed with her male victim.
     Finally he was just hanging there, his arms at his sides.  
After even more  vicious, violent contractions -- in which 
she arched her back to the sky and squeezed with all her 
might and issued mighty grunts -- still she would not 
release him.  Instead, she simply loosened her hands and 
dropped from the tree.  She landed on both feet, with his 
head still between her thighs, his face pointed toward 
her. His face was pathetic, his hands useless against her 
powerful thighs -- which now felt even stronger to his 
hands because her legs were anchored on the ground, even 
more impervious to his struggles.  He was growing weaker 
all the time, more desperate with every  passing moment, 
and his face showed it all.  The sight of him turned the 
Girl on as nothing ever had before. As a rush of sensation 
poured through her, Gina lifted arms to the sky and   
yelled at the top of her lungs, with a massive twitch of 
her hips, "I'M CREAMING HIM!!!"
     With a final,  vicious grind of her hips, she opened
her thighs and let his head drop.  He fell to the ground 
flat on his back, his body still jerking spasmodically.  
She went over and picked up his abandoned weapon,
then returned to him.  She sat on his face -- receiving 
no struggle, though the boy was  
conscious -- and, holding the stick vertically in one 
hand, turned her attention to Earlene.
        Earlene -- the leader and the most muscular -- 
had, in the course of the battle, had her clothes ripped 
to near shreds.  The bulges caused by the flexing of her 
arm and chest muscles had proved too much for the    
feminine material shrouding her magnificent body.  Now the 
cloth hung from her in random strips and patches, hiding 
very little, highlighting her ebony bulges, both muscular 
and mammary.
      Apropos of her position as leader, Earlene 
took on her opponents in twos and threes.  At the moment ,    
she held one boy with one hand while stalking another, who 
was backing up toward a pond.  His attempts to get around 
Earlene were easily foiled because the guy who she was 
holding -- Danny, a spunky little loudmouth -- hardly 
hampered her movements.  Her hold was on the back of his 
head, which she pressed firmly into the bottom of her 
bosom.  His nose was being squashed and he could hardly 
breathe.  When he opened his active mouth in pursuit of 
oxygen, it was instead filled with the soft roundness of
Amazon boob.  One spectator -- hiding behind a bush -- 
envied him; but what that fellow didn't know wouldn't hurt 
him.  The guy he envied thrashed and wiggled and sputtered 
in his desperate attempt to get his mouth off of Earlene's 
breast, even swinging his stick against her back, like a    
girl in an old Hollywood movie beating her little hands 
ineffectively against an abductor's chest.  But Earlene 
paid him no mind.  Instead, she slowly and 
melodramatically moved in on his colleague -- Jerry 
Trevail, at 17 a large, awkward bully -- one mighty, 
two-thirds-exposed gam after the other.  His eyes 
inevitably drawn to each incredibly expanding thigh as it 
reacted to the pressing and removal of Earlene's weight, 
the retreating boy tripped, sprawling on his back.  Before 
he could rise, one of Earlene's bare feet was on his  
chest, forcing him flat on his back.  Jerry's view from 
there, which she generously allowed him to savor, was -- 
to say the least -- interesting, unencumbered as it was by 
feminine under apparel.  His eyes were first -- and 
predictably -- drawn to her feminine organ, one of the few 
parts of her body which was not muscular, at least to the 
naked eye.  From there the eyes of the young, inexperienced, 
very, very, horny white boy were drawn to the black 
ass above him and to the crack separating it from the 
thigh attached to the foot impeding his rise.  (The rise of his back, that is;
he was -- Earlene could see-- experiencing another rise, 
an involuntary one.)  Earlene was patient with Jerry's 
browsing, because she knew where his gaze would eventually 
light, and, as far as she was concerned, the impact of 
that imminent sight on the young white boy would be all 
the more satisfying after he had visually sampled her 
sexual delights.  So she was content to hold the head of 
the one ineffective male opponent pressed to her upper 
attractions even as her other opponent was held spellbound 
by her lower attractions.
       The fact is, Earlene was grooving on this whole
experience.  Loving it!  Eating it up.  "Now this is my idea 
of a good time," she said out loud to her two male
companions, as she rubbed the face of 
Number One Victim around on her chest and wiggled her ass; 
for the benefit of Number Two.
     By now all the other contests had ended.  The  
attacking boys all lay face down in  the grass, their  
asses exposed and invaded, if not awaiting that invasion 
propelled by a Girl now propped on a prostrate form,  
watching Earlene.  Some of the boys were themselves  
watching Earlene from their stomachs even as they were 
being sat on by one Girl or another, her feel and bare 
skin turning the boy in question on, but his experience
and fear telling him to show no sign of life.
       Other boys were in no condition to watch.  But a growing
number of spectators were watching from behind bushes they
hoped hid them and at distances they thought were safe. And the
show Earlene was putting on excited people other than the prone
fellow beneath her bare foot.  All over the park male and 
female hands found their way to attatched crotches, and 
some of the Girls began to wiggle their seats up and down 
on the backs of their male captives.  When she saw the 
effect she was having, Earlene too began to be overcome by
the excitement,and her free hand was impelled toward her 
own exposed crotch.  She longed to caress herself in full 
view of her unsuccessful attackers, thus letting them know 
that as much pain as their efforts had caused them, that's 
how much pleasure they had meant for her.  Her ass wiggled 
with erotic pleasure at the thought, but she kept her hand 
away from herself, because she wanted to cause Jerry, her 
prone victim, no additional distractions from the sight 
she wanted him to focus on. Finally his eyes had come, as 
she knew they would, to her thigh, attracted there by the 
movement.
      The movement was the flexing of her massive 
thigh muscles. Just as Willye had intimidated and amazed 
and flustered and teased Billy Joe by flexing her biceps, 
so now did Earlene rivet the attention of the forlorn 
Jerry on some of his attacker's muscular attributes, in 
this case her incredible thighs, by tightening and 
loosening her leg muscles.  From below, the view was 
awesome; flexed muscle bulged to practically obliterate 
Jerry's view of everything else, including Earlene's 
crotch and face; relaxed, the thigh became an   
irresistibly alluring feminine attraction -- so  
tauntingly near, yet so far from his grasp -- and revealed 
the sight of Earlene's threatening, teasing countenance 
and piercing eyes.
      Finally, Earlene stopped the bodybuilder's posing routine
and caught Jerry's frightened eyes.  The boy said, "Wh--what are 
you go-go-going to do?"  The question and the fear in his voice 
excited Earlene no end.  No longer could she keep her hand 
away from her most erogenous zone.  As she rubbed, and the 
boy's gaze alternated from her face to her midsection, she 
said, slowly and threateningly, "Anything I want to, white 
sugar.  Anything I want to."
    Earlene was so excited by Jerry's fear and Danny's 
futility -- as well as his touch in intimate places -- 
that she could hardly bring herself to end this scene.  
She continued to stand there rubbing herself with her
hand and with Danny's head for what seemed to the boys to 
be an hour. Even then, she couldn't bear to part with her 
playmates.  She decided to take them prisoner,
thus prolonging even more Jerry's 
anxiety over the meaning of her anything-I-want-to 
statement.  
     She told Jerry to get up, but -- knowing that 
his fear of her wrath was now total, and wanting to revel
in it -- she said, "Watch that thigh.  If I ever see you 
taking your eye off my thigh, you've had it.  You got 
that, buster?"  He gulped, nodded and did as he was told.  
Now Earlene turned her back on him and began to walk away.  
As she did so, she said over her back, "Now kiss it Jerry.
Kiss my thigh."
     But she didn't stop walking.  The big boy 
scrambled after her, awkwardly trying to place his lips on 
her thigh as she walked.  He was oblivious to how 
preposterous he looked.
     The closer he got to the thigh -- the  
more he watched it bulge and recede with her steps -- the 
deeper and deeper became his intimidation by it.  He was 
so fearful he could hardly bring himself to touch it with 
his mouth.  Suddenly Earlene stopped walking.  She bent 
her knee up behind her, catching his face between her 
thigh and her calf.  She held that position for a few 
moments, then, with a sudden burst of power, kicked  
forward, thus releasing his head but,with such a  
tremendous and sudden explosion in size of her thigh 
muscle that the impact of the newly flexed muscle sent the 
boy sprawling on his ass to the laughter of the Girls.
    So it was that the Girls wiggled off, leaving the rest 
of the male hockey stick wielders flat on their faces 
unable and -- especially --- unwilling to raise a finger 
or even offer a verbal protest as their two young brothers 
in arms were taken away by the conquering female army.
    Jerry and Danny were not being carried; each went on 
his-own two feet rather than continue the hopeless battle.  
They had taken off all their clothes in response to an 
order to that effect, and they walked along with their 
heads hung low as the Girls pranced around, congratulating 
themselves on the taking of their first prisoners in this 
war of the sexes, pinching the boys on the ass, kissing 
them passionately on the lips while manipulating their 
young cocks into uncontrollable elongation, then pulling 
away and leaving the boys in obvious arousal and  
frustration.
    One Girl, Chrissy -- younger and more mischievous than 
the others -- slowed the procession from really getting 
started, in fact from even getting out of the view of the 
other boys and the spectators, by teasing and groping and 
humiliating Danny until he could take no more.  It was one
thing to be overpowered by the magnificent Earlene.  She 
was bigger and -- he had to admit -- stronger than he was, 
and his humiliation about being toyed with and turned into 
a mere sexual object by her was muted by her even easier 
disposal of the larger Jerry -- who had basically been too
scared to fight at all --and by the obvious fact that  
every other guy in the gang would be unwilling to take her 
on now.  But this little white chick -- even younger than 
himself probably, given that her breasts were anything but 
imposing -- she was another story.  When she came up 
beside him and put her arm around his shoulder  
possessively, that was the last straw.  He attempted to 
shrug away like a pouting housewife, only more violently.  
But Chrissy put on the pressure and held him in place.  
Then she reached her other hand down to his crotch and 
began tickling the naked boy there.  As he resisted, she 
reached all the way through his crotch and lifted, her  
fingers finding their way between his buttocks, making her 
invasion of him complete.  Now, with one hand holding his
shoulders up and the other his midsection, she had the boy 
parallel to the ground.  Then she quickly shifted her 
lower hand from between his legs to around them.  Now she 
had him in the honeymooners' over-the-threshold position.  
Instinctively -- and to his shame -- his arm went around 
her shoulders for support.  Holding him firmly -- holding 
him, in fact, immobile -- she looked into his eyes and 
smiled, then turned her eyes to his crotch licking her 
lips, scaring him.
       But then she suddenly dropped the
hand at his waist, letting his feet fall to the ground.  
Then, methodically, she stepped in front of him, turned 
her back on him, put her hand over his right shoulder and 
around his head and simply flipped him: hrew him flying
over her hip into the air.  He fell head over heels for  
the young girl.
    When he got to his knees, he saw her standing with her 
back to him, her ass jutting toward his face.  She said 
simply, "Kiss it, Danny."  He delayed.  "Kiss it," she 
said, "or I'll break every bone in your fuckin' body."  He 
understood her point.  She wanted him to symbolically 
admit in front of everybody that there was not a single 
girl in the Girls he would have any chance of defeating in 
a one-on-one unarmed fight.  She -- and the rest of the 
Girls, who had been so patient with her tormenting of     
Danny -- wanted him to acknowledge that he was afraid for 
his life not just of Earlene but of so little a Girl as 
Chrissy.
       He realized he had no choice.  He placed the 
symbolic kiss on the proffered little ass.  She then 
helped him to his feet and, again, placed her arm around 
his shoulder  possessively.  This time he did not resist,
        As the spectators and the remaining male victims 
watched impotently, the Girls then casually walked away, 
victory and their cute young prisoners in hand.

        The Girls learned from Danny and Jerry that word 
had gone out among all the male gangs that the Girls' were 
to be finished off that day.  Indeed, before they got home 
they were encircled and attacked by another male gang, 
this one priding itself on its skill in the martial arts.  
The Girls disposed of this gang just as easily and -- now 
angered -- more  ferociously than they had the hockey 
stick wielders.  But it was not yet dark, and the girls 
knew the real action had not yet started.  That night 
there was to be a formal graduation party at the mansion 
of a former gang member whose father had struck it rich.  
Everybody would be there: The Heads, so-called not only 
because of their role as dope pushers but because they 
shaved their  heads to facilitate the look of meanness 
and toughness.  They were the oldest, biggest, nastiest, 
most macho guys around.  They would be there. So would the 
Arnolds, a group that held a particular grudge against the  
Girls because they -- the Arnolds -- had been the first 
gang to get whole hog into weightlifting and bodybuilding.  
They were eager to show all concerned that muscles were 
male terrain.
     The Brothers would be there too.  Offspring of 
mafiosa, their speciality was in catching a victim alone 
and ganging up on him or her.  They were not concerned 
with individual pride, only with the brotherhood of their    
gang. 
    The martial arts gang also would be back, in fuller  
force and with better plans and out for blood.
     There would be others, too, including specialists 
in various weapons.  The Satyrs were coming.  This was a 
gang known around the city for its internal contests as to 
which member could accomplish the most rapes and for its  
determination to commit more gang rapes than any other 
gang. Their speciality -- whether in gang rapes or 
individual ones -- was in raping women and girls they 
considered uppity or too pushy. A rape of an athlete or a 
woman executive, say, got a member more "points" in the     
internal competition than, say, a nursery school teacher. 
Many people suspected that the police -- who had their 
own macho values -- had little or no 
interest in stopping them. At any rate, the Satyrs had big 
plans for the evening.  They planned to come in more ways 
than one.
         Rumor had it, also, that an out-of-town gang  of girls 
might show up, maybe two, though what either of those  
gangs might be like no one knew.

         The Girls showed up dressed to kill, so to speak.  
They were dressed elaborately, fantastically, in the most sexy, expensive 
gowns money could buy.  There were bare shoulders and bare 
or semi-bare midriffs; there were slinky black gowns which 
clung to every curve and had slits up to here.  Black mesh
hosiery.  See-through dresses, blouses, skirts and pants.  
Bare Backs. Elaborate hairdos revealing bare necks;  and 
cascading blond locks bumping against impudent, evident 
little asses.  Fur shawls covering, then revealing, 
amazing shoulders. Perfumes.  High heels.  Semi-bare 
breasts. The Girls were, in short, ready.  Rea-dee!


The End