COED'S CRUSHING CALVES
By Kandor



	A tale of what happens to an innocent writer minding his own 
business on a college campus. I actually wrote this out in 
longhand one day while really killing time in a college campus 
center, this beautiful girl sitting before me. Her calves were not 
visible, however; literary license allows me to create what I 
hoped her jeans were hiding. Enjoy.


	In summer, they would have been noticeable but here, in the 
campus center of a small, central Massachusetts liberal arts 
college in the dead of winter, this girl's bare calves stuck out 
like a pair of fleshy, rock-ribbed thumbs.
	I'd come to the school as a freelancer writer, to do a story 
on a professor winning such-and-such award. I'd done the interview 
and was killing time with a newspaper and coffee in the campus 
center, waiting for the professor's afternoon class so I could sit 
in and watch, get a little atmosphere for the piece.
	Then she walked in and changed my life forever.
	She was pretty - blonde, hair tied up in a ponytail off to 
one side in an insouciant flip, high cheekbones, robin-egg blue 
eyes, and milk-white skin. She was pretty enough in the face to be 
noticed, but those legs. She wore tight white slacks that ended at 
the knee and ankle-high white socks with those modern clunky black 
shoes, her lean, tight thigh muscles showing under the snug fabric 
of her pants. But it was those calves that caught the eye and held 
it. As she stood perfectly still across the wide space of the 
campus center lobby from where I sat in one of those industrial-
campus cushioned chairs by a large bank of windows, her legs, 
gleaming white in the unflattering ceiling lights, were scarcely 
noticeable. She was tall, 5-8 or so, slender, probably 115, 120, 
and her legs, those lower legs, were thinnish and unimposing as 
she stood still.
	But then she moved, walking to a rack of brochures, standing 
on tiptoes to get to the top rack, and those calves that in repose 
where shapely but lean, exploded in a veritable fleshy mushroom of 
muscle, jagged diamond shapes flaring above her white socks, 
gnarled fists through under the cloud-white flesh of each one.
	My eyes were riveted to the sight, my cock stirring in my 
pants. Shifting in my chair, I tried to look away, not at all 
comfortable being a 47-year-old man leering at the legs, the 
incongruously huge calves when measured against the rest of her 
lean legs, of a girl clearly 30 years my junior.  But I could not 
look away, not as she turned to walk toward me, not as those 
fisted calves roared out to the sides, visible from the front as 
she strode, not as she stopped before me.
	"Mind if I sit down?" she asked brightly, not waiting for my 
response as she flopped into another industrial-campus cushioned 
chair four feet from me, a large, ugly blue cube between us that 
colleges pass off as coffee tables.
	I looked around; of the 10 or so pairings of chairs in a 
semicircle before the  bank of windows, five were empty. She'd 
sought me out, my mind raced, quickly dismissing the thought as 
ludicrous.
	"Uh, no, I." I stammered uneasily, sitting up in my chair.
	Her comfort disarmed me. This teenage girl, this spirit 
before me, disquieted me. People in central Massachusetts, here in 
New England or the entire northeast for that matter, didn't break 
into a person's space so easily when other space is available. But 
she did and it threw me off.
	"Now what did ah do with that syllabus?" she asked herself, 
the soft 'I' coming as a gentle 'ah', explaining her ease with 
strangers: She was from the south, a breed of American decidedly 
more friendly than their northern counterparts.
	She sat hunched over her books and papers in her lap, her 
ridiculously large calves pressed into the bottom part of her 
chair, the flare of creamy meat pushed out to each side of her 
shinbones. I gulped and turned my eyes to my newspaper, holding up 
before me and trying to read.
	"It's from walking up and down all these hills y'all have 
here."
	Her words, a high, sweet, singsong of words, wafted up and 
over my paper. I lowered it to my nose. She was looking at me, 
smiling.
	"I'm sorry?" I said.
	"Mah calves," she said matter of factly, the 'k' sound in 
'calves' instantly initiating another cock stirring in me as my 
mind raced ahead and anticipated her uttering the word 'calves', 
which she did, the sound of it, the sound of her saying 'calves' 
uttered by the girl with calves unlike any I'd ever seen, caused 
my stomach to knot and, as I said, my cock to stir.
	"B.beg pardon?" I squeaked.
	"I know you were looking at mah calves," she continued in 
the slight southern drawl, but now looking down to keep searching 
for her syllabus. I stared at her, dumbstruck.
	"Lot of people look at these calves, nobody expects to see 
'em so big and meaty on a gal so thin, I guess," she sighed.
	Big. Meaty. Each word was a pneumatic pump directly attached 
to my dick, which was now three-quarters hard and in no way 
inclined to reverse direction anytime soon.
	"I wasn't.I mean, I didn't mean to.I mean, I..I..," I 
stammered badly, crumpling my paper to my lap to diplomatically 
hide my throbbing boner.
	She looked up, a demure smile on her thin, sexy lips.
	"Now, don't y'all go lyin' to me," she said softly. "Ah know 
better."
	She continued to hunt for the syllabus and finally produced 
it with a flourish, throwing up her hand and herself back in the 
chair as she held it aloft - and propping her clunky black shoes 
up on the ugly blue block between us, pressing those calves - Big. 
Meaty. Calves. - flat on the surface, the flare even more 
pronounced then before and worse, closer to me. Then she started 
to rotate her feet absentmindedly as she read the syllabus, 
sucking on a finger, the calves flexing madly along the deep 
creases of her shins, all of it, the flare, the flex, the finger-
sucking, firing my dick from three-quarters hard to 150 percent up 
and ready and positively aching. I couldn't speak. But she did.
	"Hey, wanna see what these big ol' calves can do?" she 
laughed, rummaging in her back pack and coming up with a stack of 
photos that she skidded across the ugly blue cube to me. I picked 
them up nervously, looked at the top one and my 150-percent erect 
prick went into full penile cardiac arrest - and got harder still.
	The pictures were clearly taken at a college beer bash  and 
in every one, a crowd surrounded people in the middle, two people, 
one of whom was the girl before me, the other a changing 
assortment of college men - each one with their heads, necks or 
throats securely clasped in  what looked to be the agonizing grip 
of this girl's humungous calves. She was lying on her side in 
some, calves wrapped around a guy's throat. She was sitting up in 
others, calves locked up, big and meaty, on a neck. In others, she 
was standing, calves attached like muscular ribbons around a 
skull. In all, this girl's calves - bigger and meatier even than 
the calves flared flat on the blue cube before me - were doing 
serious damage to men. And she was smiling in the photos, no, 
laughing, laughing down at the purple faces locked in her amazing 
calves. People stood cheering, women mostly; the men in the crowd 
looked stunned, aghast and mostly away.
	"It was a scissor keg party," she said, taking the pictures 
from me and rifling through them to find one in particular and 
showing me. "Oh, this is my fave!" I dislocated his neck. He's the 
hockey captain and I, uh, knocked him out of the lineup for a few 
weeks. His coach was pissed, came to see me one night in my dorm."
	She leaned forward and smiled at me, saying softly, "Then HE 
was out for a month!"
	I looked at the picture - a guy's head was cocked at a 
gruesome angle as this girl's enormous calves squeezed his neck, 
his face beyond oxygen deprived purple and on its way to funeral 
home gray. I gulped, looked at the photo again and up at her. She 
had a smile on her face. Same smile as in the photo.
	"I sometimes do scissor keg parties to make a few bucks," 
she said, taking the pictures and putting them back in her bag. "I 
challenge guys to see if they can take my calf scissors.when a gal 
uses her legs to squeeze a guy, it's called a scissors hold.and 
they can't, they can't take it, I mean. I offer them 200 bucks if 
they can and collect five dollars per submission - or knockout."
	I looked at her wide-eyed and slack jawed. She smiled and 
leaned toward me.
	"And I've never, ever lost a bet," she said softly in an 
almost hissing tone, her blue eyes narrow and glaring. "Never."
	My reverie was broken by a gaggle of girls who came up 
behind me and surrounded the girl in the chair, two sitting on the 
arms of the chair, one behind her. They chatted awhile and I 
managed to read the paper again, even willing down - slightly - my 
hard-on. Until one of the girls spoke.
	"No kidding, you told this guy about the scissor keg party?"
	I looked up. The girls were looking at me and laughing. One 
of them held up a picture.
	"Do you believe the legs on our little Amy?" she said. "Do 
you believe what she can do with those calves?"
	Embarrassed, I looked away, down to the side, anywhere but 
at the girls or Amy - who was now sitting, arms folded, looking at 
me with those narrowed, seemingly malevolent eyes, and one leg 
crossed over the other, the big, no huge meat of the top calf 
flared against the other leg, bouncing it, bouncing, flexing that 
calf above her short sock, drawing my attention like a fog-bound 
ship to a shoreline beacon.
	"Hey, you guys up for some lunch?" Amy said, looking right 
at me but talking to the girls.
	"Sure," said one. "But I'm broke.we all are. Who's buying?"
	Amy's eyes widened, then narrowed to blue slits, her thin 
lips curled into a dominant sneer.
	"He is."
	My blood ran cold. I knew where this was headed, so I 
gathered my stuff and started to get up. The girls stood, too - 
except Amy. She sat, cross-legged, that calf bouncing, flaring, 
flexing.
	"I'm hungry," said one of the girls. "Let's make this 
quick."
	"It won't take long," Amy said, a smile spreading across her 
pretty face. "Girls.feed him to mah big, nasty calves!!"
	She sat on the edge of the chair, her toes pointed on the 
floor, which bubbled her insanely big calves to their most 
outrageous and full degree yet, immense, creamy fists of steel 
under undulating skin. The girls grabbed me, two of them hammer 
locking me to my knees and bending my head between those iron 
limbs. Amy let out a sharp grunt and mouse trapped her giant 
calves shut, the jagged interiors lancing into my neck, her knees 
nearly touching above me as I watched in horror as her clunky 
shoes crossed below me. The pain was instant, intense, incredible, 
but my fear was worse. Her titanic lower legs were taking me to 
the brink of unconsciousness in just seconds.
	"Do yaw GIVE?" I heard her ask, calves thundering on my neck 
for emphasis.
	"Out of the corner of my blurry eyes I saw the other girls 
kneeling and laughing, awaiting my response. I saw pairs of feet. 
A crowd was gathering.
	"I.gig....give." I groaned.
	"Aright! Chelsea, that covers your lunch tab," Amy laughed, 
letting me go.
	I fell to the floor, but not for long as Amy lashed out her 
legs and hooked my neck, spinning me to a sitting position before 
her, reeling me in with those calves and slam-locking them along 
my head, compressing my ears in their sheer muscled bulk. They 
were bending my jawbones, too, and I couldn't heard a thing, but 
through pain-blurred eyes I saw her friends mouthing the words, 
"Do you give?"
	My head immobile in the scissor clamp of Amy's punishing 
calves, I madly wiggled my eyes up and down, letting them nod my 
submission. The girls laughed and gave Amy thumbs up sign. I was 
free, but unable to move, the pain in my neck coursed through my 
entire torso.
	"Two down, two to go," a girl said, laughing.
	I looked around, painfully. The crowd gathered was like 
those in the pictures: Girls looked on with approval and men 
looked aghast, stunned and mostly away. They didn't like what they 
saw but knew if they tried to stop it, they might be next, if they 
haven't been already.
	My freedom was short lived. Amy turned my head to the side, 
and I screamed in pain from that alone, even more when she power 
latched those beefy calves to my throat, one bulbous pad of muscle 
crushing my neck bones, the other compressing my windpipe until I 
let out a staccato and involuntary "GACK!" sound as she ratcheted 
down the scissors. Inward her calves crushed until even the GACK 
went away and I feared she'd crush my larynx in those pounding 
pipes. My hands waved frantically and Amy mercifully released me.
	"OK, you guys are set," she laughed, standing up, shaking 
the cramps from her big calves, the meat of them quivering before 
my eyes as I sat slumped on the floor.
	"Hey, finish him off with the flying calf strapper!" someone 
shouted. A girl.
	"You got it!" Amy roared.
	The girls stood me up and I watched Amy back up to the 
crowd's edge. I watched , unable to move, as she bounded at me 
like a high jumper, long limbs striding in exaggerated gait. She 
left the ground 10 paces from me, legs open, calves flared and 
hungry. They found my neck in a perfectly executed flying 
scissors, the momentum of her body snapping me to the floor, 
skidding on my ass to come to rest before a throng of laughing 
girls, and guys looking aghast, stunned and mostly away.
	"It's time for lunch, baby," I heard her cry as she ran to 
sit behind me. "And mah big, nasty calves are the ticket to a free 
one!!"
	Amy's calves flashed before my eyes and then around my neck 
as she sat behind me on the pivot of her fanny, her rugged calves 
up and around me. The clunky shoes locked up, the sheer bulk of 
her scissoring calves taking up so much of my neck between my 
shoulders and ears it pushed my head up and away from the rest of 
me until  it felt like she'd scissor-stretch it clear off my body.
	"I GIVE!" I screamed.
	"Five bucks, do I hear 10! I'm hungry from all this scissor 
exercise, and me and my friends want some dessert, too!"
	Amy began a brutal snap motion of her mammoth calves, 
opening them just enough to allow her to power lock them down a 
blurry-fast scissor action that made me submit over and over.
	"I hear 10, do I hear 15?" she growled.
	She leaned back on the floor and let her calves slowly 
pulsate on my neck, increasing the pressure gradually and, 
unfortunately, fully until the scissor squeeze was on so full, her 
calves quivered from the effort. My hands gripped them in 
involuntary response but then slipped away, off the creamy smooth 
mass of muscle as Amy calf scissored me out like a light.
	'I'm dreaming', I thought to myself as I awoke. 'A dream, 
just a dream'..
	Slowly I came to and the dream was realized in the form of 
the extreme pain pangs coursing throughout my neck, head and 
chest. I opened my eyes. The crowd was gone, but three girls - and 
Amy - were there, hands out. Amy's calves were huge, knotted balls 
of muscle, two red marks on the jagged interiors where my head, 
neck and throat had recently suffered.
	"Fork it over, dude," Amy said brightly. "We're hungry!"
	I winced from the motion of moving my hand to my pocket. I 
peeled off 30 bucks and handed it over.
	"Thanks, mister," she said, bending over to tuck the cash 
into one of her falling white socks, pulling it up to the 
insidious bulge of calf muscle and standing straight. "I figure 
once a week of buying me, and my friends, lunch should be good, 
every Wednesday let's say. See ya next week!"
	She bounded away, those calves bigger and angrier-looking 
than ever. Turning to look at me over her shoulder, she said, "Oh, 
by the way.I'm just a freshman."
	For the next four years, I knew how my Wednesdays would be 
spent: Broke, in pain, and locked in legs. The cost of higher 
education - and Amy's big calves - were killing me.