THE GRINDER
By Kandor
Big Becky uses her thick thighs to grind her way to orgasm on men’s faces. Will you be next?


	I’m a grinder. I love getting men between my big, nasty legs 
and grinding. Makes me feel good. And if I grind jjjjjjjjjjjust right, it 
makes me cum. And baby, I always grind just right.
	Like now…hear that? Well, of course you can’t hear that, 
you’re not here, but if you were, you’d hear – and see – this guy I 
picked up at the gym, kneeling in front of me as I sit on my couch, his 
head encased in my thighs. He’s groaning, moaning, begging for mercy 
– and I’m grinding him mercilessly.
	Let me back up. My name’s Rebecca, Becky for short, Becks 
for those who know me well – and Mistress to guys like the guy laced 
up tight in my big thighs right now. I’m the Queen of Quad down at my 
gym, I’m dark-haired, young, very big (almost six feet tall), very thick 
(I weigh a rock-solid 180 pounds) and very, very dominant. And horny 
as hell most days. And yes, a grinder.
	Jim was lifting at the gym, couldn’t take his eyes off me. Most 
new meat is like that at my gym, they come in, skinny or fat, out of 
shape and eager to buff up and as soon as they get sight of me, all their 
careful style of lifting goes out the window and all they can do is sit on 
this weight machine or that trying like hell not to look like they’re 
staring at me. But they stare. How can they not? I mean, look at me. Oh, 
right, you can’t. Lemme paint you a picture of me today…
	I have my hair back in a pony, a dark sweatband around my 
head. I’m wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, my thick, powerful biceps 
pumped and ripped, my forearms a dance of sinewy sensuality, the hem 
rising above the rocky ripple of my hard belly. My tits are huge, hard, 
muscular, ribbons of striated power exploding thickly above the 
neckline of my shirt. Down below, I wear tiny, tiny cutoff jeans, very 
sexy style, the edges of the material frayed from trying to stay around 
my 30-inch thighs. That’s right, I said 30-inch thighs, every inch, every 
sweet, sweaty inch, etched in muscle, huge teardrop quads, thickly 
defined hamstrings, long, lean lines at the sides where the major muscle 
groups meet, and below that calves so balled up and solid they look like 
steel marbles under my skin. And I’m so muscular, so cut, so big and so 
damned hard, my skin is stretched paper thin, a sexy snakework of veins 
bulging across the surface, especially along my calves and my 
ridiculously huge thighs.
	Get the picture? Of course you do. And I’ll bet you’re reading 
with one hand right now…or will be.
	Today Jim is staring hard, a skinny geek of a middle-aged man, 
brought to the gym as physical therapy, something about a heart 
condition. He is staring pretty hard, I catch him, go over to him smiling, 
which really throws them off. I make small talk, act innocent and 
demure, then sock him with my “why don’t you come to my place, I’ll 
show you my workout, maybe it’s something you can use” routine.
	That’s all it takes. Then I get ‘em on their knees to lick these 
legs and it’s all over – but the grinding.
	Jim is easy, he is on his knees within five minutes of coming to 
my place. I tell him to do it, and he is down and groveling, ready to be 
kissing, licking, touching.
	“You like Beck’s  big, hard thighs and those nasty, nasty 
calves?” I ask him as he kneels before me as I stand, popping a quad 
shot, a calf roll, then bending to pull up my short white socks above my 
low leather gym boots. “You wanna lick ‘em, Jimmy? Huh?”
	Jim nods furiously and starts to lick. Instantly I close him off in 
a standing headscissors, pulling his head through the back, sliding him 
down to my calves and squeezing until he squawks.
	“I didn’t say lick, I asked if you wanted to?” I growl.
	I play this game with him, catch and release, scissoring, not 
scissoring, until I finally get him before me, my short-shorts off, my 
sweat-soaked cunny in his face. I have my giant thighs working hard 
now, his nose on my clit, his mouth frantically trying to breathe through 
the wet straw of my cunt, and I’m grinding him, those big thighs 
quivering, flexing, folding up toward me and firing out straight, my big 
calves locked and loaded, the snap-flex-snap action pulverizing his tiny 
skull. I grind him good now, my eyes closed, head back as I work the 
thighs, work his face in the grinding mulch of my cunny. He’s not even 
here, not the whole man, just the face, just the nose being battered 
bloody on my clit bone, just the lips bruised on my cunt, just the tongue 
being sucked, milked into my muscular twat. My cunt owns his face 
now and I grind, pump, flex, relax, slam my legs out straight, draw them 
back, slam them out again…and always the grind, grind, grind, my 
wide, very hard hips gyrating, pulsating, swiveling, all of it to devour 
his face, that nose, those lips, the tongue. I allow myself to look down at 
him as I finally cum, my eyes half-lidded, my lower row of teeth biting 
hard into my upper lip, barely cutting the skin, a thin trickle of blood 
appearing, making itself taste in my mouth, urging me on. I see my 
giant thighs quiver in final scissoring grind, and those eyes, I see his 
eyes open, full of tears and terror and begging. IT makes me grind 
harder. IT makes me cum harder. I put my head back and scream, 
drowning out his pained, gurgling moans. By the time I’m done 
grinding him, he’s out like a light, and barely alive. I usually take a 
good 10 minutes post-orgasm to get back to reality, just enough time to 
let my victims get back to living. When I look down in 10 minutes, Jim 
is struggling to sit up, his nose bloodied from the grind, his lips thick 
and swollen. He looks at me, ashamed, picks up and leaves.
	I never do see him at my gym again. Funny how guys are, huh? 
But I need to grind again, baby, I need it bad, so bad. Maybe you can 
come to my gym, huh? Give Becky what she needs? Come on down, 
baby, and lemme grind ya……