The Truth About Debbie by Marknew742@aol.com What else don't Men know about Women? You're on your third date with Debbie, a petite cutie with a button nose, short dark hair and eyes that light up the sky. She invites you up to her apartment for a drink. It's your first time there and you smile at the framed pictures of puppies and kittens, the embroidered pillows, the pink decor. There's an enormous barbell in the corner with two two hundred-fifty pound weights on each side, its size, heaviness and sharp lines oddly out of place in the apartment, but she smiles and explains that her big brother left it there as a joke and he just won't come by to move it. What can she do? You gallantly offer to help her with it later and give it no further thought. You sit on the couch and she pours two glasses of white wine. You each take just a sip before you make a move. She responds and pretty soon she excuses herself to get into something more comfortable and suggests you make yourself comfortable too -- in her bedroom. She disappears into the bathroom while you inspect the room. More puppies, kittens and pillows, pictures of Mom and Dad and a man, big brother, you assume. A large brass bed with an embroidered throw. Stuffed animals. It's almost too cute. But wait a minute. There's something funny about the brass bed. You look closer. What are those twists in the bars? Everything is so perfectly ordered, perfectly arranged. Why would she have a defective bed? Just then she walks in, in a pink teddy, very short, with lace around her sma ll but round and firm breasts. She smells of flowers. She smiles at you. You hold her and lift her onto the bed. Try to lift her, that is, because she's heavier than you expect. She smiles again and beckons you onto the bed and pulls you gently on top of her while she undoes your belt and unsnaps your pants, then unzips them too. You wriggle out of them and pull off your shirt. You lean down to kiss her and again notice the deformed brass bed. She stretches her arms back, pushing up her breasts at your face and you bury your head in them, noticing on your way down the way her thumbs involuntarily settle against the thick brass columns, running along the crease where they are crushed. Funny how only two are crushed, right where her thumbs rest. You wonder ... but no, that's ridiculous! She brings her hands up and you notice her slender feminine arms. She's so perfect, so adorable. Her hands lightly graze your back and slip slowly down, making your skin tingle and setting off sensations that ricochet through your body before converging in the tip of your tool, and it's all you can do to stop yourself from coming right then. You try to focus on something else and once again you notice the bars of the bed. She sees you looking there and smiles, nodding slightly. You look at her, puzzled now. What did she mean by that? She holds your ass firmly for just a second, her small hands pinching you while she laughs at your reaction then puts her arms around your neck and kisses you passionately. She's a good kisser, a very good kisser, but in your mind you still see those thumbs against the brass. You feel yourself getting distracted and you want to stop for a moment, break off the kiss and ask her a simple question. You push up a little, but she doesn't get the signal; she won't let go. You try to say something but her lips are pressed too closely into yours. Surely she can tell! You reach back and touch her arms, her soft smooth arms, but she keeps kissing, ignoring you completely. Then she removes one arm and brings it back down to the small of your back, stroking you. She must feel that you've lost a little hardness and she wants to get you going again. But you want a question answered first. You pull up now, harder, but incredibly you can't move. The one arm she has around your neck holds you firmly in place. But hey ... that's impossible! "Honey, where are you going?" she murmurs quietly. "I want you right now." You think, you don't really want to go anywhere. You don't really want to spoil the mood. You don't really want to do anything but what you are about to do. Her hand is busy caressing you and her soft touch is driving you wild. You're fully hard again. You want nothing more than to plunge inside her. But as you press closely to her you wonder: what just happened? Did she really hold you down with one arm lying casually behind your neck. You didn't feel her strain. You didn't notice any change in her breathing. You didn't feel any muscles harden. You didn't see any tightness in her face. No. You must have imagined it. But you have to see. You have to know. You have to try to get away again and see if she tries to hold you back. Surely you will just get up, for a moment, and then make a silly excuse like you thought you heard a burglar or something and then settle back into this dream of an evening. No harm done. You tense your muscles slightly, take your hands off her sweet round breasts and place them on the mattress and bend your knees between her open legs. One, two, three there! You push. You feel her arm across your neck again, her hand on your ass, very softly, very gently, very firmly holding you in place. You haven't moved even an inch. "Are you OK, honey? Where are you going?" she breathes, nuzzling your cheek with her lips. You answer, "I, uh, think I heard a burglar and --" "Oh no, silly, there's no one here but us," she says in her most musical voice. "Yes, but, I thought that --" "No, no. I don't want you to go. I want you right here," she breathes, insistently. Her forearm exerts a little pressure and forces your head down onto hers where she kisses you again, so sweetly and passionately that you are sure you are crazy for trying to get away. But you feel you must to prove a point. You reach back and grab her tiny wrist and pull it with more and more of your strength, twisting your body awkwardly to pull her arm upwards and release your neck ... but to no avail. You can't get any leverage reaching behind your back and her arm remains firmly in place. You strain your whole body upwards now, thinking at least that you will lift the two of you off the bed and you can free yourself more easily from an upright position. For all your efforts all you can do is lift her head a couple of inches off the pillow, as though she weighs twice as much as you do. Yet she is just 5'2" and with her build should hardly weigh more than 105 pounds. What's worse, the little progress you made lasts only until she takes her hand off your ass and puts it on the bar of the brass bed, her thumb resting in the well-worn crease. You don't see any evidence of her trying, but before you know it her head is back on the pillow, resting comfortably. You're trembling from the effort and don't want to aggravate your weak back, so you collapse back onto her and she smiles up at you, happy to bear your weight again. "That's so much nicer, honey. I like having you on top of me, you know." "B-b-but Debbie ... I just ... I mean, how can you ...." She rubs her thumb against the crease in the brass and lifts her hand to my face, brushing away a drop of perspiration on my forehead that was about to roll into my eye. "Aww, sweetie, don't tire yourself out over nothing. Everything's fine! You were doing so well." She kisses my cheek, tasting the sheen of perspiration and then running her tongue down my jaw and across my neck, sending new chills down my spine. "There, now. Isn't that nice? You really turn me on, you know. I like you very much." It's more than nice. It's driving you wild. And yet .... You look up at the head of the bed. Is that a new dent in the brass bar? You're sure it wasn't there a minute ago! You look down at her sweet smiling face. "Y-y-yeah, well I like you too. I really do -- but ... did you just make a dent in your bed?" You can't believe you said it. It sounds so stupid. But then you're glad you did. It's out in the open. She has to acknowledge it. And she does. She nods quickly, with a smile, like all you asked her was whether she's wearing a diaphragm or is she sure you're not too heavy or does she really like it when you nibble her ear. And just so there's no doubt about it, she laughs and says, "it's easy for me honey," looking happy like she just remembered she could do it and was proud of herself, like she must have been at the age of seven the first time she rode her bike without training wheels. She wraps her legs around you and rubs her heels down your legs, and at the same time wiggles her crotch against yours, sighing at the close contact. "Oh, honey, I want you IN me, now! Please, let's make love!" And suddenly, amazingly, you feel her vagina open up and pull you inside. "Teehee! I've GOT you!" she laughs. And you feel your prick being pushed and pulled as never before, massaged and elongated with innumerable tiny tongues rippling up and down your shaft, then compressed, then tickled, while all along her breathing becomes deeper and wilder, her voice trilling ever higher. Her arms rise over her head again, gripping her brass bed tightly until she comes, screaming and you see her hands close around the two brass bars, severing them. "Oh baby, baby, you are so wonderful!" she cries, nuzzling your cheek. You've come too, her contractions milking you thoroughly. You want to protest that you've done nothing, that she's done it all. But you don't. It's the best fuck you've ever had. You know that. Does she know it? You say nothing. "Oh, honey, I love you!" "I love you too." You lie down against her, caressing her gently and she moans softly and holds you close. You're relaxed and happy. Normally you'd drift off to sleep. But you look at your bodies, completely entwined. Her small, hairless body, full of soft curves, partly covered by her pink teddy, slightly askew, and your own large, muscular hairy body, hard and angular, biceps bulging. You shake your head. You doubt your sanity. "Debbie! I've got to --" "No. Don't go. I want you here." "I just --" She hooks her arm around yours and smiles at you, protectively, possessively. "That's better. Now you can't go. Guys always want to go. Or fall asleep too fast. I hate that." At least now she's right in front of you. You certainly should be able to manage her now. You take her wrist. She lets you grab it, settle your large hands around it. Brace yourself. And then pull, as hard as you can, straining now with all of your strength. Your whole body is braced against the bed, pulling away, trying to free yourself. Your face turns read, your breathing is heavy, your muscles are about to explode. And she's just lying there, looking at you, innocently, completely innocently, her head now propped up against one hand, just watching you, her eyes still dreamy from her orgasm, her body as relaxed as if she's about to fall asleep, the arm hooked around you, so soft, the slight blond fuzz as mild as a child's, the muscle, the damn muscle that holding you in place as though you were fastened to her with a steel chain, hasn't even twitched!! It sits on her slender arm, as small and innocent as if she were in fact asleep. Now you've lost all perspective and you jerk your arm again and again, not even remotely concerned about the show you're putting on. She lazily opens one eye, looking at you serenely, and giggles. "Oh you silly man!!" she says. "Whatever are you trying to do!" "I'm just trying ... trying to -- "But you can't, sweetie! So won't you just stop and cuddle with me? Don't you like me anymore?" "Of course I do! But I don't understand! How can you be so strong? So much stronger than me? "Because I'm a girl, you big silly. And you're a man. That's why!" "But that's ridiculous. Men are supposed to be stronger. And look at us, my muscles are much bigger and harder than yours." She sighs happily. "I know, and it's so nice to feel them while I'm holding you so close. Aww, are you upset? You poor sad baby! Don't you realize? I'm much, much stronger than you. You're no stronger than a tiny baby compared to me, so I can keep you here next to me, all warm and safe. There, there, now, my love. It's all right, isn't it?" You look at her dumbfounded. "Oh really! I can't believe you don't know it already." You shake your head. "Oh I know I pretend to be soft and feminine, just like guys like, but it's just an act. I mean, being a girl is hard. Do you think I could bear it if I were even weaker than you?" Your jaw drops. You've NEVER thought of yourself as weak! How could she SAY "even weaker than you"! "I am NOT weak!" you protest, loudly. "Hmmph!" she says burying a giggle in her hand. "Of course, I'm sure you must be very strong, for a man. But . . ." she doesn't continue. "But what?!" you cry out. "Well, that just doesn't count for much, does it? I mean . . . ." She laughs again. "What ARE you talking about! You're crazy! Men are strong. Women are weak!" "Then why can't you get out?" She looks down her arm, gently but firmly holding you in place. "Go on, then, get up." "I can't," you say softly. "Why not?" she challenges. "I don't know," you reply, softly again. "You don't know? Oh, come on, sweetheart! This is silly. Let's settle it. Go and get my brother's barbell!" She releases you arm and you get up and go to the next room, where you look at the barbell, try once to lift it, and then drag it into the room, leaving a track along the carpet. She sees you struggling with it, starts getting up then gives you a winning smile and just sits on the bed patiently until you bring it closer and lean it against the bed. "Good!" she says brightly. "Let's start. How many times can you lift it?" You look at her in disbelief, but for good order's sake, you ease it down onto the floor, wrap both hands around the edge, remember to keep your back straight, bend your knees and pull. You manage to lift it a few inches off the floor, then let it go, the weights making a deep indentation in the carpet. "That was very good!" she says encouragingly. "I didn't think you were that strong! Now it's my turn." She hops onto the floor and walks over to the weight, bends down, like you did and puts her hands on both sides, straightens her back, bends her knees, then looks up at you, laughs a little and shakes her head like it's all a big joke, as if she's saying 'Little me? Lift this big thing?' She lets go with one hand and moves the other to the middle, then straightens her knees and bends down at the waist. What is she doing, you wonder? She pauses and as you wait you admire her smooth legs, the round ass that peeks out of her teddy. You can even see her breasts through the top of her gown as it hangs open. It WAS just a joke, you realize. Some kind of trick. She'll explain it any second, maybe a self-defense thing she learned at the "Y", a pressure point or something. She wiggles her ass and smiles and you smile back. The sweet little darling. What a sense of humor. She really had you going. You underestimated her that way. What a kidder. You like that in a girl. Spirit. Unpredictability. And above all, as cute as can be. She wiggles her ass again and then picks up the five hundred pound weight and lifts it over her head, arm perfectly straight, back straight again and thrusts her chest out, those pert breasts erect through her teddy, then lifts one foot in the air, balancing the weight over her head while standing on one foot, then lifts her foot so that she's standing on her toes, like a ballerina, bouncing up and down slightly as she flexes her toe. But that's not enough. The barbell starts turning as she rotates it in her hand, spinning it like a baton more and more rapidly, so quickly now that the weights are barely visible and you can feel a slight wind in the room from the spinning weights. You watch her hand and arm instead and gape at the lack of any muscle tension in her arm as she handles the five hundred pound weights, then gasp when she flips it higher still and lets it rest, spinning through its own momentum, on the tip of her pinky. She smiles and holds her hand out in front of her, lifting the spinning weights up and down with her pinky effortlessly while she counts, "one, two, three, four . . " all the way to fifty, until the barbell slows and she takes it in her hand again and returns it gracefully to the floor, frowning a little at the marks it makes on the carpet. "There, honey, you see?" You stare at her, unsure whether to cheer, run or scream, when there is a knock on the door. Debbie's eyes open, wide and she looks around the room quickly, grabs the barbell and runs the window with it, tossing it into the air outside. It soars into the sky, higher and higher. You follow it as until it disappears, still rising. You look at her. Will she answer the door? Before Debbie can even rise, you hear the door splinter. Someone has broken it open. "Debbie! We know you're in there. You know why we're here!" She looks at you, half-pleading. You don't understand. "Who's there and what do you want?" you say, authoritatively, although you realize that your role as Debbie's protector must be a bit out of date. Your question is ignored as two stern women enter the room, dressed in blue business suits. Each is in her twenties. One is about 5'9" with short black hair and a thin build. The other is 5'5", very busty, but looks slightly overweight with thick arms and torso. She wears dull black glasses and has a sullen, angry look. The taller one says "We're sorry, Debbie, but we cannot allow this to continue." "B-b-but, we were just having fun. I didn't hurt him." "You know that has nothing to do with it. You were warned before." They stand on either side of her and nod to each other. "NO, DON'T!!" She turns to me. "PLEASE HELP ME!! DON'T LET THEM DO THIS!" The two women look at each other, exasperated. The shorter one shakes her head. "It's very sad. She's completely lost her ability to distinguish between the real world and the fantasy. We have no choice, you know." "What's going on here?" you say. The women continue to ignore you. The taller one nods. "Yes. Go ahead." "What are you doing to her?" You rush at them. The shorter one takes a breath and blows and suddenly you find yourself caught in a gale wind, flying in the air across the room and pinned against the wall, your head bumping against the ceiling. She closes her mouth and the wind stops. You crash to the floor, dazed. The shorter woman is now holding Debbie's arms and Debbie is struggling to get free, but she can't get away. You can see now from the way her arms are bulging that it was not fat, but muscle that makes them so thick. You can't imagine the strength that woman must have to hold that immensely powerful girl so still. The taller one puts her hands on Debbie's throat and squeezes, choking her. In a minute it's over. Debbie has slumped to the floor, dead. She looks at the taller one. "You do the guy. You're better at that than I am." The taller one nods and walks toward me. "No! Wait! I didn't do anything." She sighs. "You know too much." "I won't tell. I promise!" She's standing over you now. She looks like she weighs about 110 lbs. -- half your weight. Her arms are like matchsticks. You can't believe you're cowering beneath her, until she reaches down and lifts you with one hand and pins you against the wall. Her grip is like iron, and although you pull at her arm and you feel its soft femininity, it contains power beyond your comprehension. "We cannot take that risk. Woman learned thousands of years ago that civilization would advance only if we maintained the illusion that men were the dominant sex, through strength, through aggression, and through status. Although one or two percent of men actually enjoy being the weaker sex, the vast majority of males would lose all initiative, all sexual drive, even the will to live if they knew the truth: that women have power and abilities far beyond their comprehension. We do not choose to live in such a society. It has been so since the days of Adam and Eve, when we drove man out of the garden where we cared for him and forced him to strive for his food, to lead and protect his family, to assume responsibility. The result has been poverty, war, disease and foolish aggression, but a lso a thriving, vibrant society. We women are social creatures. This is how we choose to live." Her face softened. "This happens very rarely, when one of us loses her understanding of our compact. It was not your fault, yet you must die. We honor you for the sacrifice you must make." She leans over and puts her soft lips on yours. It is a kiss like none you have ever felt, and you want to fall into it, bask in her protection forever, even as the unfathomable power of her lungs sucks the precious air out of yours and you lapse into a delicious lightheadedness, and all too soon it's over.