Candy and the Golden Amazon 

Copyright (c) Rabbit Productions, 1995, 1996 

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Copyright: This story is copyright 1996 by the author, Sam Rabbit, under 
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Introduction 


This is the sequel to the story called "Candy and the Rueful Rabbit". If 
you haven't read that, you should, otherwise this story won't make sense 
to you. It's also a prequel to the Carol story; read that later. 

People see the same events through different eyes, and each person puts 
their own interpretation on the same facts. Candy doesn't see what Sam 
sees, and Sam doesn't see what Candy sees. "Candy" was how Sam saw her. 
"Candy and the Golden Amazon" is more about how she sees herself, which 
isn't how other people see her. 

Don't read this unless you like seeing men being beaten up by powerful 
women. If the thought of a Big Hug or a Warm Cuddle turns you on, that's 
because you don't know what they are yet. 




Candy and the Golden Amazon 

Copyright (c) Rabbit Productions, 1995, 1996 

Chapter 1 - On the bus 

I sat in the long distance bus station, all alone, wrapped up in my big 
wool overcoat. Bus stations are the loneliest places in the world, all 
those people in transit, all wanting to be somewhere else. I tried not 
to cry, but my eyes kept filling with tears. It doesn't do to cry in a 
bus station, people get embarrassed, and anyway Mummy always taught me 
that you shouldn't cry in public. 

After I sat there for a long time, a bus came. I didn't look too hard 
where it was going, I just wanted to get away from this town, and from 
all the memories. I asked the driver where he was going, and paid for a 
ticket to the end of the route. I found a seat near the back, and sat 
down, huddling up to my bag. At last, I could sit and think about what 
had happened, and at last I could cry. 

Happiness found and happiness lost, I expect it's the oldest human 
story. I'd found true love with Sam, and lost it. I cursed my big, 
clumsy body for what it was, and for what it had done to Sam. I tried to 
think how I should have behaved. If only I hadn't had sex with him in 
that field. If only I'd not lost control when I orgasmed. If only he 
hadn't known exactly how to drive me to a frenzied climax. If only. If 
only. Probably the saddest two words in the language. If only. My mind 
kept replaying our last lovemaking, how his long, sensitive fingers had 
been everywhere. On my nipples, under my armpits, on my clitoris, on my 
throat, under my knees. I hadn't realised I had so many erogenous zones, 
and Sam was all over them. And then, I remembered how a feeling had 
permeated my body, a feeling of must-have, a feeling of undeniable 
urgency, an overwhelming feeling of orgasm like a wave crashing over me. 
And how I'd abandoned all hope of self control, and let my body arch and 
my voice scream. But afterwards, in the aftermath of our passion, how I 
found that my arms had crushed his poor soft little body, and my thighs 
had broken one of his legs. He was unconscious, and stayed that way 
until I got him to the hospital. 

How could I face him after that? How could he bear to touch me after I'd 
broken the bones in his arm and leg in the throes of my ecstasy? What 
could I say? "Sorry" is inadequate. "Won't do it again", but how could I 
guarantee that? What sane man would lie in the arms of a woman who had, 
without even meaning to, put him into hospital for a long, long stay? I 
couldn't face Sam, couldn't explain to him, so I made a video of myself 
and left that for him to find, then got on the first bus out of Hope. 
Maybe I could start again, find a new life, forget Sam. 

I sat on the bus, tears crawling slowly down my face. I tried not to 
make too much noise, not wanting to attract attention. I tried to weep 
silently, but it's difficult. I could have done with a pillow to cry 
into; that used to work well when I was younger. But all I had was a 
carry-bag, so I hugged that and tried to cry into my private grief. 

As I sat on the bus, it slowly filled up, and soon there was a man on 
the seat next to me. I turned away from him, so that he wouldn't see my 
tears. I wished I could be alone, so I could mourn my lost love in 
private. 

I guess my sobbing must have been obvious, because he tapped me on the 
shoulder, and asked me if I was all right. I shook my head, and huddled 
closer into my carry-bag, not wanting to get into a conversation. 
"Please don't cry", he said, as if that would make any difference. My 
heart was broken, what else could I do? He offered me a Kleenex; I wiped 
my face with it, and then blew my nose, but it made no difference, I 
still felt heartsick. "Thank you", I whispered, Mummy always taught me 
to be polite. "I've got something here that might help", he said. I 
looked up - there was nothing that could possibly make me feel better. 
He was holding a small bottle of whiskey in his hand, and I thought - 
alcohol isn't going to make things better. I've never drunk whiskey 
before, and the thought of whiskey made me think of beer, which 
naturally led to Sam, and I choked off a wail of anguish. He put the 
bottle to my lips, and I took a sip. 

I coughed and coughed and coughed. I've never tasted whiskey before, and 
now I know why. It's perfectly foul, bitter tasting, and it burns like 
fire. And people drink this stuff on purpose? But after my throat 
stopped burning, something glowed deep inside me, and my head felt 
lighter and my heart stopped hurting quite so much. "Thank you", I 
whispered again. He smiled, and told me that his name was Ronald, Ron 
for short. I told him that I was Candy, and we started talking. Well, I 
thought, I can either wallow in misery, or try to live. 

Ron told me that he was unhappy, too, and that he'd found solace in 
whiskey. He offered me another swig, and I took it. This time I was 
expecting the fire, so my throat didn't hurt so much. The world began to 
seem like it wasn't about to end, maybe. Ron told me that he'd just been 
through a very horrid divorce. His wife had been carrying on with 
another man, and he found out. This had destroyed the trust between 
them, and they'd spent the next six months fighting. Fighting over the 
house, the kids, anything. He told me that he'd just had all he could 
take, he was cutting his losses, and he was going to make a new start in 
a new city. 

I told Ron about my sorrows, about how I'd loved and lost. I didn't tell 
him the details, because people get a bit funny about my awful body, and 
I didn't fancy having to do all the explanations. But I told him that it 
wasn't the first time it had happened, and that I was off men for ever 
now. He said that sounded like a good idea, and he was going to give up 
women. The thought of having to deal with another bitch like his wife, 
he said, made him shudder. We each took another shot of whiskey, and 
agreed. He asked me what my plans were. I told him I didn't have any, 
which was true. I hadn't thought beyond getting the first bus out of 
Hope, and going as far as I could. He said he was planning to get a job 
as a book-keeper; he had a qualification as an accountant, but he didn't 
feel up to doing anything difficult just yet. I said I might get a job 
as a waitress, or something like that. I don't have any skills at all. 
We each took another glug of the whiskey, which was beginning to make me 
feel quite human. I can see now why people drink it; it's a kind of 
medicine for the soul. Pretty soon, we'd finished the bottle, and I was 
feeling a lot better, although rather sleepy. In fact, I think I fell 
asleep while we were talking, which is pretty impolite, but I'd had a 
hard day. 

I woke up, and found I'd cuddled up to Ron in my sleep. I hoped he 
hadn't noticed, and gently disentangled myself from him. Then I tasted 
my mouth; it was like the inside of your shoe after you've been wearing 
it for a long time. As dry as toast and perfectly vile. And now that I 
thought about it, my head hurt. And the sunlight coming into the bus 
hurt my eyes. I felt like you do when you have a bout of flu - simply 
awful, and hurting all over. I held my head in my hands and groaned. Ron 
woke up, and asked me how I felt. "Dreadful", I said, "Really rotten". 
"You've got a hangover", he said. Great. I've heard of those, but this 
was the first time I'd experienced one. If that's what whiskey does to 
you, I'm never going to touch it again. 

As the bus bounced along, I was trying hard not to vomit. My head hurt, 
my stomach was rebelling and my mouth tasted awful. Never again, I 
thought. "Ron, I think I'm going to throw up", I warned him. He dug out 
a plastic bag, just in time. After that, my stomach felt slightly 
better, but my mouth was absolutely disgusting. 

Chapter 2 - Looking for a job 

The bus stopped, and we both got off, and headed for the nearest coffee 
shop. After the third cup or so, my mouth began to taste more normal, 
and my head wasn't pounding quite so badly. We sat and talked, and Ron 
made a suggestion. "I need a job, and somewhere to live. You need a job, 
and somewhere to live. If we share an apartment, it'll be cheaper for 
both of us, because we can split expenses 50-50." I though about this 
for a few moments. It sounded a bit like a proposition, but I didn't 
think it was, because of Ron's awful experiences with his wife. Also, I 
knew that if he caused any problems, I'd have no difficulty handling 
him. So, I said yes. 

He suggested that we spread out; he'd look for a job, and I could go 
apartment-hunting. We agreed I'd look for digs in the region of $100 to 
$200 per week, and we'd need two rooms, because neither of us wanted to 
share, although one could be a bedroom only at night, and convert to a 
living room. We agreed to meet at six in the evening, back at the bus 
station. I spent most of the day plodding round the city, but eventually 
I found a place that wasn't too appalling, and gave the landlord a 
month's rent in advance. I dropped off my bag there, tidied my hair a 
bit, and went looking for a job. 

I'd been a bit economical with the truth with Ron. I really didn't fancy 
being a waitress, and the pay is terrible. I had a few possibilities in 
mind, and I was going to see which of them paid best. Since I have this 
big, heavy body, I might as well take advantage of it. The most obvious 
idea was to work in a topless bar. Sam had taught me a lot about working 
in a bar, and I thought that my 73 inch bust and very large nipples 
would be ideal for a topless bar. The second thought I had, was to work 
as a bouncer, again probably in a bar. I knew I wouldn't have any 
trouble handling any difficult customers, and a lady bouncer might be 
enough of a novelty to attract customers, so maybe they'd pay me well. 
The third idea I had was to work in some sort of bar doing the strong 
girl act that Sam and I had developed, crushing cans and breaking six-
inch nails, and so on. So I found the night-life area, and started going 
for job interviews. 

The first place I tried boasted "Ten Topless Hostesses". I walked in, 
and asked to see the manager. There was a guy behind the bar who asked 
me why, so I opened the front of my coat to give him a rough idea. He 
called the manager out, and I explained I was looking for a job as a 
topless waitress. He told me that he didn't have any vacancies, sorry, 
try again next month. I got the idea that girls were queuing up for this 
job. But I thought maybe I had a couple of advantages over the ordinary 
run-of-the-mill topless waitress, so I took off my coat, pulled my 
blouse over my head, and let them see what I had to offer. 

I stood there and let them stare at me. I have an awfully broad back, 
and my chest is heavily muscled. But you can't actually see that, 
because my breasts obscure the view. Last time I competed in a bosom 
contest, they taped me at 73 inches relaxed, 84 inches expanded, 20 
inches of projection, and 18 inches of separation. I won it easily. To 
give you a rough idea, if I stand in a doorway, with my back against one 
upright, my nipples just graze the other upright. And, when I walk 
through a door, I have to do it carefully, because the sides of my 
breasts just touch the sides of the doorway as I go through. It's just 
as well my chest is well muscled, otherwise they'd sag below my navel. 

They're a terrible nuisance to me. People stare at me like I'm a freak, 
which I certainly am not. I have to make my blouses myself, and as for 
getting a bra - forget it. I tried one once, and the bra lasted about a 
day before it disintegrated. I just have to cope with these great things 
wobbling around in front of me. I can't bend down like other people, I 
always have to squat with my back straight. I can wear a sweater, but 
only if I buy one of the largest men's sizes, and then it's much too big 
round the waist. And on the beach, I have to wear a sort of cross-over 
thing, like a hammock. When I was fifteen, my mother took me to a 
doctor, to see if there was anything that could be done, and he gave me 
the choice of surgery (no thanks!), or stringent diet (which is *most* 
unpleasant), or exercise, which didn't sound too bad, and that's what I 
chose. Unfortunately. Because it made my situation worse - I've still 
got these great clodhopping udders, but then I had a muscle problem as 
well. I'll explain about that later. 

I stood there, twisting my body slightly, to make my breasts sway a few 
inches from side to side. Then I moved my hands to behind my back, and 
the barman groaned, and I saw the wet patch appear on the front of his 
trousers. I swivelled and locked eyes with the manager, and raised my 
hands to rest them behind my head, while taking in a deep breath to get 
up to my expanded 84 inches. It was too much for him, and the wet patch 
on the front of his trousers appeared at once. Then I got dressed again, 
and asked if there was a job for me. 

Yes, there was. Yes, I could start at once. Then we got down to the 
question of wages, and I asked them to make me the best offer they 
could, because I would be choosing between their offer and others. The 
manager tried to speak a couple of times, and had to wet his throat with 
a beer before he could continue. He offered me $500 per week, hours 7pm 
till 1am. It didn't sound like a huge amount, considering. I told him 
so, and suggested that he up the offer a bit. So he tried $800. I wrote 
down the phone number, and told them I'd call back to let them know. 

I walked on down the road, looking at the bars and clubs along the way. 
One of them looked hopeful - it was a night club, where they had wine, 
women and song, or at least drinking, dancing and karaoke. It was quite 
large, and looked like the sort of place where customers could well get 
difficult after a few drinks. I decided to apply there for a job as a 
bouncer, and walked in. 

"Could I speak to the manager", I began, but the chap I was talking to 
just glanced at me, and told me to go away, except that he used a rude 
expression to do it; two words, second word is "off". So I took off my 
coat, and Full Frontalled him. Maybe you've never seen this, so I'd 
better explain. I discovered this when I was a teenager. There's a way 
you can get most men to do pretty much anything you want, and it's dead 
easy. You just walk up to him, stand a couple of feet away, shoulders 
back, chest out, and just brush your nipples gently against his chest. 
Then, you slowly move forward, exerting as much pressure on him as it 
takes, walking into him, and leading with your breasts. He's forced to 
back away, until his back is against a wall. Then, you just move forward 
with increasing pressure, until you've got him sandwiched between your 
breasts and the wall. You move forward some more, and gradually increase 
the pressure on his chest, until your groin is in contact with his. 
Then, if he hasn't come by now, a quick wiggle of the hips will finish 
him off. You can now back away, and admire the wet area on the front of 
his trousers as he sinks towards the ground. I've had quite a lot of 
practice at this, and do it rather well. I stood over him, admiring the 
size of his wet patch, and asked him again where the manager was, and 
this time he told me. 

I went behind the small stage, and down a corridor, till I came to the 
manager's office. I knocked, waited a few moments, then entered. A 
small, weaselly man was sitting behind a desk, on the phone. He looked 
up as I came in, and snarled at me. A great start to our relationship, I 
thought. I waited until he'd finished his phone call, then explained why 
I was there. "I'd like to apply for a job as a bouncer in your club", I 
started. He told me to go away, using the same rude word that the other 
guy had used. I ignored him, and sat down in front of his desk, and 
explained that I was serious. A lady bouncer would be most unusual, I 
said, and would attract curious people to the club. "Look, lady", he 
said. "This ain't no Sunday school. We get drunks, we get fights, we get 
people with knives and broken bottles. This ain't for you." I explained 
that I thought I could handle anything except dead spiders. He picked up 
the phone, and called for someone, "Gary", to come in. While we waited 
for Gary, he lit a cigarette without offering me one, and blew smoke at 
me. 

Chapter 3 - Candy gets a job as a bouncer 

Gary waddled into the room. He was a big guy, with quite a lot of fat 
hiding an unknown amount of muscle. I guessed he was the bouncer. "This 
dame here wants your job, Gary" giggled the weasel. Gary frowned, and 
said the same two words I was getting used to. They started making silly 
jokes about women's lib, so I stood up, and took off my coat. They both 
stared at the front of my blouse, but that wasn't what I wanted them to 
look at. I rolled up my sleeve, right up to my shoulder, and made a 
muscle for them. I clenched my fist to make my biceps grow really big, 
up to the full 24 inches. They both stared at me, and stopped making 
snide remarks. Then I stared straight at Gary, and asked him if he 
thought he could handle me. 

Well, a big macho lunk like that can't let a challenge from a woman go 
by, so you can imagine what happened next. We cleared a patch on the 
desk, put our elbows down, and arm wrestled. He didn't stand a chance, 
of course, but I had to do this carefully. I wanted his job, so I had to 
put him out of action for a while. But I didn't want to hurt the poor 
boy permanently. So I gripped his hand hard enough so that the pain 
would sap the strength from his arm, and twisted his wrist as I pushed 
it down. I could feel it sprain fairly easily, and when I let him go, he 
let out a howl of pain. I was pretty sure I hadn't broken anything, I 
think it was mostly the surprise at being so easily beaten by a woman. 
Then I hit him with the second barrel. "Want to try that with the other 
hand?", I asked sweetly. He was dumb, but not that dumb. He called me 
some rude names (which actually was pretty dumb, considering what I'd 
just done to him so easily, and could obviously do again), then flounced 
out in a major huff. I turned to the weasel. "Got a vacancy for a 
bouncer?", I asked, innocently. 

He had the grace to laugh, and say yes. He told me I'd better try not to 
damage the customers too much, to wear something that wouldn't be ruined 
by blood or vomit, and to start tonight. I asked him the pay, and he 
thought for a few moments, then offered me $500 per week. I told him 
that he was dreaming, and that I already had a much better offer. He 
asked my how much, I told him $800, so he offered me $900. He told me 
that the night-club opened at midnight, and closed at 6 in the morning. 
I told him I still had another possibility to pursue, and I'd get back 
to him. 

I really enjoyed what I used to do at the Rueful Rabbit. Officially, I 
was the house arm wrestler - actually, only a fool would put his hand in 
mine, and mostly I just did impressive things with six inch nails, house 
bricks and quarters. I left the club, and continued to wander about the 
downtown area, looking first for a hardware store, to make some 
purchases, and then for a likely place to work. Eventually I found just 
the place. It was basically a strip club. But I didn't want to be a 
stripper. Could you imagine dancing with these things in front of you? 
Not a chance. Walking is hard enough. 

I walked in. You could cut the air with a knife, spear it with a fork, 
and drink it with a spoon. The music was loud, probably to compensate 
for how awful it was. The smell was a mixture of tobacco smoke, whiskey 
and stale sweat, the sour smell of sleaze. I nearly walked straight out 
again, except that this was exactly the kind of place I was looking for. 
The joint was almost empty. I sat down at the bar, and the two guys that 
comprised the entire customer base immediately started trying to pick me 
up, which wasn't what I'd come there for. I asked one of them if he had 
a quarter, and when he found one, I held it with my thumb against my 
second and third fingers, and pressed. The coin bent double, and I left 
it on the bar for them to stare at. As I stood up. I beckoned the barman 
over, and told him I was looking for a job. He told me to wait while he 
fetched the guy in charge. 

The boss walked over, and told me to follow him. We went behind the tiny 
stage, where a slightly overweight and very overage woman with bored 
eyes was trying to look like she was enjoying taking her clothes off. He 
closed the door to his office, and I could hear myself think again. 
"Want a stripping job, ducky?", he said in a high pitched voice. Oh no, 
I thought, not one of those. I took off my coat, and while Ducky stared 
at my boobs, I explained that I didn't want a stripping job. I explained 
that I had an act that would bring people to his stripperama from miles 
around, that would make his place the Mecca for men who love amazons. I 
showed him one of my six inch nails, and asked him to try to bend it. He 
couldn't, of course. Then I told him to wedge one end into the jamb of 
the door and try. That didn't help. Finally, I got him to balance it 
across a couple of books, and pound it with his shoe, and that didn't do 
anything either. Then I showed him. I rolled my sleeves up to my elbows, 
displaying my twenty-one inch forearms, took the nail in both hands, and 
bent it double. He was very impressed. I gave him the nail, so he could 
see it was still the same steel nail, then I took it back, and 
straightened it. I let him check it again. Then I bent it again, 
straightened it, bent it, and so on, until finally it softened and gave 
way, breaking in half. 

"Great Scott", he said. "That's amazing." Yes, I know. And I'm not too 
keen on doing this in public, but needs must, as they say. I explained 
that I had several other things I could do; I explained about the 
housebricks, and about the inch-thick steel bar, and about cans of baked 
beans. He looked me up and down, and said "We'll call you the Golden 
Amazon, because of your hair, and you can start as soon as you like." I 
brought up the sordid detail of payment, and he offered me $500 (was 
there a conspiracy going on?), and I said that wasn't enough, no way. I 
suggested he should be thinking of a four figure sum, and he looked 
thoughtful, but eventually said that he didn't take anything like that 
much, and anyway he had lots of other expenses. I told him that a bar 
with two customers is going to be a dead bar pretty soon (Sam had taught 
me the economics of bar keeping), and he agreed, but still couldn't see 
what he could do about it. I told him that I had an idea, but it would 
involve a radical change. Then I noticed the time, and told him I'd have 
to talk to him later, because I had to meet someone now. Ducky and I 
fixed to meet next morning, and I left to meet Ron back at the bus 
station. 

Chapter 4 - A Big Hug 

He was waiting there when I arrived, and I apologized for keeping him 
waiting (Mummy used to tell me to apologize even when things aren't my 
fault, because first of all, maybe they actually are, and second, maybe 
the other guy thinks they are). He'd found a job, I told him I had a 
couple of possibilities, and that I'd found a place to live. He 
brightened up no end at that, and we walked down to our new home. 

It wasn't a palace.  It wasn't a mansion. In fact, it barely qualified 
as a hovel. But home is where the hearth is, and it had a little 
kitchen, a tiny bathroom, a bedroom and a living room. Ron gallantly 
offered me the bedroom, and said he'd sleep on the settee. That sounded 
good to me. It was warm enough inside, so I took my coat off, and waited 
for the reaction from Ron. I must say, he took it well. He didn't say 
anything, and he didn't stare too blatantly, but it was clear that he 
was very interested in what I had under there. We sat down at the table, 
and started making lists of things we'd have to buy - things like a 
kettle, a TV, food. We also made a list of who would be doing what. 
Women don't actually enjoy cooking and cleaning, you know, at least, I 
don't. Well, I don't mind cooking occasionally, it's fun to create 
something nice. But not all the time, and I think you'd have to be 
insane to enjoy doing dishes. We worked out a list of which of us would 
do what, and there were some jobs so horrible that we divided them 
according to a schedule. We agreed we'd be flexible about this, though, 
so if one of us wanted to go out, the other one wouldn't make him stay 
in to do the laundry, or whatever. I explained that anything whatsoever 
to do with spiders was Ron's territory, but that I could deal with mice. 
That worked nicely - Ron didn't like mice. 

Ron told me about his job. He'd been unable to get a job as a book-
keeper, but he'd found a data-entry clerking job which paid well enough. 
It was nine to five, and steady, paid about $400 per week after 
deductions, and didn't require much thinking, which was exactly what he 
wanted. I told him that I had a few possibilities, but hadn't finalised 
anything yet. I didn't really want him to know what I was going to be 
doing, so I told him that they were service industry jobs, unskilled. He 
didn't press me on it. I'd had a busy day, and I was still suffering the 
after-effects of the whiskey, so I went to bed early. I guess Ron did 
too. 

Next morning, I heard Ron moving about in the living room, so I got up 
and dressed. I need a dressing gown, I thought. And some heavy duty 
night-dresses. And some new shoes. And a couple of big chunky sweaters, 
which would be good for camouflaging my ungainly breasts and arms. I 
only had two skirts (I really can't wear trousers, because of my 
thighs), and I needed more. And I need some coffee. In fact, I need some 
coffee *right now*, because I could smell it. I walked out into the 
living room, where Ron was getting ready to go to work, and helped 
myself to some coffee. "See you this evening", he said, and dashed off 
to work. I finished my coffee, cleared the table, did the dishes, and 
tidied up a bit. Then I brushed my hair, put my coat on, and went off to 
see Ducky. 

He was cleaning up the place - it looked like someone had vomited all 
over the floor. I wrinkled my nose at the smell, and suggested that we 
go somewhere a bit less smelly. He put his bucket and mop down, and we 
went and had breakfast at a hamburger place. Over coffee and donuts, I 
told him my Grand Plan. Forget stripping, I said. Everyone's doing 
stripping. You'll never get anywhere doing things that everyone else is 
doing, especially looking at your strippers. "What's wrong with my 
strippers?", he asked angrily. I raised one eyebrow at him. That takes a 
lot of practice in front of a mirror, but if you can do it, it's very 
effective. He subsided. He knew perfectly well that he was running a 
fifth rate dive, with fifth rate whiskey, and fifth rate strippers who 
should have retired decades ago, before their breasts had. "Here's my 
suggestion", I said. 

An Amazon bar. "What's that?", asked Ducky. I explained it to him - a 
bar devoted to women who are big and strong, and aimed at the men who 
admire them. And there are lots and lots of men who admire Amazons, 
believe me, either secretly or openly. We'd completely redo the decor, 
with pictures of big, powerful women, women with great bulging muscles. 
We'd hook the TVs up to VCRs playing videos of women bodybuilding 
contests. We'd fire the barman, and hire a tall, muscular woman instead. 
And we'd replace the tired old strippers with performances from the 
Golden Amazon, which would be me. 

No-one has ever done an Amazon bar before, I don't know why. I know 
plenty of men who go weak at the knees just thinking about strong women. 
I get men offering to let me beat them up, I get men wanting to drop to 
their knees and lick my thighs, I get men wanting to just touch and 
worship my biceps. Most of all, life seems to be one long queue of men 
wanting to lick my toes. It's not much fun if you're a gentle, feminine 
girl like me, but I could certainly pretend to be vicious and brutal, if 
that brought the bucks in. 

Ducky looked dubious. "I can't imagine that there would be many men who 
would go for something like that", he doubted. I offered to show him 
that even he would be turned on by a strong, dominating woman. "Not my 
thing, ducky - I prefer little boys", he giggled. Time to demonstrate my 
Big Hug. I turned to him sitting next to me, put my arms round his body, 
and squeezed gently. Then a bit more firmly. 

There's an art to this. I've done it lots of times before, and you have 
to do it carefully, if you want to avoid hurting the guy. I used to do 
it a lot at school, with the boys and with the teachers; I found it made 
my life a lot easier. I know that men don't find me attractive, and I 
really hate it when they call me names, and make hurtful remarks about 
my body. I just wanted to be left alone; if you don't like the way I am, 
at least shut up about it. I can't help it. I developed the Big Hug as a 
self-defence mechanism; anyone who had been Big Hugged at least treated 
me with respect. 

I had my arms round the outside of his arms, so he couldn't wave them 
about and hurt them, and I pulled my arms together and gradually 
constricted his chest. First, I reached the point where he couldn't 
breathe in against my hug; then, as I increased the pressure, I squeezed 
the air from his lungs, and I felt his chest compress. At that point, 
you have to stop increasing the pressure, or you'll damage his ribs. 

I felt him start to struggle, half-heartedly at first, but then 
desperately - the body *must* have air. But I held him in my arms, not 
hurting him, but hard enough to stop respiration, until eventually his 
struggles stopped, and he was limp in my arms. At that point, it's 
important to let go, or you can do real damage - oxygen deprivation to 
the brain is no joke, you can turn a man into a vegetable that way. So I 
relaxed my grip, and held him gently, to stop him falling to the floor, 
until he recovered.  After a couple of minutes, his eyes fluttered open, 
and I looked at him, and said "Second round". This time, before I 
crushed him in my arms, I rubbed my breasts against his chest, and kept 
moving them from side to side as my arms made his breathing first 
harder, then impossible. He passed out again, after a few minutes. 

People were looking at us, but all they could see was an affectionate 
couple hugging each other. I relaxed the constriction round his chest as 
soon as he passed out, and again held him gently till he rejoined the 
land of the living. "One more time", I said, cheerily. "Please, no, 
Candy" were the last words he could whisper, before I started kissing 
him, and then I pulled his head down onto my shoulder as he lost control 
of his lungs again, and descended into the Stygian darkness. He woke up 
this time with his head pillowed on my bosom. I kept my hands on his 
body as he struggled to sit up; being crushed into oblivion is pretty 
enervating. And then I asked him the key question, "Did you enjoy that?" 

You might have thought that a man would be pretty weird to enjoy being 
crushed into unconsciousness. My experience is that they certainly 
expect not to like it, and the first time, their expectation is met. But 
then they find that having a woman control their bodies in such a 
fundamental way isn't that bad after all, and by the third time, they're 
positively enjoying it, and want me to do it again. Ducky was the same. 
He looked a bit ashamed of himself, and kept his gaze lowered, and 
whispered "Yes, I liked that". I find that a lot of men act all 
submissive after I've given them the Big Hug. "You see", I explained. 
"An Amazon bar will be a tremendous success." 

"There's another problem", he said. "I don't have the cash to 
redecorate." I sighed. Men can be so difficult. "How much do you think 
it'll cost, and why can't you borrow?" He said he hadn't even thought 
how much, because he wouldn't be able to afford it, and his credit was 
about as good as Richard M Nixon's after he lost his last job. We walked 
back to the bar together, and sat in the middle of the most appalling 
mess I've seen for a long time, and I started outlining my concept of an 
Amazon bar. 

Chapter 5 - An Amazon bar 

The purpose of a bar, Sam taught me, is to make money, by giving people 
an enjoyable experience, and a place to get away from their everyday 
lives. Enjoyable company, good beer and something to stop them getting 
bored is the formula. You start off with the ambience, the atmosphere. 
It's important to get that right. Maybe you want to do an English 
Country Pub, or maybe a Sports Bar, whatever. You make it look the part, 
and people enter into the spirit of the thing. The idea of an Amazon 
bar, is not actually a bar for Amazons, it's a bar for men who admire 
them, because admirers (men and women) are much more common than actual 
Amazons, so you cater for those. The idea is to create an atmosphere of 
female domination, or femdom as it is often called. And there are lots 
of ways to do this. 

Start off with the decor. The bartop should be made of wood; Sam taught 
me that anything else is sacrilege. Stools in front of the bar, bottles 
behind, and a busty barmaid to serve the customers. I wasn't sure about 
that part; since I was going to be the reigning Amazon, I couldn't do 
that as well - maybe we could find a local girl. Up on the walls, a few 
TVs, showing tapes of mixed wrestling matches, with the girl throwing 
the man around the ring. But most of all pictures. Posters up on the 
walls of big, strong women - like Bev Francis, and Ursula Teply. Not 
just of the ideal bodybuilding women, but pictures of the most massive 
and powerful women in the world, showing off their incredible physiques, 
and making any man feel abjectly weak and inferior. Pictures of men 
being held over the heads of muscular ladies. Pictures of Joan Rhodes, 
bending steel bars over her neck. Ann-Marie's 35 inch thighs, Paula 
Bircenshaw's back and Laura Binetti's huge 19 inch arms. All enough to 
make any man feel like he might as well crawl into a hole and weep. And 
at the back, a huge picture of Tina Lockwood, looking like a totally 
sexy wall of muscle, the fuck of a lifetime and six weeks in hospital if 
she got mad at you, enough to make any man feel soft and helpless. 

Ducky said he could raise five grand, but we'd need ten. I thought for a 
moment, then told him I could raise it in a month, and he should get 
started right away. He started to argue, but I smiled sweetly at him, 
and held my arms out to him. At first, he backed away, but then he 
plucked up his courage and came into my arms. I held him carefully, and 
told him about how wonderful it would be to run the only Amazon bar in 
the world, and I gradually linked my hands behind him, and squeezed him 
in my arms until he passed out again. When he recovered, he was in full 
agreement with me, and he would get started at once. I suggested that he 
should call the bar "The Golden Amazon", using the same name as me. I 
didn't really want anyone calling me "Candy" in this place, in fact I 
didn't want anyone to link Candy to the Golden Amazon. 

I went back to the places I'd scouted out before, the topless bar and 
the night club, and agreed to take both jobs. I figured I could finish 
at one and arrive at the other slightly late, and I'd be making $1700 
per week, enough for my share of doing up the Golden Amazon, plus enough 
for my contribution to the housekeeping. I went back home in time to 
meet Ron, who was looking rather dreadful. 

He sank into a chair, looking really quite ill. I knelt down in front of 
him, and put my hands on his. I have to explain about kneeling down, 
because it is actually a rather complicated operation, because my 
balance is all wrong. If I lean too far forward, my centre of gravity 
gets beyond my point of support, and I topple over. So to get down to 
the floor, I have to keep my back straight, and squat back on my heels. 
Once I'm down, I can twist my leg until it is straight out in front of 
me, then swing it round while bending at the knee. That gets me down on 
one knee, and then I can do the other one. Once I'm down on my knees, I 
can sink back onto my lower legs, still keeping my back straight. It's 
not very elegant, but it's the only way I can get down without looking a 
complete fool. 

His hands were a mess, I was shocked. Blistered, raw and bleeding. "Ron, 
what's happened to you?" I asked. He looked ashamed of himself, then 
told me. He hadn't been able to get a decent job, but he felt obliged to 
earn his share, so he'd gotten a job as a casual laborer, wielding a 
pick and shovel. I stood up again, which is a reversal of the process I 
just described, and fetched warm water, soap and a flannel, and I helped 
him wash his hands, very gently. Then I went out to a drugstore, to get 
something that would help. When I returned, he was still sitting in the 
armchair, and I carefully dabbed Oil of Wintergreen on his palms and 
fingers, then bandaged up his wounds. He sat there, looking at his 
damaged hands, and told me that he was still going in to work tomorrow. 
I told him that he wasn't to be so silly, and that I now had a decent 
job, and he should at least take time off until his hands were better. I 
don't think I convinced him, but I knew I'd be able to persuade him 
later. 

That evening, I packed a few things in a bag, and went off to work. Ron 
asked me what the job was, and I told him (truthfully, because Mummy 
taught me that I should always tell the truth) that I had a job in a 
bar. Mummy also taught me that men have to be protected from the full 
truth, and you should only tell them as much as is good for them, which 
is usually very little. 

Chapter 6 - Candy goes topless 

My first stint of the evening was in the topless bar. That made it 
pretty easy to decide what to wear; a long evening skirt (the size of my 
thighs rules out trousers), and nothing on top. I knotted my hair up on 
top of my head, to make me look taller (I'm much too short for my build, 
I look like one of those short fat Buddhas you see). I thought about 
wearing makeup, then decided people wouldn't be looking much at my face, 
and I refuse to wear makeup lower down. 

There was a tiny changing room at the back, and I got myself ready in 
there. I put on the long powder blue satin skirt I'd bought, and draped 
the chiffon scarf round my shoulders, bringing the ends together in a 
woggle that led it between by breasts. I think nakedness looks better if 
you're partially dressed. And then I walked out into the bar. 

Conversation died down, and heads turned my way. I look rather unusual 
dressed like that, and you could almost draw little lines between the 
men's eyes and my nipples. The appreciation aroused me slightly, and my 
nipples swelled embarrassingly, like they always do when I'm aroused. 
The evening was off to a good start. 

What does a topless waitress do? She serves drinks, of course. That 
wasn't a problem for me, I'm used to handling my excessive size. It was 
a problem for the men in the bar, though, because they weren't used to 
anyone even half my size. I could see a lot of erections pointing 
towards me, which is the sincerest form of flattery, and I thought what 
a terrible shame it was that I couldn't get at least some benefit from 
them. I walked up to one of the tables, and asked the men there what 
they would like, with a big smile, and as I stood there waiting for a 
response, I twisted my body slowly from side to side, a movement which 
was greatly amplified by the time it got to my nipples. One of them 
ordered a whiskey, and the other a beer, so I walked back to the bar to 
get their order. 
 
At the bar, I was horrified to discover that they didn't have beer. Oh, 
they had some weak fizzy brown stuff that they called beer, but I knew 
better. If it doesn't come out of a barrel, it isn't beer - Sam taught 
me that. And if the beer has some lupine name, like Brown Rabbit, even 
better. Still, I suppose when in Rome, do as the Romans do, so I brought 
back a bottle of brown fizz and a glass of whiskey. I put them down on 
the table, and as I did so, I felt something cold and clammy on one of 
my breasts. I looked down, and it was a hand. 

No-one had told me about this. Are they allowed to do this? It felt like 
sexual harassment to me, and I told the hand's owner so. He laughed, and 
squeezed me, and I got quite cross with him. I took his hand in mine, 
and gave it a bit of a squeeze in return, nothing too hard, because I 
didn't want to break anything. He yelped, looked startled, and let go of 
my breast. I held on to his hand, continuing to crush it gently in mine, 
as I explained to him that he isn't allowed to touch me without my 
permission, and that if he ever did it again, he'd be very sorry, 
understand? He nodded, trying not to show that I was hurting him - men 
can be terribly terribly brave about things like that. So I let his hand 
go. 

I had to do this a few more times that evening, but the guys there soon 
got the idea, especially the one who put is hand between my thighs, and 
found that it not only hurt, but that also he couldn't get it out again 
until he'd apologized. By the end of my shift, they were treating me 
with a bit of respect, and I was quite enjoying myself. 

A bit before midnight, it was my turn to perform. Each of the girls was 
supposed to get up on a tiny stage, and gyrate and wiggle to show off 
her boobs. I can't do that, of course. Gyrating just looks silly on me, 
and wiggling is definitely out. So, when I got onto the stage, I did my 
bosom contest routine. 

I haven't entered one of these for ages, but I used to do it regularly, 
as a great way to earn a few bucks. The trouble is, that also gets you a 
lot of notoriety, and is hardly a way for a respectable girl to find a 
decent husband. Still, they are great fun. Most girls do a routine 
that's aimed at showing off how big and firm their breasts are, mine 
aims directly at causing men to react. 

It's very simple - it has to be. Honestly, what do you expect with a 
girl my size? First of all, I stand perfectly still, so that people can 
get a good look. Then I start twisting my body slowly from side to side, 
so that my breasts sway. Then, while I'm still swaying, I put my hands 
behind my back, and square my shoulders. You know what that does with a 
normal-sized girl, well it does a lot more with my bosom, because not 
only does their bulk push them forward, but also, bracing my shoulders 
tenses my pectorals, which lifts my breasts up somewhat. All the time, 
I'm doing the slow twist of my upper body, and then I slowly lift my 
arms up behind my head, while inflating my lungs and stretching out my 
lateral muscles. A lot of men can't take it at that point, and I see the 
little wet patches on their trousers that tell me I'm doing it right. 

It went down very well, if I do say so myself. Afterwards, as I went 
round the tables doing the drinks, I was getting tipped quite 
handsomely, and by the end of the evening, I had some fifty dollars 
tucked into my woggle. But it was getting late, so I got dressed in my 
little cubicle, and left. It wasn't far to the night-club, and there 
seemed to be a fair number of customers there already. I rushed in, and 
changed in Ferret's office. He didn't mind, he was watching me. 

Chapter 7 - Candy the bouncer 

What do you suppose a lady bouncer wears? You probably imagine something 
a bit kinky in leather, don't you, like Emma Peel? You're probably 
thinking of leather trousers and a leather jacket, with my hair tucked 
into a leather cap. Well, I went to a shop and tried on exactly such an 
outfit. The shop girl seemed to think it looked great, but I looked in 
the mirror, and it just wasn't me. It was much too butch, and with my 
great graceless body, I have to look as feminine as I can. The other 
problem was, things stuck out. You know what things. I thought I looked 
ridiculous, so I left, and tried a sports shop. 

Here's a great line to use on someone in a shop. "I've got a job as a 
bouncer in a night-club, what would you suggest I wear?" This time, they 
suggested a track suit, but I looked like I'd just come in from jogging, 
and when they suggested (and showed me) a judo suit, I nearly plutzed 
from laughing. The problem was, it was likely to be a messy job; I'd 
been warned about vomit, and the possibility of blood. So I needed 
something reasonably washable, and it needed to give me freedom of 
movement, of course. In the end, I went for that good old stand-by, the 
acrylic sweater. You can wash them in a washing machine, and you can 
easily get them in the rather large size that I need. I wore a below-
calf-length skirt underneath, because I don't really like showing my 
calves, they're big and lumpy. I wore a belt to hold the whole thing 
together, and since I had $50 to splurge, I bought a really nice, wide 
black leather belt. It contrasted nicely with the powder blue sweater 
and the white skirt. I looked at myself in the mirror, and I thought the 
overall effect was quite feminine, but would probably stand up to a bit 
of rough stuff. I rather like blue, it goes with my eyes and hair (I 
don't mean that my hair is blue, I mean that my honey blonde hair looks 
good on blue). I dabbed some perfume behind each ear and between my 
breasts (I know perfume is cheating, but I need all the help I can get 
with a great clumsy body like mine). And I was ready for action. 

A bouncer's job is mostly to look intimidating. I don't, I just look 
feminine and that was the first problem. The main thing you have to do, 
is deal with drunks. Some people get mildly tipsy on alcohol, and have a 
good time. But some people get totally smashed, and get aggressive. They 
have to be dealt with before they ruin it for the reasonable guys. 
Others just don't know how much their stomachs can handle, and get ill, 
and have to be helped into a taxi. And that was my first "client" of the 
evening. 

He'd just done the Technicolor yawn all over the floor, and I felt 
really glad that it wasn't my job to clean it up. But it was my job to 
get rid of this clown, who had ruined his own evening by drinking too 
much, and was now liable to upset a lot of other customers too - there's 
nothing worse than being vomited on. Well, there is, but you aren't 
likely to encounter it. Anyhow, I went up to him, and suggested that he 
should leave, and he didn't put up any argument, because I think he'd 
come to that conclusion himself. So I took him outside and hailed a cab, 
and that's where the problem started. The first cabby took one look at 
him, sniffed, said "No way" and drove off. The second cabby didn't even 
stop, once he caught sight of the mess. I was tempted to just leave the 
guy to his own devices, but you have to look after customers, especially 
helpless men, so I tried again. This time, I left chummy on the sidewalk 
out of sight, smoothed my sweater over my chest, pulled my hair forward 
so that it lay over my breasts, and called the next cab. He was so taken 
with looking at my breasts while I gave the address, he hardly noticed 
as I picked up chummy and threw him into the back. Let his wife handle 
it from here on. 

I got back inside, and things were very quiet for a long time, until 
some big moron decided to get aggressive with Aimie, one of the 
waitresses. Aimie was tiny, cute and like a little girl, and one look at 
Aimie made me feel all maternal. He had her by the wrist and had his 
other hand up her skirt. Now that's fine as long as the girl doesn't 
mind, but she obviously did. Heavy brigade to the rescue. I trooped 
over, and asked him what he thought he was playing at. He said something 
obscene that made me blush, and I almost wanted to walk away, but you 
have to do your job, don't you? So I put my hand on the hand that held 
Aimie by the wrist, and squeezed just hard enough to make him let go. 
That got his attention, and he pulled his other hand out from under her 
skirt, and grabbed one of my breasts. 

One of the disadvantages of having very large breasts, is that everyone 
seems to want to get hold of them, and seems to think they have the 
right to. They're like convenient handles, set at a convenient height 
for grabbing and squeezing. Sometimes, I wonder if they realize that my 
breasts are actually part of me, not something I wear for people to grab 
me by. And if you clutch hard at them, they hurt, you know? Breasts are 
supposed to be touched gently, if they are to be touched at all, or even 
licked or sucked at. In fact, thinking about it, sucking is exactly what 
they are designed for, and that thought led me to thinking about babies, 
which I seem to be doing a lot recently. But the moron's hand on my 
nipple soon got me back to earth, and I took that hand in mine as well, 
to stop him hurting me. 

So there I was, standing in front of this rather drunk and very 
aggressive macho type, holding each of his hands in one of mine, and 
wondering what I was supposed to do next. I needed to get some of the 
aggression out of him, which led me to think of giving him a Warm 
Cuddle. So I did. Here's how it works. 

I put both of his wrists in one of my hands, so I had an arm free. I put 
that arm round his body, and pulled his head down onto my cleavage. Then 
I held his wrists, and held him close to my bosom, with an arm round his 
body and head. He struggled a bit at first, but the more he struggled, 
the more he found my breasts in his face. If I do this topless, it's a 
bit dangerous, because they can't breathe, but it's pretty safe wearing 
a sweater, because they can breathe through the wool. After a bit, he 
realized that struggling wasn't getting him anywhere. After a few more 
minutes, I released his hands, because by then, he'd realized that he 
didn't actually want to get away. I held him in a Warm Cuddle for some 
minutes, and then decided that he was sufficiently subdued, so I let him 
go. He tried to follow me, but I told him to sit down, so he did. The 
rest of the evening was quiet. 

At six in the morning, I knocked off work, and went home. Ron was still 
asleep in bed, and I got in next to him, and put an arm round him, to 
stop him from doing anything silly like going to work with his hands in 
the terrible condition they were in. And then I fell asleep. 

I was woken up a couple of hours later - as I'd thought, Ron was going 
to try to ruin himself by trying to do manual labour with his hands in 
their current state. I argued with him, I begged him not to go. But you 
know what men are like. He said he wasn't going to be a kept man, and 
left for his construction site. I went back to sleep, wondering how to 
handle this situation. 

I'm not very good with men. Other girls seem to be able to get what they 
want with subtlety, flattery and sex, but all I've ever been able to 
come up with is my Full Frontal, my Big Hug, the Warm Cuddle and a few 
other things. I could see I'd have to find some way to get this stupid 
masculine ego thing down to a sensible size. Maybe something to do with 
my toes? Meanwhile, I had some sleep to catch up on. I dreamed about 
babies - I seem to dream about babies rather a lot these days. Warm, 
cuddly babies, smelling of soap and milk, nestling contentedly against 
my breasts. Mmmmh. 

Chapter 8 - Making an Amazon bar 

I woke up again at two in the afternoon, and wandered down to talk to 
Ducky again. He didn't mince quite as much as before, and his eyes kept 
following me around as I explained more about my ideas for an Amazon 
bar. We needed entertainment, and a live Amazon was all very well, but I 
thought we could do with a bit more. I suggested that we sell videos as 
a sideline, because there are lots of "Mountain of Femuscle" type videos 
around, and you can make a decent margin on them. I gave Ducky a list of 
contacts, and told him to line up some stock, and some sensible deals. 
Books are also a good line to have available, and magazines. In other 
words, we were trying to create a one-stop shop for the Amazon admirers 
that I knew were out there. 

There was one problem I hadn't yet tackled, and that was marketing. It's 
no use having the best mousetrap in the world, if no-one knows about it. 
I wanted people to travel from far and wide to visit the only Amazon bar 
in the world, so we had to find some way to tell people about it. I had 
a couple of ideas for that. The trick is to get the media to do your 
publicity, and to get that, you need a publicity stunt they would buy 
into. I thought me naked in the city square would probably get a lot of 
publicity, but it would be terrible for my reputation, and a girl has to 
consider what her future husband would think. And what her future 
children would think. 

Soon, it was time for me to show up at the topless bar again. The bar 
was rather fuller than last night, and when I walked in, a cheer went 
up. I was fully dressed at the time - just wait till they saw me in my 
costume. I went into the back and changed into my long silk skirt with a 
slit up the side, and high heeled shoes (which didn't last long on me, 
have you any idea how uncomfortable high heels are?). I wound my hair up 
on top of my head, put a silk scarf round my neck, and I was ready. 

I think I impressed them when I came back into the room, because a few 
of them cheered me. And that made me feel warm inside, because it's 
always good to be appreciated. That evening, I served a few drinks, but 
mostly I sat and chatted with the customers, all of whom seemed to be 
married with children. I saw some of their pictures, and they were so 
cute, I wondered why these guys weren't at home with their wife and 
babies, instead of chatting up a half naked woman. A lot of them wanted 
to know my measurements, and I got fed up explaining that a separation 
of 18 inches means that there is that distance between your nipples. And 
some of them didn't believe my bust size, and wanted to check it for 
themselves (which I didn't allow), and several of them wanted to know my 
cup size, which is a question I can't answer, because I completely gave 
up on trying to get a bra that I could wear, ages ago. 

Only one guy tried to put his hand up my skirt, and I soon made him 
regret it. I took his hand in mine, and squeezed it a bit, just to the 
point where you can feel the delicate bones bending and sliding over 
each other, but not hard enough to break anything, and I twisted his 
wrist so he had to get down on the floor. While he was there, I told him 
what a naughty boy he was. And then I had to tell him to kindly stop 
licking my toes? 

So I had a great time at the topless bar, and then went on to my other 
job, bouncing. I changed into my bouncers outfit, and just wandered 
round the night-club, looking for incipient trouble. I was quite 
enjoying this, as there wasn't really very much I needed to do. Two guys 
started to have a fight, but I just put myself in between them, and they 
were hardly going to hit a girl, were they? Well, actually, one of them 
wasn't at all gallant, and tried to push me out of the way, and I think 
he must have been a bit surprised, because I'm a lot heavier than he was 
expecting, what with one thing and another. When that didn't work, he 
tried to hit me, which isn't nice at all, so I gave him a Big Hug, which 
calmed him down a lot. I stepped over his unconscious body, and wandered 
around some more, looking for more trouble, but there wasn't any after 
that. 

When I got home that morning, Ron was up and getting ready to go to work 
again. I told him that he was a fool because of his hands, he told me to 
stop interfering, I told him "Right, if that's how you feel", and we had 
one of those stupid rows. After he'd left, I went to bed for a while, 
but I didn't sleep terribly well. So I got up, and went down to the 
Golden Amazon, to see how things were coming along. 

Ducky had a rather effeminate, nancified personage there, and they were 
talking about interior design. I sat down, and started explaining my 
ideas for what an Amazon bar should look like. Nancy kept interrupting 
me, his idea was to use satin and lace, all pink and frilly, and I kept 
telling him he'd got it all wrong. Ducky kept quiet about all this, 
until eventually Nancy said that he was going to do it his way, and that 
was that. Ducky told him not to be so silly, and I just boiled. I mean, 
if anything is the opposite of an Amazon, Nancy was, and maybe he's a 
great interior designer, but he knows jack all about Amazons. So I 
decided to teach him. 

I explained that an Amazon is a woman who is strong, and proud of her 
strength. I explained that an Amazon like Tina Lockwood is someone that 
a great many men admire. I explained that pink and frilly isn't it. 
Ducky chimed in at that point, saying that if I thought that, why was I 
dressed in a skirt and silk blouse, and I explained that it was because 
I had to, that I couldn't wear trousers, and I wore long sleeves because 
if I didn't, people might stare. Then Nancy chimed in and asked what I'd 
know about Amazons anyway, and I sort of lost my temper and said 
"Right", and lifted him on to my lap, put my arms round him, and held 
him until he passed out from lack of oxygen. Then there was quite a lot 
of silence, and Ducky said "Candy, you shouldn't have done that." Which 
was like a red rag to a bull, because I dumped Nancy on the floor, and 
put Ducky in a one-arm headlock that left him flat on his back after a 
few minutes. 

I sat and looked at what I'd done, then burst into tears, and rushed 
out. On the way home, I had a chance to cool down, and it was then that 
I realized that it was *that* time of month. You know? As in, how many 
women with PMT does it take to screw in a lightbulb? SHUT UP, I'VE HAD 
ABOUT ENOUGH SHIT FROM YOU, SCREW IN YOUR OWN GODDAMN LIGHTBULB! So when 
I got home, I curled up in bed, had a bit of a cry, and a bit of a 
sleep, and pretty soon, it was time to go to work again, and Ron hadn't 
come back yet. 

Well, a topless waitress with PMT is pretty bad news, but a female 
bouncer with PMT is a walking disaster waiting to happen. At the topless 
bar, I got into an argument with another breast-fondler, and instead of 
handling it in my usual gentle way, I made him kneel down and lick my 
ankles. And I don't even particularly like having my ankles licked. 
Toes, yes - ankles, don't care. But at the night-club, I really made an 
idiot of myself. 

It wasn't entirely my fault. I mean, only a complete fool sneaks up 
behind someone in my job and puts his hands round my throat. I thought 
someone was trying to strangle me, and I over-reacted. I lunged back 
with an elbow (which fortunately missed), and spun round, hard. The guy 
holding me hung on, which meant that he got spun round, and then he let 
go, so he went flying across the floor, knocking down several other 
people like skittles. And that caused a general riot, which I didn't 
have a hope in hell of stopping single handed. 

The owner and I stood behind the bar, and he turned to me and asked me 
what I proposed to do about it. I saw his point, after all, I was being 
paid to stop fights like this, not start them. So, I joined the general 
melee, except instead of punching everyone in sight, like everyone else 
was, I was giving people quick Hugs, to calm then down. After a while, 
things cooled off, because all the combatants were lying on the floor, 
either unconscious, or else staying down because I told them to. 

Chapter 9 - Ron leaves 

Then I went home, only to get a worse shock. Ron had left a note for me, 
explaining that he was moving on, and he wished me luck. Oh, wow. This 
is crazy. I hadn't even had a chance to demonstrate my bedroom skills, 
and he was running out on me. I suppose I ought to have gotten used to 
this by now - men seem to start off by finding me attractive, well one 
or two of them do, but then I somehow turn them off. Some men turn off 
by just vanishing, like Ron, and others turn off and just want to lick 
my toes, and silly things like that. I mean, what girl wants to spend 
her life having her toes licked? It's nice enough for a change, but you 
can't beat the real thing. I cried myself to sleep that night, and I 
dreamed about Sam, and about babies. 

The next few weeks were more of the same. I was living alone now, 
working at two jobs by night, sleeping and planning the Golden Amazon by 
day. My topless waitress job was going very well now that the customers 
had learned to respect me, so that I no longer got groped or fondled. 
Occasionally some new guy did something crass, but he soon learned the 
taste of my toes (I'm told they taste sweet, but salty), and behaved 
himself thereafter. The bouncer job got easier, too, once the 
nightclubbers got the hang of being Big Hugged until lack of oxygen made 
them pass out. Some of them actually developed a taste for it, and were 
deliberately naughty to provoke me, but they were sweeties really, and I 
didn't mind dishing out the occasional squeeze to keep them happy. 

Meanwhile, the Golden Amazon was taking shape. When you came into the 
bar, you were confronted by a wall of awesome female muscle. There were 
plenty of opportunities to spend money on merchandise, and we had 
designed and made a Golden Amazon T-shirt, with a big picture of me on 
the front, showing off my huge bust and 24 inch biceps. On the back, it 
said "Real Women are Real Gentle". We'd be ready to open in a few weeks, 
and it was time to lay plans to get the publicity that would guarantee 
success. 

I've never done competitive weightlifting before. I certainly had a 
general idea of what it was all about, because when I was fifteen, the 
doctor had suggested exercise as a way to reduce my bustline, which was 
embarrassingly large even then. But it didn't work. In fact, it failed 
quite spectacularly. Not only did it fail to reduce my breasts, but 
lifting weights gave me the muscle problem that I have to this day. I 
was quite strong to start with, and maybe if the doctor had known this, 
he wouldn't have suggested pumping iron. 

Afterwards, medical experts were able to explain it - it was a pity they 
hadn't done so beforehand. Fifteen is a very dangerous age for girls to 
take up bodybuilding, because the puberty growth spurt is still 
happening, and if you encourage it with weights, the body just goes 
insane. On top of that, my large breasts should have rung warning bells; 
apparently, in a young girl, a big bust is a sign that her body wants to 
get big all over. 

Well, it's too late to cry over spilt milk. By the time anyone had 
realized what was happening, I was cursed with big muscles to match my 
big breasts, and I haven't been able to get rid of them ever since. 
Weightlifting keeps you strong, and I can't help it, I have to lift 
heavy weights all the time, as you would see if you looked at me from 
the front, or the side, or for that matter, from behind. 

I can usually hide my arms by wearing a big sweater, and I can hide my 
legs under a long skirt. My bust simply cannot be hidden, of course. But 
I can look softly feminine, and I think that helps a lot. I try to look 
demure and submissive, and I can flutter my eyelashes with the best of 
them. I can do the thing with swirling my hair that works so well, and I 
almost always wear a sexy perfume. And I like to wear ribbons in my 
hair, and bows, and lacy bits here and there. It helps some, but not 
enough - I'm still single. Men don't like my body, it's as simple as 
that. And I don't blame them, I don't much like it myself. What I have a 
lot of trouble understanding, is why so many of them seem to develop 
such a deep affection for my toes. 

Well, the hell with all of them. If you've got it, I thought, why not 
flaunt it. And I was planning to flaunt it to get maximum exposure for 
the Grand Opening of the Golden Amazon. And here's how. I was going to 
enter a weightlifting competition. And I was going to win. And it was 
going to be a men's competition. 

First of all, I got a copy of the rules. If you're planning to cheat, 
you should always have a copy of the rules, and read them carefully, so 
that you can show afterwards that what you did isn't actually against 
the rules, so isn't cheating. And, to my delight, the rules didn't 
actually specify that contestants had to be male. I think they just 
assumed that no woman would be silly enough to compete, except against 
other women. Heh heh. 

Next, I needed to fill in a valid entry form, and get myself accepted as 
a competitor. Unfortunately, "Candy" is a dead give-away to be a girl, 
but my middle name is Samantha, so I could legitimately call myself C. 
Sam Aldridge. But you can't just leap in and compete - they're fussy 
about who they take. I would have to qualify in some local contest 
first, but in such a way that no-one found out that "Sam" is a girl. 

So, my first step, was to join a local gym. I took the owner into my 
confidence, explaining what I was going to do. I also took the 
precaution of gently Full Frontalling him the first day I arrived, and 
after that, I had terrible trouble keeping him off my toes. Why are so 
many men obsessed with my toes? Anyway, I got him to organize a contest 
for everyone in the gym, and I don't think there was any surprise when I 
won it, because they'd all seen me practicing. One of the other girls at 
the gym came over to me to ask if I had any advice for her; Carol was a 
heftily built woman with large breasts, but a lot of her body was fat. 
From the size of her bones, and the solidity of her breasts, I could 
tell that she had a lot of potential - she was very like me in a lot of 
ways. I told her she could work very hard and convert the fat to muscle, 
and then she'd look better, but then she'd have all sorts of problems 
with the men. She told me that things couldn't be any worse for her, she 
felt fat and ugly, and wished she looked like me. That really surprised 
me, because I can't imagine why anyone would want to be a big clumsy 
lump like me. She said that seeing me had inspired her, and she was 
going for maximum muscle mass from now on. I looked at her, almost as 
wide as she was tall, and thought that if she meant what she said, she 
could wind up pretty impressive. 

Anyhow, winning the contest got me my qualifying lift, and so C. Sam 
Aldridge was competing in the State Weightlifting Championships, as a 
Middleweight. 

Chapter 10 - Candy competes in weightlifting 

The day of the contest arrived. I was very excited, because I'd never 
done anything like this in public before. They called my name, and I 
walked up to the stage to do my first lift. But when I got there, the 
referee stopped me. "Who are you?", he asked. "I'm Candy Samantha 
Aldridge, but you can call me the Golden Amazon", I answered. At that 
point, a big argument broke out. They wanted to disqualify me, but I 
asked sweetly "On what grounds", and they said "Because you're a woman". 
So I answered, that a) they didn't have any proof of that, because no-
one had done a sex test, and b) the rules didn't say anything about sex. 
Well, I know that a) was a bit spurious, because you don't need to look 
at me very closely to work out that those bumps on the front mean 
"woman", but it's always a good idea to introduce extra arguments. The 
argument went to and fro - everyone seemed to have an opinion. But in 
the end, all they could think of was that I had to strip down like the 
other contestants, so I took off my top, and competed wearing just a 
short silk skirt. 

I don't suppose they have too many contestants in these weightlifting 
contests that look like me. I'd washed my hair, and had it down, 
drifting over my nipples. I don't suppose they see many weightlifters 
wearing a skirt, for a start, and they certainly don't get any with 
breasts like mine, for sure, because you don't even get those at bosom 
contests. Except for mine, of course. Anyway, I strode confidently up to 
the barbell that I was supposed to lift. I was confident about this, 
because they'd only gotten it up to 320 pounds, and I can do that, no 
problem. I wrapped my hands round the steel bar, and lifted it easily 
over my head. I held it there for three seconds, while the judges tried 
to tear their eyes away from my breasts, and finally let it fall to the 
ground. 

There was silence as I walked away. I think this was partly because no-
one had actually expected a woman to be able to handle that much iron, 
and partly they were still trying to come to terms with the sight of a 
big-breasted Amazon showing off her muscle power. 

The contest continued. Each time I was called to lift, I added 25 pounds 
to the challenge, which weeded out the other competitors, until all that 
was left was me, and some great hairy brute who looked like he should 
have been in a zoo. I watched him straining to get 410 pounds over his 
head, and knew that it was time to do my coup de main. I called for 650. 
One of the judges called the referee over, and they conferred. Then the 
referee came and had a chat with me. Surely I meant 450? No, I meant 
650. Surely I wasn't proposing to lift 650 over my head? Yes, I was. 
Surely I knew that was impossible? No, it isn't. Surely I knew that 650 
would break every world record that has ever been set? "That's the whole 
point", I explained. 

They loaded up the bar with the 650 pounds I'd asked for. I made a big 
drama out of it, huffing and puffing as I stood by the bar. Then, after 
a suitable build-up, I bent over, and deadlifted it up to my waist. 

When you're lifting a really heavy weight, you're supposed to clean-and-
jerk it, that gives you the best chance. That means you get it up to 
your shoulders in one motion, then you crouch down while you straighten 
your arms, and use your legs to finish off the lift. I wanted to show 
off, of course, so I didn't do it that way. By now, there were video 
recorders whirring all over the hall, because everyone knew that history 
was about to be made. 

Of course, anyone can deadlift 650, well, almost anyone. I stood 
upright, holding the bar in my hands, staring defiantly at the audience. 
Then, I started the next stage. I curled the bar up to shoulder level, 
using the strength of my biceps. When I do this, you can see my biceps 
grow up to their full 24 inch size, which looks pretty impressive, I can 
tell you. Finally, I pressed the bar over my head, lifting it slowly 
from shoulder level. 

I held the bar over my head. My hands were a yard apart, and my legs 
about the same. My back was arched, to keep the weight over my centre of 
gravity, but this also made my breasts stand out even more than the 20 
inches that they normally do, and that made my ridged stomach clearly 
visible. My head was tilted slightly back, and my hair fell down, over 
my breasts, doing a simply terrible job of hiding them. The strain that 
my body was under increased the separation between my nipples, and I 
couldn't tell you how much, because I wasn't exactly in a position to be 
able to measure. My short silk skirt didn't do much to hide my thighs, 
which are each bigger and thicker than a man's body. 

I stood there, long after the lift had been approved, and listened to 
the gentle moans and groans from the audience. I love it when a man 
shows his appreciation for my body in the way that proves that they mean 
it. And I knew that if I wanted my toes cleaned, there would be plenty 
of willing tongues in this audience. 

The prizegiving ceremony was held that evening, during the gala dinner. 
I wore a white silk dress, not low cut (I obviously don't need such 
artifices), but fairly short in the skirt, because my legs aren't too 
bad, even if they are a bit chunky. When they called my name, I came up 
to the podium, and they said a lot of nice things about me. Apparently, 
I was not only the middleweight lifting champion, but I'd also broken 
the welterweight and heavyweight world records, also. Somehow, they 
forgot to mention that it was a woman who had lifted so much iron, but I 
suppose my body made that perfectly clear. And when they handed me the 
championship belt, I put it on over my white dress, although I had to 
wrap it twice round my waist to make it fit. And I turned, and faced the 
audience, and clasped my hands over my head in a victory pose, and I 
guess I should have tried that out in private first, because what with 
the belt holding my dress in, and my out-thrust breasts pulling it up, I 
think I showed the entire audience everything South of my equator, so to 
speak. Oh well, these things happen. Rather a lot of flashes went off, 
and I think a few people were videoing the proceedings. 

Chapter 11 - The Golden Amazon 

The storm broke next day. Obviously, I was hoping for some publicity for 
the Golden Amazon, but I certainly wasn't ready for what followed. It 
started at eight in the morning, with a knock at the door, and when I 
opened it, there was a reporter and a photographer from the National 
Questioner, or some such magazine, and they started taking pictures 
immediately, which was a bit silly, because I was still wearing my silk 
night-dress. They wanted to talk to me a bit, and get some photos, and 
they assured me that they wouldn't use the ones of me in my nightie, so 
I changed out of my night-gown for them, and let them snap me in my 
sweater-and-skirt bouncer's kit, and I wore that lovely championship 
belt. Really, it's much too nice for a man to wear. It's a wide black 
leather belt, and it's inlaid with silver shields and scrollwork all 
around. I though it looked very fetching on me, and I was intending to 
wear it for work today. Work? You must be kidding. After the first two 
left, the phone started ringing, and didn't stop. Everyone seemed to 
want to know who I was, where I was born, and how big my bust was. I 
really do get fed up with that question. Here's a tip for men. Women 
like to be asked how big their bust is, about as much as men like to be 
asked how long their penis is. 

Several reporters came and visited, and took pictures, and a TV reporter 
came and talked to me, and while we were talking, I made another 
mistake. He asked me how strong I really was, and I told him, well, I 
could lift his car. After that, nothing would satisfy him except we went 
outside and his TV camera filmed me as I lifted up the back end of his 
Ford. That's cheating, of course, because the back end is much lighter 
than the front end, since it doesn't have the engine in it, but I 
figured that not many people would spot that one, and I was beginning to 
feel a bit fed up from all the interviews. 

Well, the clip of me wearing my lovely new belt, and lifting the back 
end of the car made the six o'clock news, of course. I suppose not much 
was happening in the world that week. I heard it made the evening news 
too, which meant that the world and his brother saw me. And when I 
arrived at my topless job, they'd all seen it. I had a new costume now; 
I still wore the long silk skirt, and not much above, but I was wearing 
my gorgeous new belt, and they all wanted to touch it and admire it. 
Honestly, it's a nice belt, but not that nice. Of course, with this 
outfit, I couldn't wear it round my naked waist, so I loosened it a bit, 
and wore it round my hips. And while they were touching it (and some of 
the hands were missing the belt and wandering a bit higher), I felt the 
delicious sensation of my toes being licked. So I stood there, my eyes 
closed, head raised, and just wallowed in the adoration of my fans. Men 
can be so nice sometimes. 

When the time came for me to do my on-stage turn, I got another 
surprise. They'd gotten a barbell from somewhere, and two of them rolled 
it on-stage for me. I looked at the weights and counted the disks, and 
there were only 20, which meant 500 pounds, which is pretty puny. But I 
wanted to put on a good show for them, so I started off by calling for 
volunteers from the audience. You know what people are like - not a 
single hand went up. So I upped the ante, explaining that each volunteer 
would get a kiss, and then I got lots of them. I chose two average-sized 
men, maybe 5-8 and 180 pounds each, and told one of them to try to get 
one end of the bar off the ground. That meant dead-lifting 250 pounds, 
and I was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to, and I was right. The other 
guy couldn't, either. Then I told them to try to lift the weight up 
together, which obviously they couldn't, since neither of them could 
manage half of it. After the two men had struggled with the bar for a 
while without shifting it, I waved them aside, got a good grip on it, 
and straightened up, deadlifting the 500 pounds, just to show then that 
it could be done. Then I put the bar down, and called for a third 
volunteer. After he'd stepped up on stage, I explained that they were 
going to co-operate, and lift the weight between them, one in the 
middle, and one at each end. 

They tried, I'll give them that. They pulled, and heaved, and managed to 
let go of it, and it rolled off the stage onto the floor, into the 
middle of the audience. They followed it down, and tried again, but they 
couldn't get it a millimeter off the ground. Time to show them what a 
woman can do, I thought. I stepped down, and waved them aside. I took 
hold of the bar, and did the same three-stage lift I'd done in the 
contest, finishing off by holding the weight high over my head. As the 
audience applauded, I felt something warm and wet at the ends of my 
feet; you guessed it, someone was taking advantage of my position to 
give my toes another clean. 

I suppose I ought to explain this toes thing before you start thinking 
that I'm obsessed with it. It isn't just me, honestly. I like to leave 
my feet bare, sure, because it's just about the only part of me that is 
fine-boned and delicate. I have really feminine feet, unlike most of the 
rest of me which is big and clumsy as an hippopotamus. And I find that 
quite a lot of men, with hardly any encouragement, like to get down on 
the floor and lick my toes, or even suck them. OK, I admit I do 
encourage them slightly, because the feel of a man's tongue between your 
toes is one of the most delightful sensations in the world. I drop the 
occasional hint maybe, but mostly they seem to come up with the idea for 
themselves. Most of them tell me that my toes taste salty (I guess 
that's the sweat, although Mummy once told me that only horses sweat; 
men perspire and girls simply glow). But a surprising number of them 
tell me that they taste like honey, and there's certainly no reason for 
that, because I don't smear honey on them. Although come to think of it, 
maybe that's not such a bad idea. 

Is it unhygenic? I don't think so. I keep my feet pretty clean, or 
rather other people do. I doubt if you can pick up any of the standard 
loathsome diseases from tongue-toe contact. I Athlete's Foot a sexually 
communicable disease? I think not. I did once ask a doctor about that, 
but he had his mouth filled with my big toe at the time, and his answer 
was too muffled to understand. Anyway, I've read of practices that are 
much more unhygenic than toe-licking, and I've heard of some things that 
are downright gross. 

Different men lick toes in different ways. Some of them just barely 
touch the tips of my toes; some of them like to run their tongues over 
the tops, the knuckles, as it were. Other chaps like to get underneath, 
and lick the soft undersides of my toes. Some men like to suck on each 
toe, one at a time. My own favorite is when they force their tongues 
between my toes, and get right down to the toe roots, where you would 
have the webbing if you were a duck. That makes me close my eyes and 
hum, and want to hug and cuddle the guy afterwards. Oh, and in response 
to another question I get asked, no, I've never had an orgasm from it, 
although I live in hopes. 

I stood there for several minutes, holding the relatively low weight of 
500 pounds over my head, while very nice things happened very near the 
floor. After a while, I couldn't take it any more, and I had to walk 
away from the audience, back up on stage, where I finally put the bar 
down, to great applause. I kept my promise, and gave each of my 
volunteers a big hug and kiss, and I also called the guy who'd been 
loving my toes up for a reward. Well, unless you encourage the behavior 
you want, you won't get it, will you? I gave him a very big hug and 
cuddle, and then, on impulse, I gave him a Big Hug (a Warm Cuddle is 
dangerous when I'm naked above the waist), and as he passed out for the 
third time, I noticed a few of the guys in the audience were having the 
old wet-patch problem with their trousers. 

I got dressed, and moved on to my bouncer job at the night-club. The 
news of my record breaking had preceded me there as well, and as I 
walked in, I saw a big banner strung across the room, saying "Well done, 
the Golden Amazon", and lots of people rushed up to me to shake my hand. 
That evening was pretty quiet as far as I was concerned - would you want 
to start trouble when the house bouncer just broke three world 
weightlifting records? But they did persuade me to do one special thing 
for them. I wouldn't normally entertain the idea of doing a striptease, 
but they'd all seen my breasts already on the evening news, and it would 
have been churlish to refuse, and Mummy didn't bring her little girl up 
to be churlish. So I got them to play "The Entertainer", and "Maple Leaf 
Rag", and a few of my other Scott Joplin favorites. You can't really 
dance to ragtime, but since I can't dance anyway, that was fine. I 
strutted up and down the podium, like I'd seen the other girls do, and 
threw my hair about a bit, that always goes down well. Then, I called 
for a couple of volunteers to help me, and there was no shortage of 
willing hands. Of course, I can undress myself, but it's not a pretty 
sight to watch; graceful is not my middle name. I'm no sylph-like swan, 
more of an ugly duckling, really. Still, they wanted to see my body, 
they can jolly well help. 

Chapter 12 - Candy strips 

I was wearing a short skirt, and a long, very heavy ribbed-knit sweater, 
with a scarf round my neck, and a ribbon in my hair. I like to wear 
ribbons in my hair, don't ask me why, I think it looks especially 
feminine. On top of everything, I proudly wore my new belt. The belt had 
to come off first, of course. One of my assistants knelt down in front 
of me, like he was praying, and undid the buckle, which is a monstrous 
great silver thing. He handed it to the other guy, who walked round me 
twice until it was unwound off me, and then held it up for the audience 
to admire. Next, we took off my sweater, which I did by the simple 
expedient of holding my hands above my head, and letting my assistants 
peel it upwards. A great cheer went up as my breasts were revealed. You 
know, sometimes I think that men don't actually care what you look like 
and what shape you're in, as long as there's lots of it. Then I kept my 
hands up in the air while my boys unknotted the silk scarf round my 
neck, and threw it to the audience. Hey! That scarf cost me $20! Oh 
well, everyone seemed to be having such a good time. 

I told them to help with my ribbons next. I reached behind my head, 
which had the effect of showing them what a really large set of biceps 
looks like, and also it increased the separation and projection of my 
breasts. Everyone was clapping excitedly now, and I swung my body from 
side to side, so they could all get a decent look, and of course this 
made my breasts sway rather alarmingly, which they liked even more. 

Then they unzipped my skirt, and I wiggled my hips and let it slowly 
fall to the ground. At that point, the naked truth was discovered - I 
don't wear panties. I've never seen the point of them when you're 
wearing a skirt, and the air helps to cool me down. If you're wearing 
trousers, yes, you need panties, but I can't wear trousers, on account 
of my 36 inch thighs, and the terrible short-sightedness of trouser 
manufacturers, who can't be bothered to cater for the specialized 
market. I was still standing with my arms behind my head, showing off my 
biceps, and it was now time to show off the other large set of muscles 
that *every* woman has. 

I told one of the boys to get down on his hands and knees in front of 
me, and I lifted my leg to rest my foot on his back. When you do that, 
it makes your calf and thigh muscles bunch up, and you can then see 
clearly what a 24 inch calf and a 36 inch thigh really looks like. The 
audience fell silent; I think they were a bit over-awed. That's one 
reason why I always wear long skirts, it makes life simpler if people 
can't see my legs. I stood there, posing for the audience. Everyone 
breathed, you could hear them doing it. I think they were enjoying the 
show. Then I decided to go for a climax to the act; I beckoned the other 
guy over, and whispered into his ear. He grinned eagerly, knelt down, 
and started licking the toes of the foot I had on the chap's back. 

The audience went wild. Obviously it isn't only me that likes a good toe 
job. I decided that anything I did after that would be a complete anti-
climax, so I got dressed and left. I'd had a long day, I was very tired, 
my toes were really clean, and I just wanted to go to bed, so I went 
back to my apartment, intending to just get my head down. 

Fat chance. As I came up to my front door, I could see that I was 
besieged. Reporters, photographers, TV cameras, you name it. Apparently, 
getting on to the evening TV news is liable to have that effect. They 
all wanted to ask me stuff, so I decided that the best way to handle 
this would be to deal with them all at once, in some kind of press 
conference. And obviously, the best place to do this wasn't in my 
apartment, which was too small anyway. So, I told them all to come down 
to the Golden Amazon, and I'd talk to them there. 

They followed me down to the bar, and I stood on the stage in front of 
the big picture of Tina, while they stood in the main room, and they 
took pictures and asked me questions. Some of them were really dumb. The 
first question was "What's your bust size", and I thought that this was 
going to be one of *those* days. One guy asked me if I was really a man 
in drag, and I told him that he needed new spectacles, and when he got 
them, to watch the video of the award ceremony again. One of the 
questions was really smart - the reporter must have watched a video of 
my 650 pound lift, and noticed that I wasn't using the best technique 
for lifting. So he asked me how much I could lift using a clean-and-
jerk, and I told him that I didn't know, exactly (strictly speaking, 
that's true, because I don't know exactly). But then they got back to 
the stupid ones - one guy asked me "How come you're so strong", to which 
I answered "How come you're so handsome". I was going to say "stupid", 
but at the last minute, I got a severe attack of tact. 

I explained to them that I worked here, at the Golden Amazon, which had 
been named after me, and which catered to men who liked their women big 
and strong, and that it had only just opened. It's always a good idea to 
bash your PR home with a bludgeon, rather than be subtle and hope people 
catch on. Someone else asked me if I planned to go after any more world 
records, and I said that I already had all the weightlifting records for 
my weight class and above. So he asked about some of the other strength 
sports, like hammer, discus and wrestling. I said that I wasn't going 
to, because hammer and discus require skill and practice, and wrestling 
involved hurting people, which I wasn't willing to do. 

Then someone asked me what my boy friend thought about me being a weight 
lifting champion, and I couldn't help thinking of Sam, and I felt really 
sad, and told them that I didn't have a boy friend. So one of them asked 
if I thought that maybe men didn't like big, strong women, and I 
considered briefly the pleasures of giving him a Big Hug, and then 
letting him lick my toes, but I decided that it might not make good 
publicity. Instead, I told him that different people liked different 
body-types, and that there certainly were people who liked their women 
big and strong. And then I thought that there were precious few men like 
that, and where do you go to meet them, anyway? 

After quite a long time of this sort of question, and some of them got 
really personal (like wanting to know if I was a virgin, for heaven 
sake), they decided it was picture time. They asked me to do a strong-
woman pose, and if I could hold a 650 pound barbell up for them (as if I 
keep big barbells every which place). Instead, I lifted a couple of 
reporters up, one in each arm, and then I held one guy over my head - he 
was terrified I'd drop him, poor lamb. They wanted pictures of me 
flexing my biceps, and pictures of my calves, pictures higher up my leg, 
and then they wanted me to strip off for a topless shot. I thought about 
that - after all, I was appearing topless each night. But then I thought 
about all the places that those pictures would appear, and I refused. 
Eventually, they had enough, and The crowd dwindled until just one guy 
was left, the guy who had asked about the clean-and-jerk. He introduced 
himself as Harry Genwyn, a reporter for Modern Amazon magazine, which 
I'd never heard of. And then he told me his suspicions. 

"You lifted 650 pounds at that contest. I watched the video, and you 
used an appalling technique, and it didn't look like you had any trouble 
with that huge weight. So, Miss Golden Amazon, how much can you really 
lift?" 

Chapter 13 - Another Big Hug 

I didn't really want the world to know the truth, mostly because they 
just wouldn't believe it. Mummy used to tell me, that sometimes the 
unvarnished truth is too rich for people's blood, so it's sometimes a 
good idea to varnish the truth a bit. I was telling the world that I 
could lift 650 pounds, which is true, and that I'm a female-type woman 
doing this, which is also true. What I really didn't want the world to 
find out, is that I can manage considerably more than that, and that I 
wasn't exactly your normal, average female-type woman. But this chap had 
deduced the truth, and was about to tell the world. I had to stop him. 
And I knew exactly how. 

I walked up to him, and before he could react, I kissed him on the lips. 
Then, I put my arms round his body, and pulled him into my capacious 
chest. I slowly held him tighter and tighter, until I'd brought him to 
the point where breathing in was no longer a possibility. I held him at 
that point for a few seconds to let the feeling of helplessness sink in, 
and then I squeezed him some more, increasing the pressure until he was 
forced to let the air out of his lungs. Then I held him steady for a bit 
longer, until he passed out. The Big Hug strikes again! 

While he was unconscious, I relaxed my bear hug, and his body sucked in 
a great draught of air, and followed up with some serious panting. That 
made his brain come back to life, and as he opened his eyes, I closed my 
arms round him again. "Time for sleepy-byes", I whispered in his ear, as 
my arms first stopped his chest from expanding any more, and then forced 
him to breathe out, losing all that precious oxygen. Again, he entered 
the world of Morpheus, as the oxygenation of his brain dropped below the 
level that can sustain consciousness. Again, I relaxed my clutches, so 
as not to do him any real damage. 

When he came round the second time, he started struggling in my arms. I 
told him not to be so silly, and to just relax and let it happen. I 
whispered into his ear, "If you don't resist, it feels good. Just 
surrender to my superior female strength, because resistance is useless 
anyway". But he put up a good fight as I clenched my arms round his soft 
body again, and crushed him into oblivion again. Just before he passed 
out, he stopped trying to fight back, and just started begging me not to 
hurt him any more, which is silly, really, because a Big Hug doesn't 
hurt, and in fact lots of men like it. I know that, because sometimes 
they ask me to do it to them again. 

I let him sink to the floor, and redid my hair, putting in my best blue 
satin ribbons. I also kicked my shoes off. When he recovered his senses, 
I put one of my feet up to his mouth, and by some mysterious instinct 
that lots of men seem to have, I've found, he knew exactly what to do. 
He was a bit tentative at first, but when he discovered how much he 
enjoyed toes, he went at them hammer and tongs.  After letting his 
aggressive tongue have it's way with my defenceless toes for several 
minutes, I picked him up off the floor, and held him in my arms again. 
He remembered what I'd done to him last time, and started begging in a 
very piteous way. But I wanted something else. I told him to forget his 
theories about my lifting abilities, and to not write or print any 
articles, or tell anyone. He promised, he promised, and so I let him get 
back to making my toes really clean. But I was still very tired, so I 
took him back to my apartment, undressed and went to bed, with one leg 
outside the blankets, so that he could soothe my feet as I drifted off 
to sleep. 

I woke up at noon, yawned and stretched, and found that I seemed to be 
sharing my bed with someone. It isn't that often that I get lucky, so I 
had a good look at him. He woke up while I was looking, and burrowed 
down to the far end of the bed, so that he could nuzzle my toes again. 
But I'd had enough for now. Toes are all very well, but there are some 
more important things that needed doing. I got dressed, told chummy (I 
never did find out his name) to get back to his work, and hastened down 
to the Golden Amazon, to see how things were going. 

Things were going well, the place was packed. Ducky was rushing round 
like his tail was on fire, getting drinks served. Customers were gawking 
at the big, strong women pictured on the walls, and there was a whole 
group round the TV, watching an unfortunate man being thrown all over 
the ring by a girl. But there was one thing I noticed was immediately 
missing. No Amazons. Of course, my arrival changed that, especially with 
the costume I was wearing. I should have mentioned that. 

Chapter 14 - Candy at the Golden Amazon 

What does a Golden Amazon wear? I thought about a Wonder Woman type 
outfit, and I thought about a Supergirl costume, and I thought that 
these were much too corny - I didn't want people laughing at me. And 
anyway, could you imagine Supergirl with 73 inch boobs? No way. I wanted 
my appearance to command instant respect, but to look sexy as well. So I 
wore my calf-length skirt, which just overlapped calf-high leather 
boots, and a thin silk blouse over my top, cinched in at the waist with 
my trophy belt. I left the top few buttons of my blouse open, so as to 
reveal about nine inches of cleavage. I think cleavage is terribly 
important; it looks utterly feminine, and utterly erotic, and if you've 
got it, flaunt it. Most women don't really have a cleavage, because 
their breasts aren't big enough, and they have to resort to all sorts of 
artifices to make it look as if they have one. But with my breasts, the 
only question was how much to show. With 20 inches of projection to play 
with, I could go anywhere from a couple of inches, to nearly two feet. 
But you mustn't over-egg the pudding, as Mummy used to say. The cleavage 
should not be the whole display, it should lead the eyes downward, and 
leave the imagination to continue. Sexual attraction is mostly in the 
mind, and you have to give the mind a starting place, but then let it 
run free. 

I had my best blue satin ribbon in my hair, to look soft and feminine, 
and I wore high heeled boots, which were unbearably uncomfortable, to 
make me taller, and to make my legs look more graceful. But the thing 
that really seemed to catch everyone's eye, was an accessory that I 
think every amazon should wear. I got the idea from Wonder Woman, but I 
improved on it. You remember, she wore a golden lasso at her hip? Well, 
I wore a long leather whip, in a coil attached to my belt. And I'd 
practised with it, until I could crack it reliably. It isn't hard to do, 
you just pull it upwards slowly, then bring it down with a jerk. Or the 
other way round. Whatever. I wasn't planning to use it that way, though. 

I'd thought this through carefully. The whip starts off with an 
impressive load of symbolism. It conjures up femdom, and the Marquis de 
Sade. It looks like a penis, only a longer, harder penis than any man 
could dream of having, yet it is carried by a sexy woman. It symbolises 
pain and punishment, fear and humiliation. I could stroke the length of 
the shank in a very erotic manner, I could lick the end with my tongue 
in a thoughtful way, and I could slide the tail over people's bodies in 
a suggestive way. I thought of lots of delicious ways to use my whip to 
emphasize the female aspects of being an Amazon, and even more ways to 
use it to give me power and authority. Yes, a whip is definitely 
something every Amazon should wear, casually, at her hip, and toy with 
from time to time. 

As I walked in, no-one laughed. So far, so good; I had thought maybe I 
looked a bit Over The Top, but the men there obviously took me 
seriously. I walked over to the bar, and sat down. Ducky was bartending, 
and I thought we really must get an Amazon barmaid as soon as possible. 
Everyone in the place was staring at me, but it seemed that no-one had 
the gumption to kick off a conversation. I guess I was just too 
intimidating for them. Well, that's fine by me, I was trying to look 
intimidating. But I had to find some way to get something going, 
otherwise I'd be sitting there all evening, bored stiff. 

It's at times like this, that I realize that cigarettes are a good idea. 
You know how it works? You pick up a ciggie, and wait for Romeo to light 
it, and then he says something witty to you, and you're off. Trouble is, 
cigarettes give you cancer, emphysema, and other horrible diseases. 
Still, I bet you don't get something loathsome from just one, so I asked 
"Anyone got a cigarette?". Four guys leaped forward, and I took one out 
of a packet, put it in my mouth, and waited. After a couple of seconds, 
the brightest one there realized what I was waiting for, and lit it for 
me. I inhaled deeply, which did complicated things to the front of my 
blouse, and then I nearly died. 

I've never actually smoked before. I've seen plenty of other people do 
it, of course, and I've suffered in their slipstream. It looks so easy; 
you just breath in, don't you? But it felt like someone was trying to 
strangle me, and my reaction seemed to be to try to cough my lungs out. 
I bent over and coughed and coughed; I tried to breath in, but every 
time I got some air into my lungs, my cough reflex expelled it again. It 
was several minutes before I recovered myself, by which time I had 
totally blown my cool, and looked completely ridiculous. So much for the 
all-powerful Amazon warrior image. Still, it broke the ice, and men 
started talking to me. 

I introduced myself as the Golden Amazon, and told them to address me as 
Ma'am. They got into the spirit of it immediately, except for one guy 
who said "You're just another out-of-work actress", and refused to give 
me any respect. Until I rolled up my sleeve to reveal my 24 inch biceps, 
and sweetly asked him if he cared to put his hand where his mouth was in 
an arm wrestling contest. He stared, and dumbly shook his head, so I 
reached out with my other hand and took his wrist, and squeezed, not too 
hard, just so he knew he was gripped in a very strong hand, and I asked 
him what he thought of my upper arm, and he said "Impressive". I 
squeezed a bit harder, so that he'd really feel my fingers biting in to 
his flesh, and said "Not just an unemployed actress, then?", and he 
whispered "No", and I clenched my hand round his wrist, hard enough to 
feel the little bones bend and slide under the pressure, and I told him 
to kiss my arm muscle, and after that, he was practically worshipping 
me. I thought maybe I'll introduce him to my toes later. 

It was great fun. They clustered round me, and treated me like a queen. 
All the guys here, had come because they admired girls like me, and for 
once I didn't feel quite so ashamed of my hulking great body. As one of 
them put it, "It isn't only girls who like a pair of strong arms 
cuddling them", and I gave him a bit of a cuddle for saying that. They 
practically fell over themselves to buy me drinks, although I don't 
drink (whiskey had taught me that), so orange juice is my preferred 
tipple. 

Chapter 15 - Candy does her strong girl act 

I decided that instead of getting up on the tiny stage to do my strong 
girl act, I'd do it at the bar, where they could be involved with the 
various feats. It makes it feel more real, rather than some magic act. I 
started off by asking them for quarters, which I bent in my fingers and 
returned to them. They seemed to have an awful lot of quarters for me to 
bend. 

Next, I did the apple trick. I let them have a good look at the apple 
first, and then I held it cupped between my two hands, and pressed 
inwards. If you listen carefully, you can actually hear the scrunching 
noise as it mashes, and then I opened my hands and showed them the 
crushed apple pulp. I had to do that a few more times for them, but all 
the time, I was sitting on the bar stool, chatting with my fan club, it 
was lovely. The six inch nails came next. I let them handle them and 
pass them round, and then when they returned them to me, I bent each one 
double. After doing several of those, I took a nail and flexed it back 
and forth several times until it broke. They made me repeat that with 
some more nails, too. I noticed that they were pocketing the broken 
nails, as a souvenir, and I wondered if we should maybe mount them on a 
plaque and sell them, or something. Sam taught me that; don't give away 
what people want to buy. 

One guy asked me if he could have a look at my whip. Of course, I had no 
real objection, but it simply felt wrong to just let that happen. I 
thought that the Golden Amazon's whip needed some sort of mystique, so I 
made up the Legend of the Whip for him. 

As long as the whip is safely coiled by my hip, it's safe. But as soon 
as the Golden Whip is uncoiled, it has to be used to draw blood from a 
man. So, before I uncoil it, I'll need a volunteer to be the whippee. I 
thought that would be a nice, dramatic, harmless little piece of fun. I 
didn't expect so many hands to go up. That left me in a rather awkward 
situation. I mean, Mummy always told me you should never whip a man 
until he bleeds. No, actually, Mummy never said any such thing, because 
it probably didn't occur to Mummy that I'd be in such a position. But 
she would have said it. Plus, I didn't actually have a clue as to how to 
use a whip; I couldn't even remember whether it was slow up and fast 
down, or the other way round. 

So I gave them some garbage about there wasn't enough room in the bar to 
use the whip to draw blood, so it would have to stay in its holster. And 
I couldn't believe it when one of the guys pulled out a penknife and cut 
his arm, to make some blood available. That meant my bluff was called, 
so I had to get my whip out, and let them see it up close. Several of 
them wanted to stroke the shaft, and one of them asked if he could lick 
the end. Golly, some men are really weird. 

I tore my whip away from them, and put it back in its holster, slightly 
bloody (ugh). Time for part two of my strong girl act. This part 
involved free weights, a bar loaded with 700 pounds. I picked a 
volunteer, and told him to lift up the bar. No way, of course. So then, 
I picked a second guy, and told him to help the first. They couldn't 
budge it between them. I added a third to the team, one in the middle, 
and one at each end. Still, it was an impossible load. 

After that, it was all downhill. I got four guys onto the task, but it's 
really quite hard for four guys to exert all their strength on one bar, 
and they couldn't move it. Of course, five guys simply got in each 
other's way, and by the time we got up to eight, it was clear that the 
whole proposition was impossible, no matter how many men you put onto 
the job. 

Then I explained how you do it. You don't put several men on the job, 
what it takes is one woman. Provided she's an Amazon, like me. I took 
off my high-heeled boots, because you have to be *really* dumb to lift 
in heels. I gripped the bar carefully, in both hands. I made sure that 
there was no-one too close - I didn't want anyone getting hurt in case I 
dropped it or something. Then, I did my three-stage lift; stage one up 
to my mid-thighs, lifting with my legs. Stage two up to my shoulders, 
curling with my heavily muscled arms. And stage three straight up over 
my head, elbows locked, knees locked, head back, chest out. What it 
takes is one woman. 

And one man. As I was standing there holding the 700 pound weight over 
my head, the familiar tickling sensation round my toes. I looked down, 
and I could see that a few of them had gotten down on the floor to pay 
homage to the Golden Amazon. Trouble was, that left me nowhere to put 
the bar down, and you really don't want to hold 700 pounds over your 
head for very long. But I didn't want to lose the muscle dominance that 
I was exerting over them, I didn't want to admit that even an Amazon has 
limits. So I stood there, the bar pressed over my head, while I tried to 
work out what to do. I couldn't just drop the bar, someone would get 
injured, maybe killed. "Get back, get back", I said to them. I stood 
there while complicated things happened around my feet, wondering how 
long I could keep this weight in the air. Then one of the men, maybe 
realizing my predicament, pulled the others back by the collar, and I 
could finally drop the bar. I stood easy, enjoying the feeling of not 
having a huge weight to support, and looked at the guy who had come to 
my rescue. 

"Thank you", I said to him. Even an Amazon has to say please and thank 
you, and when I bring up my babies, I'll teach them manners like my 
Mummy taught me. "You're welcome", he said. "I'm Conrad. Let me buy you 
a drink, and you can tell me how you do that stuff." 

I recognize a pick-up line when I see one, but here's a little secret. 
Girls actually *want* to be picked up, and this guy looked kind of cute. 
So I accepted an orange juice from him, and sat on a stool as he asked 
me for the secret of superhuman strength. Trouble is, I don't know. All 
I know is that when I was a young teenager, I made the mistake of trying 
to slim down by exercising with weights, and instead of losing fat, I 
gained muscle. And because my arms and body are so heavy, I can't seem 
to lose it again, because the stresses of just moving around keep my 
muscles built up. Maybe if I spent several weeks in bed lying very 
still, I could get somewhere, but I'm afraid that if I did that, I might 
not have the strength to handle my big body. It's a well known fact, if 
something ain't broken, don't fix it, because the fix might lead to 
something even worse. 

So I told him the simple truth, I am what I am. I can't remember, it was 
either Heisenberg or Popeye said that, and in my case, spinach has 
nothing to do with it. I don't know why my breasts are so big, I don't 
know why my body is so strong, and I don't know why so many men get a 
charge out of licking my toes. He sympathized with me, and said that 
life gives you a raw deal sometimes, and I had to agree, thinking about 
Sam. He asked me what my ambitions were, and I told him; I want to get 
married and have babies, lots and lots of babies. I felt that my body is 
an ideal baby machine, and whenever I see a tiny baby a great wave of 
maternal feeling sweeps over me, and it's all I can do to stop picking 
the little sweetie up and cuddling it. I felt as if I needed to have a 
baby, that the procreative imperative had me in its grip, and that I 
couldn't put it off for much longer. 

He told me that he liked babies too. His sister had three, and he often 
visited and played with them. I wish I had a little baby to play with, 
to kiss and cuddle, to change and bath. I didn't know anyone who had a 
baby, but every time I passed one in a stroller, it was a real effort to 
pass it by. He said that he knew what I meant, and wished that he had a 
baby, too. We sat in wistful silence for a while, and he asked me if I 
had a boyfriend. I thought of Sam, I thought of Ron, and I thought of 
Ducky, and I told him that my life was lonely, and I sighed. He reached 
out and held my hand, and I sighed again, and smiled at him. 

When I went home that evening, it was at the end of one of the better 
days in my life. I changed into my sexiest night-gown, and went to bed. 
Well, a girl can dream, can't she? Especially if she has a big, soft 
pillow to cuddle. I dreamed about babies; warm and milky, gurgling and 
cooing. 

Chapter 16 - Candy seduces Conrad 

Next day, I went in to the topless bar, and resigned. I'd enjoyed 
working there, but it was clear that the Golden Amazon was going to be 
taking up most of my time, and I wouldn't have any time for wobbling 
around serving drinks. Also, it wouldn't be good for customers of the 
Amazon bar to see their goddess walking around with a tray of drinks. 

Same thing at the night-club - I told The Ferret that he needed a new 
bouncer, because Amazons aren't too keen at dealing with common drunks 
and the like. Then I went out shopping, and bought some new things, 
including the most adorable white satin nightie and negligee, with a 
skirt long enough to hide my calves, and long lacy sleeves to hide my 
arms. While I was buying it, I tried not to think about why. If I want 
to buy a sexy night-gown, it wasn't necessarily because I was going to 
seduce someone. Yeah. Who was I trying to fool. 

That evening, Conrad was at the Amazon, and I did my strong woman act 
with my eyes on him. Afterwards, he came up to me and told me how 
impressive I was, and what terrific babies I'd make. I glowed, and 
kissed him. He kissed me back, and it was all I could do not to rape him 
there and then. But I'm not a teenager any more, I've learned to control 
my urges. 

When I was sixteen, I was a real tearaway. I used to wear short skirts 
and tight sweaters, and was a devil for the boys. In fact, I could think 
of very little else. And one day, walking with a boy down by the river, 
I turned to him and kissed him. He kissed me back, and ran his hands up 
the backs of my legs, which was a big mistake, because it turned me on 
so much that I raped him there and then. Some people say that a woman 
can't rape a man - that must be because they've never met me. Let me 
tell you, it is not only possible, I've done it. 

First, you get the man down on the ground. That's easy enough, because 
two legs don't make a tripod, and all you have to do is put your leg 
behind his legs, and bend him backwards. Then you rip off his trousers, 
unless he's not resisting yet, and that's easy, because you just grab 
the waistband and yank. His underpants are usually cotton, and that 
practically melts in your hand. Then you have to hold him still while 
you get yourself ready, but if you're wearing a skirt and no panties, 
that's very quick and easy. And holding a man still while you get ready 
isn't too difficult, you just lie on top of him. 

Next, you have to give him an erection. I usually skip this part, 
because they seem to already have one, but if you have any trouble, a 
hand on their penis often does the trick. If you need more, try running 
your finger up and down the underside. Stroking his balls often helps. 
And, because sex is mostly in the mind, now is a good time to start 
telling him how wonderful it's going to be. If he struggles now, 
administer a Big Hug, and after he recovers consciousness, continue the 
treatment. 

Once he's hard, just lower yourself onto his spike, but you might have 
to be careful about putting your full weight on his pelvis, especially 
if you're my size. I tense my thighs, so that they're carrying part of 
my weight. At this point, I also like to lean forward a bit, so that my 
breasts brush against his face, which is a tremendous turn-on, and means 
that he'll stay harder, longer. 

Then, you can start to fuck. Lift yourself up and down in a steady 
rhythm, so that he can get used to the tempo. While you're down, you 
might also clench and unclench your vagina, to increase the feeling for 
both of you. If he struggles at this stage, I'd be very surprised - I've 
certainly never had any complaints. But if he does, then stop bouncing 
up and down, just stay in the position that encloses him, and use your 
internal muscles to overcome his reluctance. 

Some people might argue that by this time, it isn't rape, because he's a 
willing victim. But who cares? It's a great feeling to sexually dominate 
a reluctant male, and to use your powerful vagina to milk him dry. 

Conrad and I continued to exchange confidences, and while we did, I 
wondered what he'd be like in bed. It was really a very long time since 
I'd felt a hard penis inside me turn into soft and helpless flesh, and I 
thought how nice it would be to feel the thrill of orgasm once again. I 
batted my eyelashes at him, and swirled my hair against him, and let my 
breasts accidentally brush against him. If he didn't get the message by 
now, he must be deaf and brain-dead.  think he must have gotten at least 
part of the message, because he asked me what I was doing on Thursday, 
and I told him "Nothing special", and he asked me for a date, and I said 
yes. 

Let's look at this for a moment. I was about the same height as him, and 
maybe a bit heavier. He was some years older than me, but still very 
cute. The biggest difference, was that I guess he would be able to lift 
maybe 100, which made me about ten times as strong as him, and that's a 
dangerous difference. It meant that if I misjudged giving him a friendly 
hand-squeeze, he was in big trouble. It meant that if we ever got into a 
knock-down, drag-out row, he could get badly hurt. But most of all, it 
meant that if he was close to me while I had a big orgasm, he could wind 
up in hospital, like poor Sam did. 

Still, he'd seen me in action, so he knew what he was getting into, and 
he was over 21 and therefore capable of deciding for himself. You can't 
look out for other people *all* the time, you have to think of yourself 
sometimes. So I wore a short silk dress for the date, and showed about 
twelve inches of cleavage, and my legs from the thighs down, and to be a 
total turn-on, I carried my whip. Conrad was instantly captivated when 
he saw me. It isn't often that I dress to show my body, and I thought I 
was taking a big risk, because my oversized body and limbs could be a 
terrible turn-off. But Conrad was a card-carrying Amazon admirer, so I 
thought I was probably on to a good thing. If only there were more men 
like that, or at least someplace where girls like me can go to meet 
them. As soon as I reasonably could, I suggested that we go back to my 
place for a night-cap, and I left him in the living room while I changed 
into something more comfortable. And my new white satin night-gown did 
the trick, he completely lost it when he saw me, and I didn't have to 
rape him hardly at all. 

Afterwards, he asked me if I was on the pill, but I told him not to 
worry about that, leave it to me. Actually my maternal urges were so 
strong by now, that there was no way I'd use anything that kept babies 
away. Then we did it again, and he fell asleep. I stayed awake thinking 
for a while, thinking about Sam, thinking about babies, thinking about 
Ron, thinking about babies, thinking about Conrad. All that thinking got 
me horny again, so I woke him up and we had another bout. Then he told 
me that three times was it, and goodnight, but you don't issue a 
challenge like that to an Amazon if you know what you're doing, and I 
demonstrated to him how a big, strong woman doesn't actually need a man 
to have an erection to get her fun. And then I demonstrated it again. 
And again... 

It was starting to get light outside before I finally rolled off him and 
let him get to sleep. Golly, it had been a long time since I'd gotten my 
rocks off, but I felt a lot better now. I really ought to do this more 
often. I left him sleeping, pinning a note to the pillow, and with a big 
grin all over my face, walked down to the Golden Amazon. Ducky was 
sweeping up, and I walked up to him and gave him a big hug, I was 
feeling so good. I told him that we'd need an Amazon barmaid, and I 
undertook to find one. I had someone in mind. 

Chapter 17 - Carol joins the Golden Amazon 

I walked down to the gym where I'd done my qualifying lifts, and looked 
for Carol. She was working on a machine, and I could see she'd made a 
lot of progress already. Her arms looked impressive, and her legs were 
quite awesome. She saw me, and said "Hi". I explained the situation to 
her, and asked her if she wanted a job. "I don't know", she said, "I'm 
not sure what Nigel would say about that. He doesn't like me to go out 
to work." "Then ask him", I replied. She said she was scared to. I 
looked at this big, strong woman, and wondered why we women are so 
subjugated to our menfolk. "I'll hold your hand, if you like", I 
offered. 

Carol looked very doubtful about this, but I encouraged her. "If you 
earn some money of your own, you have some independence, maybe buy some 
nice clothes" She liked that idea, so I wound up accompanying her home. 
She lived in a one bedroom hovel, with cheap plywood furniture. I felt 
sorry for her. And when Nigel got home, I felt even sorrier. He must 
have been all of five foot two, and he bounced in like a bantam 
cockerel, and started swearing at her because she hadn't ironed his 
shirts. She protested that he already had several in the wardrobe, and 
he backhanded her across the face. She started crying, and I wanted to 
do something very bad to him, but I think it's best to stay out of 
husband-and-wife rows. But I ran over to Carol and cuddled her in my 
arms while she cried and Nigel stomped out. "Why do you put up with him 
hitting you?" I asked. "Because he does, what other choice do I have?" 
she replied. "Hit him back, of course. You're bigger and stronger than 
he is, you mustn't let him bully you." "Am I?" "Carol, you're a few 
inches taller, plenty heavier, and you muscles are very obviously 
stronger. Don't take this nonsense." And I explained to her how to 
administer a Big Hug. 

Nigel stormed back into the room, and started abusing Carol, who looked 
at me sheepishly. Then he slapped her in the face again, and Carol 
finally did something about it. She put her arms round him, picked him 
up, and squeezed. She'd never done a Big Hug before, and she put the 
pressure on much too fast, because his lungs were immediately emptied, 
and after struggling futilely for a minute, he passed out, and was a 
limp bundle in her arms. I had to tell her to let go of him, otherwise 
the oxygen deprivation would have done him some permanent damage, and 
when she did, he just sagged to the floor. "Gosh", said Carol, "that was 
ever so easy!". I told her to be a bit more gentle in future, but 
certainly not to take any more nonsense from her little wimp of a 
husband. And I told her to tell him about her new job at the Golden 
Amazon, not ask him. And if he makes a single squeak of objection, to 
demonstrate the Big Hug to him again. When I left, Carol was picking 
Nigel up off the ground and shaking him awake. I thought that things 
would be jolly different around that house in future, and that I now had 
my Amazon barmaid. 

That evening in the Golden Amazon, Carol made an excellent barmaid; 
everyone admired her big arm muscles and her large thighs, and at the 
end of the evening, she confided to me that she'd never had such a good 
time in her entire life, that she was going to build up her body until 
it was as large as mine. "And what about Nigel?" I asked. Carol replied, 
"Nigel and I had a long talk yesterday. I told him that things are going 
to be different around here from now on, and he called me a stupid cow. 
So I twisted his arms up behind his back until he cried out with pain, 
then threw him across the room. He bounced off the wall, and I picked 
him up, and slammed him to the ground. It took him a few minutes to come 
to his senses, but as soon as he did, I tried punching him in the gut. 
My fist sank in a bit, but the second time I did it, his stomach was as 
soft as butter, and my fist almost reached his backbone. After that, he 
didn't put up any more resistance, and I just squeezed him, and twisted 
his arms, and punched his body until I stopped feeling angry with him. 
After I'd finished, I told him that things were going to be *very* 
different in future, and I kept hurting him until he said "Yes, Carol". 
"Tomorrow, I'm going to introduce him to my toes." I laughed - obviously 
Carol was going to have no problems with her husband from now on. But I 
was also a bit worried. She sounded like a real sadist, and I wondered 
what I'd woken up here. 

I went home, and woke Conrad up. He looked at me a bit fearfully, as 
well he might. He did co-operate a bit, but if you called it rape, you 
wouldn't be far wrong. And it wasn't over quickly, either, although I 
did fall asleep before dawn this time. 

For the next few weeks, I really enjoyed myself. The habitues of the 
Golden Amazon practically worshipped me, and almost got into fights over 
my toes. Back home, I would wake Conrad up for more sex, enjoy myself 
for a few hours, then fall asleep next to him. He spent some time away, 
but he was usually there when I wanted him, and I was getting really 
fond of him. I thought it would go on for ever, but (as they say in 
Victoria novels) it was not to be. Reality reared its ugly head. 

I woke up one morning, and realized that nothing had happened. Or, to be 
more precise, something that should have happened, hadn't. Or to be 
totally explicit, something that happens with great regularity each 
month, hadn't happened, and was *long* overdue. I went to a drugstore 
and bought a pregnancy test kit, and it was positive. Oh, wow. A baby! 
At first, I was a bit nervous, and I went out for a walk to try to 
settle my head, but as I walked, I saw lots of little children playing, 
and saw some babies in their strollers, and thought that soon enough, 
I'd have a baby of my own. I got more and more excited, then thought 
"Hang on, Candy, let's see if we can check this." So I visited the 
hospital and had a proper pregnancy test, and they agreed. I was having 
a baby. Oh, wow! 

Chapter 18 - Candy is pregnant 

I rushed home to tell Conrad the good news. "Conrad, Conrad, you're a 
father." He woke up, and groggily said "I know". "What?" I said. 
"What?", he said. "Conrad, I'm going to have a baby. A baby!". He 
started at me, goggle-eyed. "Oh, hell" he said, and he said it like it 
was bad news. "Conrad, a baby! It's great! Let's get married." Then he 
went practically white, and I started getting a bit worried. "Conrad, 
what is it? What's wrong?". He sat on the bed, and shook his head, 
dumbly. "Conrad?" "I don't want to talk about it. You'll have to have an 
abortion." "NO!", I screamed. I really wanted this baby. Why did Conrad 
want to murder my baby? "Conrad, what is it?" "I don't want to talk 
about it", he said, firmly. 

I was feeling pretty anxious by now, and he was threatening my baby. You 
don't threaten my baby and then refuse to talk about it. So I took him 
in my arms, and explained to him that he was going to tell me 
everything, and it could be after I'd cracked a few ribs, or he could 
tell me now, which did he prefer? He struggled a bit, like men do 
sometimes, but he couldn't do anything, and I tightened my grip a bit. 
He refuse to answer me, so I squeezed him closer and closer until he 
passed out. I released him, and waited until he'd gathered his wits, and 
then did the same again. After I crushed him out the third time, he gave 
up. "All right, all right. I'll tell you. I'm already married." 

Oh no! All this time, he's been two-timing both me, and also his wife. 
What a bastard. Typical. Men are so totally bloody selfish. And now I 
realized why he'd said "I know" when I told him he was a father. 
"Conrad, how many children have you got?" "Three with my wife, and one 
by my other mistress." Other mistress? This little shit wasn't just a 
two-timer, he was a three-timer. Right. "Conrad, you and I are going for 
a little walk." I made him take me to his other mistress, and we had a 
very emotional scene as she discovered about me (she already knew about 
the wife). I made Conrad lie down on his face as Judy and I talked about 
him, and what we should do about the situation. We agreed on one thing, 
his wife had a right to know. So, the three of us went to Conrad's house 
to tell her. 

She was a mousy girl called Mary, somewhat past her prime, but that was 
no excuse for Conrad to go gallivanting around. Judy and I told her as 
much as we knew, while Mary sat weeping. Then, she straightened up, and 
told us that she knew that he was seeing someone, but didn't know who, 
didn't know why, and didn't know what she could do about it. I was 
beginning to get very angry with Conrad myself, not just because he'd 
betrayed me, but because he was causing all this pain and misery. I 
thought that he should pay somehow. And then I remembered Carol and 
Nigel, and how Carol was making Nigel into a completely cowed 
housewife/sextoy, and wondered if maybe she'd be interested in Conrad. 
So I explained my plan to Judy and Mary, who had started comforting each 
other, and swearing that they'd never trust a man again, and I took 
Conrad with me to Carol's. On the way, Conrad kept asking me what was 
going on, but I thought I'd leave that for Carol to explain. 

When we arrived, Nigel opened the door, dressed in a perfectly darling 
maid's outfit, and I could see that Carol's influence had already been 
pretty dramatic. Carol herself was down in a gym they'd installed in the 
basement, and I dragged Conrad down there (he'd seen Nigel, who looked 
rather rough, as if he'd been in a fight or two, and Conrad was now a 
teensy bit reluctant). Carol greeted us, and I explained the situation. 
Carol smiled at Conrad, the way a stoat smiles at a rabbit. Conrad 
looked rather fearfully at her hard, muscular body, and tried to hide 
behind my skirt, but I wasn't having any of that, and I handed him over 
to Carol. "Look after him, Carol. But I don't particularly want him 
back, he's yours to keep." Carol held each of his hands in hers, gripped 
hard enough for the pain to drive any resistance from him, and spread 
her arms, bringing him close to her body. Then she raised one leg and 
rested it on his shoulder, so that he could see and feel the size and 
hardness of the thighs that would occupy most of his waking thoughts 
from now on. As I went home, I almost hugged myself at the thought of 
the fitting punishment that Conrad would now suffer. Carol is a bit of a 
sadist, having learned to hate men from Nigel. She also seems to have 
learnt rather a lot about total sexual dominance. 

That evening, I got ready as usual for the Golden Amazon, and turned up 
dressed in a long silk evening dress, low cut, slit skirt, with my prize 
belt round my waist, whip in its holster, and my favorite royal blue 
ribbons in my hair. An Amazon, dressed to kill. And guess who I saw as 
soon as I came in through the door? Sam. Sam Rabbit. Life is never 
simple. He ran towards me and I caught him in my arms, and tried to work 
out how to explain that I was pregnant with another man's baby. 

Copyright (c) 1995, 1996 Rabbit Productions

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