Jane and the Iron Vagina Copyright (c) Rabbit Productions, 1995, 1996 This material is not intended to be read by those under the age of consent in the jurisdiction in which they are accessing the Internet. If you are too young to be reading this, DON'T READ IT! If you are an adult with children and are reading this, please consider where you store it, and whether or not your children can and should be accessing it. This is a work of fiction. Copyright: This story is copyright 1996 by the author, Sam Rabbit, under the U.S. Copyright Convention and the Bourne Conventions. All rights, including: the right to re-transmit beyond the initial access, the right to store on a remote server; and the right to re-print or distribute, are expressly reserved to the copyright holder and may not be exercised without permission of the author. Please send comments to an413801@anon.penet.fi Introduction This story is a classic love story, with a plot that was probably first used in a Greek Tragedy. If you don't like love stories, or if you don't like explicit sex and violence, or if unhappy endings make you unhappy, don't read on. If you're vehemently anti-chocolate, or don't like noodle soup, then this story isn't for you. In this story, most of the physics is accurate, some of the physiognomy and a few of the incidents. But some of the physics is invented, some of the physiognomy is imaginary, and some of the incidents didn't happen. If you want to distinguish fact from fiction, get a good textbook on advanced physics, and another one on human anatomy and metabolism. Jane and the Iron Vagina Copyright (c) Rabbit Productions, 1995, 1996 Chapter 1 - In the airplane God, I hate airplanes. When people hear that I'm about to travel to far away places with strange sounding names, they say dumb things, like "Ooooh, aren't you lucky!". Hah! Here's what a business trip is like. Heavy suitcase, rush to airport, queue at check-in, wait for plane. Get on plane, breath too-dry air, get bored out of mind for several hours, can't sleep in uncomfortable seats, fly, fly, fly. Get off plane after no night's sleep - stomach thinks it's several hours earlier than it is. Queue, queue, through immigration via officials who seem to think it's a privilege to visit their nasty country, wait for heavy suitcase, pay rip-off taxi to hotel, argue exhaustedly with hotel manager about (he says) non-existent booking. Slump shattered into bed that's too hard and with the wrong sort of pillow. Hotel to office, meetings, meetings, meetings. That evening, try to stay awake as host takes you out for a meal neither of you want. Next day, more meetings. Next day, more meetings. Back to airport, interminable plane journey, arrive whacked out of your mind, taxi, home, sleep like the dead for 26 hours, wake up to find chest infection brought on by breathing the same air as the other passengers for several hours, one of whom had a chest infection. I hate airplanes. This time, I was travelling to Japan. It sounds exotic and exciting, but I've been there many times before, and it's not a good place for a business trip. The Japanese are very hospitable, which means you get to stay up till all hours on top of your jet lag and general exhaustion, drinking Old Suntory Japanese whiskey or Asahi beer. I always travel business class; the trip is gruelling enough without the additional tortures of travelling third class (or whatever the airlines call it). They still don't provide 110 volts for a computer; one of these days one of the airlines will wake up. I struggled to my aisle seat (much more convenient than a window seat, and if you've seen one landscape from the air, you've seen them all) and dropped like a stone, sorted out a computer to use and a few books to read; the journey is several hours, and I can't sleep on airplanes. As I struggled to get organized, someone said "Excuse me". I raised myself in my seat to let her in to the window seat, and had an immediate crisis. I don't think I've ever seen anyone like her. Her hair was long, curly and blonde, reaching down to her waist. Her perfume - I don't know what it was, but it had an effect on me like stubbing your bare toe on a chair leg. But the most devastating effect was caused by her breasts as she squeezed past while facing me, and a very tight squeeze it was. Her breasts pushed me back into my seat, while her nipples gouged their way across my chest, and I couldn't help but moan as I sank back into my seat. She turned to me, aware of the effect she'd had, smiled, and said "Sorry about that." "No problem", I said, lying through my teeth, as she'd caused a very major problem, albeit a very pleasant one, and one that I hadn't experienced for a very long time. I introduced myself, and gave her a business card - "Sam Rabbit", it said, "Rabbit's Traditional Ales". Her name was Amanda-Jane , "Everyone calls me Jane" she said, and I felt the old familiar pain deep in my stomach as I was reminded of Candy. She looked a bit like Candy too, although no-one could possibly come close to the superwoman I'd loved and lost so long ago. "Call me Sam", I told her, and she brushed her hair out of her eyes in a gesture that was so feminine, and so like Candy, that my heart leapt, and I blinked. The stewardesses (actually, they're just waitresses, but they prefer to be called air hostesses, or cabin staff) came round to check that we were belted up and ready to take off. Jane didn't know how to tighten her belt, but before I could gallantly offer to do it for her, the wretched waitress got her hands in and did the business, dammit. "Is this your first flight?", I asked her. Yes, it was. She'd never left the country before, and what for me was a gruelling unpleasant routine, was for her a big wonderful adventure. I envied her, and thought what it was to be young. I remember the excitement I felt when I first started travelling around the world, and knew that she must be feeling breathless and a bit nervous. "Okay?", I smiled to her, reassuringly. "No", she said, "Terrified. I've heard about crashes and disasters, and I feel so helpless. And this airplane is so huge, how can it stay up in the air?" A question like that is like a red rag to a Rabbit. It would obviously help Jane if I tried to take her mind off what was about to happen, as 140 tons of airplane and jet fuel tried to make the transition from wheeling on land to flying through the air, and explaining things is one of my favorites. I tore off a strip of paper from the magazine in front of me, and held it by the short edge, with the loose end facing away from me. "Watch", I told Jane, and blew along the paper. The strip of paper rose up towards the jet of air I was creating. You might have expected that blowing along a strip of paper would blow it away from the jet, but it doesn't. The faster moving air above the paper has a lower pressure than the unmoving air below, so the paper rises towards it. This is called the Bernoulli Principle, discovered by a French mathematician called Daniel Bernoulli in the eighteenth century. It's the principle behind airplane flight. I explained that the air flow around the wings had a similar effect; the airflow above the wing is faster than the airflow below, so the air pressure above the wing is lower, which creates lift along the wing. Jane listened, fascinated. Most people don't know how things work, and aren't very interested in finding out. Most people just accept things like TVs and computers as a form of magic. You do certain things, and you get certain results, and you don't need to know how they work. Well, that's true, you don't need to know, but I can't understand why so many people aren't interested enough to find out. It's easy enough to find out, for heavens sake, these things are explained in books and encyclopedias all over the place. By the time I'd finished a brief explanation of how jet engines work we were at cruising altitude. Did you know it's actually very difficult to set fire to jet fuel? You can drop a match into a bucket of the stuff, and the match will just go out. Aviation Gasoline, now, that's another thing. Jane was asking me questions about airplanes, and I was explaining things and trying not to stare at her breasts. Did I mention they were very large? But I didn't mention that her nipples were astonishing - at least two inches long, and as thick as your thumb. I knew someone else who had nipples like that, and the pain struck me again like cramp as I remembered Candy. But how can you resist talking to a girl like this? Her eyes were large and blue, and deep; her hair was long and fluffy, and she had a face you would want in front of you at the exact moment you die. Now that we were safely aloft, I told her the alternate Rabbit theory of flight; airplanes fly if and only if everyone aboard believes that they will. One doubter, and the thing doesn't work, so it's important to suppress any havering at takeoff. She laughed. I don't know why poets describe a woman's laugh as musical. Certainly it's a very nice sound, and one I love to hear, but it's a long way from music. She asked me what business I was on, so I told her. The Japanese have at long last discovered that the bottled brown stuff they're used to, isn't the same as real beer. Beer isn't a traditional drink in Japan. Their nearest equivalent is a kind of cider made out of rice; thick and white, tasting milky and with a kick like a camel, called Dobbu Rokku. When Commander Perry arrived in 1865, and the Shogun Revolution began, the Japanese tried to adopt all things Western, including beer and whiskey. I have no idea what their whiskey tastes like (although I notice they add water to dilute it, and ice to numb the taste buds, so it can't be very nice). But I do know what their beer tastes like. It tastes like so many other liquids that marketroids have dignified with the noble appellation of beer. Fizzy, sweet and alcoholic. The Rabbit Brewery makes a range of beers, ales and stouts, with names like Black Rabbit, Rabbit's Ruin and Old Peculiar Rabbit. There were real beers, brewed in the proper manner, cask conditioned and served at a sensible temperature, a fraction below ambient. I'd been selling them all over the country, and even exporting some. I knew that I must be doing something right when I got my first order from Germany. I'd exported a few barrels to Japan, but beer is 99% water, and shipping water several thousand miles doesn't make economic sense. You can't dehydrate beer and add water at the destination (I wouldn't even try it), but you could use exactly the same ingredients and techniques to make the same beer anywhere. My trip was to talk to the Asahi brewery about the idea of licensing the Rabbit processes. I asked Jane what she was going to Japan for, a holiday? Chapter 2 - A weightlifting contest with a difference "No", she said. "I'm competing." She'd win any some sort of beauty contest, I thought, but I didn't think that the Japanese went in for her sort of looks; certainly Japanese women have a different shape of face, a different colour hair, and a different shape of bosom. Flatter. So I asked her what sort of competition. "A weight lifting competition", she replied. My breath came in short pants, my stomach churned, because Jane had once again reminded me of my Candy, Candy the superwoman who would win any weightlifting competition in the world. Candy who looked even lovelier than this girl. Candy, who I'd loved and lost, leaving only the occasional twinge from the leg she'd accidentally broken, and the frequent agony in my heart. "Not an ordinary weightlifting contest", Jane continued, not noticing the emotions that were ripping my heart in two. "What sort of contest?", I asked. "A vaginal weightlifting contest", she said. What? What? What in the name of the Black Rabbit is that? Apparently, it's something they have in Japan. If you've seen the Japanese TV program Endurance, you'll know that the Japanese do some pretty weird things for entertainment. In Endurance, the contestants have to put up with extreme pain and humiliation in front of the TV cameras, in order to compete for the trophy. Baking in an overheated sauna, freezing in a refrigerated room, pushing pins into their own arms, swallowing disgusting objects; eating live worms - nothing is too gruesome for Endurance competitors. No- one forces them to do any of this, and they can give up at any time. But the Japanese character says "no surrender", and the contestants endure. It was the TV company that had paid for her return ticket. Jane explained the vaginal weightlifting contest. It isn't nearly as strange as many of the other things you get in the Japanese culture, but I've certainly never heard of such a thing anywhere else. They use stainless steel rods, one inch thick and about nine inches long. At one end of the rod, there's a hook, which is attached by a chain to weights. The women squat, grip the rod tightly in their vaginas, and straighten their legs. They have to keep their feet quite a long way apart, on marks drawn on the floor. Lifting their body raises the weight, provided they can grip the rod tightly enough to stop the weight from sliding out. You have to keep the weight raised for sixty seconds to register. I was amazed, and said so. I couldn't see how a woman could manage just the steel rod without any weight attached; such a thing had to be at least five pounds. Jane grinned, and said that to compete in this contest, you had to have muscles like iron inside your vagina. "Women train specifically for this contest", she said. I thought of my beloved Candy, and I told her that I knew a woman called Candy who would win this contest hands down, if she entered. Jane asked me about Candy, and I told her that it was a long story. "It's a long flight", she said, and I agreed, and told her about the love of my life. It's a long story, and a sad one, and before long we were both crying - me from the emptiness that Candy has left in my life, and her from sympathy. She lifted the arm rest that separated our seats, and reached across to hug me. It didn't help very much; when you've lost someone like Candy, nothing helps very much. But it helped a little, and her huge, soft breasts and long, hard nipples were giving me an erection, making a bulge in my trousers. I noticed a similar bulge in Jane's skirt, and reached down to touch it. There was no way that this lovely feminine creature could be a man, I thought. No way at all. So how come I can feel a very hard rod, rounded at the tip, and about an inch across? It was as hard as steel, and I began to be a bit nervous. I've heard about transvestites who are very realistic, but surely ... No, Jane had to be female if she was competing in a vaginal weightlifting contest, so what on earth was I feeling here? One of Rabbit's Rules is that when you don't know the answer to a question, a capital way to get clued up is to ask. So I asked her "Jane, what's this?". Jane looked down. "Oh, it's my training bar", she said in the same tone of voice that you might say "umbrella". "Look, I'll show you." She reached under her skirt, and pulled it out for me to see. It was a silvery cylinder, about an inch thick and about a foot long. She passed it over to me, and I nearly dropped it, because it was heavier than it looked. Jane explained that it was made of stainless steel to stop corrosion, but with a lead core to make it heavy. I hefted the bar in my hand. "About twenty pounds", said Jane. I must have looked flummoxed, because she started explaining. "I carry it around inside me all day. It tries to slide out all the time, so I'm constantly having to flex my vagina muscles to stop it getting out, and to pull it back in if it starts to escape." She had started with a light wooden rod that was much smaller, but as her vagina had developed internal muscles, she'd changed it first for a heavier ebony rod, then aluminum, then steel, and now the monstrosity that I could barely hold in my hands. "I really need something heavier", she explained, but if it were longer then it would be much more obvious when she sat down. She was thinking of getting something an inch and a half across, which would be over twice as heavy as her one-inch bar (the weight of a bar is proportional to the cross-sectional area, which is proportional to the square of the diameter), but the problem with such a wide bar is that it would get her vagina used to something that was really too far away from competition size. I asked her if she'd thought of depleted uranium. "What's that", she asked. I explained it was uranium with the fissile 235 isotope taken out (they use that in reactors and to make bombs) . That meant that it was a lot less radioactive, and fairly cheap, because no-one really had any use for it. It was used in armor-piercing projectiles, because it was so dense. Jane said she'd be worried about the radioactivity, even if it is small, and I could see her point. You don't really want something spitting off alpha particles inside your genitals, but that gave me another idea, and I explained that if she used a three-layer approach, with uranium on the inside, then a sheath of lead to contain the radioactivity, and then stainless steel, she'd be totally safe, and you could even check it with a Geiger counter to make sure. I couldn't believe what I was saying. This lovely fluffy chicken walks around with twenty pounds of metal clenched inside her vagina, and I'm throwing bits of physics around to explain how she could get it up to forty pounds. I stopped thinking about the density of metals, and started thinking about the forces that must be acting inside that black hole. Gravity pulled the metal bar downwards, and she was countering that force with a sideways grip on the bar. Clearly the frictional forces between her vaginal walls and the metal bar must be a crucial determinant of the compressive force that she would need to exert. "How do you stop it sliding out?", I asked. Jane explained that under normal circumstances, the closure of her labia would reduce the amount of pressure needed, but if she got distracted by something and relaxed slightly, the bar would come sliding down, and she would have to exert a lot more force to slow it down, and then she'd have to use vaginal suction to pull it back into place again. I asked her how vaginal suction worked, but she didn't know, all she knew was how to work her internal muscles to make it happen. I thought for a while, and realized that it must work by peristalsis, the same way that the intestines move food along. It's a sort of wave-like rippling motion of the muscles, rather like the way a snake moves along. She told me that it was the most difficult when her vagina became lubricated, which happened when she became sexually excited. "Once, I really couldn't control myself, and it slipped right out", she said. "The more I tried to clench and suction to hold it in, the more I got excited, until it fell to the ground with a clang, and everyone wondered where this metal bar had come from." I told her about some of the things that I'd used to get Candy aroused, and her eyes got large. All this time, I was holding her training bar, and thinking about the power of this girl's genitals, and for a little while, the thought of Candy didn't hurt as much as it usually did. Then the wretched waitresses interrupted us to bring dinner. Have you ever eaten on an airplane? You get the choice of slimy poached salmon or meat lump. I chose meat lump, which came with cold overcooked green beans, and something which was almost, but not quite, rice. For desert, we had Pink Stuff. It's no good asking me what Pink Stuff is. All airlines serve it, but no-one can identify it. It's pink, of course, and squidgy. I taste it occasionally, and it always tastes like cotton wool, with a faint odor of strawberries. I can't eat it, and I've noticed that no-one else does either. I wonder why they serve it? Maybe they recycle the unused portions, which would save them money. They offered us wine or "beer" to have with the dinner, but I knew what airlines thought that beer meant, and I'd brought my own, thank you very much. I asked for a couple of glasses, and with a flourish, produced a bottle of Black Rabbit. I offered Jane a glass, but she said that she didn't drink beer. I told her that she'd probably never tasted the real thing in her life, only the pale imitations that the marketroids foist off on consumers, and asked her to at least taste some Black Rabbit. She liked it, so I poured her a glassful, and one for myself, and we leaned back in our seats to enjoy the milk stout. Jane asked me why I carried a bottle of beer around with me, so I explained that in most parts of the world, it was the only way you could be assured of a decent drink. And it wasn't one bottle, either. I don't normally drink much, but airplanes are a special case. I once tried flying to Japan about two feet higher than the rest of the airplane, using gin-and-tonic to get the extra altitude. The resultant hangover, combined with jet lag and fatigue nearly killed me, so I've made a point of staying stone cold sober in airplanes ever since. "What's jet lag?", asked Jane. I explained that if it's noon in Nevada, then it's tea time in Tokyo. Come midnight, either you aren't ready to go to bed yet, or else you should have been in bed six hours ago, depending on which direction you travel. But it isn't just to do with bedtime. My stomach has come to expect being fed at certain times, and the associated stomachly activities (which I needn't go into in detail) also expect to happen at certain times. People are creatures of habit, and our bodies respond to the circadian rhythms. When you make a major change in time zones, your bowels get totally confused about when they want to move; you get constipation or diarrhoea. Jet lag is self-inflicted torture, and if you haven't experienced it, you won't know what I'm talking about. Chapter 3 - Inserting the training bar "Could you help me put the training bar back in?", said Jane, and I experienced a hot flush. It was perfectly obvious to me that she was entirely capable of putting it in herself, so asking me was a very blatant step in the mating dance that men and women have played with each other since the dawn of time. I immediately thought about Candy, and the way she had brushed herself against me as an indicator of sexual interest (and I remembered that earlier, Jane had done the same thing), and of the other things she'd done to get me interested, not that I needed much urging. But thinking about Candy immediately killed my erection; how could I get interested in another woman when my one true love had left me for my own good? I had a secret. I kept this secret close, even from myself. I secretly hoped that one day I would find Candy, and convince her that even if her passion broke my bones, we would be happier together than apart. So, whenever I saw a sexually attractive woman, I thought of my superwoman lover. And whenever I tried to have sex with a woman, my erection failed because she didn't match up to my wonderful Candy. Still, we can dream, can't we? And we can help Jane with her training bar. She was wearing a long, full skirt. I pulled it up, and saw that she was sitting with her legs apart. In the dim light of the airplane, all I could see was a hairy black hole. I wasn't confident that I'd be able to get the bar in place, so I reached in with my left hand to find the target, so that I could guide the bar. I groped around, and found Jane's vagina. It was small, tight and dry, and I had doubts about whether I could get this steel bar inside. I was certain that no normal penis would make any impression on that iron vagina. The head of the bar reached her labia, and I wondered how I was going to push it inside. I needn't have worried. Something seemed to reach out and grip the steel, and pull it smoothly from my grasp. I could feel the bar sliding past my left hand, until it disappeared entirely inside her. Amazing. Jane smiled at me, and said thank you. The cabin staff had turned the lights out - they do that to encourage the passengers to sleep, because we're less trouble when we're asleep. Jane asked if she could rest her head on my shoulder and get some sleep. This sounded like a great idea to me, but I wasn't prepared for what happened next. I had envisaged a head on my shoulder. But Jane turned her body toward me, and leaned those massive breasts on my chest, put her hands round my neck, her face on my heart, and snuggled down. My arousal was immediate, and total. Even thoughts of Candy couldn't dampen my ardor while I had the nipples of this beautiful girl on my chest. I gave up any thought of reading, and put my arms round her. We sat like that for a few minutes, and I felt her breathing. Asleep people breath differently from awake people, and after a while, I realized that she was having as much trouble getting to sleep as I was. "Jane", I whispered. "Mmmm?", she said. "You feel very nice, you know." "Mmmmm.", she said. "So do you. Tell me more about Candy." I started telling her about the wonderful superwoman who had come into my life like a hurricane, and like a hurricane left me with broken bones and a broken heart. The bones healed, but not the heart. I told her about the wonderful weeks we'd had together, and about the final unmatchable hours, when Candy's triple orgasm had wrecked my body, and about how I'd risk the same again any time. Jane wanted to know what a triple orgasm was, so I explained that most women can orgasm from four places, the vagina, the clitoris, the nipples and the anus. Each of these places needed a different kind of stimulus; for example, you had to be very delicate in touching the rim of the anus, but you could rub a clitoris quite hard. If you time things right, you can start an orgasm from one place while the orgasm from another is still going, and if you're really lucky, you can get three orgasms going at once. I heard a dull clank as Jane's training bar fell out. "You've got me into quite a state", she said. "I hardly ever lose control over my bar. Is it really possible to have a triple orgasm?" I explained that theoretically, it was even possible for a woman to have a quadruple orgasm, but that I'd never heard of such a thing happening, and Candy's triple orgasm was unique in my experience. "What does it feel like?", Jane asked. I couldn't answer that, having had no direct experience of it myself. But I explained that Candy and I were so much in love, that there's no way she would have hurt me unless she'd totally lost control of her body, and I remembered her delicious screams as my hands on her nipples brought her up to that third level of heaven. "It feels rather good", I explained. Rather good. "Could we fuck now?", asked Jane. Here I was, six miles high in a flying tin can, with probably the prettiest girl I'd ever met (Candy was more beautiful, but not as pretty as Jane, if you understand the difference). Her breasts were great weights on my chest, and her nipples were turning my mind to jelly and my penis to iron. I thought of fucking Jane, then I thought of Candy; Candy, I thought, what should I do. I might never see you again - am I supposed to be celibate for ever? When she left me, she was saying that I should find another girl, one who wouldn't break my bones when she orgasmed. But the mind is a funny thing, and the penis has a direct connection to it. Although I knew that I should forget Candy, although I knew that I ought to find someone else, although I knew that they girl cuddling up to me was probably the loveliest I had ever seen, still something inside me said no, and enforced that by deflating my erection. "Jane", I whispered. "I'd love to, but I can't". "Why not?", she asked. So I explained my problem; the fact that even with her all over me, I still couldn't have an erection, and why this was. "I'm still carrying a major torch for Candy", was the way I put it. "But you'll never see her again?", she asked. "No," I whispered, and a tear rolled down my cheek. "So it isn't that you're trying to be faithful, or something like that?", Jane asked. "No", I replied. "The spirit is very willing, but the flesh is very weak." "So if you could, then you would?" she persisted. "Yes Jane. But it's no good, I can't." Jane moved so that she was sitting on my lap, facing me. I pulled a blanket over us both, in case some cabin staffer thought it would be a good idea to offer us a drink, and kissed her gently on the lips. My tongue moved into her mouth, and she pushed my legs apart. Something gripped the end of my penis and pulled it into a warm, wet paradise. Something squeezed and kneaded my shaft, and rubbed the end. Jane and I continued to kiss as her powerful vagina drew me in. She didn't need a man to have an erection! I remembered the way she'd pulled her training bar deeply inside her - she was doing the same thing with my penis. Something was rippling up and down the sides, something was massaging the end, and something was gently squeezing the base. Her vagina was like iron, like a padded vise wrapped in velvet wrapped in satin. The sensation exploded through me as her rhythmic compressions hardened my penis, and I got ready to have a huge orgasm. But as the pressure built up inside me, she must have sensed it, because she murmured "Not yet", and exerted a crushing grip on my penis, holding it totally motionless despite my attempts to move within her. After a few minutes, I stopped the pointless struggle, and let her iron vagina control my penis. Gradually, the overwhelming urge to have an orgasm faded away, and I was left with a mildly uncomfortable sensation of fullness. Again, her throbbing, rippling vagina muscles brought me to the edge of orgasm, and this time, instead of gripping me until the feeling went away, she held me on the edge. As the feeling of orgasm receded, she would vibrate her powerful internal muscles, but when the urge to come grew unbearable, she would bear down with those same muscles, clenching me in a grip that was almost painful in its intensity. I honestly don't think it was very difficult for her. A girl who can walk around with a twenty pound metal bar inside her, and who wanted twice the weight, isn't going to have much trouble with a very ordinary man's penis. But for me, it was the most intense experience of my life. This girl was in total control of my penis, my body and my mind. Again and again, she would bring me to the verge of orgasm and hold me there, delicately poised on the brink. I have no idea how long it lasted. When your penis is trapped inside a sex machine, time doesn't register. It must have been at least an hour, maybe three hours. I do remember begging "Jane, please, please", although I don't remember whether it was to stop or to carry on. I do know that eventually she brought me a bit too close to the edge, and I fell over. It really was like falling off the edge of a cliff. I know I tried to scream, but Jane was expecting that, and used her mouth to muffle me. I know I started to orgasm, and I remember that when it happened, the iron vagina around me changed from gripping to vibrating, from clenching to rippling, and instead of holding me in place, it applied a tremendous suction that threatened to suck me dry as I pulsed and ejaculated for a very long time. I don't even know how long I orgasmed for, because I passed out at some point. Chapter 4 - The next day I regained consciousness and I felt soft hair tickling my face. I opened my eyes, and in the full daylight saw a lovely blonde, smiling at me. I looked past her out of the window, and saw that we were coming in to land at Narita International. I grinned back at her - I hadn't felt so good since ... since ... The thought of Candy hit me like it usually did, like someone punching you deep in the stomach. But the punch wasn't as hard as usual. "You owe me one", said Jane. Wow, I certainly did. I could still feel the after-pleasure in my genitals. Her iron-muscled vagina had wrung me dry. "I owe you one", I agreed. "Right", she said. " I want a triple orgasm", she said. I wasn't sure that I could even deliver a double orgasm to order, let alone a triple. With Candy, it was partly luck, and partly her body. Candy's body was very strong, but that made her very sensitive and vulnerable. I could reduce Candy to a quivering mess just by tickling under one of her armpits, but Jane was a different proposition entirely. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I was certainly willing to do my best. "What hotel are you staying in?", I asked her. I suggested that we stay in the same hotel, and then I suggested that if we shared a room, it would be more convenient, and cheaper as well. Jane saw the sense in that. We staggered off the plane, and got immigrated, baggaged and customed. We shared a taxi to the Akasaka Asahi, a hotel I'd stayed at before, and liked because they served a traditional Japanese breakfast. We checked in, went up to the room, and went to bed. You might have expected that at this point, there would be some colossal coupling coup, some fantastic feat of fornication and fucking. If you're an experienced traveller, though, you'll know what happened next. We both fell asleep, and stayed that way for a very long time. The best way to cope with jet lag, is to sleep. I've been known to sleep for 26 hours on the trot, with only a one hour break for food and drink, into and out of my stomach. These extreme slumber marathons happen at the end of a trip, though, and are for recovering from the cumulative drains on my stamina. On arriving at the trip objective, things aren't quite so bad; a good night's sleep plus several extra hours are enough. I awoke the next morning, refreshed and ready for bear. I wasn't ready for what I saw, though. Jane had gotten up before me, and was standing naked from the waist down, with her feet splayed apart. Above the waist, she was wearing a kind of wraparound garment, that went round her neck, then under each of her breasts, supporting it and covering her large nipples. The inadequate fabric continued up over the top of each breast, before meeting round the back of her neck again. I had never seen anything like this breast-halter before, and my first thought was that Candy could wear something like that, and my second thought was to wonder where Candy was. Once more, the feeling of a fist in the stomach wasn't as acute as it had been. And I was instantly distracted by what Jane was doing. I saw a shiny cylinder emerge from the bush between her legs, and I saw a chain running down to a stack of weights on a rod. She lowered the cylinder about six inches, and then, taking a deep breath (a spectacular sight in any case), she began to draw the cylinder up into herself again. When it reached the top, she started to lower it, and I realised what she was doing. She was exercising the awesome muscles of her vagina, weightlifting to develop her genitals. I sat up in bed and watched. Jane smiled as she saw I was awake, and asked me how I felt. We had this incredibly mundane conversation while I watched a girl pumping iron with her genitals, and I tried to maintain a casual and composed attitude while my memory reminded me of what that muscular tunnel of love was capable of. I wondered how heavy the weights she used for this exercise were, and made a mental note to find out. Jane dropped the weights with a heavy clang, and jumped on to the bed. She crawled across the bed towards me, her nipples dragging against the bed cover. She sat back on her heels in a position very reminiscent of the way Candy sat - I suppose all huge-breasted women have the same balance problem. "What do you want to do now?", she said. I moaned. It's hard not to, when someone with a body like Jane says something like that, and you know that her iron vagina is capable of delivering more pleasure than any ten normal women. She smiled. "No, we'll fuck later. If we fuck now, you won't be able to get out of bed." I knew she was right, but that didn't stop me trying. It had worked on Candy, maybe it would work on Jane. "Jane, close your eyes, and put your hands in the air." She sat facing me, her eyes closed, those long, stiff nipples threatening me, and with her arms straight up. "Now, no matter what happens, keep your hands in the air. If you lower your arms, I'll stop." I reached out; it was hard not to touch her breasts, and even harder to avoid her nipples. I put two fingers under each arm, where the soft fur grows, and rubbed gently. The reaction was very satisfactory. Jane screamed, brought her arms down in a hurry, and opened her eyes. "Great Scott, Sam! What did you do?". I explained about erogenous zones to her, and that there were far more places to touch a woman than most people seemed to bother with, and that a lot of them were as good as the one I'd just shown her. She blinked a few times, and shook her head to clear it. I rejoiced - her body was superbly sensitive, and I guessed that her efforts to develop her genitals had been at least partly responsible for this. We got dressed. Jane wore a thin silk dress, with her breast-halter underneath, to give her at least some control over her bosoms. Not very much control, though. I put on a casual jacket and trousers, and hoped that Jane wouldn't have too great an impact on Japanese passers-by, accustomed to slim, small-breasted girls, as unlike Jane as cider is to beer. We walked round Tokyo for an hour, just window-shopping, and wondering what the street signs said. Eventually, we visited a place I knew and loved, the Shinbun Noodle Shop. Chapter 5 - Shinbun Noodle There's only one thing on the menu at Shinbun Noodle, and that's noodle soup. It comes in large, quart-sized bowls, full of soup, noodles and assorted bits of meat and poultry that I've never even tried to identify, on the basis of what you don't know, can't worry you. We ordered one each of these huge bowls of noodle soup, and I showed Jane how you hold a pair of chopsticks in order to get food from your bowl to your mouth. She tried hard with the chopsticks, then asked for a fork. Bad news. Shinbun Noodle doesn't have forks; you have to do the best you can with the chopsticks and the spoon. Jane was in real trouble. I'd hadn't realized until I saw her in action, but her enormous breasts made eating with chopsticks very messy indeed. She gamely struggled her way through about half the bowl, by which time she'd had enough. Shinbun bowls are very filling. I finished my bowl, and licked my lips. They make the soup by boiling up a big vat, into which they throw unidentifiable things that once belonged to dead animals. I hoped they came from dead animals. The same vat seems to last for ever - they just throw in more water and more meat from time to time, and no doubt other ingredients. I'm rather larger than your average Japanese, so after resting and flirting a bit with Jane, I ordered another bowl of soup. This was pretty unusual, of course, and the waiter had to check that I really did want another bowl, but I stuck to my guns, and it arrived. While I attacked my second bowl, a bit more slowly than the first, I asked Jane about the competition. She told me that it started tomorrow, and would last two days. She thought that there were about fifty competitors, almost entirely from Japan. In order to compete, you had to demonstrate that you could lift at least ten pounds. Jane's training bar was double that, so I knew she had no trouble qualifying. I wondered just how much her iron vagina could handle, and recollected that she could certainly handle me, no trouble. It wasn't easy getting down to the bottom of that bowl of soup, what with the volume involved and the effect that talking to Jane about the vaginal weightlifting contest was having on me, but I managed it; it was necessary to completely finish the bowl for what came next. I called the waiter over, and told him how excellent his noodle soup was, and how I would make a point of telling all my friends about Shinbun Noodle. He was nodding and smiling, and then I hit him with my sledgehammer. "Can I have a third bowl, please?" Silence fell in the noodle shop. I had deliberately spoken loudly, because I wanted everyone to hear. "You want bill?", said the waiter, thinking he must have misheard. "Not yet", I said. "I'd like a third bowl of your excellent noodle soup." The chef came over to the table. Jane was grinning from ear to ear - she understood what game I was playing. "Not possible", said the chef. "Three bowls, not possible." I tried to look puzzled. "Do you mean that you don't have any more?", I asked. "Plenty more", said the chef. "Three bowls not possible". I dug a bunch of yen out of my wallet and put it on the table, and said as politely as I could, "Please could I have a third bowl of your splendid noodle soup." The chef spoke to the waiter, one of the customers replied, another chimed in, and there was a veritable torrent of Japanese. I couldn't understand a word they were saying, but the gist was clear. "This crazy round-eyes wants to kill himself, then let him" was the conclusion they came to, and the chef shrugged his shoulders, and brought me a third bowl of soup. They didn't spare me - the bowl was as full as a bowl of noodle soup should be. I was conscious of twenty pairs of Japanese eyes on me - the honor of the House of Rabbit was at stake. Eat or die. Jane watched, wide-eyed as I manfully plunged into the third bowl of noodle soup. This was the real one, this was the one that sorted the men from the boys, the rabbits from the leverets. In a world where a second bowl was thought impossible, I was attempting the superhuman feat of consuming a third bowl. It started well enough. The adrenaline boost kept me going through the first few dozen spoonfuls, but I couldn't put off the more solid part of the meal. I grabbed a whorl of noodles with my chopsticks, and thrust them into my mouth. I chewed, swallowed, and thought that this was going well. But then I saw something brown, floating among the noodles. I picked it up, and without a moment's thought pushed it between my jaws and chewed. And chewed and chewed and chewed. I don't know what it was - a rubber chicken, maybe? But by the time my teeth had broken it down enough to swallow, my jaws were exhausted. By now, a small group of Japanese were gathered round my table, watching. I don't know if they were willing me to succeed or fail, whether they wanted this round-eyed foreigner to achieve what they plainly couldn't, or whether they were merely betting on the outcome, as people do. But I knew that Jane was on my side, cheering me on, and that was good enough. Again and again, I plunged the spoon into the huge bowl; repeatedly I stuffed noodles into my mouth with the chopsticks. But it was obvious to everyone that I was slowing down, and I wasn't sure whether I would ever reach the bottom of this deep, deep bowl. The soup was still delicious, but the taste buds on my tongue no longer registered; they were coated with soup, saturated with soup, drenched in soup. The back of my throat told me that the soup was good, and for the benefit of the crowd, I occasionally looked up, nodded, smiled and said "Voba". It must have been when the bowl was three quarters empty (or to put it another way, one quarter full) that I felt that I couldn't take any more. I was full of soup, high on soup, all souped out. I thought that one more noodle would finish me, and the thought of the brown fatty chunks in the bowl made me queasy. The third bowl had defeated me - I had to concede or burst. Victory to Shinbun, shame to Rabbit. I looked up at Jane, but she was gazing at me in admiration. I knew she would be very willing to comfort the loser, but how much better to reward the victor - to the victor, the spoils! The thought of admitting defeat in front of Jane was anathema. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. And other similar macho expressions. I tackled the bowl of soup with renewed vigor. No surrender! We will not be moved! Never before in the field of human conflict! I found more strength from somewhere, more appetite for the seemingly inexhaustible supply of soup. Slurp, slurp, slurp went my spoon, and my chopsticks moved more slowly now. All the customers at Shinbun were watching me, but I could only see Jane's admiring looks as my spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. Finished! Success! Victory! A shout of "Banzai!" went up from the audience as I triumphantly flourished my chopsticks in the air. Jane said "I knew you could do it", which is more than I'd known, and we paid the chef and left. Why do men tackle superhuman feats like this? I don't know - I guess it's something deep in the masculine psyche. No woman would be so stupid as to try to prove that she could eat three bowls of Shinbun noodle soup, but I can imagine a great many men who would try or die in the attempt. I'd survived the third bowl, but I'd paid a price. I was fuller than I'd ever been before, and when we got back to the hotel, although Jane was as sexy and as keen to fuck as ever, I felt rather slow. Very slow. You know how people say that they love horses, but couldn't eat a whole one? I felt like I'd eaten a whole one. I felt full, and ready to sleep, and as unwilling to indulge in any sort of exercise, let alone the strenuous movements that Jane had in mind, and I regretfully explained this to her. Chapter 6 - Inside the Iron Vagina "No problem", said Jane cheerfully. "You just lie there quietly and recover." She undressed, and let the twenty pound lead-and-steel bar slide out from her vagina. I hadn't realized it, but she'd been gripping her training bar all this time; it was such second nature to her to exert the necessary tremendous internal forces that she could do it without anyone noticing. She ferreted through her suitcase, and produced a sheer silk nightie that just about covered her hips, and which didn't conceal her extraordinary breasts at all. Her nipples must have been protruding nearly three inches, about an inch more than usual, which told me that Jane was in a state of extreme arousal. Her cheeks were flushed, and she seemed slightly short of breath. I hadn't noticed her putting perfume on, but whatever her perfume was, it was having a shattering effect on my libido. I asked her about it - she said she wasn't wearing perfume. I was lying on my back as she crawled over me, and she must have known the effect that her nipples dragging over my body would have, because she moved back and forth a few times. If I'd been feeling any resistance, it would have evaporated as her nipples gouged my flesh, but the sight of her overdeveloped body had already left me as weak as a rabbit. She settled herself over my hips, sitting upright and facing me. I barely needed to move my hands to reach her nipples, and as soon as I touched them, she moaned. I couldn't see what was happened at the point where she was sitting on me, but I didn't need to see, I could feel. Jane's iron vagina was gripping my limp penis like a strong hand, and it was pulling me into her like a velvet-and- silk vacuum cleaner. Don't ever put your penis in a vacuum cleaner. I saw a picture once of a man who did that - heaven knows what he was expecting, but he certainly didn't like what he got. Jane's gravitational black hole was a different matter entirely; she knew what she was doing, how to do it, and the effect that it was having on me. She pulled me so deeply inside her that I felt the tension at the root of my penis - not exactly painful, but almost so. I could feel that a bit more pull would start to get unpleasant. Then, she squeezed, all along the length of my shaft, crushing me in place. Again, the force she was exerting was very great, but not painfully so. Then, she rippled her internal muscles a few times, and constricted the far end of her vagina. The constriction travelled down to the mouth, expelling me from the warm, silky haven, but only temporarily. After a few seconds pause, she started the cycle again; pull, squeeze, ripple, expel. I groaned as the exquisite pleasure wracked my body, and brought both my hands over to one of her breasts, so that I could fondle it more fully. Jane changed her position slightly so that I was in a half-upright position, then pushed her other breast into my face. It was obvious what she wanted; I took the huge nipple into my mouth, and licked the tip, and sucked the shaft. Jane continued her assault on my penis. Now she was adding a new phase to the four-part cycle. After the ripple, she would grip the upper half of my penis in her vagina, and fibrillate the lower half. I thought what a pity it was that her powerful and skilled genitals spent most of their time gripping a bar of metal that couldn't possibly appreciate her. After a few minutes of Jane's treatment, I stopped thinking at all, and abandoned myself to the sensation that was washing over me. I began to feel my orgasm building, but Jane also felt the imminent arrival of my climax, and her iron vagina gripped me powerfully, holding me entirely motionless inside her, forcing my orgasm to subside. After holding me stationary for a few minutes, she could feel my body relaxing, so she started again. This time, she had an entirely different treat for me. She pulled me in just a couple of inches, and used her muscular labia and vagina-mouth to rub sideways on the sensitive skin just below my knob. It felt as if she were spinning herself with my penis as the axle, although I knew that she wasn't, as my hands were still caressing one of her overdeveloped breasts. She continued the sideways motions; I think she was gripping me lightly and twisting slightly, letting go, gripping and twisting, but in one smooth motion that felt like complete rotations. Then, while continuing the rotation illusion, she started pulling me into herself again. I've often wondered why people use the word "screwing" for what I would call making love, as it's such an unpoetic term. But Jane made the derivation of the word clear to me, as she was using a twist-and-penetrate action that was exactly like what you do with a wood-screw. You've probably never been screwed, at least not in the sense that Jane was screwing. So you probably don't have any idea what it feels like. All I can say is, it's one of the things you have to be there to appreciate. When I was fully inserted, she reversed the action - I was being unscrewed! The effect on my brain was as you'd expect - my mind was becoming unscrewed also. It didn't take her very long to bring me to the edge of orgasm again, and the wonderful sex machine on top of me clearly realized this, because she gripped me tightly until the edge receded. But as soon as my orgasm moved into the distance, she brought it closer again, using her screwing action. Again and again, Jane's iron vagina screwed me to the point of orgasm, held me there for a few ecstatic moments, then pushed me back. My body was weakening, and my brain was turning to porridge; each brush with orgasm was more intense than the last, and I began to wonder how far she could take me. Abruptly, her action changed. Once more, she brought me to the point of orgasm, but this time she clenched her crushing internal muscles to hold me at that exact point. My own puny genitals were shaking with the feelings she was forcing into them; if they began to flag, she'd vibrate me forward into orgasm again and hold me there until I thought my testicles would burst. "Please, Jane", I moaned, "Please." This was a mistake - all it did was move her on to the next phase. I wouldn't have thought it was possible. Jane pushed me over the cliff into orgasm, but her vagina was so tightly clenched that I couldn't come. Her powerful genitals gripped my penis, and although the ejaculate tried to shoot down the urethra, it was unable to move because of the numbing pressure that her iron vagina was exerting. I heard someone in the room screaming, and guessed that it was me. Again and again my helpless genitalia tried to ejaculate, but Jane denied me release with the pressure from her vise-like grip. It felt as if my penis was crushed in a padded vise that had been wrapped in satin, and I writhed under her in my agonized attempt to relieve the bursting pressure that she had built up inside me. I saw her smile at me, and she leaned down to kiss me gently, her huge, engorged nipples digging into my chest. I was too far gone for this to have any effect, but suddenly the grip on my penis changed from the constricting crush that was strangling my urethra, into a gentle rippling action, combined with a strong feeling of suction. I came like an explosion, like an uncorked champagne bottle, like an Apollo rocket taking off. My entire body spasmed and bucked, my back arched and my legs thrashed. Jane continued her pulsating squeeze and it felt as if white hot needles were being pulled from my penis as the ultimate orgasm turned my insides to superheated steam, which I then felt passing down my penis. Jane continued to smile angelically as her powerful vagina brought devastating sexual feelings to my body with orgasm after orgasm, each more pleasurable and more painful than the preceding one, until at last some pleasure/pain safety valve in my medulla registered overload and I blacked out. Chapter 7 - Groin strain I woke up the next morning with groin strain. If you've ever had groin strain, you'll know what I mean. I have only ever had it once before, and on that occasion, I had woken up in hospital after Candy's powerful body had broken my bones in her orgasm. On that occasion, the pain in my ribs, arms and legs was compensated completely by the feeling of warmth and happiness in my groin. With Jane, the feeling was even better, as there were no broken bones to offset the feeling in my groin. But the other part of the feeling of groin strain, is the feeling that you'll never be able to have sex again. I turned over. There was a lovely blonde girl sharing my bed, and after some thought, I realized that it was the same female that had just given me the sexual seeing-to of my life. Jane opened her eyes. They were large, and blue-grey, and I wondered what her most attractive feature was, her eyes, her lovely huge breasts, those long, firm nipples, or her astonishing iron vagina. I didn't wonder for very long, though. It's easy to choose. It's the same for any woman. Her most attractive feature is herself, the whole bundle, the way everything works together. I wriggled over to her and kissed her. "You were great last night", I said. "Thank you", she said. "Um", I said, realizing that "great" was a bit inadequate. "Last night was the high point of my entire life, and if I die without ever experiencing a woman again, the mere memory of what you did to me last night will be better than any ten ordinary women could ever be." There. That said it a bit better. Jane smiled, and I basked in her smile. "There's something I'd like from you", Jane said. "Anything", I promised, even though I usually make a point of finding out what I'm offering before I offer it. She explained that today was the first day of the vaginal weightlifting contest. "Are spectators allowed?", I asked. Jane laughed. "It's going to be on Nippon TV", she said. Millions of people would be watching as dozens of girls competed to see who had the most powerful vagina. Foreign cultures are sometimes difficult to fathom. I asked Jane if I could attend the contest, and she said "Better - you can be my attendant." "?", I asked. "You get to hold my towel", she explained, "and wipe the perspiration from my brow, and any other whatever from wherever." That sounded like it wasn't beyond my power, especially the whatever from wherever. Jane's next request was kind of surprising, not so much in what she wanted, but in the way she said it. In the way you might say "Where's my coat?", or "Could you pass the salt", she said "Could you give me an orgasm?" I must have looked a bit startled, because she went on to explain. She felt that she had a reasonably good chance to do well in this contest, even though it was her first, and she would be competing against women who had been in this sport for years. But she needed some help, and she assured me that what she was asking for was entirely legitimate. In a vaginal weightlifting contest, the worst thing in the world is a slippery, well-lubricated vagina. And, Jane said, when she felt horny, the proximity of a large, thick, rigid bar really got her juices going. So she'd have trouble gripping the lifting bar, unless I could make her less horny, and there is an obvious and simple way to reduce horniness. I thought about this - it wasn't quite as simple as it sounds. First of all, Jane's efforts last night were still very fresh in my memory, and in the memory of my groin. I didn't think I'd be able to have an erection so soon after being so totally pumped-out by her iron vagina. Secondly, even if I could have an erection, there was no certainty that it could have much effect on the powerful black hole that made up Jane's vagina. For sure, once inside her cavern, my penis would be at the mercy of her internal muscles. I thought about using my hand inside her genitals to bring her to climax, but I didn't think about it for very long. I wasn't sure just how much pressure her iron vagina could exert, and I didn't want to find out by seeing how many of my hand bones she would break. The only thing that I could risk putting inside, would be her steel training bar, and that didn't give me much scope. That left the other three places that many women can orgasm from; her clitoris, her nipples and her anus. The first two of those were my best bet. First, I went downstairs to the hotel shop, and made some special purchases. I didn't spend very many yen, but I bought something that I knew would help me give Jane what she wanted, and deserved after last night's performance. I returned to the room, and my next task was to render her helpless. I certainly didn't want to find anything of mine being sucked into her vagina while she was in orgasm and out of control; that could be dangerous. I went to the bathroom and tore off a few long pieces of toilet paper, and used these to tie her arms and legs to the bed. I'd used this method on my superwoman lover Candy, on the grounds that she could break anything I used anyway. It had worked fine. Then, with Jane symbolically secured, I set to work. I arranged her breasts so that I could use my mouth and tongue on her sensitive aureola and nipple. I reached down to her vagina with one hand, and inserted her lead-and-steel training bar. This was not to use for stimulation, but so as to shield my hand from the terrible dangers that awaited should it get drawn inside. I felt around until I located her clitoris, which wasn't difficult, as it was very much larger than one would expect in a normal woman. Then, with my right hand, I made sure that I could reach the three places I needed to get to; her left nipple, her mouth and the box that I'd just purchased, which I carefully placed behind me on the bed. Chapter 8 - The effect of chocolate Everything was ready. I started slowly, with my fingertips under her armpits. I've always found that this surprises women, as most of them have never had it done to them before as a sexual act, and it arouses them rapidly, because an virgin unstroked armpit is extraordinarily sensitive. Very soon, Jane started humming, as the sensitive skin under her arms was gently touched by my fingers. Gradually, I increased the area that my hands controlled, moving a few inches down her sides, and on the insides of her arms. By now, Jane was quivering with suppressed delight, and I judged her ready for the next phase. Both of my hands worked on one of her breasts, one on the nipple, and the other one under her breast. This, combined with an occasional reprise under her arms, brought her to a moaning state of arousal, her nipple hard and stiff. After I had the first nipple in a satisfactory state, I started work on the other; this time I used just one hand, but also my mouth and the rough part of my tongue. My other hand moved to the next port of call, her clitoris. It was soft and relaxed, but I stroked the top, and then the underside, and soon it was as erect as anyone could want. Jane started making soft cries, and I knew she was ready for the coup de grace. I reached behind me, and took one of the brown lumps from the box. "Close your eyes and open your mouth", I said. Jane did as I asked, and I dropped the piece of chocolate into her mouth. The effect of chocolate on a women's metabolism doesn't seem to be very well known, but a woman's body and nervous system reacts in a very different way to a man's. Chocolate isn't regarded as a dangerous drug anywhere in the world, and isn't a restricted substance in the way, for example, alcohol is in Saudi Arabia, or LSD is here. This means that it is readily available anywhere you happen to be, which is a big advantage, and you can't get arrested for possession of even large quantities of chocolate. The cocatene in chocolate is the active ingredient that gives it its power, and cocatene has never been banned, as far as I am aware. But what merely tastes unpleasantly sweet to a man, has a devastating effect on a woman's hormones, acting as a combination aphrodisiac, stimulant and eroticant. As the chocolate melted in Jane's mouth, Jane melted under the combined influence of the cocatene drug and my hands. She started to try to get away from me, but the symbolic bonds of the tissue paper held her in check. The training bar inside her vagina stopped her from counter-attacking with her most devastating weapon, and as I pushed a second piece of chocolate into her mouth, her orgasm began to approach. Before she could swallow, I pushed a third lump of cocatene-bearing chocolate into her mouth, which had the effect of increasing her salivation and her arousal. I worked hard on the quadrilateral of pleasure; mouth, nipple, nipple and clitoris, and her cries of delight became louder as her climax built up inside her. The fourth piece of chocolate pushed her over the edge, and she began that long descent into sensuality that signals a woman's orgasm. As soon as I felt her shuddering climax begin, I gathered my strength for the main effort. It is often impossible to tell whether a woman is orgasming from her vagina, clitoris, nipples or anus, but in Jane's case, I was reasonably sure that it came from between her legs. You have to make an assumption, and then proceed on that assumption, so I concentrated my efforts on her breasts and nipples. It was especially easy to wreak havoc on Jane's nipples in their present state, almost as long and thick as my thumb. I licked and sucked, stroked and kneaded, squeezed and pulled, and Jane's voice gave me feedback in wordless cries that could almost have been cries of pain, but which I was sure were cries of extreme pleasure. As I had hoped, Jane's nipples flooded her nervous system with the feelings of orgasm, before her clitoral orgasm had finished. As the two orgasms stretched, wracked and tortured her body simultaneously, I fed a final piece of chocolate into her mouth, and the combination of the two orgasms, together with the effects of the chocolate, sent her technically, temporarily insane. Her mind completely lost control over her body; the tissue paper snapped like tissue paper as Jane's back arched, her legs tensed until they were as taut as steel, and her lungs powered a scream that surely could have been heard in Kyoto. The scream started at about 140 decibels, but as her breath ran out, it gradually diminished, until after a while it faded completely. Jane's body sagged onto the bed and become totally relaxed in the way that only unconscious people can. I let go of her, and relaxed a bit myself - getting her to a double orgasm had been extremely hard work, but I thought it was worth while. My own groin strain was still with me, although the sights and sounds I'd just experienced had left me almost semi-hard. I looked down at her lovely hair, tousled blondely over her magnificent breasts, and felt that I'd really achieved something useful. After a long time, her eyes opened. "My god", she breathed. "What did you do to me?" "Double orgasm, with chocolate", I summarized. Jane lay flat on her back, her hands either side of her head. "I owe you one", she said. "You wait until this evening; I've got some interesting things to show you." I gulped mentally; Jane's threat was both exciting and a little frightening. She swung her legs around, and sat up, with her feet on the floor. "I'd better get ready for the contest this afternoon", she said, and stood up. There was a clang as Jane's training bar slid out of her fulfilled vagina and fell to the floor. She had told me that she hardly ever lost control of it, and now I'd been responsible for her doing exactly that, yet again. I reached down to pick it up for her, and what I saw stunned my brain. That thick lead-and-steel bar had been as straight as a die before, I would have sworn to it. But now, it was slightly bent. I tried in vain to imagine some alternative explanation to the obvious one. Falling to the floor could not have caused it, which left only ... Rabbit's Ears ... Jane's vagina! The stupendous force that she must have exerted to bend a lead-and-steel bar in her vagina blew my mind, and my next thought was that I planned to put something very delicate and precious to me into that same place. How much force had Jane exerted? I gripped the inch thick bar with my hands, and tried to increase the bend - all that happened was that I hurt my hands. I passed it to Jane, and she frowned. "That's never happened before", she said. She turned it over in her hands, examining it, then shrugged prettily, her nipples dancing, and put the bar back inside her. We showered together. It's a lot of fun, soaping, rinsing and drying a beautiful, sexually satisfied woman, and the groin strain that she had inflicted on me made it an entirely non-sexual experience. Eventually, both of us felt that we'd gotten rid of the sweat and sticky goo that Jane has deposited on both of us, and newly clean, fresh and smelling of soap, we dressed, left the hotel, and caught a taxi to the competition site. Chapter 9 - The weightlifters As we walked into the hall, it was obvious to me who the competitors were. Of course, you can't spot a heavily muscled vagina at a distance, but the genital exercises that had so strengthened their internal muscles, had also had the side effect of increasing the size of their other sexual characteristics. You could tell the competitors from the spectators by the size of their bosoms. None of them were as large as Jane, but since they were Japanese and she was Caucasian, she had started with a major size advantage. Jane was also a few inches taller than the olive-skinned Asians, and I could see why she was so confident that she would do well. "Look", Jane said, as we approached the stage, "There's Helga." I looked, and tried not to gasp. Helga was as black as Black Rabbit, and she looked as strong as the Rabbit's Ruin. She was wearing a white bikini that ought to have been declared illegal, and she was standing with her hands on her hips, twisting from side to side to loosen up; she must have been a couple of inches shorter than myself, but I would have hated to arm-wrestle with her. Her huge muscles bumped and bulged as she exercised, and wondered how any woman would be able to stand up to her power. I turned to Jane, and saw that she was standing, gazing at Helga in frank and puppy-like admiration. "Isn't she incredible?", Jane asked. I agreed, and wondered what second prize in this contest would be. There was an announcement in Japanese, and Jane joined the other competitors. Each woman was given a numbered card to pin to her clothes; Jane was number 14. Most of the women seemed to be fully dressed, although I guessed that, like Jane, they weren't wearing anything under their skirts. There isn't much point in wearing panties at a vaginal weightlifting competition. The first five lined up on the stage, and the contest began. In order to qualify as contestants, each girl had already proved that she could lift five pounds, using just the force of her vagina to grip the bar. The lifting bar was an inch thick and nine inches long, a bit shorter and a lot lighter than the bar that Jane used for her everyday continuous training bar. There was a hook at one end, and a chain hung from there to a set of weights. For the first round, the ladies were expected to raise ten pounds. Most of them could, but about a dozen of the fifty failed that first hurdle, and after three failed attempts, were eliminated. Jane had no trouble at all with the weight, which was hardly surprising, as she kept a bar inside her all the time that weighed twice that. The girls lifted in groups of five, until all of them had had a chance. There was a half hour break to give the girls a chance to recover, then they increased the weight, and the second round started. This time, the total weight dragging down on the lifting bar was fifteen pounds. Eighteen more of the contestants failed this hurdle, but once again, Jane didn't seem to need to make any real effort as she gripped the bar in her iron vagina, and lifted. As the weights attached to the lifting bar came clear of the floor, there must have been a greatly increased strain on her internal muscles, but it didn't show in her pretty face. Helga didn't seem to have any trouble either, although given her build, that wasn't really surprising. As the afternoon progressed, there were two more rounds. The weight was up to twenty five pounds, and by the time the day's competition was finished, only four women remained. Jane was still going well, although at twenty five pounds, it was clear that she was having to exert herself. Helga was lifting the heavy weight as if it were a pencil. Of the two Japanese girls remaining, one had managed the weight without too much effort, but the other one had clearly had to put everything she had into the lift, and I didn't think she'd make it through the next round. Four rounds were all there was time for that afternoon, and the four girls stood on the stage. Jane was looking a bit tired from all that lifting, and as I came up to give her the towel I'd been holding for her, she grinned weakly at me. She took the towel, and rubbed the insides of her thighs with it, while I watched Helga. I think Helga was aware of my interest, or at least she was aware of someone's interest, because she put on a display that was worth watching. Helga gripped one end of her towel in each hand, and passed it between her legs. Then, using her powerful arm muscles, she pulled the towel to and fro between her legs. She was completely silent, but I could see from her face that she was having an orgasm. I turned to Jane, and I could see from Jane's engorged nipples that she was being aroused by the magnificent Helga. "I don't see how anyone can beat that", Jane remarked, as we gathered up her possessions. She inserted her training bar into her vagina, and we left the hall. "What do you fancy for dinner?", I asked. I was hungry, having eaten nothing since the three bowls of soup last night. Jane must have been ravenous, not having had the benefit of my super-sup of soup. "Something Japanese", she said, "as long as it isn't noodle soup." We both laughed, and I suggested a Yakitori bar. We cruised down the Ginza until I spotted a likely dive. It was shabbily furnished, but clean, and there seemed to be a good selection on offer. Yakitori are assorted delicacies such as fried frogs legs, raw tuna chunks, pickles so sour that your lips are permanently puckered, and other interesting things to try. We sat at the bar, and I ordered mineral water (did you think I'd drink the beer at a place like that?) and some assorted Yakitori. "What's this", Jane asked, holding up something that looked like a two-inch long flea impaled on a stick. "Don't ask", I advised. "Just eat it, or not as the case may be." I have this theory, which I started explaining to Jane. "We have exactly the same stomachs and digestive systems as the Japanese, so we can eat anything that they can." People in Yakitori bars are quite friendly, and a number of Tokyo salarymen overheard this remark, and chimed in. "Quite so," said one of them, "But in my experience, Westerners won't eat the same food that we eat, because they aren't used to it." A valid point. I was once invited by a Japanese host to a "Western-style Pub", which turned out to be a Berni Inn. There, dozens of Japanese were drinking "Real Western Beer", which turned out to be Watney's Red Barrel, which is poor enough at the best of times. They served me with a half pint, and I gritted my teeth and prepared to stretch my taste buds to the limit so as to taste at least something in the insipid brew. But instead of the expected taste of fizzy water, my tongue was raped. The beer was off - a significant percentage of it had turned to vinegar, and it was totally undrinkable. I looked round the room, and saw that dozens of Japanese were apparently relishing this foul concoction, presumably under the impression that Western beer was supposed to taste like that. Chapter 10 - The Yakitori bar Our new-found friends in the Yakitori bar started recommending interesting and exciting dishes, and we all sat round the table, sharing them. Jane was picking and choosing; she wouldn't touch the fried grasshoppers, for example, but I felt that the honor of the House of Rabbit was at stake, and I matched our oriental friends consumption. Finally, one of them asked "Do you eat horse meat?" I've never really understood the thing that some people have about eating horse - I can't see why it should be considered worse than eating cow or sheep. I suppose if you're used to having a deep and intimate relationship with a pet pony, eating it would be a bit crass, but the nearest I've ever gotten to a horse was passing one in a country lane. I answered "Yes, horse is fine." Another gentleman asked me if I ate raw meat. I thought of Steak Tartare, which is minced beef, mixed with raw egg, and an assortment of herbs and spices, and which is delicious, provided you don't think about the fact that it's raw meat. Of course, eating raw meat is dangerous unless you do it right, so I've only ever had Steak Tartare at really good restaurants. I didn't notice the yawning chasm that was opening up in front of me, and I said that raw meat is one of my favorites. A few minutes later, a large dish arrived, and was placed in the center of the table with a flourish. It contained thin strips of red-black raw meat, which I guessed had once been part of a horse. I picked up my chopsticks, tweezered a piece of meat, and lifted it towards my mouth, trying not to think about what I was eating, and not to think about hygiene hazards. Not only was the honor of the House of Rabbit at stake here, but I couldn't back down in front of Jane, could I? Egotism makes fools out of all men, and made a raw horse meat eater out of a Rabbit. It wasn't too bad really. A bit chewy, quite a bit chewy. And the taste was like the smell of the inside of your shoe. After managing to get a few slices down me, I looked round the table to see how the others were doing. Six pairs of Japanese eyes were staring at me, astounded. Don't ever think that Japanese are inscrutable; they aren't. And this lot were totally scrutable. It was very obvious what they were thinking, "This crazy foreigner will eat anything." Because they weren't stupid enough to eat raw horsemeat. Jane and I both really enjoyed that evening. You mustn't think that Japanese have no sense of humor, and this lot certainly knew how to enjoy themselves. We covered some universal subjects, such as the folly of politicians and the price of beer. I told them what I did for a living; the profession of brewer is a proud, old profession, and master brewers are universally revered. We swapped cards in the Japanese tradition, and they explained what they did. They all worked for a major bank, as salarymen, working ten hour days, drinking hard in the evening, and going home only to sleep long enough to awake refreshed for the next day's work. Then Jane explained what she in Japan for. It took quite a lot of explaining, because I didn't know the Japanese word for vagina, and they didn't know what the English word meant. Eventually, Jane showed them one, and they understood. But then they had trouble believing Jane's story, especially when I told them the weight she'd lifted today. Japanese people are far too polite to call you a liar, but this thought was plain in their scrutable oriental faces, and I told Jane as much. "Mmmm", she said, and thought a bit. "Shall I give them a demonstration?", she asked. Male pride again, I suppose. I was really very proud of Jane, although there wasn't anything I'd done to deserve her, like wrestle a bear or kill a dragon. But when you've got a very pretty girl on your arm, you want the world to see the two of you, and although Jane was very pretty, and stunningly well endowed, her principal asset was totally hidden, and I had no objection to her showing it off, and told her so. She asked for an apple. I wasn't sure why she wanted it, but I guessed she knew what she was doing, and I asked the waiter for an apple. It came on a plate, with a knife for peeling it, and a serviette. Jane showed it to our new friends, and then perched herself on her chair, sitting on her heels in the way that only orientals and women can. Her knees were splayed apart, and her skirt was round her hips, revealing the fact that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. I saw her remove something heavy from inside and put it in her handbag - getting her training bar out of the way. Then, she took the apple, and offered it to her vagina. The apple disappeared inside, and the Japanese gasped, but that wasn't all that Jane was about to show them. She kept her knees apart, but I could see that she was making a major effort by the expression on her face. After several seconds, she relaxed, and held her hand underneath the entrance to her vagina. The apple came back into view, and she put it back onto the plate, but it was an apple that had been transformed. It was no longer a round, shiny fruit. It had been crushed to pulp, brutalized by the power of Jane's powerful vaginal grip, squashed and mangled by the squeezing force that had surrounded it for just a few seconds. There was a stunned silence. If there's one thing I have, it's a good sense of timing. Anything after this had to be an anticlimax, so now was a good time to leave. I grabbed Jane's hand, said goodbye to our Japanese friends, and we left. I looked back, and they were still staring dumbfounded at the crushed and mangled apple that had ended its life in Jane's vagina. I could sympathize with their astonishment, because Jane really was something else. She squeezed my hand as we sat in the taxi "You'll be in there soon". I didn't need to ask in where. Chapter 11 - The naked ape Back at the hotel, I felt like running up the stairs back to our room, but the Wise Old Rabbit inside my head told me that walking up would save my breath for more important matters. When we reached the room, I must have gotten undressed in about five seconds, and I turned to Jane, who was just standing there. I guess girls learn this from their mothers, because they all seem to know how to do it. Jane yawned and stretched. As her hands reached into the air, she breathed in deeply and her breasts rose and seemed to fill her short dress to bursting point. As her breasts expanded, they lifted her hemline from its normal position half way down her thighs higher and higher, until her bush came into view, as black as night. The contrast between her light blonde hair and her deep black pubic hair was one of the most surprising things I've ever seen on a woman, and might have led you to believe that one or the other was dyed. But I knew that Jane was all- natural. It was the same with my hair and my beard; dark brown hair, white beard, and none of it dyed. Her black bushy center drew my eyes, as she intended. I knew the power of that organ from personal experience, and I had seen with my own eyes that she could lift a twenty-five pound weight with it. I wondered just how much power resided inside Jane's female genitals, and just south of my equator, something stirred. It wasn't a full erection, you understand, as I could still feel the groin strain of the previous day. But something stirred. Jane's yawn and stretch continued long past what you would expect. This was only partly for her - she was also doing it for me. She opened her eyes, looked at me, and folded her blonde hair up in her hands, lifting it up to her head, in the way that women do when they wear it in a chignon. Then she released it, and it tumbled past her shoulders, past her nipples, and down to her waist, ending at the same place that her black bush began. She reached down to the hem of her dress, and slowly pulled it over her head. That was all she was wearing. She stood there like a mermaid with legs, like Venus rising from the sea, like every woman since the dawn of time has stood in front of her man, aiming to attract and arouse, to sexually captivate, and to get pregnant. If you think for a few moments, you'll realize that sex is supposed to be about babies. The main purpose of human beings is to make more human beings, but babies are painful for the woman, and an incredible, long-term, inconvenience. If that was the whole story, the human race would have died out long ago, but evolution means that only those races that are fittest to survive, do so. Humans are weak, slow and armed with pathetic natural weapons, but this is compensated by a level of intelligence that is many times greater than the smartest animal. In order for that intelligence to fully develop, humans spend far longer in the pre-adult stage than any other species. Human children are totally helpless for the first few years, depending completely on adults for survival. After that, it is several more years before the human infant is able to completely take care of itself; this is the price Homo Sapiens pays for our great intelligence. The mother of a baby is pretty much tied down to a caring role; that's the way the species was supposed to work. But this means that it is important to the female that the male stay with her, to provide the food and shelter that the babies need in their first several years. Nature's way of encouraging the woman to have the sex that leads to procreation is the female orgasm, and nature's way of binding the male to the female, of giving him the incentive to help her care for her helpless infants, is the male orgasm. Why don't humans have fur all over their bodies, the way most animals do? Because furlessness gives access to the sensitive skin, which increases sexual pleasure. Why are human women able and willing to couple all year round, unlike animals that do so for only a short period of time? Because it extends the time over which both the male and female can take sexual pleasure. Why do humans fall in love and pair-bond for life? Because it increases the chances of the offspring to survive into adulthood. Why are humans so obsessed with sex, to such an extent that it is the main topic of our conversation (sometimes in a thinly disguised form)? It is the main subject of our literature - very few books are without at least a sexual sub- plot, and many of them are principally about sex (or love, as it is often called). Our newspapers are 70% concerned with sex, and if you look at the subjects of most interest on the Internet, those with an "Adult" theme (another synonym for sex) are by far the most popular. Procreative sex is less than one per cent of our sexual activity, and obviously can only be successful between oppositely sexed people. But recreational sex, sex for pleasure, is more than 99% of our sexual activity, and that can be between any pair (or more, or fewer) of willing adults. Everything that consenting adults can do to each other has been declared illegal at some time or place; everything that consenting adults can do to each other, is done in spite of these impossible-to-enforce laws. And there is nothing new under the sun, nothing new in the bedroom. Anything that you might invent, was first done millions of years ago, between two Homo Sapiens who loved each other and wanted to please each other. Because of our great intelligence, we like to fool ourselves. And sometimes other bodily demands override even the sexual urge - we also eat, drink, sneeze. But always, always we come back to the over-riding human obsession, sex. We play sexual games all the time, even with complete strangers. Every time we look at a member of the opposite sex, we make a quick assessment of their potential as a sexual partner, and we do that so automatically, we're not even aware that we're doing it. Watch yourself in a crowded room or train some time. Because of the need to protect a helpless infant, and so enlist a male's assistance, women are much more blatant about displaying their sexual attractiveness than men. Short skirts and long hair show their physical charms and availability (even if they aren't available). Reddened lips enhance appearance, like the red posterior of the baboon. But men do the same thing, they're just slightly more subtle about it. Men choose their clothes as carefully as women, and the clothes are not chosen for warmth and durability, but to show off their body to the female. Perhaps the most obviously useless clothing is the tie, which is worn purely and simply as a decoration, but with a very obvious symbolism. Jane was standing in front of me, posing provocatively in the way that all women seem to know, her eyes submissively downcast in invitation, her arms raised and tangled in her glorious hair, showing off her beautiful breasts. She was programmed to try to attract me, and I was programmed to be attracted by her. Millions of years of evolution gave us no choice - we had to fuck. But still, we continued to play the sexual games that humans love so much. You might have thought that I would throw her roughly to the bed and ram my penis in, but that isn't the way people behave. Her arms were raised, exposing her armpits and inner arms, leaving her deliciously vulnerable to my long, probing fingers. Our hands are delicate and our touch is sensitive, and this is not so that we can pick up a stick and beat some unfortunate cow to death with it. The primary purpose of the human hand is sexual, and the ability to use tools is a lucky consequence. Certainly the opposing thumb is an aid to gripping, but the long, gentle fingers with the highly sensitive pads at the ends are designed mainly for giving pleasure to the opposite sex. My fingers were giving a lot of pleasure to Jane. She was giving me lots of feedback, her little "Ooh"s telling me what were her especially good places. None of them came as a big surprise - the human body is one huge sexual organ, with high points. She like the small of her back to be rubbed; the point where the tail would be if we had tails. I don't know why we don't have tails, but I bet the reason is something to so with sex. The front of her thighs was another good place, and so was the hollow of her throat. I touched her nipples, and then moved my hands a few inches, to just in front of her. She couldn't help herself, she moved forward so that her nipples were inside my hands. I stroked them gently, and moved my hands away again; again, she followed me involuntarily. After a few minutes of this, we reached the bed; I sat down on it, and she followed me, putting her breasts on my outstretched hands. Carefully, I fondled her aureolae and the sensitive underside of her extra- large breasts. Her nipples grew and hardened under my touch, and I reached down to her crotch. I checked carefully that her training bar was in place, because I didn't want my hand to suffer the same fate as that crushed and mangled apple. The thought crossed my mind that even with the bar in place, maybe there was some way her vagina could draw my hand inside and destroy it, but the way I see it, if you want to be completely safe, you'd never do anything except drink beer. Very weak beer. I brought my hand down to her clitoris, which by now was considerably engorged with her arousal. It never fails to amaze me how the purely mental phenomenon of sexual attraction causes such gross physical effects; Jane's clitoris was stiff and proud, and touching it seemed to drive her to distraction. Even without the aphrodisiac effects of chocolate, I was able to bring her to the verge of climax. Remembering what she had done to me the previous night, I slowed down my manipulations of her genitals, letting her draw back from the chasm, until her writhing became less and her words became coherent again. "Oh, Sam", she said, "That feels so good." Good? Is that all? I rubbed her clitoris again, and started licking the tip of her nipple with my rough tongue, and soon had her once more facing the plunge into orgasm. She tried to move herself against my hands as I held her on the verge; I could sense where she was by the noises she was making. Gripping her enlarged clitoris in one hand to prevent her from bringing herself on, I held her flat on her back with my other arm, until her sobbing subsided again, and she was once more human. "Oh, Sam", she repeated. I guess it's hard to be original after you've been put through a wringer. Chapter 12 - The double orgasm I got out of bed, leaving her lying supine and exhausted. For the next phase, I needed my favorite sexual aid. I fetched the small cardboard box containing the necessaries, laid it on the bedside table, and went back to work on Jane. Once more, I checked that her training bar was in place - I regarded this as an essential safety check, like ensuring that the guard on a chain saw is in place. Then, I got her to spread her legs and raise them in the air, and I moved her feet backwards towards her head. Jane's feet were on the pillow, beside her head, spread well apart. I lay across them, pinning her in place. She could have had no idea what I intended, and I hoped that no-one had ever done to her what I planned. I started by putting my hand in the cardboard box, grabbing a large piece of chocolate, and putting it in her mouth. The impact of the cocatene was immediate; her eyes went glassy and her entire body stiffened. I put one hand on her clitoris, the other on her nipple, and my mouth gripped the other nipple. With her legs doubled back and my weight on top of her, she was helpless to resist. She was finding breathing increasingly difficult, as my body compressed her doubled-over body. I gripped the full length of her clitoris, and pull-twisted it, using the corkscrew motion that she'd inflicted on me the previous day. It had the same effect on her that her vagina had had on me, and the sounds of ecstasy she was making became indistinguishable from sounds of pain. I stopped what I was doing for a moment to stuff another square of chocolate into her mouth, and attacked her breasts. This time, I stroked the upper slopes, which up till now I had left completely alone. The feel of my hands in this new place projected her to a new level of pleasure, and I could feel her climax building once more. A hand rubbing her clitoris made her squeal, my tongue on her nipples made her shriek, and I judged that she was ready for what the French call the Grande Coup d'Derriere. Just as her orgasm struck, I gently probed with a finger between the spread cheeks of her bottom. I soon found the sensitive skin surrounding her rear hole, and lightly touched it with a gossamer fingertip. Jane, already heading deep into orgasm, was electrified. If she hadn't been bent double, she'd have shrieked my ears off; as it was, she made a rapid grunting/coughing sound as my fingers touched a delicate place that she had never before had stimulated. Instantly, she went into double orgasm, as the sensations reverberated between her anal orifice and her clitoris. The pleasure from her anus was reflected by her clitoris, and the ecstasy from her anus penetrated her clitoris. Her entire crotch was on fire, and her mind was reduced to the elementary animal level of a creature who could breath and orgasm, and nothing else. Indeed, even her breathing became labored, as the successive waves of white-hot feelings smothered her body. This remarkable girl-woman was now totally at my mercy, as I rubbed her clitoris with one hand, and fingered her anus with the other, trying to prolong her orgasm for an eternity. She went limp in my hands. Her nervous system had overloaded, and the safety cut-out had suspended her awareness in just the same way that a contact breaker trips to protect a circuit from voltage overload. I laid her flat on the bed, and waited. I didn't have to wait very long. Just like a contract breaker that automatically resets, as soon as Jane's body was released from the excessive orgasmic overload that had caused her black-out, her consciousness was restored. She opened her long-lashed eyes, and looked at me. There was a glow in her eyes I'd never seen before. She turned on her side, wriggled towards me, and we kissed. Some kisses are sexual, and some, like this one, are just friendly. I told her that she was probably one of the most orgasmic women I'd ever met, and she wondered if there was such a thing as an orgasm contest, and how you'd determine the winner. I told her the recipe for Rabbit's Ruin, and she told me how she'd gotten interested in vaginal weightlifting in the first place. It's an unusual hobby. We lay in each other's arms saying silly things to each other, as one does, as Jane recovered from the mutilation that I'd just inflicted on her psyche. I was right, no-one had ever touched her precisely there before, and she was surprised at the intensity of the feeling that it caused. I explained that the human body is really just one big sexual playground, and that the best places are the ones that rarely get touched in daily use, such as the hollow behind the knee, the small of the back, the skin on the top of the foot, anything to do with genitals, and lots more places. And, of course, the best possible places are any that have never, ever felt the touch of a human hand. Jane listened intently to my theories of human sexuality, as women everywhere listen to foolish men, pretending that they are hearing the wisdom of the ages. Maybe she accepted my ideas, and maybe she didn't, it really didn't matter, because even if her mind didn't believe my words, her body certainly believed my fingers. She was especially sceptical about my notions regarding chocolate and its effects, but I put it to her that even if she didn't accept my ideas about the impact on her libido, she could at least agree that it wasn't going to do her any harm. After a bit more kissing, and a lot more cuddling, some stroking, some tickling and some more kissing, Jane announced "Right - now let me show you some stuff." First, she removed the training bar from her vagina. I wasn't surprised to see that it was bent rather more than before. The stresses inside her must have been tremendous. She knelt upright in front of me, so that I could see the place that would be the home of my penis for the foreseeable future, that big, hairy black hole. Chapter 13 - The hairy black hole Inside every star, there are two forces at work. The heat of the star causes atoms to vibrate against each other, which creates a pressure that tends to expand the plasma that comprises the mass of the star. The other force is gravitation, that universal force that draw objects closer together. Without gravitation, the star would explode into its component atoms, and without the pressure of the plasma, gravitation would be the only force at work, with nothing to keep the atoms apart. Gradually, the star loses energy by radiation into space, and gradually, over billions of years, the star cools down. As that happens, the outward force weakens, and is less able to stand up to the force of gravity, which pulls all the atoms towards the center. As the star goes through its life cycle, it gradually contracts; retaining its mass, but reducing in size, as gravity gradually wins the battle. The density gets greater and greater, and the force of gravity continues to contract the star. As the density increases, the gravitational pull at the surface of the star gets stronger and stronger. When the gravitational force is more powerful that the forces keeping electrons and protons separate, the particles merge into neutrons, and the star becomes a neutron star, tiny but just as massive as before. Still, the crushing gravitational forces pull the matter towards the center and the star gets denser and denser; the force of gravity at the star's surface gets stronger and stronger. If the star has enough mass to begin with, then eventually the escape velocity at the star's surface is greater than the speed of light. Nothing can travel at the speed of light except light itself, and nothing can accelerate past that speed. So at the moment the star reaches a density such that the escape velocity is greater than light speed, it becomes impossible for anything within a radius known as the Schwartzchild Radius to reach the universe outside. Matter and light can fall into this region of space, but nothing can get out - nothing can escape the gravitational trap. Physicists call such a system a Black Hole; black because it is totally absorbent and emits nothing, hole for obvious reasons. The Schwartzchild Radius could be thought of as being the boundary of the Black Hole. It is widely believed that there is such a Black Hole at the center of the galaxy that we live in. That was the sum total of human knowledge about Black Holes until a few years ago, when a brilliant physicist named Stephen Hawking combined quantum mechanics with Einstein's General theory of Relativity (that's the theory that describes gravitation). In the quantum world, you can never precisely specify an object's position and velocity. If you know its position exactly, then the velocity must remain very uncertain, and if you know the velocity more precisely, then you are correspondingly less knowledgeable about its position. This is the principle that cats use to get from one side of a closed door to the other. The cat keeps very still while on the wrong side, waiting - this defines its velocity very accurately, and creates a major uncertainty about its position. As soon as the cat is on the other side, it scoots away at high velocity. In the case of a black hole, the uncertainty about position means that something that you believed was inside the Schwartzchild Radius, is actually outside, and therefore can escape. So, Hawking's application of quantum theory means that each Black Hole must be surrounded with a fuzzy area of matter that might or might not be there, and might or might not be escaping. This fuzzy area is technically known as the Black Hole's hairy region. By the way, another consequence of the General Theory of Relativity, is that as you approach the Schwartzchild Radius, time slows down, and at the edge of the Black Hole, time stops. So, the universe contains a great many hairy black holes. Either God designed women to resemble the cosmos, or else God designed the universe to resemble the human female, or else astrophysicists are as obsessed by sex as the rest of us. Jane's hairy black hole gripped my penis and drew it inside. It was completely irrelevant to Jane whether I had an erection or not, which was just as well, because my gonads hadn't recovered from the mauling they'd received yesterday. Have you ever wondered what a woman with an iron vagina could do to you? I'd recommend that you try not to think about it, or you might wind up doing something you'd regret. Jane had been into vaginal weight lifting for five years now, and had spent a lot of that time exploring what her powerful internal muscles could do to a totally limp penis, a steel training bar, and everything in between. The human hand is controlled by twenty-three muscles, some of them in the hand, some in your lower arm and connected to your fingers via tendons. Jane explained to me that the female vagina is similar, except that there are only nineteen muscles. Some of these are actually inside the vagina, some at the front of the crotch, some inside the abdomen, and some behind the genital area. But all of them can exert various forces on the vagina and its contents. Isn't evolution a wonderful thing? Just like the human hand, some of the vaginal muscles are for gross, heavy gripping (like the clenched fist), but some of them are for delicate, accurate work, such as the muscles that allow your second and third fingers to press together. As she explained it to me, I worked my hand to see what she meant. I guess a woman would understand it better. She gave me a guided tour. "Clenchor", she said, and it felt as if a vise had gripped my penis. "Flexor", and my penis was being bent. "Extensor", she announced, and while she gripped me, I was being stretched inside her. One at a time, she showed me what those nineteen muscles were for; she had voluntary control over each one of them, which is a pretty amazing feat. Take your socks off, and look at your hand. Spread your fingers. Now try to spread your toes. You can, because you have the same set of muscles down there, but you probably haven't developed your toe-spreading muscles very much, so you probably find it next to impossible. After giving me the show-and-tell demonstration, we rested, facing each other, and still kissing occasionally. My penis was still gripped by her iron vagina, which she was slowly pulsing to keep me interested. Then, she rolled us over so that she was on top, resting her weight on her hands, and while her large breasts dangled onto my chest, she started showing me what she could do if she worked her muscles in pairs. I calculated that if she had nineteen muscles, she must have 171 pairwise combinations. I don't think she put me through each of them, but I certainly felt it when, for example, she gripped and rotated my penis, then relaxed slightly to let it rotate back inside her slippery vagina. Jane's eyes were closed, and she looked pretty blissful herself - an after-effect of the double orgasm she'd just lived through. Chapter 14 - The power of the Iron Vagina Then she stopped playing games, and started to get serious. Her vagina gripped me all along my length, and Jane started applying pressure to the tip, then the root, then the tip, then the root. After a while, she changed her rhythm, so that the pressure was greatest on the left, then the right, left, right. This alternating pressure made my penis slide from side to side inside her iron vagina, until she gripped me all the way round, and used another of her internal delights to massage the end of my penis. All the feelings of groin strain had long since disappeared, and between my thighs and my waist, it felt like I had a twenty-inch penis, with five inch balls; if I had been in touch with reality, the truth was about a quarter of that. Rabbits are known for their fecundity, not their size. Jane used her extraordinary physical development to bring me to orgasm, and she used those same muscles to prevent my climax from happening. At first, her grip on my penis tightened so much as I came towards orgasm, that the orgasm was deferred, pushed back into my body. But after she had done this several times, she changed tack, and the allowed my penis to orgasm, but not to ejaculate. The intense constriction on the root of my penis stopped anything from getting through, leaving me with an end-of-knob climax, but not testiculate orgasm. I hadn't known that the two were divisible, but Jane obviously knew what she was doing, and demonstrated the divisibility of a male orgasm to me again and again. Without the testiculate orgasm, my sexual frenzy was unsatisfied. The more climaxes she delivered to the end of my penis, the more I wanted a testiculate orgasm. Every fiber of my being wanted to ejaculate; I suppose this is the instinctive wish to plant our seed in the uterus of a fertile female. I don't know how many times she orgasmed the tip of my penis. If you can count under such circumstances, you must be an accountant or a tax lawyer; it took all my strength and will power just to keep on breathing and to hang on to my sensibilities. Even so, I think my overload protection tripped a few times; I found I was recovering consciousness with Jane laying alongside me and stroking the short hairs on my chest. Each time I recovered, she would mount me as before, and get back to delivering the series of tip-orgasms that was wiping me out. Eventually, I think she decided that I'd gone as far as I could along that route. She released her hold on the root of my penis, and settled into a new stroke. It felt like satin-covered rollers were squeezing the base of my penis, then rolling the squeeze down to the tip. Before it got there, another set of rollers would start down, then another and another. I've seen water pumps that work on that principle, with rollers squeezing the water along a flexible tube. Jane was doing exactly the same thing to my flexible tube. It didn't take very long for me to come. Jane's action on my penis triggered my gonads to squirt a white-hot jet of semen down my urethra, and another, and another. After several devastating pulses, my orgasms faded to a dribble, but then I discovered Jane's true intentions. I did warn you that a woman with an iron vagina isn't just better than a normal woman; she's a different kettle of fish completely. To pump water with a water pump, you have to prime it by pouring a little water into the tube, so that the pumping mechanism has something to work on. Jane had primed my tube, and now her pump was operational. As the rolling squeeze moved down from the root to the tip of my penis, it was expelling a small amount of liquid, the residue of my orgasm. But that was creating a vacuum inside my urethra, and nature abhors a vacuum. The urethra refilled from the only source of liquid available to it, my bladder. For at least an hour, Jane's internal muscles gave me all the sensations of a full orgasm. Each ripple of her vaginal walls dragged a few drops of urine from me, only to be replaced from my bladder. Each contraction of her uterus pinched the tip of my penis, giving me a sharp sensation of climax as the liquid forced its way out of my urethra. I would not have thought that it was possible for a man to have an hour-long orgasm, and with a normal woman I would still say that it is impossible. But in Jane's iron vagina, time stood still. I didn't need an erection, I didn't need ejaculate - I didn't need anything at all, except to stay conscious while this extraordinary woman fucked my brains out. Eventually, she drained me dry. I was very glad that there were two beds in the room, as the one we were using was absolutely soaked with at least a quart of the liquid that Jane had pumped from my body. We showered and changed beds (Jane had to help me stand), and fell asleep in each other's arms. Chapter 15 - The weightlifting finals Next morning was the final of the contest. Never mind about groin strain, I was totally numb from my upper thighs to my waist. If you can just imagine how you'd feel after being pumped dry by a sex machine, after being drained of two pints of liquid by an erotic urine-pump, you can imagine how I felt, or rather how I didn't feel anything whatsoever. My thigh muscles were sore from exertion, although I couldn't remember doing anything with them, and my shoulders ached. I got dressed, moving like a worn-out old man. I noticed that Jane wasn't as bouncy as usual either - last night must have had an impact on her also. We got down to the contest hall, and Jane took her place with the other three girls on the stage. She was wearing a flowing silk dress, nothing underneath, her hair down, and she looked drop-dead gorgeous. Helga was wearing an almost non-existent silver bikini, and looked muscular and dangerous. The two Japanese girls looked Japanese, and inscrutable. A vaginal weight lifting contest is very straight forward. They keep increasing the weight, in five pound increments, until everyone is eliminated except the winner. Today, they started at thirty pounds, and one of the Japanese girls was out of it immediately. She'd only just managed twenty-five yesterday, and the night's rest hadn't made any difference. Jane, Helga and Mariko lifted the thirty pounds, and I came forward to give Jane a bit of a rub down with the towel, and to cheer her up. She still thought that Helga was much stronger than she was, but I pointed out that Helga was only strong on the outside, and what counted was the inside. This cheered Jane up a bit, and I felt only slightly guilty at bullshitting her. What I had said was true, but I had no reason to suppose that Helga wasn't as powerful on the inside as she looked on the outside. At forty pounds, Mariko couldn't keep the lifting bar inside her. She tried, and if effort was all that won the race, she deserved to win. But her body simply wasn't strong enough inside, and again and again the forty pound weight dragged the lifting bar out of her vagina, and she was unable to stop it. Mariko wasn't about to give up, though. Even after she'd failed the regulation three times, she tried a fourth time, and a fifth. Everyone cheered her on, even the other contestants, because although it wouldn't make any difference now to the outcome of the contest, everyone wanted to see Mariko succeed. Eventually, at about the seventh attempt, she hoisted the weight and managed to keep it in the air for several seconds. One of the judges rang the bell to indicate success, even though it was a long time before the required sixty seconds, and Mariko was so groggy from effort and pain that she couldn't tell that the judge had cheated to make her successful. Everyone cheered as Mariko gathered up her towel and left the stage, leaving only Jane and Helga. I was worried about Jane. She seemed to be having a lot of trouble with the forty pound weight, and although the lifting bar stayed firmly inside her iron vagina, she was having trouble straightening her back to get the weight in the air. Even the mighty Helga wasn't finding it too easy at that weight, and only managed on her third attempt to hold the weight suspended for the requisite sixty seconds. I came up on the stage to talk to Jane, rub her down, and offer advice and encouragement. "It isn't the lifting bar", she explained to me. She could grip the bar inside her vagina, no trouble. But forty pounds is a lot of weight for a girl to lift, and she wasn't used to heavy lifting. Jane was afraid that although her vagina could take a lot more punishment, she wouldn't have the strength to lift any more weight off the ground. I explained to her how to do it. Whenever you are lifting a heavy weight, the important thing is to get your balance right, and use your legs right. Get your legs planted squarely and firmly, get your back straight, and lift with your thigh muscles, not with your back. Lifting with your back is a sure way to back trouble in later life. The human backbone wasn't really designed to walk upright, let alone to lift heavy weights. Hundreds of millions of years of evolution had developed a backbone suitable for walking on all fours; the few million years spent walking upright had not been enough to develop a suitable structure for two-legged perambulation. Back trouble is one of the commonest skeletal problems. Everyone has a story about how their back went, but almost no-one complains about thigh problems. Jane nodded, thoughtfully. The bell rang for the next round. Helga went first. The forty-five pound weight was no trouble for her, but the lifting bar slid out of her vagina, and the weight crashed to the floor. She wiped herself thoroughly with a towel, and tried again. Once more, she was able to lift the weight clear of the ground, but could only hold the lifting bar inside herself for a few seconds. First the end peeped out, then a couple of inches, then the whole thing fell out in a rush, and dropped to the floor with a clang. Helga had one more attempt at this weight. She rubbed herself vigorously with her towel, closed her eyes in concentration, then slid the lifting bar into her vagina. She straightened up, lifting the weight clear of the ground. Her eyes were closed, her face screwed up with concentration and effort. At first, I thought she would succeed this time; her abdomen trembled with the effort. Her arms spread wide, her face lifted towards the ceiling, and she shouted a might roar of effort as she tried to retain the lifting bar inside her. But she couldn't stop the steady tug of gravity on the forty five pound weight, and although she was clearly using her best gripping action, the lifting bar slid out of her genitalia and landed with a crash on the weights below it. Helga had failed to keep the weight aloft for the necessary sixty seconds. Now it was Jane's turn. I thought that her vagina would be able to exert the necessary gripping forces, but would she be able to dead-lift forty five pounds? How much you can lift, depends on how you go about it. If you try to use just the strength of your arms, you'll be able to lift a lot less; if you do it with the strength of your legs, you'll manage a lot more. This is true for men, and is doubly true for women. Jane, bless her, had taken note of my advice. She squatted over the weight, with the lifting bar ready to insert into her powerful grip. In this position, the entire world could see up her skirt, into her bush, and inside her vagina, but if you want to be a modest munchkin, don't enter a vaginal weightlifting contest. She inserted the bar, straightened her back, and using the largest muscles that the human body has, the upper rear thigh muscles, Jane lifted forty five pounds as easily as any adult human being could. But there was one major difference between Jane and a normal adult - Jane was now supporting this weight entirely by the grip that her vagina was exerting on the lifting bar. Her legs were straight, her breasts pointed out towards the audience and TV cameras, and the only thing that Jane had to do now, was keep her vagina tightly clenched and her labia firmly closed. She stood there as the clock ticked, the strain obvious on her face. Her smile was a grimace of effort, and her jaw was tightly clenched, although I guessed not as tightly clenched as her genitals. But this was the girl who had crushed a green apple in her vagina last night, the girl whose orgasm could bend a lead-and-steel bar, the girl who could use her vagina to pump every last drop of moisture from a man in an orgasm lasting an hour. After sixty seconds, the judges bell rang, and Jane had won the vaginal weightlifting contest. Jane heard the bell, and knew that it meant that she had won. She raised her clenched fists in triumph, and the audience broke into tumultuous applause. I expected her to drop the weight she was lifting, but Jane had other ideas. There was forty-five pounds of weight dragging on a smooth steel bar inside her vagina, and she must have been aching to let go. But she didn't - she walked, stiff-legged over to the judges table. As she covered those few yards, every member of the audience held their breath, and I feel sure that the male members held something more. If you can imagine how difficult it is to hold forty-five pounds with just the muscles of your vagina, imagine how much more difficult it is to walk while maintaining that pressure. But Jane had even more to show us. When she arrived at the judges table, she clambered onto a chair, never once releasing her ferocious hold on the lifting bar. From the chair, she stepped up to the table top, turned to face the cameras, and only then released the lifting bar, letting the forty- five pound weight crash onto the judges table. Chapter 16 - The winner It was clear that Jane was not just the winner of this contest, but that it would be a very long time before any other woman could come even close to the irresistible power between her legs. One of the judges leaned close, to wrap the champion's belt round her narrow waist, and some music that sounded Japanese and triumphant was played. One of the judges took the microphone, and announced the winner first in Japanese, but then in English. "The winner of the Miss Iron Vagina contest with a lift of forty-five pounds - Miss Amanda Jane". There was applause and cheers from the audience, and about a quillion people crowded round Jane to shake her hand and congratulate her. I waited patiently until the crowd dispersed, then stepped forward to offer my own congratulations. I took her hands in mine, pulled her towards me, and kissed her with all the fervor of a man whose groin strain extended from his upper thighs to his waist, who had been pumped dry the previous night, and who still had almost no feeling left in his genitals. We left the hall as anonymously as we could. Unfortunately, the championship belt drew everyone's eyes to Jane, partly because it was such an unusual- looking belt for a woman to wear, and partly because when your breasts are as large as Jane's, wearing any kind of belt accentuates them, and makes them stand out in an obvious way. And when most of the women around are built the way that Japanese women usually are, the contrast of Jane's stupendous body was mind-boggling. We managed to get to a cab, and I suggested to Jane that she'd draw less attention if she didn't wear that striking belt. "No way", said Jane. "This stays on, possibly for ever." I thought of one way to get it off her, but that would have to wait until we got into the hotel. All eyes were on Jane as she strode across the hotel lobby and into the lift. The wide, dramatic belt made the contrast between her waist and her breasts even more pronounced than usual, and south of my equator, something stirred, in spite of the working over she'd given me yesterday. By the time we reached our room, I was playing touchy-feely, she was playing fumble-and- grope (that's like plug-and-play, only different), and we were both laughing and giggling happily. We fell onto the bed, and I started wrestling with her to get the belt off. She resisted, but after I'd tickled her into submission a couple of times, she let me unhook it; I took it off her, and we examined it. "World Vaginal Weightlifting Champion" was the legend on the belt, and presumably the same in Kanji. They certainly didn't mince words. I thought that the "World" part was a bit presumptuous, but Jane assured me that the sport simply didn't exist anywhere else. Interesting, I thought. Very interesting. A familiar flash of light exploded inside the old Rabbit-bonce, as an idea germinated and took root. I asked Jane what she planned to do now. "What do you mean?", she asked. "Well", you've reached the top of your sport. What will you do next?" Jane hadn't thought about that. She hadn't really thought past the point of competing, and she hadn't really expected to win. "I thought Helga would beat me", she explained. "She's so much stronger than I am - I didn't think I could manage forty-five pounds, and I thought she could." My little darling had had no trouble at all with forty-five pounds, once I got her to use her legs instead of her back for lifting. "So what now?", I repeated. "I guess I'll go back to my real job", she replied. I wondered what a woman with an iron vagina did for a real job, and asked her. Jane was a checkout girl in a supermarket. Gosh. Can you imagine it? You give your basket of groceries to a demure, pretty girl sitting on her stool, and as she passes the apples over the pricing beam, you have no idea that she could crush each of them to pulp in her iron vagina. I told her that she ought to sets her sights higher. "What do you mean?", she asked. Go professional, I explained - that's what every successful amateur does. "But there aren't any professional vaginal weightlifting contests", she protested. Which brought me to the second part of the idea I'd had. "It's about time there were," I said. I guessed that Americans would take to the sport even more than Japanese. After all, it involves our two favorite national pastimes, sex and violence. What could be more sexy than a woman like Jane lifting heavy weights with her vagina? What could be more violent than a vagina that can crush apples, and I wondered what other impressive feats of strength could be done with an iron vagina such as Jane's. Chapter 17 - Vaglifting "Vaginal Weightlifting" is a bit of a mouthful, and some people might find the first word offensive (although why the word "vagina" should be any more offensive than the word "elbow" beats me). So we'd abbreviate it to Vaglifting. I could imagine selling the rights to televise the contest, I could imagine selling the video, I could see a magazine entitled "Vaglifting World", with pictures of Vaglifters in various poses. I could see the movie, with a title like "Vaglifters". I could see the T-shirts, the souvenirs, the Official Vaglifter's Training Bars, in various weights and various sizes. I could envisage the whole merchandising thing. The commercial side of these things tends to get a bit sordid, but if you don't make money where you can, you wind up trying to make a living as a supermarket checkout girl, or worse. I explained it all to Jane, and she started getting as excited as me. "I hate that supermarket", she said. "It's the most boring job in all the world, and people treat you like a dumb idiot. I want to be a Vaglifter." We sat on the bed and started making plans for the future. We'd go back home, I'd get a manager to run the brewery, and Jane and I would between us launch a whole new sport on a stunned world - vaglifting. We'd do a training video on how to turn an ordinary woman into a vaglifter, we'd franchise vaglifting gymnasiums called Jane's. We'd start off with a small contest in California - you can do anything in California, as long as it's crazy - and then start up East Coast competitions. To start off, we'd get Helga and Mariko to compete, and any other women who we could tempt over from Japan. I worked out what scale of finance we'd need, I made a list of the different ways that we could extract the gold from this little gold mine, and I thought about the people I needed to hire to get things going. Jane was buzzing, too. For her, it meant that instead of a humdrum job as a checkout girl, she was going to be a national celebrity, and she'd spend a lot of her time vaglifting. She suggested that she could do exhibition lifts, be hired for private parties, do an act at a Vegas casino. I started thinking about the economic, political and social impacts of vaglifting; for example, if it became widespread, it would transform the crime of rape from an act of aggression on a helpless female, into a frightening (for the attacker) game of Russian Roulette, where the would-be rapist would never know if he was attacking a vaglifter, with dire consequences for his future health and masculine capabilities. If you were picking up a girl at a party, you would never know if you were letting yourself fall into the clutches of a powerful vaglifter. The training bar would be the badge of the vaglifter, but that meant that women who wanted people to think that they were vaglifters, would carry one in their handbag for show. With Jane as Vaglifting Champion, we could start a fan club, and sell subscriptions to a newsletter, signed photographs of Jane wearing her belt, of Jane vaglifting, of Jane wearing her belt while vaglifting. We could make videos of Jane vaglifting enormous weights, or performing other feats of vaginal strength. If she could bend her training bar when in an extreme state of passion, she should be able to put a dent in a half-inch bar with a quarter the force (the square law applies here). I could imagine a market for Jane's vaginally-bent steel bars. If she could crush an apple. then there must be other things she could crush, things that were more durable and hence saleable. I thought of the empty beer-cans that some men proudly crush in their fists, and wondered what shape an empty beer-can would be after it had endured the crushing force of Jane's vagina. Flat, I guessed. We spent quite a few hours planning the future. It was a busy future, but a satisfying one. Then I realized that there was one element of our future that I'd neglected to plan. "Jane.", I said, in a serious tone of voice. She half-turned to me, and the deep crimson and purple sunset behind her made her thin silk dress transparent, giving me a perfect view of her glorious breasts, and something fluttered inside me, the sensation that poets and lovers describe as "my heart missed a beat". But I pressed on, now was not the time to be distracted by a pretty girl. "Jane, will you marry me." For half a moment, she was perfectly still. Then her arms reached towards me, followed by the rest of that splendid body, knocking me over on my back and making me wrestle with her to stay on the bed. I lost, and we both rolled to the floor, Jane on top of me, knocking the breath from my lungs. "Yes", she said. "Yes". I guessed that I must be the luckiest Rabbit in the world. Jane was intelligent, pretty, voluptuous, and her iron vagina made her definitively the best fuck in the history of the human race. I loved her passionately, and she loved me too. I could give her a double orgasm pretty much any time I could find the strength, and even though she didn't believe in it, chocolate had more than the usual effect on her metabolism. She could leave me unconscious with excessive erogenous pleasure, or from the after-effect of an hour-long series of orgasms in which she would pump my bladder as dry as a bone, and make each drop feel as if I'd had a massive climax. I suspected that she had several more ways to use her iron vagina to turn my body into a molten mass of gratification and delight that she hadn't used yet, and I looked forward to finding out what they were. We rocked to and fro on the floor as we hugged and kissed, and whispered libidinous threats and lascivious promises to each other. I gave her some chocolate, and although she said something about calories, she took it. We climbed back on to the bed and continued to stroke and caress each other's bodies, the thin silk of Jane's dress proving to be no barrier against my fingers as they touched her shoulders, her small, her sides - even less of a barrier after I stripped it off her. It was time for intercourse with the most remarkable sex machine in the world. I didn't know exactly what Jane was going to do to me this time, but I knew that it would be about a hundred times better than sex with an ordinary woman. I knew what I was going to do to her - I was going to give her another double orgasm, and if I was really lucky, maybe even a triple. I started low, on her feet. The underside of a human foot is one of the most ticklish areas, everyone knows that. But I guess that not everyone knows what "ticklish" is all about. Sometimes, a human is sexually stimulated by someone who absolutely cannot be considered as a sexual partner - a parent, for example, or a child. Remember, the entire human body is one gigantic sexual organ, so it's impossible for anyone to touch anyone without causing at least some sexual stimulation. When the stimulation comes from a source that cannot possibly be considered sexual, the brain translates the sensation into "ticklish". You laugh, and try to get away from the tickler. It's all good, harmless fun - even small babies love to be tickled. Chapter 17 - Foot rape So, anywhere that the ticklee regards as ticklish, is a prime candidate for a lover's fingers. I had a good list of Jane's best places by now, to which I could add the places that everyone finds especially good, and the underside of the foot is one of those. And there are two feet to play with. There's a technique to foot-play. Well, I guess there are lots of techniques; everyone develops their own. My method is to trap the ankle between my legs, so that the foot sticks up in the air, with me facing it. I can then use both my hands. I started with the underside, and very soon, Jane felt like an earthquake underneath me. Before she could recover, I moved to the sides of the foot, using both hands to stroke up and down, and before long I had that foot reduced to a nerveless jelly. At that point, I punctuated the session by running my fingers between her toes, a place that hardly ever sees any attention, and finished by stroking the top of her foot, barely brushing the short hairs. By the time I'd finished, Jane's foot felt as if it were on fire, and as if it had been raped. Foot rape - there's a thought. People have two feet - I guess you knew that. I released one exhausted foot, and gave much the same treatment to the other one. After I'd reduced Jane's other foot to a quivering mess, I came back up to her other end, and we kissed and cuddled and whispered to each other some more. I reached down to her knee, and used my thumb and finger to touch those two delicate spots just above the patella, and then again just below the kneecap, triggering her knee-jerk reflex. Jane bucked, and tried to stop me, but I overpowered her, and continued to trigger her knee, until she was laughing so hard that she couldn't draw breath. Then I took pity on her, and wrapped my arms round her, and hugged her as hard as I could. She hugged me back pretty hard, and we went back to kissing and cuddling. The next move was Jane's. She'd learned a thing or two from her reactions to my hands, and she used her own hands on my feet. She was pretty good, for a beginner, although you don't need any great skill to be able to turn someone's foot into a twitching, shuddering, pulp. Actually, she was very good. Her hands were gentle but firm, and her fingers did some very nice things to each of my toes. I asked her to hold off for a moment, and showed her how I could spread my toes (an acquired skill, but totally useless except for impressing lovers). She tried to spread her toes, and found that she could, slightly, so we had a toe spreading competition, and if that sounds stupid to you, I guess you've never been in love. "Watch this", she said, and lay with her legs splayed, her knees raised. She clenched her teeth, and made a convulsive effort. Her training bar shot out of her iron vagina like an orange pip squeezed between your fingers, and lay on the bed, slightly glistening, somewhat bent, and very heavy - it weighed twenty pounds. I put it safely out of the way on a bedside table, and came round to have a good look at the hairy black hole that had just won the Iron Vagina competition. "We'll have to get you a new bar", I said. She'd been thinking about that herself, and had a better suggestion - two bars. She like my idea of a triple-metal bar, with uranium for weight, lead for shielding and stainless steel to protect the whole thing from corrosion. But on reflection, she thought that forty pounds was too heavy, and she wanted it to be about thirty. That would be her everyday walking-around training bar, giving her vagina something chunky and heavy to clench on continuously, to develop her internal muscles. She also wanted a night-time bar. While she was horizontal, there wasn't much point in having anything really heavy inside her, and a heavy bar would tend to fall out while she was asleep and her muscles nearly relaxed. But a light ten pound bar would give her vagina the comforting feeling of having something solid inside it, without being likely to escape from her grip into the bed. It would also be sufficient to protect my hands from damage from her powerful gripping muscles, when I used them on her clitoris, as there was no way that anything with delicate bones should be allowed inside her vagina. The ten pound bar could be a plain stainless steel bar, it wouldn't matter if it got slightly bent in the heat of passion, and it would be a lot cheaper to replace even if her vagina totally destroyed it. With her training bar out of the way, she rolled on top of me and gathered my penis into the vagina that had recently lifted and held forty-five pounds. She smiled down at me as she gently clenched a few times, and the numbness in my groin disappeared and was replaced with a stiffness, a delightful stiffness of the best kind. I reached forward, and pulled her left nipple into my mouth. I took her right nipple in one hand, and reached down to take her overdeveloped clitoris into my other hand. Jane's eyes closed in bliss as I tongued and massaged her three sensitive areas, and her iron vagina churned my penis like an ice-cream making machine. She pulled me deeper into herself, deeper and deeper, until my penis felt as stretched as a rubber band. I rubbed harder and harder, and Jane started her corkscrewing action, simultaneously gripping and twisting, gripping and pulling. The effect on my body was electrifying. I couldn't think, only feel. The top layer of the brain that governs mentation was entirely bypassed, and my body was reduced to instinct and reflex, governed by the second and third layers respectively. My instinct was to give Jane as good as I was getting; my reflexes were making my body twist and buck under her pleasant weight. I rubbed the underside of her breast, and moved one of my hands round to her backside, to get my fingers into contact with her sensitive inner anal skin. Jane started groaning loudly, and her vagina felt like white hot steel covered in satin, gripping me and pulling me deeper inside her. The force of her suction was stretching my penis to an extraordinary length, until her labia were gripping the base of my penis, while the tip was in contact with the entry to her womb. One of my hands was gripping her clitoris, and the other had just made contact with her internal anal skin, and at that moment, the helmet of my penis must had touched her G-spot, because that single touch sent Jane into a paroxysm of orgasm. Her vagina orgasmed, her clitoris climaxed and her anal area activated, dissolving Jane into a triple orgasm. The contractions of her vagina brought me to an immediate climax, flooding my semen down to the tip of my penis, but the vaginal compression at that point blocked it from going any further. Furthermore, as the crushing wave of force travelled from the tip to the base of my penis, my semen was forced back into my testicles. Jane's iron vagina then released my orgasm again, and once more it rushed down my urethra, bringing the feeling of white hot pleasure and pain with it. But by that time, Jane's powerful contractions had started again at the tip of my penis, and the semen was unable to escape. Once more, it was forced to back up through the inside of my penis, until the wave of powerful muscle contracting my root passed, and once more I was free to orgasm. As long as Jane's iron vaginal muscles rippled, my penis was progressively squeezed from the tip to the root, pushing my ejaculate back into me, and each time the wave of muscle passed, the orgasm caused by the returning rush of fluid seized my body with explosions of delight and agony. It became increasingly difficult for me to tell whether my body was feeling pleasure or pain; there's a point at which extreme pleasure feels very like pain. All I could tell, was that I seem to be getting about two orgasms per second, and the human body isn't built to take that much carnal gratification. Time seemed to slow down for me, just as it does as you approach the boundary of a Black Hole. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion; each half- second jolt of orgasm seemed to take longer and longer, and Jane's shrieks and my screams seemed to be receding further and further into the distance. My muscles were no longer under my control, and my body's instincts no longer functioned; I was just reacting according to the reflexes that had been laid down by my reptilian ancestors hundreds of millions of years ago. The load on my nervous system had long since passed the point at which it needed to cut out. Time stopped, and as my consciousness ebbed, I fell into a Black Hole. Chapter 17 - Damaged flesh I woke up in intense pain. I looked around me and saw a strange room. I smelled antiseptic, saw the hospital bed, and knew that something terrible had happened. Weakly, I looked round, and saw the bell-push. I rang the bell, and a small Japanese nurse appeared. I groaned at her, my mouth dry, and pointed to the water by my bedside. She poured a glass, and helped me sip some of it. This helped a lot - at least I could speak. "What happened?", I asked. "What's wrong with me?" "I get doctor," she said, "You OK for now?" I nodded, it was easier than speaking, and she glided away. I drifted into a semi-wakeful state. My mind was blurred and foggy, and I guessed that I'd been drugged. But why? The doctor arrived, and waved the nurse away. "It's your genitals", he began. Half of me froze in horror and anticipation of what was to come; the location of the pain I felt was exactly the place he was referring to. He told me that I'd been in a bad way when I arrived, but that the damage wasn't as bad as it had looked. That didn't tell me very much - what had I lost, and what wouldn't I be able to do? I asked him those questions. "Nothing is permanently damaged", he said, "But it will be some weeks before your body is able to completely repair itself. You should be able to urinate properly within a week, and resume a normal sex life within a month." No sex for a month? The damage must have been pretty great. "And", he continued, getting up to leave, "Don't ever put your genitals again into whatever instrument you used." The doctor left, and I drifted off to sleep again. The next time I woke, my brain was clearer, and the pain was sharper. I guessed they'd taken me off whatever pain-killing drugs they'd put me on. The pain, although great, was bearable. I remembered what the doctor said, and wondered if I should tell him that the instrument that he referred to was a woman's vagina. After a while, the doctor returned, and asked me how I felt. "It hurts", I said, "but only when I laugh." "You're lucky you didn't do any permanent damage", he replied. He brought out some color photographs of an object that was red with blood, and looked broken and twisted. "That's what you did to yourself", he said. I looked in horror at the picture of my ruined genitals. "You're lucky you didn't do anything permanent", he continued. He pulled down the bedclothes, and held up a mirror so that I could see my penis. It looked redder than it should, it was limp and shrunken, but otherwise normal. I closed my eyes with relief. "What did you use on it?", he asked. I decided to tell the truth; if I started making up lies, things would get complicated. I explained to him about the vaginal weightlifting competition, and about Jane, the winner, and about some of the things I'd seen her do. I'm not sure whether he believed me or not, but he said "Well, the advice is the same. Don't put your penis into a place that can do this to you." He showed me the photographs again. He told me that they got a lot of people who sexually mutilated themselves by accident. Vacuum cleaners were a common problem, but there seemed to be no limit to human ingenuity when it comes to sexual ideas. He also spent a lot of time extracting various objects from various orifices; bottles were a favorite, but he'd also had to fish out lightbulbs, cucumbers and bananas. I explained to him again, this had happened in an ordinary female vagina. Well, maybe not ordinary. And he repeated his advice to me - whatever I'd done, don't do it again. I had to admit, looking at the photographs, I could see his point. But once you've been with someone like Jane, how could an ordinary woman have any appeal? After an iron vagina has given you an hour- long orgasm, how could you contemplate being content with the few seconds that an ordinary woman can give you? After a week, I was able to go to the toilet without too much pain, and they discharged me from the hospital. As I was getting ready to leave, one of the nurses handed me an envelope. I opened it, and read the letter inside. Dear Sam, I love you. I'll always remember the last three days as the high point of my life. Good things happen to me when you're around. Without your help, I wouldn't have won the competition, and your lovemaking arouses me to an intensity I hadn't known possible; you make me lose all control of myself. And that's what happened last night. Sorry is such an inadequate word - how do I apologize for the fact that my genitals have destroyed yours. The hospital tells me that you'll probably recover the functionality of your penis, but that you mustn't repeat whatever you'd done. I didn't have the courage to tell them that I'd done this to you. They've put you on painkillers, and it'll be a week before they taper off the dose. Sam, I'm no good for you. I could lose control the same way, at any time, and maybe next time the damage will be worse. I can't live with that thought; what I've already done to you is bad enough. Oh Sam, you should see what it looks like, I feel awful. It looks like vaglifting isn't going to be the next big sport. I'm going back home, back to my quiet life, back to being a supermarket checkout girl. I'm sorry I hurt you so much. If you think about me, please think about the good things we shared. Amanda-Jane I read the letter, and read it again. This couldn't be happening. There must be some mistake. She couldn't just leave me like this - I loved her, truly, madly, deeply, and she loved me. There had to be some way we could belong to each other. The pain in my groin was replaced by a sick sensation in my heart, as I realized that I didn't even know how to find her. True love conquers all, doesn't it? So how come all I've got no Jane, a sore dong and some wonderful memories? Copyright (c) 1995, 1996 Rabbit Productions <>