Diana's Revenge
By Diana the Valkyrie
Diana's boyfriend dies in a mugging; Diana deals with the mugger


This is the sixth in the series of stories by Diana. I'd just 
like to emphasise that, although I am rather stronger than average, what 
follows is entirely a fantasy of mine. I made it up. It didn't actually 
happen. And I'm glad it didn't. It's quite horrible, actually. 

If sex and violence isn't you, then don't read it. There rather a lot of 
violence in this one, blood and other unpleasant bodily fluids. Lots of 
sex, too, so if you're a minor definitely don't read it. And tickling. 

I still haven't actually spoken to the guy on the underground. Maybe 
he'll read this and remember the girl who pretends not to look at him. 
She's blonde, and she wears tortoiseshell combs in her hair, and she's a 
bit wide in the shoulders, but quite pretty when she smiles. And if you 
speak to her nicely, she'll be ever so nice to you. And if you don't 
speak to her, one of these days she's going to get up her courage and 
speak to you. And watch out if she's wearing ivory combs. 

If sex and violence isn't you, then don't read it. There rather a lot of 
violence in this one, blood and other unpleasant bodily fluids. Lots of 
sex, too, so if you're a minor definitely don't read it. And tickling. 



(C) Diana the Valkyrie, 1996. Email me at valkyrie@thevalkyrie.com



Imagine my surprise when Clint from Elay phoned me up, and offered me a 
job! Well, he didn't quite offer me a job, but he told me that maybe it 
wouldn't be impossible to more than match my current salary. Men can be 
so roundabout sometimes. And would I like to come for a job interview, 
to convince the Powers That Be at Roberts and Foster that I was worth so 
much salt. And while I was in Elay, he said, he'd show me the sights. 

Well, I knew the sights he had in mind, the ceiling of his bedroom being 
the main one, but I expect he had lots of other ceilings for me to look 
at. Not that I'm averse to staring at ceilings, you understand - with 
the right sort of bloke on top, you don't actually notice the ceiling 
very much. Anyhow, it sounded good to me, so I told Nigel, who the world 
thinks of as my boss, to give me a couple of weeks off, and accepted 
Clint's kind offer. 

Elay was warm and pleasant, well you'd expect that in California. Clint 
was warm and pleasant too, which you'd also expect given what we'd done 
together last time I was there, and how well I'd done it. 

He met me off the airplane and whisked me off to his house, where I 
soaked away the misery of the long flight in a hot bath (Americans call 
them tubs), and put on a rather demure long silk dress for him to take 
me out and show me off to his friends. And I wore my antique ivory combs 
in my hair. 

Of course, I'm on the side of the elephants, but the elephant that 
donated the ivory for my combs died a hundred years ago (I got them from 
Gran, and I'm not sure where she got them), and throwing the combs away 
wouldn't do him any good. And I can't tell you the buzz I get from 
wearing such beautiful and precious objects in my hair. And I use them 
for something extra special, as a kind of signal. You see, ivory is a 
kind of horn, and I wear my ivory combs when I'm especially horny. I'm 
moderately horny most of the time, but at some times I'm hornier than at 
other times. So if you see me wearing my ivory combs, you know that you 
aren't going to have to try terribly hard to get me on my back. In fact, 
you might be hard pressed to keep me off you. And if I'm wearing my 
ivory combs and a sexy smile, you're definitely in for a hard time. Or 
maybe a soft time. Well, you know what I mean. 

Well, let's not overstate this, I'm not ugly, but I'm not so pretty that 
you'd notice me in a crowd, and I certainly wouldn't claim to be 
beautiful. But men seem to notice me when I make a bit of an effort to 
be noticed, especially if I wear something thin and silky, hold my head 
up and push my shoulders back. I was still very jetlagged - that means 
that your stomach says it's dinnertime when your clock says it's the 
middle of the night, and vice versa, and what it does to your bowel 
regularity is nobody's business. So I was still quite muzzy as we left 
the restaurant and walked to the car park, and on the way there, we got 
mugged. 

How come Diana gets mugged, you're probably thinking. How can a 
girl who can break six inch iron nails with her bare hands, fail to cope 
with a single mugger, you're wondering. Well, first of all I was 
jetlagged, and not at my best. And secondly, Clint hurled himself in my 
way, and I had to hold back or I'd have tripped over him. Very gallant, 
was Clint, but if he'd thought for a moment he'd have realised that I 
was probably better equipped to cope than he was. But thinking isn't 
what men do best, they're better at doing, especially if the doing 
doesn't need any thought. And Clint didn't think, he just acted. 

Clint's a big fellow, and he'd probably have been able to cope, except 
that the mugger smashed him over the head with some heavy metal object 
he was holding, and Clint went down like a sack of coal. I looked at the 
mugger and thought about how he'd feel when my hands tore into his soft 
tender body, and I was just about to reach for him for a demonstration 
of how painful it can be when a strong woman takes you in her hands, 
when I noticed that the heavy metal object he was waving around was a 
large and emphatic gun. 

I don't know anything about guns, they aren't very common in England. 
But I knew enough to realise that this was a particularly large 
specimen, and that maybe I should be careful. So I started crying. This 
might sound a bit cold blooded, but people expect girls to cry, and it 
makes me look all helpless and vulnerable. "Please don't hurt me, 
please?" That's a line I know how to deliver - I've heard it often 
enough, said with feeling. He laughed, and gestured with the gun. "Gimme 
ya snutch, bitch!" I had to think about that for a few moments to work 
out what he wanted, and I had to guess in the end; either sex or money. 
So I guessed money, I wasn't sure if I fancied having sex with him, and 
I can always get more money. 

Well, of course, I'd only just got off the plane, and all I had was 
plastic and travellers checks. He looked angry at that, and waved his 
gun around some more while I did my impression of a woman on the verge 
of hysterics. Unfortunately, he didn't get close enough for me to grab 
him or his weapon. "Cash, pretty bitch, gimme, now", so I rummaged in my 
bag, and found some English money, and tried that. He glanced down at 
it, and I saw the vulture tattoo on the back of his hand, then he looked 
at me, rage in his eyes. "What the fuck? Toy money?" So I tried to 
explain to him that it was UK currency, legal tender where I came from, 
and I simply didn't have any dollars, and he said "Dis me sis? Dis me?" 
and I have no idea what that means, but then he tried to hit me on the 
head with his gun, and I saw it coming and ducked, and got hold of his 
gun hand in mine, and I squeezed his wrist, and the rest should have 
been very simple, because when I dig my thumb into your wrist it's like 
a red hot poker going in, except that there was a huge explosion, and it 
felt like someone kicked me really hard in the leg, and I just blacked 
out. 

I came to lying in bed. I hurt all over, but then I did a careful 
inventory, you know? Toes, ankles, knees and so on? Everything answered 
"Present", except around my upper thighs, which just said "Ouch". I 
remembered the mugger, I remembered the vulture, I remembered the gun 
and I remembered the bang. The gun must have gone off and from where the 
pain was, the bullet hit me in the leg. 

I looked round me. "Where am I?" I thought, there being no-one around to 
deliver this corny line to. Obviously in a hospital from the look and 
the smell. Then the pain from my leg hit me, and it was all I could do 
not to cry out. 

I opened my eyes again, and there was a nurse. Had I blacked out? I must 
have. "And how are we feeling then?" "One of us is fine, the other one 
feels awful". Then I had to explain the joke to her. Then she explained 
to me that I'd been raped and shot in the leg. Raped? Me? Raped? How do 
you rape a girl who can break iron nails with her fingers? You shoot her 
in the leg and rape her while she's unconscious, that's how. And now she 
came to mention it, yes, the pain wasn't just in my thigh, it was just 
that the pain in my thigh was so bad, it masked everything else. 
"Actually, I was shot then raped", I said, as if it made any difference. 

"We've got the bullet out, you were lucky, it didn't hit anything 
important." Oh yes it did, I thought. I consider any part of me 
important. But she meant it hadn't hit a bone, in which case I'd not be 
walking for a few months, or the femoral artery, in which case I'd be 
dead. So I suppose it's all relative. "How's Clint?" Blank look. "The 
guy I was with?" Puzzled look. I gave up, I expect they put him in the 
men's ward, maybe someone else would know. She straightened my sheets 
and fluffed up my pillow, and I was just wondering where Roger was when 
I fell asleep again. Apparently that's quite normal when you've lost a 
lot of blood. 

Next time I woke up, there was a nice lady wearing mostly blue by my 
bedside. She said she was from LAPD, which means the police, and she 
wanted to take my story while it was fresh in my mind. So I told her 
everything, including the fact that I was kind of expecting to get lucky 
with Clint, well, kind of certain really, and she put her hand on mine, 
and said "Clint died yesterday." What? "Fractured skull, clot of blood 
in the brain, they tried to save him, but they couldn't." 

Wow. That could just as easily have been me, was my first thought, and 
then I was ashamed of myself, because Clint was dead and I wasn't. "He 
was murdered" I said. "That bastard murdered him. You've got to arrest 
him, and hang him." Well, I know they don't hang people here, but I know 
they do something nasty to murderers, and I wasn't thinking about the 
finer points. "Maybe the vulture will help you find him, there can't be 
that many people with a vulture tattoo on the back of their hands." 

So she explained there was a local gang, the Vultures, and they did 
mugging, extortion, and other bad things, and they got away with it 
because they intimidated witnesses, plus they had good lawyers. And 
unless I could do a really positive identification, plus they got a 
confession, there wasn't going to be much they could do. 

After she left, I cried. I don't cry very often, but I cried for Clint, 
and he was so full of life, so big and juicy, and all he wanted was to 
get me fucked, and I wanted the same thing, and he'd never fuck a woman 
again, or do any of the other good things of life, he was dead and gone 
and finished, and his family would weep and mourn him, and he'd leave a 
hole at his work, but ultimately he was just flesh, just another dead 
human being, like we'll all be one day, and I cried. 

Next time I woke up, there was a guy in a suit, and he wanted to know 
how I proposed to pay the hospital. Now, I knew academically that 
American medicine works this way, but I'm used to paying for health care 
via taxes, and of course all I had was my credit cards and travellers 
cheques, and that was way too little. So I asked if I could make a few 
phone calls. 

The first call, George wasn't in. The second call, Rodney was in, and I 
explained the situation, and he said "Don't move, Diana, I'll fly out 
there." I assured him I'd stay put for a while, and that it was awfully 
sweet of him to come and help me, and I'd make it up to him when I felt 
better, and although I didn't feel sexy, I can put it into my voice when 
I need to. So I told the man in the suit that my boyfriend was on his 
way, and he'd take care of me. 

Well, Rodders isn't "my boyfriend", I don't operate that way, but I had 
slept with him once and given him an experience he'd never forget. Have 
you ever been fucked into oblivion by a woman much stronger than you? If 
you haven't, you simply won't be able to imagine what it's like. Maybe 
I'll explain later. Anyway, Rodders had, and quite liked the idea of 
helping me out of a hole, especially if I'd make it up to him later. And 
I fell asleep again. 

Time passed. I know that, because when I woke up, Rodders was sitting 
reading a book. I felt slightly peeved, why wasn't he gazing tenderly at 
my face? Because after the first hour of that, it gets a bit tedious 
watching someone sleep, of course. Anyway, Rodders was a darling. He'd 
organised between my office and the hospital for payment, he'd found a 
hotel for me to stay at for a week after hospital before I'd be fit 
enough to fly, and he'd booked an air ticket, first class so I could sit 
with my leg stretched out. And he'd brought my luggage from Clint's 
flat, I didn't want to think about Clint right now. "Rodders, you're a 
sweetheart, come here so I can kiss you" which I did, but just a 
sisterly kind of kiss, because various things still hurt quite a lot. 
And in particular, it wasn't just my thigh that hurt. It still did, of 
course, quite a lot, but not as much as before, and it had calmed down 
enough for me to feel the pain between my legs. 

After Rodders had gone, I got the nurse to fetch a doctor. "Doctor, I'm 
a big girl, I'm feeling a lot better, it's my body, what's the damage?" 
He explained there was a hole in my leg, they'd taken the bullet out, 
but now it had to heal over, and I'd need to do physiotherapy to make 
sure I retained all the freedom of movement. "How many stitches?" In the 
leg, eighteen. "And?" The doctor looked hesitant. 

"Look. It's my body, I know I'm injured, but I'm not a child, and I want 
to know the damage." "May I call you Diana?" He sat down on the bed and 
I nodded. "Diana, he raped you." I nodded. "I know, I feel violated, 
dirty. I want to wash myself out." "Diana, he raped you with his penis, 
and then with his gun." 

My mind went blank. Huh? How do you rape someone with a gun? And why? 
I've raped a few men, well, not really rape as such, kind of 
overenthusiasm really. I mean, when they say yes to the first few, you 
kind of assume that the yes persists. In the heat of passion, you don't 
take votes about whether to stop or go on, do you? But with a gun? "We 
had to put a few stitches in you." "How many?" "Forty-three. It's 
delicate work inside there, and difficult." I felt weak all over. 
Inside? Jesus! How could a man do a thing like that to a girl? I mean, 
if I rape someone, it's for the pleasure of both of us, and afterwards 
they say they enjoyed it really, and could we do it again some time? But 
that bastard stuck a gun up my vagina and tore me up inside - how could 
a sane human being do a thing like that? I thanked the doctor, and asked 
if he could do me a favour, if he could rummage in my luggage and fetch 
me a stuffed dog in there? 

He did, and I buried my head in Roger and cried and cried and cried, and 
this one was for me, which is something I *never* do. 

A week later, they let me out of hospital, making me promise to do my 
leg exercises and to report back once per day to out-patients, because 
they had to check that I wasn't developing an infection. So Rodders and 
I stayed in a hotel, and it was all very chaste, because for once in my 
life I wasn't horny, and Rodders got to see me in my sexy night-gown, 
because I don't have anything else, and I don't want anything else. But 
he didn't try anything, not that I couldn't have dealt with it if he 
had. 

Except I felt something I'm just not used to. I wondered if I really 
could deal with him. Now you might think it's absurd that a girl who can 
break six inch nails with her bare hands, should wonder whether she can 
handle a guy like Rodders. But you haven't just been raped with a gun up 
your vagina, and had forty-three stitches there. It shakes your self 
confidence. And I wasn't used to that, I know that a lot of people spend 
their whole lives doubting themselves, but I was normally full of 
confidence in my ability to handle any situation. And now it had been 
rammed home to me, that I was as vulnerable as anyone else. 

I brooded in that hotel room for a week. I thought about my new self 
doubts. I cried for Clint a couple more times, it wasn't that I knew him 
that well, it wasn't that I was in love with him, it wasn't that I 
blamed myself for what had happened. But he'd been as close to me as a 
man can get to a woman, and now he was dead. And I cried for myself, I'd 
been raped with a gun, and my leg hurt like hell when I tried to use it, 
it was like every movement was torture, but I had to do it, the hospital 
said, or my leg wouldn't heal properly, so I walked round the room, 
carefully, like on eggshells. And each night, I cried into Roger. 
Rodders heard me, I'm sure, and offered to comfort me, but the last 
thing I wanted was a man's arms round me. And I cried even more about 
that, because I'm a randy little rabbit, and love to fuck, and now I 
didn't want to. 

But most of all, I thought about the bastard who had done this to me, 
had killed my lover Clint, shot me in the leg, and raped me with his 
gun. And I thought what the policewoman had said, that he'd get away 
with it, that they weren't going to prosecute, because it would be my 
word against his, no evidence, no witnesses. And I thought he can ruin 
my life and just walk away? 

And then one night, I was whispering to Roger, you know how you can 
whisper to a stuffed dog without actually making any sound at all, 
telling him how terrible I felt, how all I wanted to do was crawl into a 
hole and retire from the world, and I didn't even feel like sex, and 
Roger whispered back to me, he does that sometimes, he's a magic sort of 
a stuffed dog, and he doesn't make any sound either, and he said "Diana,
you should be ashamed for talking like that, this isn't the 
strong woman that everyone falls in love with!" And he was right, I was 
being weak, weak as the "beer" Americans drink, and that wasn't me, that 
was the injuries talking. And I told Roger he was absolutely right, and 
that you can't do something like this to Diana and get away with 
it, and if no-one else could do anything about it, I certainly could, 
and would! I made Roger a promise, and with that, I fell asleep. 

A week later, they took the stitches out. The ones in my leg were no big 
deal, just snip and pull. So when they asked me if I wanted a general 
anaesthetic for the ones inside me, I did my "brave little woman" thing, 
the female equivalent to the "macho man" thing, and said no, I can cope, 
no problem. 

You see, a general anaesthetic has an impact on your body like being hit 
by a sledgehammer. So medical practice is not to give you a general 
unless the operation is a really big deal. And removing stitches isn't 
such a big deal, is it? 

It was for me. It was like being raped, all over again. I lay on my 
back, legs spread, feet secured in clamps. They put a tiny TV camera 
inside me, can you imagine that? The whole world could have looked 
inside me, I mean inside me, right inside my most private place. That 
was bad enough. But then, with scissors and tweezers, they removed each 
stitch, one at a time, and I felt every single one, I can tell you. 

You think you know pain? You don't know pain. Men don't know about pain, 
all they ever experience is some discomfort. Talk to any woman who's had 
a baby, she'll explain to you about pain. Easily 24 hours of pain. Pain 
that you know you can't avoid, that you have to endure. Pain that you 
can anticipate for months ahead of time. Pain that lasts and lasts, 
slowly gets worse and worse, so that each time you think it's as bad as 
it can get, it gets worse again. Pain so bad you can't breathe, you 
can't talk, you can't think. Men don't know pain. 

Having my stitches out wasn't as bad as the descriptions I've heard of 
having a baby. Except at the end of it, there wasn't any bundle of joy 
suckling on my breast and smiling joyfully up at me. Just more pain. And 
I was awake right through, and afterwards I cried again, for no 
particular reason, just a general cry because I felt so sorry for 
myself, and that definitely isn't me. 

But I had Roger with me. And that night, Roger and I whispered to each 
other a lot, I couldn't sleep because of the pain inside me. I explained 
to Roger what I'd worked out for the bastard who'd done this to me. 
Killing him was too simple. I had a plan that would make his life the 
living hell he'd turned my life into. Pain, yes, lots of pain, but also 
mental suffering, humiliation and emotional torment. I've never really 
tried to fuck a man up, any damage I've done has been purely accidental, 
physical and mental. I mean, it isn't my fault if a man falls in love 
with me. Well, I suppose it is a bit, you have to encourage them. And a 
few bruises in the heat of passion never hurt anyone. But for this evil 
bastard, I would go out of my way to really screw him up. In lots of 
ways. And the thought of that kept me going. 

Three weeks later, after they'd taken the stitches out, I told Rodders 
what I intended. "I'm going to track down that bastard and screw him up 
so badly that he'll wish he was dead", and although other people can 
threaten something like that, I think I could actually do it. I mean, 
physically can, and with what he'd done to me, emotionally as well. "How 
will you find him?" Men are so practical. "Yellow pages?" I joked. But I 
thought, if the Vultures are that well known, it shouldn't be too 
difficult to locate one, and then I could work my way in, as it were. 
And I'd recognise the bastard when I saw him, no problem. But where to 
start? 

The police lady had told me that the Vultures were into prostitution in 
a big way, so I thought, that's a good place to start. I went out and 
bought myself a tart's outfit, you know the kind of thing? Skirt too 
short, blouse too tight, and far too much makeup. And that evening, I 
found the right sort of area, and went out cruising. Except I didn't 
actually want any customers, so I pitched my price way too high. A 
couple of the other girls told me to fuck off, it was their patch, but I 
ignored them, and sure enough, a pimp came by to have a bit of a word 
with me, and he rudely offered to cut my nose in half if I didn't fuck 
off. 

I noticed with pleasure the vulture on the back of his hand, and acted 
all innocent, like I'd just come out of the egg, and offered to work for 
him, if he'd protect me. 

"I'll be good at it, I can do all the things men like" I said. "Are you 
Australian?" he asked. Huh? "No, I'm English, why?" "Love the accent", 
he said. I've noticed this - Americans seem to think I have an accent, 
but I don't, honestly. "You sound kind of high class", he said, "Maybe 
we can say you're a duchess or something? Call you Lady Di maybe?" Well, 
my name is Diana, but I hadn't planned to tell him that. And I am a 
lady, well I try to be ladylike. "My name's Sharon Tracy, call me Shar, 
but I guess you can give me the professional name of Lady Di" And, of 
course, he didn't see the humour in the name I gave him, and if you 
don't either, I'm not going to explain it. Nor am I going to explain the 
joke about the professional name I'd been given, certainly not. If you 
need it explained, ask and Englishman. "Let's see what you can do", he 
said, and took me back to a garishly overdecorated flat. And then he 
romantically pulled down his trousers, and romantically said "OK, suck 
my dick, sister." Yuck. I knew what he wanted, but no way, no way. For a 
start, he smelled bad. "Uh, John, can we do this my way, and I promise 
you it'll be an experience you'll never forget." What I wanted from him, 
was his willing co-operation to help me find the bastard who raped me. 
And to get it, I had to make him dependent on me. 

First, I asked him to join me in the bathroom. Under the pretence of 
erotic games under the shower, I got most of the dirt and smell off him, 
so at least I wasn't totally nauseated by his odour. He kept trying to 
touch my breasts, which are not huge, but are perfectly adequate thank 
you, and men do look at them a lot, but I wouldn't let him, because I 
have this terrible problem when a man touches my breasts, I get so horny 
I sometimes lose control. Then we helped each other get dry, and he told 
me "Lady Di, you're quite a bundle of fun", and I said "You just wait, 
that's nothing", and we went into the bedroom. "Now you suck my dick" he 
announced, but I told him I've got something even better. 

The reason why men like to have their cocks sucked off, is because most 
women have a lot more control with their mouths, plus you can use your 
tongue to stroke the underside, plus you can use your hands on the 
associated regions. But when a strong woman like me gets hold of you, I 
can do things with my body that ordinary women simply couldn't hope to 
be able to do. 

First, I got him on top of me, that's just because I prefer to be 
underneath, I like to feel the weight of a man on me. Also, it gives him 
the impression that he's the dominant one, well, for a while at least. 
Then I opened my legs, and felt his dick flop limply down onto my labia. 

And at that point, I thought about being raped with a gun, and I felt 
ill. But then I heard Roger whispering to me from several miles away, 
he's magic is Roger, and he was saying "Come on, you're Diana, 
you can handle this wimp!" And he was right, of course. So I moved my 
legs up, and bent myself backwards, raising my hips off the bed, so that 
his dick fell into my vagina, and I clamped down hard on it, which made 
him groan in pleasure, and I felt it stiffening slightly inside me. I 
thought of the forty-three stitches, then I thought "Come on, Diana", 
and I bucked my body to toss him up and out of me, then when he fell 
back down, I got him more fully inside me, a wriggled sideways a bit to 
give him a thrill. "Oh, wow", he said. "You see? I told you I'm good at 
this." I shimmied my hips a bit, then tossed him up again, you need a 
strong back for this. And when he came down inside me, he yowled. 

Men aren't used to being tossed up and down like this, they think they 
have to do all the hard work. That's one of the reasons why a strong 
woman is so good at sex. There are lots of others, but John was about to 
discover one of the big drawbacks. I slid my fingers under his arms, and 
dug them into his armpits, hard. 

He screamed, not too surprisingly. Look, put your own fingers into your 
armpit, and probe around, but do it carefully, or you'll hurt yourself. 
Now imagine a woman who can break six inch nails with her bare hands, is 
digging her strong hard fingers into those delicate areas.  As I say, he 
screamed, and then he screamed some more. 

So I stopped hurting him, and said "Oh, John, did I hurt you?" And I 
clenched myself round his penis and gave him some more of Diana's 
Delight. But after a few minutes of that, I took his elbows into my 
hands and rubbed the nerve on the back, the one that when you bang it, 
you say you've banged your funnybone, and your arm is useless for 
several minutes afterwards. Except that I rubbed the nerve really hard, 
and dug my thumbs into the inside of his elbow at the same time, and the 
pain was even worse than when I'd done his armpits. 

This time, he didn't even scream - he couldn't, he could barely gasp, 
but he did quite a lot of gasping. After a few minutes, I let go of his 
elbows, because I couldn't hurt him there any more, after a certain 
amount of pain the nerves that carry the message overload, and it just 
goes dead. 

Then with his arms pretty much useless, I rolled him off me - no point 
in trying to pretend who was dominating whom - and straddled myself on 
top of him. I took his hands in mine, time for a few explanations, and a 
few lies. 

"Jonny, darling, there's a few things you need to know. First of all, 
you have to understand how soft and helpless you are." I squeezed one of 
his hands in both of mine, and I could feel the small soft bones bending 
and sliding under the pressure. His arms were dead from my previous 
attacks, so he couldn't pull away. I griped and relaxed, gripped and 
relaxed, not quite breaking the little bones, but coming dangerously 
close. His breathed like a drowning man, in short gasps, and he made a 
sort of high pitched keening sound. "But that's Nasty Lady Di. Here's 
Nice Lady Di..." and I lay down on top of him, and rubbed my body 
against his, and stroked his hair and held his head to my breasts until 
I'd soothed away most of the pain. Then I rolled us again so he was on 
top, and in that position, I fucked him, slowly, carefully and 
intensely. I didn't let him come, because I'm a bit fussy about what 
winds up inside me these days, but I finished him off with my two strong 
hands milking his penis until he was screaming as loudly with pleasure 
as he had been with pain. "And now for Nasty Lady Di again", and I took 
his other hand in both of mine, and mangled it, being careful not to 
actually break anything. 

An hour later, I had him fully programmed. I've found in the past that a 
careful mixture of pleasure and pain will turn any man into a docile 
pet, anxious only to please his owner. Time for a few lies. "There's a 
guy in the Vultures I met once, and I fell in love at first sight. I 
don't know his name, but I want a chance to meet him again. So I want to 
be your girlfriend, and go with you to Vulture parties, so I can show 
him what he's missing." Jonny looked up at me adoringly. "Lady Di, 
you're more woman than any man could handle. I'll do anything you want, 
only ..." "Yes?" "Please, no more Nasty Lady Di?" I smiled down at him. 
"That depends on whether you're a good boy or a naughty boy." I stood up 
and looked down at him, lying on the bed, his arms lying uselessly by 
his side. I bent down and lifted him into my arms, like a baby, facing 
upwards. Then I lifted him higher, up to my shoulders. Then I pressed 
him up, high over my head. There's nothing as intimidating as being 
lifted over a woman's head, and this little guy wasn't even as heavy as 
me, although I have to admit I'm kind of solidly built. Anyway, I was 
holding him up near the ceiling, and he was scared I'd drop him, and I 
was telling him he was right to be scared, because a drop from that 
height could break his back, especially as he couldn't break his fall 
with his useless arms. And he was crying, pleading, begging me not to 
drop him, he'd do anything I wanted, and I was calmly explaining to him 
that if he didn't want to see Nasty Lady Di he'd better be as good as 
possible. Then I stepped away from under him and let him drop. He 
screamed all the way down, to the floor, and when he landed, he bounced 
a few inches, like a dead cat. Then he lay there weeping, he'd wet 
himself and stank of urine, and I sat next to him and quietly explained 
that he'd just been lucky, Nice Lady Di had taken pity on him, and next 
time he might not be so fortunate. I might have thrown him down, not 
just dropped him. So then I picked him up again, hoisted him over my 
head, his nose almost brushing the ceiling. In fact, he was so close, 
that when I flexed my legs and threw him upwards, he bounced off the 
ceiling before he bounced off the floor. I picked him up a third time, 
and this time he broke down, and started weeping hysterically, and 
screaming with terror. So I rewarded him by letting him down gently, 
laying him on the bed, and then I kissed him, very softly and 
delicately. And then I went home, leaving him to his thoughts. 

When I got home, I was as horny as a goat, for the first time for ages. 
So I celebrated by reminding Rodders what it felt like to be thoroughly 
fucked by a strong woman, and why he'd just flown the Atlantic to see me 
when I called him. I reminded him a few times, nine to be exact, I 
always keep count of these things, I guess I must be a bit compulsive. 
All the anguish and hate left me as I heard the sweet music of his 
screams of ecstasy, and his "Oh, Diana" after each time, and his "Oh, 
no, Diana, not again" before each time, but men never mean no when they 
say no, they always mean they want to be coerced a bit, so I coerced 
him, I'm good at coercion when it comes to fucking, not that he needed 
much coercion. 

After nine, even I felt a lot better, so I wrapped myself round Roger, 
and let Rodders wrap himself round me, and the three of us fell asleep 
in a sexual tangle. Oh, I woke him up a couple of hours later for a 
little encore, but only the once. 

Next morning I felt great, full of verve and jollity. Rodders didn't 
look too bad, I've left them worse. The bruises would heal quite fast, I 
told him, but it looked like the grin on his face was permanent. "You 
are utterly wonderful, Diana. Have you ever thought of taking that up 
professionally?" So I threw Roger at him, and then attacked him with a 
pillow, and he fended me off with his arms and legs, but I'm not so easy 
to fend off, and I got in a few good licks with my pillow, but then it 
burst and I was left weaponless, and he dived at my middle, and got on 
top of me, and forced me to submit to him, and if you can't understand 
how that happened, well, you just don't understand women. Which you 
maybe don't, so I'll explain it to you. The combat had gotten both of us 
sexually aroused, and when a man with an erection is trying to get on 
top of a girl who's oozing with desire, did you really think she'd do 
anything whatsoever to discourage him? 

Afterwards, I told him how great he'd been, and how dominantly masculine 
and masterful, and lots more lies, sorry, flattery, like that, and then 
I showed him what a strong woman can do even though she's underneath 
you, and I held him carefully while he shuddered through three more 
orgasms, at which point I thought I'd better stop or I'd over-sex him, 
after all, there's always tonight. Mmm, it's great to have the old Randy 
Rabbit back. 

When I visited Jonny, he'd been busy, too. He'd gotten me an invite to 
the Tuesday Barbie, a weekly event for Vultures only, plus a few invited 
girl-friends. "Mostly hookers, Lady Di. And I got you in as a hooker, is 
that all right?" he asked me anxiously. I reassured him that it would do 
fine, and he breathed a big sigh of relief, not having wanted another 
encounter with Nasty Lady Di. 

I wore a skinny-knit top and a short skirt for the barbie. The top 
helped to show off my breasts, which aren't enormous, but I find them 
sufficient for my needs, and I've never had any complaints. And the 
skirt was long enough to cover a rather ugly bullet scar on my leg, but 
not so long as to hide my knees and half my thighs. I'm glad men don't 
tend to dwell on my thighs, they're a bit too big for my liking. Not 
fat, don't get me wrong, they aren't flabby. But big and solid, wider 
than you'd expect, and rather hard. Not the sort of legs you'd want 
wrapped round your body, if you know what I mean, unless I'm being 
gentle, which I usually am. I mean, if you hurt a man too much, you're 
not likely to get a second date with him, are you? And word would soon 
get around, don't get between Diana's legs, which is not something 
a girl wants said about her. You have to be careful about your 
reputation, so I'm always careful when I've got a man between my legs. 

The barbie was good fun, and I got groped a few times, which I usually 
enjoy, and I had my breasts stroked a few times, which I always enjoy. 
And then I saw him! The Bastard! The evil weevil who killed Clint, shot 
me in the leg and raped me with his gun, ripping up the inside of my 
vagina. How can a sane man do a thing like that? He was a mad dog, and 
destroying him would be a benefit to humanity. I felt weak at the knees 
when I saw him, remembering the pain and the humiliation, and I couldn't 
face him, I just wanted to run and hide. So I visited the ladies, and 
hidden inside a cubby, I took a six inch nail out of my handbag, and 
comforted myself with it. 

If you can't do it, you have no idea how it feels. But if you can, if 
you can bend a six inch nail double in your hands, straighten it, bend 
it, straighten it, and so on, until it breaks? Then a feeling of power 
and confidence floods through you. You know that the men round you 
couldn't even put a dent in that nail, and you know that they'd be 
helpless jellies in your hands, if you wanted them. As the nail gave 
way, my self confidence returned. So I took out another one, and used my 
strong, hard hands to break that in two. And then I felt ready for 
anything, and in particular, ready to get my hands on the bastard who 
had made the biggest mistake of his life when he took on Diana. 

So I asked Jonny what his name was, and apparently he called himself 
Tall Eagle, and I kept a straight face when I heard this. They all gave 
themselves silly names like that, well, that's the sort of thing that 
boys always do, isn't it? Jonny was Wild Turkey. I got Jonny to point 
him out to me, Jonny was ever so sweet and docile now, and I 
occasionally gave him a few minutes with my fingers to keep him that 
way. 

Tall Eagle had a girl with him, the sort of girl you instinctively hate, 
all tall and leggy and little pointy breasts and little pointy nose, 
with long hair and long legs and long nipples that she flaunted at 
everyone in sight. And I looked down at myself, and I knew I couldn't 
compete. Not fairly, anyway. So, of course, I'd compete unfairly. 

I'm Diana, and I'm not just the strongest woman you ever met, I'm 
not just the greatest fuck you ever got raped by, I'm also the sexiest 
female on two legs, when I want to be. I'm a walking, talking fuckfeast, 
one look at me and you know where you want to be that night. When I want 
to be. 

I went to the ladies again to get ready, I planned to hit Tall Eagle 
like a nuclear bomb. I planned to hit him in three waves. The first wave 
would be visual. I stripped off my skinny-knit and removed my bra, which 
I don't really need, my breasts are firm enough, and they aren't so big 
as to really need support, although they're big enough to cause the 
effect I want. Then I put on a thin silk blouse, the sort of blouse that 
clings and shimmers, and draws attention to what it fails to conceal. 
Asking a silk blouse to cover up my breasts is like throwing petrol on a 
fire to put it out. Sorry, gasoline. The second wave would be smell and 
sound, my sexiest voice, with the classy accent, and perfume behind the 
ears, under the arms, hollow of the neck, and between the tits. The 
third wave would be raw pheromones, and that's why I took off my 
panties, I had a good reason for that, and not the one you're thinking 
of. I wanted to be able to blast him with my pheromones. I brushed my 
hair so it looked like silk, brought it round to fall over the front of 
my blouse so my hair led the eyes down to my breasts, tightened up my 
belt a bit to emphasise my waist a bit better, because if I'm being 
totally honest with myself, it is a fraction wider than I'd like it to 
be, and looked at myself in the mirror. "Diana, you'd give Lord 
Nelson an erection", and since he's a statue on top of a 185 foot stone 
column, that's not easy. 

I shimmered out, back to the barbecue. And I worked round to the side, 
then walked straight towards Tall Eagle, but slowly. He looked up and 
saw me coming, and he kept looking. Miss Tits-and-Legs was saying 
something to him, but he wasn't listening, he was all eyes on me as I 
swayed towards him looking like sex on two legs. 

As I walked, I made my body bob and sway slightly, which made my breasts 
jiggle very slightly, but the silk accentuated the movements and drew 
the eyes towards my nipples. I put my shoulders back, and held my head 
high, and I guessed I was having an effect like a bucket of cold water. 

Then I got close enough for him to hear and smell me, and my Rive Gauche 
hit him at the same time as I said "Hello" in my best low and thrilling 
voice. "Hello, I'm Lady Di. I'd like to give you the best fuck you've 
ever had." Well, no point in being subtle, I thought. Keep it simple, he 
probably isn't very bright, and Miss Tits-and-Legs was trying to pull 
him away. I smiled at him. She was prettier than me, slimmer and really 
beautiful, but I was sex, raw, unadulterated sex, hot and hard, long and 
tasty, horny and randy, the best fuck you've ever had. She didn't stand 
a chance, poor dear. When Diana hits a man with sex, he's hers. 
He was already mine, I could see, I didn't need the third wave. But you 
should always kick a man when he's down, I say, so I unleashed my most 
powerful weapon. 

Every woman has this weapon, it's just that most women are afraid to use 
it. It's very easy, though. I just think of Rudolf Valentino as of fifty 
years ago, think of a night of lust with my ultimate dreamboat, and I 
get sexually aroused. And when a woman gets like that, a number of 
things happen. If you're wearing a thin silk blouse and no bra, the 
swelling of your breasts and the stiffening of your nipples is extremely 
obvious, and it's obvious what that means, and there's no way he can 
know it's for Rudolf rather than for him. And your vagina lubricates 
itself in preparation for what it's expecting next, and that has a 
natural chemicals in it that excites a man, that's the way it all works, 
isn't it? And with no panties, my pheromones were smashing into his 
receptors like armour piercing shells, and his erection tried to burst 
through his trousers. As far as he was concerned, the world had reduced 
to him and me, or to be more precise, it had reduced to his penis and my 
vagina, and the only issue was how soon we could get one inside the 
other. 

There's only one downside to using this weapon. It gets you into such a 
state that saying no simply isn't an option, which is why most women 
don't use it, I guess. The problem is, I'm not really a tease. I really 
do want to be severely fucked. 

I suppose we shouldn't really have done it there and then, on the grass, 
in public. It's supposed to frighten the horses, they say, but there 
weren't any horses around, so that wasn't a problem. And like I say, I 
was as randy as a goat, and I'd turned him into a penis with a man 
attached. Well, we only did it the once, and then Miss Tits-and-Legs had 
hysterics, and attacked me, and I'm not used to being attacked by a 
woman, and I wasn't sure what to do, but Tall Eagle bravely came to my 
rescue and socked her on the jaw so hard I heard something break. So I 
added that small item to the butchers bill, to be settled later. 

Before things could deteriorate, I suggested that we go somewhere more 
private, so I could demonstrate my full range of talents, so he put me 
on the back of a very flamboyant motorbike, and terrified me out of my 
mind for the next ten minutes. Which felt more like ten hours. Add it to 
the reckoning, Diana. 

We got to his home, and he practically dragged me up the stairs to the 
main bedroom. I say he practically dragged me, I actually stopped for a 
second, just to see how much he could pull, and he acted like he'd run 
into a brick wall, but I quickly followed him before he could work out 
that I was every bit as firm and solid as I looked. This was going to be 
fun, lots of fun. For me, maybe not for him. 

"You're going to get a lot out of this, it's going to be a lot of fun", 
I promised him. I took some nylon rope out of my bag, and tied him to 
the bed, hands and feet, spread-eagle. "You'll remember today for the 
rest of your life. I'm going to show you what a girl can do to a man 
like you" I told him. 

The next couple of hours were like your worst nightmare come true. I 
didn't even need to overpower him, the ropes kept him spread-eagled. My 
fingers had full unrestricted access to his soft and tender body, and 
what I did to him then, you shouldn't do to a dog. 

I tickled him. I tickled under his arms, behind his knees, under his 
feet, inside his elbows, everywhere. And as I did it, he started off 
laughing, then he squirmed a bit, then he was gasping, then he started 
telling me to stop. Then he threatened me, and I laughed, then the 
threatened me some more, so I explained he wasn't exactly in a position 
to be able to threaten me. Then he tried asking me to stop, he even said 
please, and then he was begging me to stop, and then he was shouting, 
and then he started to make rather more noise than was comfortable to my 
ears. I stopped for a moment, and asked him to shut up, but he wouldn't. 
Well, I had an answer to that. 

So I popped my rubber ball into his mouth, and tied a rope round his 
head to keep it in place. Gosh, some people are so easy to handle. 
"Mmmf" He said. Actually, he said that quite a lot, especially later. 
The gag kept him quiet. Well, he tried to make quite a lot of noise, but 
you can't make much sound with a rubber ball in your mouth. Breathing 
was about all he could manage, and not too much of that either. And I 
continued to tickle him, softly, gently, using my hands, and a feather 
I'd brought for the occasion. He really was in a lot of distress by now 
- like so many things, tickling is pleasant in moderation, but not to 
excess. Tall Eagle kept saying "Mmmf", and the tears were pouring down 
his face as I tickled him in places like the insides of his thighs, and 
the small of his back. He'd have enjoyed it if he'd had his arms free, 
and if I'd done it for a few minutes. But not tied up, and for an hour. 

Then I let him recover for a few minutes, and took off his gag, so we 
could talk. "What's your real name?" I asked. "Tall Eagle." I smiled, 
and waved my feather around a little, and he said "Donald Bigglehurst". 
I smiled even more, no wonder he called himself Tall Eagle. "Well, 
Donny, I've got a treat for you." He looked at me nervously. "If you 
like, I'll stop tickling you, and we'll move on to stage two." "What's 
stage two?" he asked nervously. "Do you want me to tickle you some more, 
or shall we move on?" "Please, Lady Di, no more tickling, I can't take 
any more." "OK", I said brightly. "I won't tickle you any more. But 
you'll wish I did. I'm going to show you what else a girl can do." 

So now I concentrated on pain, lots and lots of it, all over.  All the 
places I'd been tickling, now I dug my long, strong fingers into his 
flesh, in all the places you don't really want touched, let alone have 
fingers like mine digging into you. All the places you keep covered up 
and protected, open to my penetrating hands. I especially concentrated 
on his arms and hands, to make them one throbbing, swollen, helpless 
mass of pain. After a few minutes, I had to put the gag back on, he was 
making a very distressing noise. And then he made the "Mmmf" noise a 
lot, and choking noises, because the ball was interfering with his 
breathing. I almost felt sorry for him, but then I thought about Clint, 
lying dead and cold in his grave, he'd never again experience the 
extreme pleasures that Diana can give a man, never hear children 
laughing, never fall in love. And I hated this bastard, cold, hard hate. 
He'd killed Clint like a dog, and this animal deserved everything I 
could do to him. And my leg still hurt like hell, up at the top of the 
thigh. It would take weeks before the pain fades, months before I would 
get the full use of my leg back. So I dug my thumbs into his armpits, 
his elbows, the backs of his knees and the nerves in his groin, where 
the leg joins the body. He tried to scream, but the gag restricted him 
to a muffled "Mmmf", which he said quite a lot. 

I left his genitals alone for now. I had plans for those later. 

"You'll be pleased to hear that I've finished hurting your body", I 
announced. He closed his eyes in relief. Silly boy. "I'm going to play 
with your feet now. You'll remember this for the rest of your life, 
because you'll never be able to walk again without pain. You'll be 
walking with a crutch. Now pay attention, this little girl is going to 
destroy your foot, using just her strong hands." 

Did you know that there are 26 bones, 33 joints and 112 ligaments in a 
human foot? It's a miracle of precision engineering, that something so 
small and light can support the human body, and even stand up to the 
stresses of running and jumping. The bones are well designed to take the 
stresses of normal use, but they aren't very good at standing up to 
abuse. Try this - press the underneath of your foot as hard as you like, 
it won't hurt. It's designed to absorb and distribute stress. but now 
press on the top of your foot - do it carefully, because you can hurt 
yourself very easily. And if you squeeze the sides in your hand, you'll 
hurt yourself that way, too. 

I sat on one of his legs, and worked on the top and sides of his foot. I 
couldn't see what was happening behind me, and I wasn't very interested. 
I could see what I was doing to his foot. My objective was to break each 
bone, break each joint, and tear as many ligaments as I could. The 
components inside are so small and complicated, it's impossible to 
repair them when they've been as badly smashed up as his would be. And 
it isn't that difficult to break them, all you need is a little bit of 
strength, and a lot of ruthlessness. Strength in your hands, which I've 
got, and the determination to permanently cripple the person you're 
doing it to. And that wasn't a problem; whenever I felt sick of what I 
was doing, which was quite often, I thought of Clint, and of my promise 
to myself. 

When I'd finished his foot, I got off his leg and had a look at him. 
He'd fainted, which wasn't too surprising really, so I pulled the gag 
off him, to make sure he didn't choke to death, and waited for him to 
come round. While I waited, I gave my hair a good brushing, and put in 
my ivory combs. I didn't think there was much chance I'd get lucky, but 
I felt so horny, and somehow it made me feel a bit better. 

I untied him, and slapped his face a bit. Then I gave him a squirt of my 
perfume up his nose, that got him awake again. "Please, lady, no more" 
he sobbed. "You're too much for me, I can't take it, please, please." I 
sat next to him on the bed, and lifted him into a sitting position. He 
couldn't use his arms, I'd damaged them too much, likewise his legs. He 
was like a quadriplegic. I pulled his head down between my breasts, and 
cuddled him. "There, there, don't cry, I won't hurt you any more." I 
gave him a little kiss, and wiped his tears away, and cuddled him some 
more, and slowly he began to recover. 

"You see, that's what a girl can do to you." "Please, lady, I haven't 
done nothing, why are you doing this, what do you want?" "You really 
don't know, do you?" "You're a sadist, are you?" "No, I'm not, actually. 
I'm glad to say, I'm not actually enjoying this. Of course, it isn't as 
bad for me as it is for you" I said with a smile. "So why ..." "Look", I 
said, and I pulled up my skirt and showed him the inside of my thigh, 
which was still red and angry, the stitches still very visible. "You did 
this. You shot me with a dirty great gun at the same time as you killed 
my lover." He went pale. "And do you remember what you did next?" He 
went white, and whimpered. "You shoved that huge filthy pistol into my 
vagina, and raped me with it. You tore me up so badly inside, I've still 
got stitches in there. Forty-three of them. Do you know how that feels?" 

I put my hand in his groin, his penis was soft and limp, like a thin 
uncooked sausage. "Can you imagine what that does to me emotionally?" He 
whimpered some more. I think he was beginning to understand. "You've 
felt the strength of my hands on your body, can you imagine what I can 
do to you here?" I looked into his face, he was crying openly now, 
terrified of what I might do to him. I moved my hand to hold his balls. 
"I could crush these like eggs", and I gave a little squeeze, and moved 
my hand to grip his penis like a banana. "Or I could just grip this in 
my hand, and pull it off. I bet I could pull it right off you." and I 
gave it a little tug. He replied by vomiting, but I moved quickly enough 
to avoid getting any of it on me. 

I left him alone for a few minutes, to let his emotions churn, and to 
harden my own heart. I'm really not cut out for this sort of thing, but 
I was determined to sort this animal out for good. 

"You want to be like me, wouldn't you? Strong, and hard?" He nodded. I 
think a lot of men want to be like me. "You'd like to be safe and 
secure, wouldn't you? You'd like it if people didn't hurt you, wouldn't 
you?" He nodded vigorously. "Please, please help me, it hurts so much. 
Please don't hurt me any more, please." I stroked his hair. "What you 
need, Donny, is to become a girl." 

"First of all, Donna, I want you to have a rather special experience. 
Where's your gun?" He looked at me, terrified. I took his injured foot 
in my hands, it felt soft and pulpy, and squeezy like a sponge. I 
squeezed it a bit. "Donna, you'll tell me where it is sooner or later. 
You can't hold out against the pain that I can give you. You might as 
well tell me now." He whimpered. "Of course, I don't have to use a gun 
for this. I could use a beer bottle, that's bigger and will hurt more. I 
just want to use your gun, just to make it special for both of us." I 
squeezed his foot a bit more, he squealed, whimpered some more, then 
told me where he hid it. Under the bed, well, I suppose that makes 
sense, you never know in his position when you might need it in a hurry. 
I reached down and groped around until I found it. It was as big as I 
remembered, and heavy, with a long thick barrel. "Be careful, it's 
loaded" he said. I looked at him with disdain. "It wouldn't be much use 
keeping it under your bed if it wasn't. Show me how to work it", I said. 

You might wonder why I'd trust him. Very simple, because he was 
helpless. His hands didn't work at all after what I'd done to him. And 
he was willing, eager to please me. There's a point a man gets to, when 
he decides that resistance is useless, and he really wants to be 
dominated by a strong woman. Donna was long past that point. 

I snicked the safety catch on and off a few times. Then, with the gun 
armed and ready for use, I turned to Donna and said "On your front, 
sweetheart, legs apart." "No", he whispered. "Please, no. Anything but 
that." "Donna, sweetie, when I stop, you'll beg me to continue." I 
helped him turn over, he didn't have enough strength even for that. Then 
I tied his legs to the bed again, spreading them as wide apart as they 
would go. 

His anus was small and tight, like a virgin's vagina. So small and 
tight, I couldn't really see how I could get this huge great gun barrel 
in there. Oh well, I expect if I push hard enough, something will give 
way. 

Actually, I didn't have to push that hard, it slid in fairly easily. 
There was a projection at the top, you use that to line up the barrel to 
hit your target, but it caught on the skin of his anus and tore it on 
the way in. He groaned as it went in, and wriggled his body as it 
penetrated. 

The barrel must have been a good nine inches, and he'd gotten it right 
into me, so I pushed it firmly home, spreading his cheeks for maximum 
penetration. Once I got it in, I moved it around, then started sliding 
it in and out, gun-fucking his bum. He started screaming, of course, so 
I put my rubber ball back into his mouth so I didn't have to listen to 
him. 

As I gun-fucked him, I thought of Clint, dead and cold, mouldering in 
his grave. I thought of his big friendly grin, and his big friendly 
dick, and how neither of those would ever see the light of day again, on 
account of the bastard underneath me now. And I shoved the gun deep 
inside his bum and twisted it about, ground it in hard. 

There was quite a lot of blood, of course. And this was followed by 
other fluids; solids too. Quite a nauseating mess, in fact. So I picked 
him up in my arms and carried his unconscious body back to the shower 
and cleaned both of us up again. He came round while I was washing him, 
and I soothed him and told him not to worry, the nasty horrid girlie 
wouldn't be hurting him, not for a little while, anyway. And I dried 
him, and gave him a bit of a cuddle, until he was a bit more rational, 
less hysterical. And then I explained the deal to him. 

"Donna honey, if you were a girl, a proper girl like me, all these nasty 
things wouldn't happen to you." He looked at me, fearfully. "Does it 
hurt?" He nodded. "Where does it hurt most, your foot or your arse?" "My 
ass hurts, it hurts so bad." "Yes, Donna. I know what you mean, I've 
felt that pain. It comes from inside you, yes?" He nodded, tears in his 
eyes. "You want the pain to stop, yes?" He nodded, hard. "Then you have 
to become a girl, you need to learn how to be feminine and ladylike, 
like me. Then no-one will hurt you. Once you're a girl, men will protect 
you, I'll protect you, would you like that?" He nodded, harder. "Girls 
like having something stiff and hard inside them, would you like that, 
would you like what a girl wants?" He nodded, looking scared. "Do you 
want me to give you something stiff and hard, like a girl would want?" 
He nodded. "Say it out loud, Donny" "Yes" "Say, fuck me with your big 
hard gun" "Please, fuck me with your big hard gun" "Are you sure that's 
what you want, Donny? You want me to fuck you with my gun, like a girl?" 
He nodded. "Yes please, please" "OK, I told you that you'd be begging me 
for it. Now you know what you want, let's get you trained." 

I helped him get dressed; he didn't have any girls clothes, so I 
improvised a bit using his dressing gown and a belt. And I loaned him my 
bra, not that I ever expected to see it again, and we stuffed it with a 
few pairs of socks, to give him some shape. I also gave him my panties, 
but to get those on, we had to use sticking plaster to tape his genitals 
down between his legs. They weren't very big, so it wasn't difficult to 
make them practically invisible. I put some lipstick on his lips, a bit 
of mascara on his eyes When I'd finished, I told him he looked like 
quite a reasonable girl. I was lying, of course, he looked terrible. But 
that didn't matter. I had more in store for him. 

I needed to transport him to the Strangeways Training School for Ladies. 
This is nothing like the girls school I went to when I was being 
educated. No, it's another kettle of fish entirely. I found it by 
searching the Internet, it wasn't too hard to find a suitable school in 
Elay. The STSL was for exactly Donna's situation, where a male discovers 
that what he really wants is to be a girl, but he/she needs to be 
trained. I'd checked out the STSL, and they seemed to have a good robust 
approach to discipline, and they claimed excellent past results. 

Donna didn't have a car, just this big butch motorbike. Fortunately, I 
can handle a bike, the only problem was that Donna wasn't really up to 
staying on, what with the problems she was having with her arms and 
legs. So I helped her by tying her ankles together under the bike, and 
her wrists to the carrier. I pressed the starter, and the big engine 
roared into life, and I burned rubber as we set off for STSL. 

Golly, I hadn't realised that a motorbike is such fun. I've never had 
such a tremendous amount of power between my legs before, it throbbed 
and blasted and thundered, and the acceleration was incredible. The 
vibration alone nearly got me off, and by the time we got to STSL, I was 
weak at the knees. "Oh wow, Donna, that's some machine." She smiled 
tentatively. "But you know, it isn't the sort of thing that a nice young 
lady like you would have." Bless her, she was so anxious to please me by 
now, and I allowed her to persuade me to take it away with me. 

I helped Donna off the bike, and let her lean on me to get inside the 
building; one of her feet was badly hurt, and her bum was very painful 
from the gun-fuck. Inside STSL, we met the headmistress of the school. 
She was a tall, hatchet-faced woman, wearing a severe tailored suit, her 
hair in a bun, a sour look, and a whip round her waist. She wrinkled her 
nose at Donna and said "She needs a *lot* of training doesn't she? She 
looks like a man. She needs to be trained how to behave, how to dress, 
how to speak, everything." I liked the look of Miss Strangeways 
immediately. She invited us in to her study, and we sat down. Donna was 
a bit unsure what to do, she couldn't stand, because of her bad foot, 
but sitting down was even more painful. Eventually, she got down on her 
hands and knees, taking the weight off both painful places. 

I explained the situation to Miss Strangeways. Donna was anxious to 
become a good little girl as quickly as possible, and was willing to pay 
top dollar for the best possible training. Miss Strangeways assured us 
that her training was without equal, strict but thorough and that Donna 
would be a gracious, feminine girl in just a few short months. And then 
she gave us a demonstration of her skills. 

She uncoiled the whip from round her waist; it wasn't just for show, 
then. She cracked it once, then told Donna to sit down properly on a 
chair, and cross her legs like a proper lady. It must have been agony 
for her, but she stood up in a rather wobbly way, and plonked herself 
down in the chair. Miss Strangeways looked at me significantly, and said 
"We'll soon teach her to be more graceful". Donna sat with her legs 
apart, like a man, and Miss Strangeways frowned at her, and explained 
that she should cross her legs, like a nice girl, and keep her thighs 
together. "Miss Diana, show her what I mean". So I demonstrated how a 
girl sits with her legs crossed, showing off my legs, and Donna tried to 
copy me, but of course she had a large lump between her legs that she 
was trying not to crush. 

Miss Strangeways flicked her whip once, twice, and I saw the red marks 
on Donna's leg, and the tears in her eyes. Then she spoke, and there was 
a crackle of command in her voice, like my old school teacher. "Cross 
your legs like Miss Diana, Donna. You've got to do it properly, or 
you'll be punished." I smiled at Donna, and licked my lips hungrily, and 
she hastily crossed her legs properly, like a girl, squashing whatever 
she had between them. I could see the look of agony on her face as she 
crushed her own prick and balls between her legs. "You see, Miss Diana? 
I'll soon have her trained, all sugar and spice and all things nice." I 
nodded. "You seem to have things well under control. I'll leave her in 
your care. She's going to need her bum looked at by a doctor, and you 
might need to bandage up her foot, it got broken." "Don't worry about 
that, Miss Diana. We have expert nurses here, experienced in all kinds 
of problems with assholes. A good enema works wonders with most 
ailments, we find. Maybe she needs a colonic irrigation as well. And an 
emetic." "I'm sure you know what you're doing" I replied. Miss 
Strangeways seemed competent and efficient, just what Donna needed for 
her new life. "By the way, where can I get one of those delightful 
whips?" 

She gave me one from her own stock, she said she'd add it to Donna's 
first invoice. It was a beautiful piece of work, leather, with a thick 
handle, supple and elegant, long and graceful. I wound it five times 
round my waist as a belt, the handle hanging from my hip, it looked 
absolutely stunning on me, I thought. 

Then I said goodbye to Donna. She cried a bit, and begged me not to 
leave her; I think she was a bit scared about the changes that Miss 
Strangeways was going to be making to her, but I told her to be a good 
little girl, and to do what she was told, and I'd be back to visit in 
three months to see how she was getting on. Then I shook hands with Miss 
Strangeways, and she offered me a job, and I told her she couldn't pay 
me half what I was getting in my current job, and I kissed her, and told 
her not to be lenient with Donna, and she promised she wouldn't, and we 
parted. I got on to my lovely new motorbike that Donna had given me 
(actually, if you leave your hair loose and wear a silky blouse, a girl 
on a motorbike can be very sexy and feminine). And I got back to 
Rodders. 

"So what's happened?" he said. I sat him down and looked at him, all 
vulnerable and innocent. How could I explain to him what I'd just done? 
Men have to be protected from the realities of the cruel world we live 
in, and we women have to protect them. The Diana he knew was all 
fluffy and sexy, her only anxiety being about whether to bonk before the 
date or afterwards, and usually compromising by doing both. How could I 
explain that I'd just destroyed a man, body and soul, physically and 
emotionally, flesh and ego. How could I disillusion Rodders about the 
gentle, sexy, strong girl who hit him with a pillow and then let him 
wrestle her into submission? How could I tell him that I'd tickled 
Donald till he screamed, tortured him till he passed out, broke every 
bone in one of his feet, gun-fucked him, then turned him into a rather 
unattractive little girl. But I didn't want to lie to my little Rodders. 
So I unwound the whip from round my waist, and his eyes widened as he 
realised what it was. "Unh" he said. I smiled and ran the handle through 
my fingers, delicately stroking the end with my thumb and forefinger. 
"Unh", he said again. Hey, this whip is rather good, I think I'll wear 
it often. Then I stood with my hands down by my sides, holding the whip 
lightly in my hand, legs slightly apart, head up, shoulders back, and 
said "Rodders, I'm so horny I could scream. Get your trousers off." 

Neither of us said very much for the next hour or so, except "Oh, Diana" 
and "Oooh, Diana" and "Unh, unh, Diana!". I gave Rodders the biggest 
seeing-to of his life, and yes, I did count, and no, I didn't break my 
record, I was too horny to hold back. And afterwards I snuggled up to 
Roger, and Rodders had his head in my belly, and I slept the first long, 
deep, peaceful sleep I'd had for weeks. 

The next day, I visited Clint, and I brought him flowers, since he'd 
always done that for me. "I don't know if you can hear me, Clint. But if 
you can, you'll want to know what happened." And sat cross-legged by his 
fresh grave and I told him the whole thing, all the gory details, the 
blood, the vomit, the pain, the mess, everything. And I told him about 
Miss Strangeways and what she'd do to Donna, and how I felt a lot better 
now I'd got it all out of the way. Clint didn't say anything, but when 
I'd finished, a light yellow butterfly took off from Clint's flowers and 
fluttered away. And I knew that he was at peace now. 

On the airplane home, I started to put my "sweet Diana" persona back on, 
butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. You have to take an experience like 
that and use it to make yourself stronger inside. 

When I reported in for work on Monday, outwardly I was still the gentle, 
efficient business lady, pinstripe skirt, tailored jacket, white blouse, 
low heels. But I wasn't the same inside. I'd met true evil and overcome 
it, yet without myself being corrupted by it, and I was stronger as a 
result. Plus, I had this rather splendid motorbike shipping eastbound 
across the Atlantic Ocean. 

And round my waist I wore a leather whip, looped round five times with 
the handle hanging by my hip. A few people noticed it, but no-one said 
anything. Well, what would you say to a well-built girl who wears a whip 
round her waist? 



Diana the Valkyrie 
Email me at valkyrie@thevalkyrie.com
Or via alt.amazon-women.admirers