Diana's hitchhiker 
By Diana the Valkyrie
Diana picks up a hitchhiker, he tries to rape her, but Diana helps him. 


This is the seventh 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. 

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 a tortoiseshell comb 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. 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




My first decent car was that rather flash Jaguar XK8, and it was a very 
nice car too, but ultimately it was just another flash car, chosen 
entirely on brand name. It went like a bat out of hell, and it was dead 
easy to drive, push the pedal down and away it flew. I think the top 
speed was about 180 mph, and I once took it to a racetrack and got it up 
to near that speed. It was a good car, a very good car, but not a great 
car. It lacked personality, and it looked like a dozen other cars in the 
same category. And where, in London, do you get a chance to wind up to 
180 mph, or even to 30? I once did the ton round the North Circular, 
just so I could say I had, but there's traffic lights or roundabouts 
every few yards. 

Then I got myself picked up at a party by someone with a Morgan. He took 
me back to his pad, and we did the usual things, and when I left the 
next morning (he was still spark out, like they usually are after a 
night of sex with Diana) I took a good look at his magic chariot. 
And the more I looked, the more I wanted one. 

So I went to the Morgan dealer, to try one out. The salesman, David, 
looked at me doubtfully, and explained that a Morgan wasn't really a 
girl's car; maybe because I was wearing my little-girl-in-jeans rig, I 
look like a teenager in that, unless you see my body in profile and 
realise that teenagers don't usually stick out quite so prominently. And 
he told me a price that made my eyes water. I wasn't interested in his 
prejudices, and then he explained that because of the lack of power 
steering and brakes, I might not be strong enough to handle it. I gave 
him a big smile, and told him that it really wasn't very likely that I 
wouldn't be strong enough to handle his car, and if he wanted to put his 
hand in mine and feel my grip, I'd happily oblige him. So he took my 
hand in his, and squeezed me a bit, I think he really didn't want to 
hurt me, so I decided not to hurt him very much. I just stood and smiled 
and said "Are you ready?", and he squeezed a bit harder, but he was 
still trying to be gentle with me, and I rather liked this boy. So then 
I gripped David's hand in mine, not too hard, just enough to make him 
gasp a bit, and I looked him in the eyes, and said again "Are you 
ready?". Then I squeezed a bit more, enough to hurt him slightly, and he 
tried to make his hand hard in mine, I could feel his muscles tense. Now 
that I'd got him really trying, I felt he was ready. "Just tell me when 
you've had enough", I said sweetly. So I just applied a bit more 
pressure, gradually making it more and more, so he'd have a chance to 
cry "Uncle" before anything bad happened. I felt the strength drain out 
of his hand as the pain turned his muscles to mush, and I could see his 
eyes watering a little.  But he did the usual big brave macho man bit, 
not wanting to admit that a girl could beat him in a trial of strength, 
and I took him to the point where there was a real danger of doing some 
damage if I carried on. He was panting by now, making little squeaky 
noises, and trying to pull his hand way, and I remembered that he'd 
tried to be gentle with me at first, so I let go. 

He held his injured hand close to his chest, and I reached out and 
touched his arm. "David, did I hurt you? I'm sorry, I think I went a bit 
too far there. But I don't think I broke anything." He looked at me. 
"Jesus, lady, you've got a grip like a mole wrench." So I explained how 
one of my ways of relaxing is to break six inch nails with my hands. 
That might not sound relaxing, but I can assure you that the feeling of 
power and strength that I get is better than any sedative pills. And it 
does wonders for my self-confidence, most girls are completely at the 
mercy of any man who wants to do bad things to them, whereas with me, 
it's the other way round. Not that I'd do anything bad to a man, I mean, 
you can't count rape as a bad thing, not when afterwards he asks you if 
you'll do it again. Then I got him to show me what mole wrench was, and 
he admitted that I'd probably be able to handle a car without power 
steering, and I asked him if I could take a Morgan out on the road to 
see what it drove like, and he said yes. 

I can't really describe it, but I'll try. I suggest you get a car 
magazine and look at some pictures.  It's an open car (there is a hood, 
but you only use it in emergencies). It's very heavy, and very fast, and 
the shape of the car, well, you really must get a car magazine to see 
what it looks like, because it doesn't look anything like what a modern 
car looks like. It looks more car-like, if you know what I mean, not 
just an ovoid on wheels. The steering is unpowered, and so it's a lot 
heavier than you might be used to, but I liked the way it gave me a 
feeling of being in control. The brakes weren't powered either, and I 
had to exert a lot more force than I was used to in order to stop. But 
the biggest difference was the gears. I've driven manual cars before, 
and I thought that an automatic gearbox was a delight. But the gears on 
the Morgan were so crisp, so clean, so, so right, and it added to the 
in-control sensation. I suppose I'm just a girl who likes to be in 
control. And the Morgan offered me just that. 

It had a big engine, you could tell from the deep throaty roar it made 
and the acceleration. I asked what the top speed was, and David said 
around 140, which I thought surprisingly low, but he explained that it 
was so unstreamlined that it wouldn't go as fast as a modern car with 
the same power. But the acceleration up to 100 was fantastic, he 
explained that the car was lighter than most, only 1300 pounds. No boot, 
if you had luggage, you'd strap it to the spare wheel or put it on the 
passenger seat. 

And I fell in love with that car. I suspect David was having similar 
feelings, although not about the car. I've noticed that quite a lot of 
men go all mushy when a girl beats them in any trial of strength, and 
David was obviously one of those. He kept gazing at me adoringly when he 
thought I wasn't looking, and he kept taking peeks at my breasts, which 
aren't too large by any means, but give me plenty of scope for 
flaunting, and wearing a white blouse tucked into my jeans, if I arched 
my back slightly, I could flaunt them perfectly. 

So when we got back to the dealership, we sat down and I asked David to 
make me a deal. I told him I'd pay cash, I told him that I thought he 
was a perfectly sweet guy, and I knew he'd give me the best discount he 
could. And I arched my back slightly, and put my shoulders back, and 
looked innocent. So he did some sums with a calculator, and named a 
figure 10% less than the last one. 

Now, I'm rather good at playing this game, after all, I do it for a 
living, although with rather larger sums of money. But this was my 
money, and I wanted the best deal I could get. And I guessed that the 
same technique would work on David; sex, violence and money, the way 
that any woman can handle any man. Well, it's how I do it. So I tossed 
my hair behind my back, gave him my best "fuck-me" smile, and moved 
closer to him, so my thigh was squeezed against his. Then I put my hand 
on his hand, and held it gently, and looked at him. 

This is a nicely ambiguous situation. He doesn't know whether I'm making 
a pass at him, or whether he's about to feel more of the bone-crushing 
power I used on him earlier. It's sex and violence mingled together 
perfectly. So I looked into his eyes, smiled, and hit him with the money 
bit. You see, he was just a salesman on commission, and you can always 
bribe an employee of a company. Well, you don't call it a bribe, of 
course, that's illegal and naughty. You call it an inducement. Companies 
do it all the time, didn't you know? Go to a garage and buy petrol with 
your company credit card, and they'll give you personally an inducement, 
maybe some stamps you have to collect. Travel on business, and the 
airlines will give you an inducement - the company is paying, but you 
personally get the air miles. It's hard to understand why bribery is 
illegal but inducements are not, but that's the way it is. And once 
you've understood that, you realise that all you have to do is take 
something from the company and give it to the individual, or at least 
not give something to the company but to the individual instead. 

So I explained about Diana's inducement scheme. "That's a good 
price, but for every 100 pounds you can get it down, I'll give you a 
gift voucher for 20." He looked puzzled, so I took one of the vouchers 
out of my handbag and showed it to him, it has a picture of Wellington 
on the back, and the queen on the front. I could see his brain 
processing this offer, as greed struggled against ethics, with greed 
winning. But it's always a good idea to give greed a helping hand, so I 
dug in my bag for an iron nail, that always works great. I held it in my 
hands, thumbs in the middle, fingers at the ends, and bent it slightly. 
Then I handed it to him to let him see how hard and rigid an iron nail 
is, took it back and bent it till it was a right angle. Then I gave it 
to him "Here, you can keep this as a reminder of today." 

If crushing his hand in mine made him lust after me, bending that iron 
nail left him in a state of abject worship. I've found that quite a lot 
of men react like that. You do something with your hands that they 
haven't got the slightest chance of doing themselves, and they go all 
soft and malleable, willing and pliable. "Discount, David?" He pulled 
out his calculator and did some more sums, and this time the price came 
down another 15%. "That's more like it" I said, and the deal was done. I 
left him with a bundle of Diana's Inducement Vouchers, a bent six 
inch nail, and a memory that would stay with him for the rest of his 
life. And I drove off in my new Morgan. 

It really was a dreamy car. Not as easy to drive as the Jag, but so much 
more satisfying. Where the Jag would purr round a corner, the Morgan 
hurled itself round, and I had to wrestle with the big steering wheel to 
keep it on course. Where the automatic gearbox of the Jaguar took all 
the difficulty out of driving, the Morgan gave me control; for more 
power I could change down, and a surge of acceleration would thrust me 
back into the seat.  David was right, this wasn't a car for a soft 
little girl. But no-one has ever accused me of being a soft little girl, 
well, Lionel did once, but I made him eat his words. Several times. The 
Morgan was fast and sexy, powerful and graceful, therefore obviously 
female, so I called her Fay, for obvious reasons. 

The next day was a lovely summery day, so I got dressed and took my 
lovely new Morgan out for a run. After a while, I stopped, because 
something was missing. I reached back and took the combs out of my hair, 
and shook it down, so that when I started up again, I could feel the 
wind in my hair as it streamed out behind me. I went around the M25, and 
turned off at junction 10 to get onto the M3 for Southampton. I didn't 
especially want to go to Southampton, but the M3 is such a lovely road, 
I think the Romans must have made it. It's fast and slightly curvy, just 
like the way I felt. As I turned onto the M3, I saw a hitchhiker 
sticking out his thumb, and I thought, let's give this guy a treat. So I 
stopped the car to pick him up, told him where I was heading for, and as 
soon as he jumped in, I revved off with an acceleration that pressed him 
back into the seat. "Blimey" he said.  I turned and looked at him, and 
smiled. "Blimey" he repeated. "Blimey what?" I asked. "Well. Blimey. 
This car. You. Blimey." 

I saw him looking at my breasts out of the side of his eyes; I really 
shouldn't wear a silk T-shirt without a bra, but I hadn't actually 
expected to be seeing any people today. I pulled my skirt down a bit, 
and thought maybe I should have worn something a bit longer, that didn't 
ride up to my hips so badly. Still, a girl likes to be admired, and I 
never get tired of the way that men look at me, especially if I don't 
wear a bra. They aren't big, really, well, biggish perhaps, but 
certainly not excessive. I'm quite happy with them, they suit me fine 
and do everything I need, and I really only wear a bra when I'm trying 
to tone them down a bit. 

We got to talking. He was unemployed; I told him I worked in a bank and 
we did megadeals, and it was great fun, and quite well paid. His name 
was Bernard, "Everyone calls me Bernie". I told him my name was Diana, 
"Everyone calls me Diana, if you call me Di I get quite upset." He asked 
me if I was married, and I laughed, and told him that I didn't even have 
a steady boyfriend, I was enjoying playing the field too much. He agreed 
- he didn't have a girlfriend either, and suddenly there was a sexual 
tension between us, so I wiggled in my seat a bit and brought my arm 
nearest him up to fluff up my hair, a thing that I do to show off my 
body slightly. "So why are you going to Southampton?" he asked me, which 
led to an explanation of how I'd just bought this car, and wanted to 
take it for a nice long run. Then he admired the Morgan "It's a smashing 
jamjar", and I told him it beat the pants off the Jag I'd had before. He 
looked kind of wistful. He didn't have a car, he said, couldn't afford 
one. "No job, no girl, no car" he said. I felt sorry for him. "But I 
have got this" he said, reaching into his bag. "This" turned out to be 
easily the biggest, most wicked-looking knife I've ever seen. Oh dear. 
Serves you right for picking up random hitch-hikers, Diana, and I 
wondered how best to deal with him. 

"Stop the car" he ordered, "Pull onto the hard shoulder and stop the 
car." Now if he'd been unarmed, I wouldn't have been worried. I can 
handle any ordinary man quite easily with my hands, and he looks thin 
and underfed, like a soft fruit that just needed a bit of  squeeze to 
turn it to pulp. But that knife. The blade must have been over a foot 
long, and thick and curved, and horribly sharp. It was more like a small 
sword than a knife. And I was weaponless against him. One slash with 
that knife, and my blood would be all over the place, and I rather feel 
that I have exactly the right amount of blood right now, thank you, and 
I want to hang on to it all. But was I weaponless? Not quite. 

First of all, I have all the weapons that every woman has, if anything, 
I've got a bit more than average. Secondly I have the brain of the most 
deadly predator ever to stalk the face of the planet. And thirdly? Well. 
I put my right foot down hard, but not on the brake. On the accelerator. 
"I said stop the car" he shouted angrily, waving the knife under my 
nose. By that time we were up to 100 mph and accelerating. "You cut my 
throat while we're travelling at 120, and we're both dead" I said, 
keeping my foot hard down. "What do you think you're doing?" he 
screamed. I got the Morgan up to 140 before I replied. "Put your seat 
belt on. That way you have a faint chance of surviving. If I smash into 
something, I'm going to make sure that your side of the car gets the 
worst of it. Now then Bernie sweetie, you just throw that silly knife 
out of the car, or I'll kill you. And keep quiet and don't distract me, 
or I'll have an accident." I kept my foot down. I'm usually a law 
abiding citizen, and with the speed limit at 70, I usually restrict 
myself to 90. Doing 150 down the M3 was, well, exciting. Because the 
slowpokes doing half my speed in the fast lane weren't getting out of my 
way fast enough, so I was having to weave in and out to keep going, 
overtaking on the wrong side, even driving on the hard shoulder when 
necessary. "You're insane" he screamed. I turned to face him, 
deliberately taking my eyes off the road. "Throw out the knife." I had 
to do some fancy steering when I turned back to the road, I don't know 
why they allow these big slow caravans on motorways, and I had to duck 
round one to avoid a 14-wheeler that must have been doing about 20mph in 
the middle lane. I mean don't these guys have to pass a driving test? 

I didn't take my foot off the accelerator for even a moment, and as we 
picked up speed going down a long slope, we just started to touch 160, 
which might not sound very much, but remember that this is in an open 
car, the wind tearing your head off, and you're so close to the road you 
can almost smell the tarmac. I could hear Bernie screaming something 
incoherently by my side; I couldn't hear what he was saying because the 
wind noise was so great, so I turned to look at him and he was showing 
me that his hands were empty. 

So I eased up on the accelerator, and let the car slow down to a sedate 
120, and when I saw a service station coming up, I took the turn-off to 
that, and came to rest in the car park as far from the cafe‚ as I could 
get, near a large stand of trees. I thought that would be a good place 
to give Bernie a lesson in what not to do when a girl gives you a lift 
in her car - I was quite looking forward to getting my fingers deep into 
his soft and yielding body and teaching him that you don't mess with 
Diana. I smiled as I thought about my strong, hard hands on his 
soft, weak body, and when I turned to look at him; he was still shaking. 
"You could have killed us both" he kept saying. I refrained from 
pointing out the obvious, that I'd prefer to kill us both than he kill 
me with that huge great knife of his, and just looked at him. Then he 
did something totally unexpected. He started crying. "I can't even rob a 
defenceless woman" he sobbed. I didn't think that now was the time to 
explain that he probably couldn't have picked at less defenceless woman 
if he'd tried, and that given a few minutes of  concentrated work I 
could turn his body into a pain-filled shambles. I know I'm silly 
sometimes, but as he kept up a stream of babble about how useless and 
hopeless he was, I began to feel sorry for him. I mean, no job, no car, 
no girlfriend, he must have a perfectly miserable life. So I turned 
towards him, and instead of using my strong hands to inflict the pain 
I'd intended, I pulled him towards me and gave him a long, firm cuddle, 
stroking his hair as he cried. 

I'm a sucker for a man in tears, I really am. It makes me feel all 
maternal, and I want to comfort them, to tell them that everything is 
all right, and that I'd look after them. So I told Bernie all this, and 
gradually he stopped crying. I pulled a tissue out of my bag and wiped 
his face and made him blow his nose, and I told him I wasn't angry with 
him, honestly, and I could quite understand how desperate he'd been. I 
asked him why he didn't have a job, and he told me he'd been unlucky. 
"Unlucky how?" He'd been caught stealing, and they'd pressed charges, 
and now with his criminal record he found it difficult to get any work 
apart from casual stuff like waiting on tables. "And I'm not much good 
at that, I forget things and drop things, and they fire me." Poor 
Bernie. 

I know the type. A loser. Everything he does goes wrong. He stumbles 
from one bad experience to another, never enjoying the good things of 
life, never having fun. "Tell me about your parents, Bernie." He started 
crying again, so I pulled his head down to my breasts, men find that 
extremely comforting, I think it reminds them of when they were a baby 
and their mother's love, and he told me that his parents had split up 
when he was young, and his mother hadn't been able to cope, and she sent 
him away to an orphanage when he was eight and never saw him again, and 
it sounded to me as if his life had been wrecked before it had hardly 
started. I stroked his hair and pulled his face into my bosom, which is 
just right for having your face pulled into, it's big enough and firm 
enough, and I was glad I wasn't wearing a bra, because it must have felt 
better for poor little Bernie. 

"When did you last have a good meal, Bernie?" He'd been eating anything 
he could scavenge out of restaurant dustbins for the last few weeks. 
"Where do you sleep?" It was summer, so he slept rough, in parks, under 
bridges. "But the filth, they wake you up and move you on", he said. 
"And when did you last have sex with a woman?" He started crying again, 
and shaking his head, and eventually managed to convey the information 
that he was still a virgin. There was so much pain and suffering in this 
boy, I definitely abandoned any idea of giving him the standard Diana 
demonstration of the folly of attacking strange women. 

While he sobbed himself out, I checked through his bag. You might think 
that this was an unacceptable invasion of privacy, but I didn't want him 
producing any more knives. All I found was a few smelly clothes, and a 
framed picture of a woman. She was mid-thirties, wearing a pretty 
flowered dress, and smiling for the camera. "Who's this, Bernie." He 
looked up for a moment, and started to cry really hard. "Is that your 
mother?" His head, buried deep between my breasts, shook negatively. 
"Who is it then?" He was almost howling now, I think he was hurting 
badly. "I - I don't know. I haven't got, I haven't, I don't." "What is 
it, Bernie?" "Mother.." was all he could choke out. But he'd just said 
that it wasn't his mother, and then I realised. He didn't have a picture 
of his mother, so he carried this instead. 

"Do you know who she is, Bernie?" I asked. He shook his head again. "I 
pretend it's my mother, I look at it and pretend she's my mother and she 
loves me and one day she'll find me and ..." and I couldn't take any more, 
so I pulled his head firmly into my bosom and muffled out the rest, and 
he cried, and I cried for him, because how awful to be so alone that you 
pretend to yourself that some complete stranger is the mother who never 
loved you.. 

I held him like that until he stopped crying. "Has anyone ever done 
anything nice for you, Bernie?" "No, why would they? I'm a useless piece 
of rubbish." No wonder he thought he was a piece of garbage, his own 
mother had rejected him. People don't realise how vulnerable children 
are, and how profoundly they are affected by their parents. Well. I'm 
lucky, my mother and father both loved me and showed it, and as a result 
I'm a sane and well adjusted young woman. And I've got a well paid job, 
and all the sex I want. Well maybe not all the sex I want, but at least 
all the sex that most women could reasonably expect. There's no such 
thing as all the sex I want, at least I don't think so. Anyway, stop 
thinking about sex Diana, you know what thinking about sex does to you. 
Maybe  I could help this poor guy. Well, I certainly couldn't make 
things any worse for him. His life was one long failure, one long 
misery, and it was clear to me that this was true because he held 
himself in such low esteem, and the cause of that was the rejection by 
his mother. Well, of course, I'm not a professional psychiatrist, and I 
don't know how to give Freudian therapy for this kind of problem, but 
there is something I can do; there is a therapy I can give that maybe 
will help him to turn his life around.   "Put your seat belt on, Bernie. 
Something nice is about to happen to you." Diana is about to 
happen to you, I thought, but I didn't want to scare him. 

I started up Fay, and drove home, relatively sedately. I say relative, 
the Morgan kept wanting to do the ton, and I kept having to tell her not 
to get so excited. Bernie kept asking what I was going to do, I think 
maybe he was expecting to he turned over to the police, but I kept 
telling him "Something nice". 

The first thing I did was to run a hot bath. Bernie wasn't exactly the 
nicest person to have around, it you know what I mean, and I put lots of 
pine-scented bath salts in the bath. While he had his first hot bath for 
months, I put a chicken in the oven. To be precise, I prepared Chicken 
Diana, my best dish, and to say that it's roast chicken is like saying 
that sex is nice. I'm not going to divulge the recipe, it's one of my 
secret weapons, but there's parsnips in it, and chestnut stuffing, and 
butter, and garlic, and I really am not going to give you the recipe. 
Try alt.sex.cooking. One of the great advantages of Chicken Diana is 
that once you've got it in the oven, it looks after itself, so I went to 
dig Bernie out of my bathroom. He was lying in the water, looking like 
bliss, and when I walked in, he tried to cover himself with the flannel, 
which is a bit inadequate for modesty. Plus, I took it away from him, 
soaped it up, and started washing him all over. He struggled for a few 
moments, but I told him "Keep still, baby" and he subsided and let me do 
the places that men always forget about, like behind the ears, and 
thoroughly around the groin. Then I told him to stand up, and I pulled 
the plug out of the bath, wrapped a towel round him, and lifted him out. 

That surprised him. I guess most men have never met a girl who can pick 
them up rather easily the way I can, and carry them in my arms into the bedroom. I 
held his arms with one of mine round his body, and rubbed him dry with 
the towel,  and by now he'd gotten used to the idea of just letting me 
do it. I gave him one of my T-shirts to wear, it was a bit tight round 
the waist and a bit baggy round his chest, but it fit well enough. I 
also got him into a pair of stretch slacks that I don't wear very often, 
by the simple expedient of turning up the trouser legs so he didn't trip 
over them. My socks fit him perfectly. 

He seemed more cheerful already, and now it was time for part two of my 
therapy. "You do look nice, Bernie", I told him, and sniffed. "You smell 
nice too." I ran my hands over his body, not sexily, just rubbing his 
skin a bit to make him feel good. Then I led him to the dining room and 
served up dinner. 

Golly that boy could eat. He ate like he hadn't eaten for a month, which 
I suppose isn't that far from the truth. It's lucky I'd started off with 
a large chicken, and I'd put in twice the usual number of parsnips. He 
ate, and he ate, and when he cleared his plate, I asked him if he wanted 
more, and he did. So I gave him the same again, and he cleared that, 
too. Then he looked at me, you know the look that Snoopy gives Charlie 
Brown when he wants more supper, and I didn't have any more Chicken 
Diana, but I explained to him that I didn't want him to have a 
completely full belly, otherwise how would he cope with Diana's Dessert? 
So he nodded and smiled and said that Diana's Dessert sounded absolutely 
like it was just what he wanted, and what is it? So I told him to wait a 
few minutes while I got it ready. 

You've probably already guessed what Diana's Dessert is. I came back in 
wearing my silkiest sexiest night gown, slinky over my breasts and just 
barely touching the tops of my thighs, with something wrapped round my 
waist to accentuate my figure and to put stress lines in the silk as it 
strains over my nipples. "I'm ready" I announced. "And I see you are 
too". One advantage of  stretch slacks is that they don't just stretch 
over your hips, they stretch over any other protuberances you might 
have. And Bernie had a rather large, and rather hard protuberance all of 
a sudden. So I took him by the hand, and led him into the bedroom, and 
sat him down on the bed. He tried to jump on me, but I gently and firmly 
pushed him down, and told him to sit still. Then I took off my belt. 

It's rather an unusual belt, I got it in Elay, at the sort of place your 
mother told you not to visit. Actually, to be exact, it isn't a belt at 
all. It's a whip. 

It's about twelve feet long, made of leather, with a handle that doesn't 
look anything  remotely like a man's penis, it's much too long and 
thick. I can wind the whip five times round my waist and tuck the end in 
to itself to keep it I place, then I put the handle inside so it's by my 
hip. It isn't at all obvious that I'm wearing a leather whip round my 
waist, but the effect when I take it off, and you realise what it is, is 
nothing less than devastating. 

To tell the truth, I don't have the foggiest idea how to use a whip, 
except I can crack it, but any fool can do that, you just flick it up 
and down. No, it isn't the whip as such, it's more the idea of the whip, 
the contrast between the soft feminine demure girl, who suddenly is 
transformed into a dominatrix with a leather whip in her hands. It's the 
symbolism of the whip, with the sado-masochistic implications. Plus the 
very obvious symbolism of the whip handle, where a girl is in full 
control of something indistinguishable from a rampant male organ. 
Anyway, I find that when I take off my whip in this sort of situation, I 
get a very satisfying reaction from the man. I've even had men fall onto 
their knees and start begging me not to do some very detailed things to 
them. Very detailed. So detailed, you wonder why they're going into all 
that detail if they really don't want you to do it. 

But the fact is, I don't get off on whipping people. Sorry, you want to 
be flagellated, find someone else to give you a good flogging. Fucking's 
my thing. But the sight of the whip and the thought of the whip gets men 
in to a state of frenzied sexual anticipation, so it's a great prop, I 
just love wearing a leather whip as a belt. I wear it at the office 
sometimes, and some of the guys there realise exactly what it is  
I'm wearing, and they have to excuse themselves from time to time to 
visit the toilet and calm themselves down. 

Anyway, the sight of the whip got Bernie going nicely, both in terms of 
sexual excitement, and in terms of establishing who was in charge around 
here. But, of course, me being Diana, that wasn't enough. 

Some people keep a good book by the bed, in case they wake up and can't 
get back to sleep. Some people keep sedatives handy, just in case. Lots 
of people have KY jelly handy, although I've never needed it myself, and 
you never know when you'll suddenly need a condom. I doubt if there are 
many people keep a bunch of six inch nails in their bedside cabinet. I 
do this for two reasons. First of all, an iron nail is a great comforter 
when you wake up in the middle of the night full of bitter regrets about 
the previous day. And secondly, it's the best way I know to show a man 
who's in charge. 

I mean, when you take a man to bed, it just isn't done to start off by 
inflicting big dollops of pain on his body just to show that you can. 
There's probably something in the book of etiquette that says that well 
brought up young ladies do not start off a relationship by getting the 
man in a full nelson, wrapping their legs round his chest, and trying to 
simultaneously tear off his head while breaking most of his ribs in 
order to establish the dominance that they want. So I don't do that. 
Besides, it's probably bad for your reputation, I wouldn't want to be 
known as a man-killer. 

So I got Bernie to sit and watch while I bent a couple of nails double, 
and then finished off by bending a third one back and forth until it 
broke. He sat and watched in thunderstruck silence, and then he said, 
"Blimey. And to think I was planning to rape you. You'd have killed me." 
"No, I wouldn't, Bernie. I'm a very gentle girl, really I am. But no, 
you wouldn't have raped me." And then I pulled off my slacks and T-shirt 
from his body, ran my hands over his soft unprotected skin, squeezing 
him gently in my fingers from time to time. "I'm going to rape you, though." 
And I know what he was thinking, he was thinking "She can break iron nails 
with those fingers, I hope she doesn't hurt me." So I told him "Don't 
worry, Bernie, I really do know how to be very gentle. You just do whatever 
I say and we'll get along just fine" and I got on top of him and raped him. 

Well, it wasn't rape, of course it wasn't, he was very willing indeed. 
But I didn't let him have any say in what was happening, although as a 
virgin, he wouldn't have known what to do anyway. Afterwards, I told him 
how wonderful he was, you have to do that with men, otherwise they get 
all sulky. And he told me how wonderful I was, which I already knew. 

I gave him a few minutes to recover, and then I raped him again. No, not 
rape, he was consensual, very consensual, but it was all me, not him. 
This time it took a bit longer for me to bring him off, the first time 
had taken the edge off. 

The third time, I let myself have an orgasm as well, I felt I deserved 
it. And I told him that he was absolutely wonderful, and I thought he 
was one of the nicest and best men I'd ever met, and I felt sure that 
he'd be able to do anything he turned his hand to, since his sexual 
abilities were so good. You really can't lay it on too thick, I've 
found. 

I counted, I'm compulsive about that. I always count, and that night, I 
fucked that lucky boy nine times. Quite a few of those really were rape, 
in the sense that he really didn't want to, but I don't bother myself 
about niceties like that. If the guy says yes at the start of the 
evening, that's good enough for me. I assume that the "yes" persists 
until at least the next day. And while I fucked him, I kept telling him 
how wonderful he was, how if he could fuck Diana, he could do 
anything he wanted, anything at all, anything in the whole wide world. 
And we made plans for the future in between sessions; he was going to 
get a proper job, find somewhere decent to live - he was going to get a 
life. 

In the morning, I kissed him half-awake, fucked him fully awake, then 
bounced out of bed and got dressed. He came into the kitchen as I was 
making an omelette for myself, and put his arms round me, and it was 
time for the last stage. I turned round in his arms and kissed him, and 
took him and my omelette into the dining room. 

 "Bernie, it's like this. I only ever sleep with a guy once, that's the 
way it is. Last night was absolutely wonderful ." and I did in fact 
still have a bit of a glow, but I was laying it on with a trowel, you 
have to for men "... but it's wham, bam, thank you sir, and on to the next 
part of my life." He looked a bit hang dog. "It's not you, Bernie, it's 
me, it's the way I like to live, the way I am. I'm a wild animal, the 
cat who walks alone, and I don't want to be tamed." "I'll never forget 
you, Diana." I smiled. "I don't want you to forget me. And I'll always 
remember last night." I can say things like that with a straight face, 
too. I gave him a picture of myself to keep, and a bent nail, and the 
broken one too, and a small but significant bundle of twenty-pound notes 
to get him started in his new life. 

"I'll always remember you, Bernie", and that was true, you don't forget 
being attacked with a wicked great knife. "And I'll always be here, if 
you're in trouble or don't know where to turn, I'll always be here to 
help you. You're going to have a good life now, you're going to be a 
great success and you're going to make me proud of you, and you'll write 
to me once each year on your birthday and tell me how you're getting on, 
and it's like you're a whole new person, Bernie, someone that everyone 
will respect and admire, and if you ever feel down, or if anyone tries 
to put you down, you take out my picture and look at it and remember me, 
and you tell yourself that you once spent a night with Diana and 
fucked her nine times and made her scream with orgasmic pleasure, and 
you touch those iron nails and remember that you had the best sex that 
anyone can have with the strongest woman in the world, and then you can 
look around you, knowing that no-one else present has had what you have 
had. And you can smile. 




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