Diana's Hard Rock 
By Diana the Valkyrie
Diana climbs the Pillar of McGowan with Rupert


This is the ninth in the series of stories by Diana. I'd just 
like to emphasise that, although I am rather stronger than the average 
girl (or even than the average man), what follows is entirely a fantasy 
of mine. I made it up. It didn't actually happen, although I really am 
scared of heights. 

I still haven't actually spoken to the guy on the underground. He's been 
missing for the last couple of weeks, I hope nothing bad has happened to 
him. 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 her ivory 
combs. Because something rather good might be about to happen to you. 
Well, actually not "might", definitely will. I can be rather good when I 
want to be, you know. 

If sex and violence isn't you, then don't read this. If you have bad 
vertigo, don't read it or you'll get nightmares. In spite of the start, 
this isn't a skiing story. Children, please don't try this at home. 



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


Isn't skiing great? I do so love the swish of the skis on the snow, the 
wind in my hair, and all that is stopping me from a terrible tumble is 
my own skill and balance, just me against the mountain, me against the 
slope, me against the elements. Just me, the mountain and the Goddess, 
the way it's supposed to be. 

And then the apres ski, the warm conviviality of people huddling 
together to keep warm in the ski lodge. And there are so many nice ways 
to keep warm. A roaring log fire, spiced wine and brandy, and I love 
wearing a clingy cashmere sweater, it hides my waist quite well while 
letting me flaunt my breasts nicely, they're quite suitable for 
flaunting. I wish my waist was an inch or two smaller, but I suppose you 
can't have everything. I'd rather have a full-sized bosom and a couple 
of extra inches of waist, than look skinny and scrawny. If I wear my 
special belt, people tend to look at that rather than at my waist. Not 
everyone wears a bull-whip round their waist, so it's a great 
conversation starter. Men have such terrible trouble thinking up pick-up 
lines ("have you been here before?" and "nice weather for the time of 
year") so wearing something they can comment on as an opening gambit 
helps a lot. 

And that's what happened at this ski lodge. I was up at the bar, 
wondering whether to have plain brandy or that cocktail of brandy-and-
cream, I can't remember the name, is it Alexander? And I was wearing my 
cashmere sweater, pale blue with a vee neck, one plain row of fake 
pearls that didn't look fake, a full skirt below the knee, and no bra, 
(flaunting, flaunting). And I was explaining to the barman that I really 
did have to watch my waistline, and I was showing him where it was, 
because although I'd prefer that it was a bit less, it's still firm and 
hard, it isn't fat that fills out my sweater and the waistband of my 
skirt. So the barman was acting a bit less cynical than they usually 
act, when this rather dishy bloke came up to me and offered to watch my 
waistline for me. So I swivelled round on the bar stool to point my 
breasts at him, I find this is a good starting position for a heavy 
flirt, and told him "Maybe you should start off by getting hold of 
what's round my waist", and I gave him the handle-end of the whip. 

I wear it wound five times round my waist, tucked in with a knot, and 
with the handle dangling by my hip. Please don't get the wrong idea, I'm 
not into S and M, or B and D, or anything like that, although that's 
where I got it from, of course. Straight fucking, me, preferably with 
the man on top but I'm not stubborn about the position, I'm willing to 
get on top if it makes things easier. I just prefer to pretend to be 
submissive, that's all, it's better for the man's fragile ego. Yes, I 
know lots of men like to have some pain inflicted on them, and a strong 
woman like me is ideal for that, but it isn't my thing, which confuses 
them a bit sometimes, because they seem to expect it, I don't know why. 
However, the toys that the S&M crowd use are a great trouser-puller, 
that's why long leather boots, spiky heels, fishnet tights and the like 
are all considered very sexy. But I don't like to wear anything quite as 
obvious as that; being obvious is a signal of desperation, and I'm not 
exactly hard up for offers, you know, I've got some good things to 
flaunt. And the effect on a man when he realises exactly what it is I've 
got wound round my neat waist, is a sight worth seeing. 

It had the effect on Rupert that it usually has on men. For a few 
minutes, I could see he was having trouble breathing, so I stroked the 
handle a bit and fluttered my fingertips on it to make things worse. I 
know how to flirt, don't you worry, my mother taught me. I know a few 
things my mother didn't teach me, too, especially to do with my whip. So 
I suggested that he sit down, since he was having a bit of a problem 
standing, his trousers having suddenly got way too tight in the front 
area, and he did. I do like to see a man having an erection that I've 
caused, it makes me all warm and liquid inside, with an urge to do 
something with it. 

We introduced ourselves, and I let him buy me a drink, I went for the 
brandy-and-cream, because I guessed I'd be getting some extra exercise 
that evening. He ordered a double malt whiskey for himself, but I said 
"No, have a single. You never know when you might need the extra 
performance that alcohol robs you of", and smiled, and I think he nearly 
wet himself; he certainly nearly fell off the stool. Well, what's the 
point of poncing around? He knew what he wanted, I knew what I wanted, I 
knew what he wanted, and it only remained to make sure that he knew what 
I wanted. The barman knew it all, of course, he'd seen me in action 
before. 

Rupert asked me if I was there for the skiing. "No, I'm a professional 
snow sculptor, and I'm here to do the preliminary work on a tableau of 
the Four Horses of the Apocalypse." He believed me, too, because he 
didn't laugh, he said "War, Famine, Plague and Death." "Yes, but I'm 
doing the Disney version, Prancer, Dancer, Donner and Blitzen". "Hang 
on, those are the names of four of Santa's reindeer", and then we tried 
to remember the other three, which naturally led to the names of the 
seven dwarves, and then I explained I wasn't really a sculptress, I was 
trying to get my skiing up to "expert" level, and then Rupert explained 
he wasn't a skier, he was a climber. 

Men do this sort of thing all the time - the whole "are you there for 
the skiing" was so that he could impress me by telling me he was a rock 
climber, and I suppose they do it because women encourage them, which I 
proceeded to do by making my eyes go very wide, and saying a bit 
breathlessly "Isn't that terribly dangerous? You are brave!" and similar 
remarks. When it comes to putting butter on the male ego, you lay it on 
with a trowel, my mother taught me. I worked out the wide-eyed bit all 
by myself. I learned the flaunting from an old Jane Russell movie, "The 
Outlaw". 

Apparently, differential erosion of the various rock strata have left 
some very craggy rock formations in the Cairngorms, and Rupert used to 
go climbing up those, single handed. "Tomorrow, I'm doing the Pillar of 
McGowan" he said. This is a tall pillar of rock with a flat top. The 
objective is to climb to the top, sleep there overnight, then climb down 
the next day. "You have to be very good to tackle the McGowan", Rupert 
said. "Very, very good. It's graded as `Most Severe', which means it's 
as hard a rock as you can get." I looked as impressed as I could, kept a 
straight face, and said "I know where to locate a pillar that's even 
harder." "Where?" he asked, eagerly. So I modestly lowered my eyes and 
pretended to blush, and smiled. "Well, it looks pretty hard to me," and 
while I had my eyes lowered I heard a little "Unh" noise from him; 
hopefully he managed to hold it in. Well, it would be a shame to waste 
it, wouldn't it? "Gotcha, my lad", I thought. 

And so to bed. We did it in my favourite position, which gives the man 
the illusion that he's in control on account of him being on top. If 
you've been following my previous anecdotes, you'll know that I can 
create that illusion quite well, and he only finds out he wasn't in 
charge after the third or fourth time, when he wants to stop, and I 
don't, and I outvote him. I outvoted Rupert a few times that evening, 
but I've found that men secretly enjoy being dominated by a strong woman 
who can deliver orgasms several times as intense as an ordinary woman. I 
do it by clenching myself hard at the appropriate time; I can usually 
tell when the appropriate time is by the noises that the man makes. I 
don't want him to come too soon, because that means less for me, so I 
clench hard, that stops him from orgasming, and I can hold him still 
while he cools off slightly. Sometimes I have to wrap my arms round 
their body and hold them firmly to stop them bucking, and if that stops 
them breathing, I have to release them from time to time to let them 
draw breath. I try not to do this, though, because it seems to have a 
rather adverse effect on their attitude towards me; having a woman stop 
your breathing by hugging you makes men rather more submissive than I 
like, so I try not to do that. But once I've got the man cooled down, I 
can continue, until eventually I'm ready to climax, and then I just 
don't stop when he comes, I use my vaginal muscles to milk him and milk 
him and sometimes they pass out from the sensation - it's known as 
"fucking his brains out", and I'm good at it. Normal women can't control 
their sex partner; if he's stronger than she is, he can give himself an 
orgasm whenever he wants, which usually means about 30 seconds after he 
starts. But men can't do that with me, they come when I'm ready for them 
to come, and not a second sooner, and then they come with an intensity 
they've never experienced before. And I never have to inflict any real 
pain on them to keep them under control, it's all done very gently. And 
they're ever so grateful afterwards, and usually tell me so. 

Afterwards we lay whispering to each other about the usual things that 
one whispers about, and it was at that point that I did something really 
stupid. I asked Rupert to take me climbing with him tomorrow. I know I 
shouldn't do this, but when I see a challenge like that, I can't resist 
it. Well, if a man can do it, I ought to be able to, oughtn't I? Of 
course, Rupert said no, because I wasn't trained, I wasn't equipped, I 
wasn't skilled enough. But it really isn't on for a man to say no to me 
while I've got him naked next to me in a bed (or in pretty much any 
other situation, come to think of it), and pretty soon, his no turned 
into a reluctant yes, followed by "Anything you want, Diana", followed 
by some non-verbal communication that I had to muffle with my breasts to 
avoid him waking up the whole hotel. And then, feeling moderately sated, 
and just slightly apprehensive about tomorrow, I let him fall asleep, 
and dozed off myself shortly afterwards. Sex is the best sedative, I 
think. Not that I've ever tried anything else. 

The next morning, Rupert tried to talk me out of going climbing with 
him, but I explained that I'd never done it before, so I wanted to try 
it. Then he explained it was dangerous, and I said that was part of the 
attraction wasn't it, so then he said "And you get cold, and wet if it 
rains", and I said I didn't mind getting wet, and what did he think 
happened when you're skiing, snow isn't exactly warm you know, so then 
he said "You should try something not so hard first", and I explained 
that there was something not so hard quite handy, and then I remarked 
that it seemed to be getting harder, and then I said "So that's all 
settled then?" and Rupert said "Mmmph, urghh, nnngh" because there was 
something muffling his mouth, and which I took to mean yes. And 
afterwards he admitted that it had meant yes. I've discovered that men 
find it really difficult to say no, if you ask them the right way. 

First, we went down to the town to get me some climbers' boots, which are 
completely different from ski boots. But the anorak (yes, Diana  
wears an anorak, but only when she goes skiing or rock climbing) was the 
same, and my socks were fine, and we bought some extra crampons 
(honestly, that's what they're called, they go on your boots) and 
pitons, and a good nylon rope "in case you fall off, then you won't fall 
too far". I surreptitiously tried to break the rope, and I couldn't, and 
if I can't break a rope, it'll take my weight and a few more like me 
besides. And some dried meat to eat on the summit, and a water bottle 
(you put snow in it, and drink it when it's melted). Apparently my 
skiing hat would do fine, although Rupert had a rather natty leather 
flying helmet, which I rather coveted. 

We drove as close to the McGowan as we could, then we got out and walked 
to the base. When you stand at the base and look up, it looks like it 
goes up forever, and it's pretty much vertical all the way. But Rupert 
explained that it was pretty rugged from the weather erosion, and we'd 
find hand and foot holds. He showed me how to do it, and I had a few 
more misgivings, but I wasn't about to let him know that, you mustn't 
show fear in front of a man, they start thinking they can protect you if 
you do that. First of all, what he called a hand hold, I would call a 
fingertip hold. And what he called a foot hold, I'd call clinging on by 
your toenails. There are two important things to do, he explained. The 
first, is don't look down. All that looking down does, is scare you. 
Look up, and sideways, that gives you an appreciation of what is to 
come. The second is, don't hug the rock, it doesn't make you any safer, 
and it means you can't see where you're going. You should stay clear of 
the rock, relax, and move slowly and steadily. 

Relax? Relax? I'm scared of heights, I thought, Diana, you silly 
girl, what on earth are you doing this for? You must be crazy. But, of 
course, I was doing it precisely because I was scared of heights, I was 
doing it for the same reason that I pick up spiders in my hands to put 
them outside, the same reason I take Fay out racing occasionally. So I 
gave Rupert a bright smile, and said "No worries", and we got started. 

I had this great big rucksack on my back containing extra clothes for 
the night time, water for the climb and food, plus some gear that Rupert 
said we'd need. But it wasn't too heavy. I wore this leather harness 
sort of thing, and no, it wasn't the least bit sexy, and pitons and 
stuff were attached to it, together with the all-important rope linking 
me to Rupert. I expect he thought that if I fell, he'd be able to save 
me, but all I could think of was that if he fell, I'd probably get 
dragged off the rock with him. Rupert led the way, and it wasn't just 
because he was the man and I was the girl, he really did know more about 
this than me. I watched him as he started up. He climbed one arm or leg 
at a time, holding on with the other three, looking for the next hold 
upwards or sideways, and planning his moves in advance. It was easier 
for me, I just watched where he put his hands and feet, and used the 
same holds. 

Holds? Maybe you've got a mental picture of ledges that you stand on, 
and handles that you hold on to. It wasn't at all like that. There were 
cracks in the rock that you jammed your fingers into, and bumps of rock 
that you rested your tiptoes on. It was real human-fly stuff. I watched 
as Rupert went up for several meters, then he pulled a hammer out of his 
kit, and banged a piton into the rock. They're called pitons, but 
actually it was a shaft of steel with an eyelet. He clipped his rope to 
that eyelet, and now he couldn't fall. If the piton held, that is. Then 
he called down to me to start climbing. 

I did what I'd seen him do, and it wasn't easy. Some holds, you just 
know that you can't put very much weight on them. After a few feet of 
climbing, I found another problem that Rupert didn't have; my breasts 
were rubbing against the rock, because they stick out rather more in 
front than Rupert does. So I climbed back down to the ground, and 
stripped off; Rupert watched me. "I thought you weren't supposed to look 
down" I said. "You can if the view is worth looking at" he replied. 

Usually, a girl wants her breasts to stand out as much as she can 
reasonably achieve, it gets you noticed, flaunting is what breasts are 
all about. But that is *not* what you want when you're rock climbing. So 
I tied a knot in my bra to make it tighter, and put it on with the 
tightest hook, which flattened me a little bit, not much because they're 
rather firm and solid, but enough to help my climbing. Then I put my 
anorak back on, and climbed. 

As I climbed, Rupert was taking up the slack on the rope, and I could 
see that if I did fall, I'd only go down a couple of feet, provided the 
rope was strong enough (which it was) and provided Rupert knew how to 
tie knots, and provided the piton held, and there were probably a few 
more provideds that I wasn't aware of, which was maybe just as well. 
After a minute, I just stopped thinking about it; I didn't intend to 
fall, but if I did, either it would save me or it wouldn't. After I'd 
gone a few yards, Rupert called down to me to stop and rest. "Now's the 
time to give up, Diana, if you're going to. You can get back down to the 
ground very easily, and you can borrow the car to get back to the 
lodge." I swear to you, if he'd been within range, I'd  have given him a 
couple of squeezes with my hands, to show him that you don't talk to 
Diana like that. But he wasn't close enough, and anyway, I didn't 
want him pissed off at me as we climbed up this rock, so I just smiled 
sweetly up at him and said "Race you to the top." And yes, I was 
kidding. 

We climbed and climbed and climbed. Rupert led the way, climbing while I 
rested. I banged a piton in whenever I stopped, and attached myself (and 
Rupert) to it. So if I fell, it would be just a few feet, but Rupert 
would fall several yards if something went wrong. Still, enough for a 
nasty experience, but not enough to get injured. If the piton held. I 
hammered them in as far as they would go, I didn't want Rupert to fall 
to his death because I couldn't bang in a piton hard enough. You didn't 
bang them straight into the rock, as one might have expected. You had to 
find a crack, and bang them into that. Then, while you were still 
attached to the previous piton, you'd test the strength of the next one. 
It was all very scientific, and it didn't feel terribly safe. Well, if 
you want to go rock climbing safely, sit at home and watch it on the TV. 

Half way up, we stopped and had lunch. Have you ever had lunch while 
clinging to the face of a vertical rock? You eat with one hand, cling 
with the other. Of course, we were well pitoned in, just in case. For 
the occasion, I climbed up to be next to Rupert, near in this context 
being about a yard away. But when we finished eating, I just had to show 
him that I wasn't afraid, so I edged sideways until I was close enough, 
then gave him a big sexy kiss. Then he had trouble with things sticking 
out in front for a little while. 

After lunch, we climbed on. I began to get very bored with this, it was 
all very samish. Bored, yet at the same time, I knew that if I lost 
concentration, I could fall. Yes, the rope and piton would stop me 
falling very far, but it would be painful, and more importantly it would 
be embarrassing. Could you imagine dangling on the end of a rope, being 
pulled up and rescued by a man? Style, style. No thank you very much. So 
I concentrated, and made sure I stuck to that rock like a baby to its 
mother. 

Suddenly, I groped above me for the next handhold, and found thin air. I 
looked up, and Rupert had vanished. Then I realised - we were at the 
top. I climbed up a bit more, and when my head cleared the edge, I could 
see Rupert, lying on his back on the top of the Pillar of  McGowan. He 
rolled over and looked at me. "Want a hand getting over the edge, 
Diana?" "No thank you", I replied. If he can get over the edge, so can 
I, but I hadn't seen how he did it, and it wasn't easy. But eventually I 
dragged myself on to the top, and then I realised why Rupert was lying 
on his back. I was exhausted from the climb, and it was so good to have 
gravity on your side, holding you in place rather than trying to drag 
you off into the abyss. 

We lay there and just breathed for a while, and then I felt a bit 
better, so I stood up and had a look round. The view was magnificent, 
you could see for miles and miles all round. I walked over to the edge 
and peered over, you could see the ground several hundred feet below. 
And I wasn't at all scared of the height, which surprised me, because 
I've always been very vertiginous before. But standing on top of the 
pillar was so much more secure than climbing up the side, that I really 
didn't see it as risky. Anyway, we were still wearing our rope and 
harness, and Rupert had tied us both to a piton hammered into the top. 
But a fear of heights has nothing to do with whether you're safe or not, 
and my fear had completely disappeared. 

We sat up there watching the sun go down. Have you ever watched a sunset 
from a mountain top? Rock climbing is worth it for that alone. Rupert 
had a camera, and he took lots of pictures. Then it started to get a bit 
chilly, so I put on an extra sweater, and Rupert suggested that we eat. 
He had a little meths stove, and we cooked up some rice, and crumbled 
the dried meat into it. It was delicious, one of the best meals I've 
ever had. I don't think it was the cuisine, I think it was the ambience. 
Then I pulled my surprise out of my rucksack. 

"Diana! You mean to say you dragged a bottle of champagne all the way up 
here?" I nodded. "Diana, you've got style." I smiled. I think 
style is *so* important. But he hadn't seen style yet. I ferreted in my 
rucksack again, and pulled out two glasses. Not paper cups, not plastic 
beakers, but proper crystal flutes, champagne for the drinking of. I 
held them, and suggested that Rupert open the champers, that's a man's 
other main purpose, I think. It opened with a satisfying "pop", and he 
filled the glasses. Then we sat, side by side, several hundred feet up 
in the air on top of the Pillar of McGowan, drinking champagne. 

We pitched camp up there. Rupert had a little pup tent, just big enough 
for one person, and he proposed that we both sleep in that. "It'll be 
very cosy", he said. And we had one sleeping bag between us, and one 
sleeping mat, a sort of dense spongy thing that absorbed the worst of 
the surface bumps. We pitched the tent (more pitons) and got into the 
sleeping bag together. Rupert insisted that we should still wear our 
leather harnesses and be attached to a piton, in case we rolled in the 
middle of the night. I was beginning to feel like a horse. I don't mean 
I was beginning to want to eat a horse, although if one had wandered by, 
I could think of some good recipes. I mean that I began to feel as if I 
was permanently harnessed. 

Now you might think that when you're several hundred feet up in the air 
on top of the Pillar of  McGowan, roped to the rock and two to a 
sleeping bag, and exhausted from a "most severe" climb with another one 
in prospect tomorrow, you don't really want sex. You might not, but I 
did. I couldn't sleep. The excitement of the day had gotten me so high 
on adrenaline, and the thought of tomorrow had me so thrilled, I just 
couldn't sleep. But I know a good cure for insomnia, it burns up all 
that adrenaline, and it doesn't come in little pills. 

"Rupert", I whispered. He was asleep, but I knew he would want to be 
awake for what I had in mind. "Rupert" I whispered again, and this time 
I put my hand between his legs and groped around until I found it. He 
woke up with me squeezing him, very gently, and rubbing myself against 
his body. "What's the matter, what's up?" he said. "I can't sleep, I'm 
too excited. I need something to help me sleep." "I'm sorry, Diana, I 
don't have any sleeping pills." "I wasn't thinking of pills", I said, 
and gave him another, very friendly squeeze, and rubbed myself against 
him again. 

He groaned, which I thought wasn't very complimentary. "Diana, you can't 
be serious. We're hundreds of feet up on a pillar of rock, I'm exhausted 
from the day's climbing and we've got another exhausting day tomorrow. 
Plus, last night was enough for me for a week." "Please?" I wheedled. 
"No" he said, very firmly, "Definitely not." 

How do you define rape? If your partner is willing at some point, but 
then changes their mind, is that rape? It depends at what point they 
change their mind, I think. But what about if it's the other way round? 
What if your partner starts off unwilling, but you manage to change 
their mind, is that rape or seduction? It's a big grey area. I don't 
think I rape men, I think I seduce them; that's my opinion, and it's 
theirs too, afterwards. Admittedly they don't have much choice when I 
start, but by the time I'm going properly, if they did have a choice it 
would be the same one I chose. I got on top of Rupert, which isn't easy 
inside a sleeping bag, and set to work. I held his wrists in my hands, 
and rubbed my body against his until he had an erection. Now if a man 
has an erection, how can it be rape? I spread my legs as far as the 
limited space inside the sleeping bag allowed, and worked his penis into 
my vagina; he was still struggling a bit, but less and less as I got 
myself wrapped round his prick. Eventually, I had him fully enveloped, 
and then I started to slide him in and out, as one does. Being one top 
of the Pillar of McGowan added spice to the occasion, and after not too 
many minutes, I had my first small orgasm. 

I relaxed on top of Rupert, and he said "Diana?". "Mmmh?" "Diana, you 
can let go of me now." I was still holding his wrists and of course my 
grip must have been rather painful. I released his hands from my grasp, 
and he rubbed his wrists. "Diana, you're very strong, you know." And I 
thought, I'd better tell him. 

"Rupert, I'm sorry if I hurt you, I didn't mean to, I was just making 
sure you didn't stop me fucking you. Yes, I'm a very strong girl, I can 
bend six inch nails with these hands, and crush apples with my grip. 
I've inherited an unusual genetic make-up, and for reasons I don't 
really understand, I'm a lot stronger than any man I've ever met. I 
could lift you up over my head, I can open pickle jars, I can tear 
telephone directories in half very easily, and I could probably lift the 
back end of your car. But especially my hands are very strong, very 
hard." I let one of those strong, hard hands curl gently round his 
genitals. "I could crush your balls with my hand, I could tear your 
prick off your body, but I wouldn't, I'm not like that, I'm gentle with 
men, soft and gentle. I love men, I love the feel of their bodies, the 
touch of their hands on my skin. Men are sweet, lovely and delightful, 
and should be nurtured and fondled carefully and delicately. I'd never 
hurt someone like you on purpose, not unless they were threatening me or 
someone I love." 

There was a silence for a while, then Rupert whispered back to me, "When 
you made love to me last night, I thought I felt something like that. 
You just went on and on, I couldn't stop you, although I didn't really 
want to try. I felt so helpless in your embrace, Diana. But you're 
telling me that I really am physically helpless in your hands?" "Mmmh. I 
don't always tell my lovers this, but yes, I'm a lot stronger than you 
are, Rupert, and I can do whatever I want with your soft body." There 
was a long silence. "Oh, Diana. Oh. Oh." 

I get different reactions to this. Some men don't believe me, even if 
I've just bent a six inch nail double for them with my hands, and they 
think it's some sort of magic trick. Then, if I want to convince them 
(which I usually want to do) I tell them to take a deep breath, and then 
I wrap my arms round their body, and squeeze them like a python squeezes 
its prey. I read once how they do it, and the technique works great. 
What you do is you squeeze and crush, and as your victim breathes out, 
you take up all the slack with your arms. So he can breathe out, but he 
can't breathe in again. After half a minute, he realises what is 
happening, and he tries to struggle, but you just keep up the pressure, 
and take up any slack from his breathing out. The more he struggles, the 
faster he uses up his oxygen. You don't have to do any more than that, 
just hold him in your arms and stop his chest from expanding. 
Eventually, he's breathed out completely, can't breathe in, and starts 
losing consciousness. If you're a real python, you keep crushing and 
your victim dies from hypoxia. If you're Diana, you release him 
as soon as he stops struggling, so that he can breathe again, and 
regains consciousness. At that point, you put your arms round him again, 
but gently this time, and ask him if he believes you now. If he doesn't, 
you repeat the process. If he says he does believe you, then you tell 
him to relax in your arms and you give him a long, deep kiss. I don't 
mind that reaction at all, because it always ends up favourably. I've 
never had to squeeze a man more than twice, and once usually convinces 
them. 

Another reaction I sometimes get is abject worship. I don't like that. I 
don't mind being admired, what woman would object to that, but I 
honestly don't like men kissing my shoes, let alone licking them. Feet, 
yes, a good toe-lick can be delightful. But I don't want my shoes 
cleaning, thank you. Please take note, anyone reading this, take a 
woman's shoes off before you start using your tongue. 

But the reaction I hate the most, which is thankfully rare, is when they 
say "Oh, wonderful, could you hurt me please?" Huh? There are men in 
this world who actually want to be hurt by a woman, and being hurt by a 
strong woman like me is heaven for them. However, that isn't what I 
want; I don't like hurting people. I don't mind doing dreadful things to 
iron bars and fruit (you should see the way I juice an orange - I bet 
you thought you had to cut it open first), but not to people or animals. 
So when a man asks me to kick him in the stomach until he can't take any 
more, I just walk away. One man asked me to kick him in the balls; I 
made him take his trousers down, just to see if he was serious, and he 
was. So I used my strong hands to tear his trousers and underpants to 
shreds, and then just walked away. No thank you, I'm just not into that. 

But Rupert gave my favourite reaction. He wanted to know more, he wanted 
to feel my arms and thighs, he wanted to know how much I could lift, he 
wanted to know my bicep size, he wanted to feel how hard my arms are 
when flexed, he wanted to know what my training schedule was, he ran his 
hands over my thighs, admiring them. A girl likes it when a man is 
interested in her body, and it's so nice to be admired. Minds are nice, 
but bodies are for sex. So I told him all about myself, how I didn't 
actually work out, but my natural genetics gave me more strength than 
the average, a lot more. My body is wide and deep, I suppose you could 
call me thick-set. I prefer to think of myself as well-built, very well-
built indeed. I'm not fat, the thickness of my body isn't fat. My arms 
are brawny, not the pipe-cleaners that so many men and women have, but 
solid with muscle and heavy with thick bones. My legs are hard, thick 
and hard; looking at them, you'd think I could crush a tree trunk 
between my thighs, although I tried once, and I couldn't (but I can 
control a horse rather well). Rupert ran his hands over the inside of my 
thigh, which was a mistake, because it got me going again, and then he 
ran his hand up my belly and breasts, which was a big mistake, because 
that's my number one top favourite place, and it got me *very* excited, 
and I squealed, rolled on top of him again, and before he could protest, 
I had him pinned down with my hands and I was impaled on his dick again. 

The second time, I made it last a lot longer, and I managed to control 
Rupert so that although I climaxed, he didn't. This isn't cruelty, it's 
just practical foresight. Men are so rarely capable of more than two 
orgasms in one session, that you have to make each one last as long as 
you can. Sometimes, they have difficulty with more than one. If you hold 
the base of a man's penis in your hand, a finger pressed against the 
urethra will stop him from coming until you release the pressure. I 
prefer to do much the same thing with pressure from my vagina, but most 
women can't do that. After I'd come, I relaxed limply against him, 
catching my breath, because I'd screamed a bit. Well, there wasn't 
anyone who could hear. Not that I can always stop myself from screaming; 
I was once in a hotel with a partner, I forget who, and I managed to 
give myself such a strong orgasm at one point that my screams woke the 
entire hotel, and there was someone banging on our door soon afterwards. 
I probably should have put something on before I answered, because when 
I opened the door, the man standing there took one look at my naked 
body, up, down, up and then ran down the hall. I'm a wee bit 
intimidating when I'm naked. 

The third time, I was ready for the biggy. The first one takes the edge 
off my hunger, the second one gets me in the mood, and the third one is 
for real. This was the third one, and it was for real. By now, there was 
no question about whether I might be raping Rupert, he'd pretty much 
surrendered and was willing for me to do whatever I wanted. And what I 
wanted was pretty conventional, I'd have preferred him on top, but when 
you're two to a sleeping bag, it isn't easy, you know. Then I realised I 
was being a bit silly, so I stripped off the sleeping bag, and sat on 
top of him inside the little tent, moving slowly up and down, gripping 
his penis inside my vagina, squeezing it hard but not so hard as to 
hurt. You have to be so careful with a man's dick, they look hard, but 
they're actually very vulnerable, and if you want the man to be any use 
at all in future, you have to be so careful, you mustn't hurt their 
penis. You have to exert enough pressure to make it as intensely 
pleasurable as only a strong woman can be, but without a grip that 
threatens to rip it out by the roots as you pull it out. Well, I've had 
lots of practice, so I know how to make it wonderful for him, and pretty 
good for me too. 

But that evening was special. It was partly because of the location at 
the top of the Pillar of McGowan, the champagne probably helped, and I'd 
like to think that the beautiful sunset we'd both enjoyed played a part. 
Because when I came that third time, it was like a wave crashing on a 
beach, like a volcanic eruption, like a comet smashing into a moon. I 
was conscious only of the sensations deep inside me, and they weren't 
limited to my vagina, they spread to my nipples, deep into my breasts, 
my stomach, and then throughout my body in an earthquake of orgasmic 
pleasure that was greater than anything I can remember. I kind of greyed 
out, all I could feel was my own body and the orgasm that was 
reverberating through my consciousness. And then I gradually came to my 
senses, relaxed my grip on Rupert's wrists, and lay myself down next to 
him, kissing him tenderly on the mouth. Rupert just groaned, and I 
thought that it must have been as good for him as it had been for me, 
but then he groaned again, and it didn't sound like a groan of pleasure. 

"Rupert? Are you all right?" He groaned again. "Rupert?" "My hand, my 
hand, oh, oh." Of course, in the inky dark, I couldn't see very much, 
but this didn't sound good, so I fumbled in my rucksack until I found 
the torch, and then I shone the light on Rupert. He didn't look too 
good, and yes, that was a look of pain on his face. Oh no, what have I 
done? "My hand, oh, oh." I shone the light on his left hand, then his 
right. They looked fine to me. "What is it, beloved?" "Oh, Diana, you've 
hurt me, my hand." "Which one?" He moved his left hand, pointing. "That 
one." I touched his left hand. "No, the other one." I touched his right 
hand, the merest butterfly touch, and shone the torch on it. "No, no, 
please don't touch me," he begged. "Now come on, Rupert, let's have a 
look at it." He brought his left hand over to his right, and lifted it 
up, and now I could see the back of his hand, so I could see what the 
problem was. I must have forced his hand down onto the rock, there was a 
stony ridge just there, and I'd broken the back of his hand on it. 

The bones on the back of your hand are fine and delicate, and not made 
to withstand much pressure. Try it yourself, press gently on the back of 
your hand with a finger, and you'll see that it doesn't take much 
pressure to induce terrible pain. But don't let anyone else do that, and 
do make sure you stop before you hurt yourself or break anything. The 
front of the hand, the palm, that's designed to take pressure, to carry 
a load. But the back isn't. And I'd pressed the back of his hand against 
the rock so hard that some of the fragile little bones inside had 
broken. 

"Rupert, you aren't going to be able to climb." I could see that his 
face was white as he nodded. "Oh, Rupert, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to 
hurt you, oh Rupert, I wouldn't hurt you for anything, I'm so sorry, so 
sorry." I could see the tears in his eyes. I pulled him towards me and 
held him in my arms. "Oh Rupert, I hate myself, I've hurt you so much 
I've made you cry," and I cuddled him in my bosom, I've got a good bosom 
for cuddling people in, not excessive, but easily adequate, firm, but 
soft enough and very cuddly, especially when I'm wearing a cashmere 
sweater. His reply was a bit muffled by my breasts. "It hurts, Diana, 
but that's not the worst thing. The worst thing is that I'm going to 
have to radio for rescue, and after that, no-one will take me seriously 
as a rock climber." "But Rupert, you broke your hand, there's no shame 
in calling for rescue in that situation." He looked up at me. "Diana, I 
love you, you know? I really do, you're absolutely wonderful. I know 
what you said before, that you're not ready for a serious long term 
relationship, but I love you more than I can express, and I think I will 
for the rest of my life, no matter how you feel. But Diana, how am I 
going to explain this, I was having sex with a woman and she broke my 
hand? Do you think I'll be taken any more seriously?" 

I could see his point. Most men have never experienced the feeling of 
utter helplessness that a man gets when a strong woman takes charge, 
because women like me aren't that common. There are a few of us, I know, 
because I've met a few, but most women really are the weak helpless 
kittens that they appear to be. And if you've spent all your life 
learning that a woman is as weak as a kitten, you'll never be able to 
understand that some women aren't, that some women are so much stronger 
than a man that they have to be careful in case they break something. 
I'm always careful, but I'm not used to sex on rock, I prefer a bed, or 
a rug, or at least grass. Or sand. Or water. I'd better stop, or I'll be 
making a list. Anyhow, I've never before been in a situation where 
pressing down on a man's hands could do any damage, and that's what had 
gone wrong. 

I thought about this. Rupert would be humiliated if he called for 
rescue, I could understand that. And it's *so* important not to 
humiliate a man, it hurts their egos, and if you think that a man's 
genitals are fragile, you haven't seen a man's ego. Humiliation is the 
absolutely worst thing you do to a man, and that's another thing I have 
to be very careful about. That's one of the reasons why I prefer to be 
underneath, by the way, it gives some protection to the man against 
humiliation. But then I thought, do we really need rescuing? Maybe I can 
handle this. "Rupert", I said. He looked up at me. I brushed away his 
tears, pulled him up to me and kissed him. "Rupert, I'm strong enough 
for both of us, and no-one need ever know."  "What do you mean?" he 
asked. "Explain to me about climbing down." 

Going down is easier than going up. That's no great surprise, gravity is 
more on your side. You can pass your rope through a piton, and hold on 
to it as you go down, paying it out as you descend. Then when you've 
reached the limit of the rope, you can stop, let go of one end of the 
rope, and pull the other end so that the rope slides through the piton, 
and you have your rope back. Then you can repeat the process again and 
again. Going down is a lot easier than going up, and safer, too. "But I 
can't hold on to the rope with only one hand, it needs two." I could see 
the answer, but I didn't want to spend the night arguing with a man, 
they can be so illogical when it comes to letting a woman do things for 
them, so I simply said "Lets go to sleep and talk in the morning". 

It snowed that night, so when I woke up, the top of the pillar was a 
lovely winter snow scene. About nine inches of snow covered the harsh 
rock with a soft white blanket; it looked so beautiful, I wished I could 
stay. But snow is cold, and so was I, and so was Rupert, and we didn't 
have any food or source of warmth except each other. So I helped him out 
of the sleeping bag, and wrapped him up as thoroughly as I could. I 
splinted and bandaged his poor hand, and I felt like crying myself 
whenever he sucked in his breath with the pain. But he was such a brave 
little soldier, he didn't make any noise. Not until I told him what was 
going to happen next, he didn't. 

We sat in the tent, face to face. I held him in my arms, my legs round 
his waist, not gripping, just gently holding him there, and explained 
what was going to happen. "Rupert, you remember arguing with me about 
whether you were going to take me up this pillar?" "Yes, and I should 
have stuck to my guns, I should never have taken you up here, I must 
have been insane. You've never climbed before, your first climb should 
have been something easy. I must have been mad." "No, Rupert, you 
weren't mad. But when I want something, when I really want something, it 
simply isn't possible for a man to say no to me, not for very long. I've 
got so many weapons I can use on you, ordinary sex is only one of them. 
Your willpower is broken so easily by mine. You remember how you had to 
agree to what I wanted? You didn't have any choice, Rupert darling, 
because when a strong woman like me tells a man like you how it's going 
to be, then that's the end of it." He was silent, looking into my eyes. 
"Isn't that right?" And he nodded, and lowered his eyes. I didn't want 
to humiliate him, I'm aware of the terrible effect of doing that to a 
man, but I was choosing the lesser of two evils here, because calling 
for help would be such an awful humiliation; at least my way, only he 
and I would ever know. "Here's what's going to happen Rupert, and 
there's no point in you trying to argue. I'm going to carry you down." 

He looked at me in silence. He opened his mouth and started to say 
something, but I touched his lips with a finger, and then he closed his 
mouth again. Then he said "Uh." Then he said "Uh. Uh. Diana, I love 
you." I smiled, and kissed him, because that's such a nice thing to say, 
and then I  said "Rupert, you're the expert in this, what's the best way 
to do it." He thought for a moment, and then said "Diana, what do you 
weigh?" "Eighty six kilos, one ninety pounds." Now was not a time to be 
coy about my weight. He looked surprised. "You're what, five foot five, 
you weigh 190, and you aren't fat?" I nodded. "I told you, Rupert, my 
body isn't like other women. Big bones, heavy muscles, wide and deep, 
strong and hard. But all woman, all woman." He smiled. "Yes, all woman. 
Oh, Diana, what a woman you are. More than just a woman." And I smiled. 
"I'm six three, 210 pounds." Long and lean, they way I like them. "Do 
you really think you can carry more than your own weight down a sheer 
cliff?" "Rupert, I can lift twice your weight over my head, repeatedly. 
What do you think you could handle?" "I don't know, Diana, I don't lift 
weights." "The average untrained man could manage about a hundred pounds 
in an overhead lift, so that's probably where you are. Which makes me 
about four times as strong as you. So think of yourself as a quarter of 
the weight you actually are, think of yourself as being fifty pounds. 
Could you manage with fifty pounds on your back?" "I see what you mean. 
Fifty pounds isn't light, but I guess I could just about cope. But could 
you cope? You're just a woman, could a woman cope with fifty pounds?" 

I lunged at him, being careful not to hurt his damaged hand, threw my 
arms round him, squeezed him a bit, and said "Don't ever call me 'Just a 
woman'" and then I kissed him, long, hard and deep, until he started 
struggling in my arms, short of air. Then I released him, he took a deep 
breath and kissed me back. "I love you so much, you wonderful strong 
woman, more than I can put into words." 

We converted one of the rucksacks into a papoose-carrier, but for a very 
large papoose, and Rupert got into it. He showed me how the rope would 
work on the way down, how to thread it through the eye of the piton, 
hold the doubled rope as I climbed down, and then I could release one 
end and pull on the other to get the rope back. We drank some melted 
snow, filled up my water bottle with more snow, and finally we were 
almost ready. There was just one thing left that I wanted to do, and I 
knew that Rupert wouldn't like it. 

Imagine that you're strapped to a woman's back, being carried down the 
vertical face of a "most severe" rock, and you're an expert climber, and 
she's a complete novice. Would you really be able to let her make all 
the decisions, would you be able to cope with the feeling of total 
helplessness? What if you thought she was about to make some mistake, 
wouldn't you tell her, or even try to do something? I knew that Rupert 
wouldn't be able to control himself if he thought I was doing something 
that brought us into danger. 

So I explained to Rupert that he was going to have to trust me, and I 
tied his wrists together behind his back, careful not to hurt his 
injured hand. And then I blindfolded him, so he wouldn't be able to be 
scared. He tried to struggle at first, but he really wasn't up to 
fighting off a tired kitten, let alone the strong hands of Diana. 
I soothed him with a kiss, promised him that everything would be fine, 
and swung the rucksack onto my back, with my big baby inside. 

Yes, it was heavy. I wasn't lying when I told him I could cope, but 210 
pounds isn't light, even for me. I backed to the edge of the rock, 
paying out the rope as I went, and gripping the rope in both hands, 
started the long descent. Getting over the edge was pretty bad; I could 
feel Rupert's fear when he couldn't feel the rock under his feet any 
more. But once I was over the edge, it was a bit easier. 

Going down is easier and harder than going up. It's easier because you 
have the rope to hold on to, but it's harder because you can't see where 
you're going. You can't see the footholds, you have to feel for them. 
Occasionally, a foothold crumbled under my boot, and it was only my 
vice-like grip on the rope that stopped me tumbling to a double death. 
It was harder because I was more than twice as heavy as I'm used to; 
this was one of the reasons why I kept slipping. But more importantly, 
my balance was all wrong. I'm used to being heavy in front, well in 
front up top, anyway, because below the waist, I'm heavier behind. But 
now, the rucksack that rested on my hips, also dragged my shoulders 
backwards, and I kept feeling as if I was being pulled over onto my 
back. And Rupert wasn't keeping still, he kept shifting inside the 
carrier, which threw my balance around. I told him to keep still, and I 
think he tried, but it must have been pretty bad for him. He said that 
because he couldn't see, he couldn't predict what was coming, so he 
couldn't brace himself against the tilts and lurches. I saw the sense in 
this, so I pitoned myself to the rock, and reached back and pulled the 
blindfold off him, so he could see. But as soon as I did, he screamed. 

I waited until he calmed down a bit; eventually he stopped screaming and 
I was able to ask him what the matter was. His breathing was ragged with 
fear, and he was sobbing as he spoke. He was too far from the rock, he 
said, with air under his feet, he felt like he was falling. I waited a 
bit longer, and asked him if he wanted the blindfold back, although 
putting it back on was going to be a really big problem for me; how was 
I going to be able to reach round his head? But he said no, he could 
manage, just keep going. 

I got to the end of the rope, and banged in a new piton, attaching 
myself to it. Then I released the rope, pulled it down towards me, and 
threaded it through the eye. I climbed down another fifty feet, and 
repeated the process. I could hear a soft crying behind me; I should 
have left that blindfold on, but it was too late now. "Are you all 
right, Rupert?" I called back. "Yes", he whispered back. "Keep going, 
Diana, I'm fine." But he was lying. I could smell the fear from here, 
and hear the whimpering. He was really terrified, I guess I wasn't a 
very good climber, and he could see all the mistakes I was making. 

About halfway down, I made the biggest mistake a climber could make. I 
hammered in a piton, did the rope trick to get ready for the next fifty 
feet, and as I was tying the rope to the piton, I dropped the hammer. It 
was attached to my wrist with a loop, but the loop fell off, and the 
hammer dropped. I heard it fall, touch the rock with a metallic ring and 
bounce off into space. "What was that?" said Rupert. "I just dropped the 
hammer" I replied. Rupert made a keening noise, a high pitched wail, and 
I smelt the acrid odour of urine as the force of fear overcame his 
bladder muscles. "How could you do something so dumb?" he said. "I'm 
sorry, it just fell off my wrist." "You stupid cow, you've just killed 
us both." There was a long silence. Half way up a rock pillar is not a 
good place to have a row. "You idiot bitch, without the hammer, you 
can't use the pitons, without the pitons, you can't use the rope, 
without the rope you can't climb down. You've just killed us both." Half 
way down a rock pillar is not a good place to lose your hammer, I could 
see that, but I didn't need insults. What happened to 'Diana, I love 
you'? Men are so fickle, moods like the weather. "Rupert, shut your 
mouth and keep it shut, or God help me, I'll show you how I can break 
your jaw by crushing it in my hands." And I said it with enough force to 
make him keep quiet, so that I could stand and think for a while. And 
then, listening to him weeping softly, I realised, it was Rupert who was 
the moron, not me. 

I climbed down another fifty feet until I reached the end of the rope. 
Rupert was right, with him on my back, there was no way I could climb 
any further. Without the help of the rope, his weight would pull me 
backwards off the rock. 

But without his weight hampering me, if I were unencumbered by 210 
pounds of terrified weeping useless male, I stood a reasonable chance of 
making the climb down the rest of the pillar, just relying on my feet 
and strong hands to get me down. Looked at that way, it was either both 
of us die, or I ditch Rupert and have a chance on my own. I hope you 
never have a moral/ethical dilemma like that to face, because the choice 
between the two possibilities is obvious - what's the point of choosing 
death for us both? But the other choice entails the deliberate killing 
of a human being, and one that I'd enjoyed great sex with very recently. 
What a choice! And it would be so easy - all I had to do was shrug out 
of the rucksack, and I'd be rid of Rupert. So simple. So terrible. So 
easy. So awful. 

I stood and thought. What should I do? What would you have done? And 
then I thought, what would Diana have done. Diana the Huntress, my 
namesake, the Roman goddess. Diana was worshipped by the Greeks and by 
the Romans, because Diana was strong, Diana was hard, Diana was 
powerful, Diana was the goddess of the moon, the goddess of the hunt. 
What would Diana the Huntress have done? And I prayed, silently, I'm not 
sure who I prayed to, to the Mother, to the Goddess, to Diana. And She 
answered me. Or someone did. Maybe I could be spared that appalling 
choice. 

I took a piton in my left hand, and found a suitable crack in the rock. 
I put the piton into the crack, and pushed it in as far as I could. And 
then I hammered it home, I hammered it with my hard right hand, with the 
hand that could break a house brick with a single blow. The piton edged 
slowly into the rock, my hand hurt like hell, but when I tugged at the 
piton, it was firm, and I threaded the rope through the eye, offered 
Diana the Huntress a silent prayer, and climbed down, down, down. 

Five more times I used the hammer that nature had equipped me with, the 
hammer at the end of my right arm. And each time, the piton sank into 
the rock until it was as firm as I could make it, and each time it was 
enough, the piton held, the rope supported me. And my right hand 
screamed in agony, burned with the fiery pain of being used as a hammer, 
and before long, I had to hold the rope with just my left hand, I 
couldn't grip with my right. I wound the rope round my right arm, and 
used the friction against that to pay it out as I descended. It was 
painful, not as painful as using my other hand as a hammer, but it 
worked. 

Until finally, as I was descending, I reached a horizontal, a flat area, 
and I looked down, and the ground was no longer far below me. I was 
standing on the ground, on terra firma. Carefully, I swung the rucksack 
off my back - Rupert could walk now, you don't need your hands to be 
able to walk. But he didn't, he sank down to the ground and cried, tried 
to embrace the rocky surface. I tried to get him to stand up and follow 
me back to the car, but he wouldn't, and eventually, I had to carry him. 
I tried with the rucksack, but he was a lot taller than me, and his legs 
dangled on the ground. So I put him on my hip, facing me, his legs on 
either side of my waist, my arm round his waist, the way I've seen 
mothers carrying their children. I've got good, broad hips, and it 
wasn't too difficult carrying him back to the car that way. 

I drove back to the lodge using only my left hand. My right hand felt 
like you'd expect flesh to feel after it had been used as a hammer, it 
felt bruised and broken, torn and bleeding. At the lodge, I got out and 
I was just about to stagger into the lobby, when I caught sight of 
myself in the glass door. No, no, no. Diana does not look like 
this, no way. I went back to the car, and sat there, composing myself. I 
used tissues to clean up my face, and I brushed my hair until all the 
tangles were out. I tied a pink velvet ribbon into my hair, one-handed. 
I looked at Rupert, briefly considered cleaning him up a bit, but then 
decided that his condition wasn't my problem. The smell was awful and 
someone else would have to clean him up. I took off my anorak, all torn 
and smelling of Rupert's bodily fluids, and dabbed some perfume onto my 
ears. Then, I checked myself in the mirror, got out of the car, and 
strode confidently into the lodge, as if I'd just been out for a 
pleasant walk. Style is *so* important. 

They called a cab, and Rupert and I went to the local hospital. His 
injuries were minor really, just a couple of broken bones; they put his 
hand in plaster. The doctors wanted to know what I'd done to get my 
right hand into such an awful state, and although modesty is supposed to 
be becoming in a woman, it's never been one of my faults. So I told 
them, bluntly, exactly how I'd injured my hand, and they flatly didn't 
believe me until I crushed an apple in my other hand, and as the fruit 
burst in my grip and sprayed apple juice all over the place, they 
believed me, they believed. An X-ray revealed that I hadn't actually 
broken any bones, but the flesh was badly bruised and torn, so they 
bandaged me up and let me go. They kept Rupert in for observation, 
though, not because of his hand, but because his mental state appeared 
to be gibbering lunacy. 

I called to see him the next day. Yes, I know he'd called me some pretty 
bad names, but he'd been under a lot of pressure at the time, and he had 
been very sweet to me before. He was sitting up in bed, looking very 
lucid, and he smiled at me when I came in. I shared a big bunch of 
grapes with him, both of us eating one handed, and he seemed much more 
his normal self, I was so pleased. The doctor told me that Rupert could 
leave if he wanted, just to come back in a week to have his hand 
checked. They brought his clothes, and pulled a curtain round so he 
could get dressed. 

Rupert lay there in the bed. "Come on, love, we can go, get out of bed 
and get dressed." "Uh, Diana?" "Yes?" "Uh. Could you help me?" "What, 
help you get dressed? Sure, it's a pig with only one hand, isn't it?" 
"Uh, no, Diana, that isn't it. Er, Diana. Could you help me get down 
from the bed? My feet don't reach the floor, you see, and ...". 

He was scared. His feet didn't reach the floor, so I had to help him get 
down from the bed, it must have been all of six inches, but the poor 
lamb was scared. I'd been scared of heights, so I could kind of 
sympathise, but six inches? Then I thought of the trauma he'd just been 
through, and I thought, maybe there's a good reason for him to be scared 
of heights. So I helped him get down from the bed, then I helped him get 
dressed, them I helped him get into my car, then I drove us back to the 
ski lodge. 

As we approached, he started whimpering again. I stopped the car, and 
turned to him. "Rupert, what's the problem?" "The mountains, the 
mountains, they're so high, the mountains. Please, Diana, I'm scared, I 
can't, I can't..." I looked at him, his face was white with terror, his 
eyes were closed. I stopped the car, and turned round. We went back to 
the town and I helped him check into a hotel. "You wait here, Rupert, 
I'll pick up your things and fetch them here." Maybe I should have let 
him call for rescue, instead of carrying him down. But how was I to know 
it would affect him to severely? 

I drove back to the lodge, and picked up Rupert's belongings, and my 
own. Then I drove back to town, to the hotel where I'd left Rupert. I 
carried his stuff in to the hotel, then I went back out to my car. I sat 
there, I sat there for a long time. I thought about the night at the ski 
lodge, and then I thought about that wonderful, terrible night on top of 
the McGowan, about the wonder of the rock formation that we'd climbed, 
and triumphant feeling on reaching the top, the glorious sunset and the 
ecstasy I'd felt when we had sex in that incredible place. I didn't cry, 
because big strong girls don't cry, Diana doesn't cry, except 
when I watch Brief Encounter. But I had to wipe something out of my eye, 
and I had to blow my nose. And then I wrote Rupert a letter, saying how 
much I'd enjoyed our time together, how grateful I was for what he'd 
shown me, what a wonderful, wonderful lover he was. I enclosed a picture 
of myself, and I bent a piton to a sharp angle with my good hand by 
pressing the point at an angle against the ground, and put it all in an 
envelope and left it in the hotel for him. Rupert's problems were his 
own, he'd have to come to terms with his fears like everyone else has 
to. 

Then I drove back to the lodge. I reckoned that I could spend a very 
pleasant week fucking, you don't need two good hands for that, and there 
were plenty of likely looking men there, ready, willing and able. And by 
the end of the week, my right hand would be recovered enough so that I 
could make full use of it again. 

Because I was going to climb the Pillar of McGowan again. But this time 
I'd climb alone, just me, the rock and the Goddess, the way that it is 
supposed to be. 
 




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