Glove Man
by Jack Straw
Part 1, Manbeater: the only female at a party wreaks havoc


Part 1 -- Manbeater

It was supposed to be a swimming party, but I was one of only
three guests to show up, and the only water on our bodies was
sweat from all the beer we were consuming.  The host was a
bachelor named Stan who was house-sitting for a wealthy couple
touring South America for a month.  Why they entrusted the place
to Stan is beyond me.  It had a large swimming pool and the four
of us were wearing loose sports shorts that could have been used
for swimming, but I'm sure the others had as little intention as
I to get wet.  We had come to ogle the babes Stan had promised
would show up, or at least I presumed that's why the others were
there.

This "party" had been one of my last options that day; at least
that's what I would have told anybody else.  My wife was on a
rare business trip.  I wanted to do something with the kids but
they begged off when friends called.  They were old enough that
we hardly saw them during the day on weekends.  They used to beg
me to do this or that with them, but now  -- well, I wasn't going
to beg, at least not yet.  

Rationalizing that it wasn't my fault but my family's by
abandoning me, I was in the mood to peek at the life of a
bachelor.  Stan was always bragging about this or that conquest,
although I knew it was mostly hot air.  The possibility, remote
as I thought it might be, that there would be some scantily clad
females was enough to lure me away from the other option -- the
always delightful afternoon of cleaning the gutters free of
putrefying debris from the trees that surrounded our house.

From the moment I arrived, though, I felt as out of place as one
of Monty Python's chartered accountants at a biker convention. 
In fact, these guys fit the stereotype of the traditional biker
right down to the tatoos emblazoning each beefy shoulder and the
beer bellies swelling the lower halves of their tank tops.  But,
to have departed right away would have made me even more of a
wimp in their eyes than I already was.  So I stayed to have a
beer and then another.  Soon the bullshit started to flow, the
stories got richer and richer, time passed, empty beer bottles
mounted up, sobriety departed and I stayed.  It didn't even
matter much that I hardly spoke.  For some reason, I never
remember jokes and, even the ones I remember I can't deliver in
the laconic style these guys had long ago perfected.  Not that
most of their jokes were at all humorous -- crudity was the key,
any humor was superfluous.

One of the running gags was that Stan in all seriousness
continued to maintain that several "babes" -- and he "had a
stable of them" -- were still going to show.  That part was
mildly funny, because Stan didn't seem to realize how ridiculous
he was.  Looking back on the way things played out, however, I
wonder if maybe the joke was mainly on me.  If so, dame fortune
let me have the last laugh.

So how did I know these guys?  I'm the shortstop on their slow-
pitch softball team -- at least this year.  Except for softball,
I would not know these guys.  This spring I was looking for a
slow-pitch team, since I had decided my fast-pitch days were over
and baseball was a dim memory of the past.  A casual acquaintance
knew about these guys and, because they were supposed to be good,
I decided to try them.  They tried me and I stuck.  Personality-
wise, I felt isolated but I tried not to judge or be judged.  The
game's the thing.  The shortstop is chosen for defensive
purposes.  My job is to stop every grounder it is humanly
possible to reach between second base and our cement-legged,
portly third baseman, and to snag short pop flies.  It takes good
reflexes and some foot speed, both of which I was losing, but I
was still among the best in their league.  The other guys on the
team felt their missions were to hit the ball as far as humanly
possible, and these three, especially, were good at putting their
considerable weight behind their swings and lofting home runs.  

Remembering that all three of them worked at the same place, a
department store warehouse, I vaguely recalled that the third
baseman worked there, too, and asked about him.

"Well, get used to playing the rest of the season without him,"
grumbled our catcher.  "He just managed to rupture himself badly
at work this week."

"What -- a hernia?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's all the fault of that witch they hired for the
summer," joined in the other beer-swilling guest, our slow-
footed, but heavy-hitting right fielder.

"A witch?  They hired a woman to work with you guys?" I cut in,
suppressing a grin.  I knew these macho he-men wanted everyone to
believe their jobs were too heavy for a woman.  "Is she the only
woman there?"

"Yeah, in the warehouse she is.  They never should have hired
her.  A woman's not right for that job, and talk about an
attitude -- always pushing to show us up.  Everyone knows we can
work faster than we do sometimes, but the idea is to pace
yourself for the long haul, like we do."  The right fielder,
having put together three sentences without wetting his throat
was overcome at this point and had to take a long drink, allowing
the catcher to pinch hit, so to speak:

"That's why Phil is hurt.  She goaded him into lifting some heavy
appliance boxes.  God knows why.  He started screaming and we
knew he must be hurt bad.  We got there before the foreman and
covered up the truth.  If the company had found out that he was
lifting that shit instead of using the forklift, he'd have gotten
no workman's comp.  They're still suspicious about that and we
had a 'lecture' the next day about safety and all that crap.  All
because of that fuckin' bitch.  If Phil hadn't been involved, it
would have been worth it to snitch on her and get her ass fired,"
bellowed the catcher, now thoroughly out of breath and beet red
from anger.  The beer fairly sizzled as he quaffed a long one.

It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.  I had to meet
this gal sometime.  She must be quite a character to have
provoked such venom.  Perhaps I could drop by the warehouse some
day on some pretense about the softball team, I thought.

Stan's demeanor was different than his beefy friends.  He had
become almost introspective as soon as the subject of this woman
came up.  "Getting her fired isn't the only way to deal with a
bitch like her, you know,"  Stan said cryptically.  I had been
about to say something to egg them on, but Stan's manner and his
words made me want to change the subject.  Before I could think
of something, though, they piqued my interest in this woman even
more.

"She's not going to show, Stan.  Forget it.  That business about
armwrestling was just to get your goat," the catcher muttered
between sips on a fresh bottle.

"Armwrestling?" I asked.  Stan had seemed to imply something much
more ominous.

"Yeah, Stan told her after Phil got hurt that a girl had no
business doing man's work.  Well, PMS or something set in," the
catcher chuckled. "She started flappin' around, shooting her
mouth off.  Claimed she was stronger than he was -- stronger than
any two of us.  Challenged him to an armwrestling match.  Now
that's a good one!" the catcher said with a loud guffaw.  But, I
was only half listening.  For me, a new dimension had emerged,
one of age difference.  Up to this point I had assumed for some
reason that we were talking about a woman, who like us, was
middle-aged -- not a "girl."

Meanwhile, as if to rebut the claim by a girl that she was
stronger than he, Stan had walked across the patio to a weight
bench next to which a barbell with an impressive amount of iron
was resting.  I added up the weights and realized that it was
about twice what I ever managed to lift with my little set at
home.  Stan hefted it to his chest and shakily pressed it over
his head five times.  He was breathing heavily as he let it down,
but I was silently impressed.  His biceps, triceps and deltoids
were huge after this brief pumping.  He may have had a big gut on
him, but his chest was even bigger; it and every other part of
his body looked solid.  I was more intrigued about this "girl"
than ever.  I had to meet the woman who even in a heated moment
might challenge a behemoth like Stan to arm wrestle.

"So, what happened in the armwrestling match?" I asked in an
offhand way, trying not to show how fascinating I found all this.

"Oh -- well, Stan laughed at her but said if she was serious, to
come to the party today and be prepared to put her money where
her mouth was, but obviously, she's not showing, and I never
thought she would," the catcher said dismissively.  

"Never thought WHO would WHAT, Curly?" a melodious voice boomed
out behind us at the bald-headed catcher.  "And I thought *I* was
late.  Where is everybody, Stan?"  

My heart skipped a beat.  Now I was delighted I had stayed.  I
judged her to be about 25 years old -- tall, broad-shouldered
with an exaggerated hour-glass figure, clearly athletic, with a
face perhaps not lovely but nicely sculpted and dominated by her
intensely bright and penetrating eyes, and, as I was to find out,
possessed of a totally uninhibited personality.

She looked from one to another of us sardonically -- I was caught
in her spotlight before I could wipe the drool off my chin -- and
continued, "Where are the other women, Stan?"

"Linda, great to see ya!  Oh, the others are still coming.  I
expect them to get here any time now," Stan said earnestly, while
she could read on our faces that the rest of us were on the verge
of bursting out laughing.  In my case, though, a sobering
possibility had occurred to me.  I had assumed up to now that the
ridiculous lack of guests was a testament to the fact that nobody
really liked Stan; after all, he was a bully and a braggart, and
those were his good points.  However, the sense of unease I had
earlier at Stan's words was returning.  Still, I couldn't believe
these guys would risk anything illegal, especially in front of
me.

"Have a beer," Stan offered, popping the top off a bottle plucked
from his still mountainous supply, nicely frosted in tubs of ice.

"Hmmm, okay.  Sure, might as well.  It doesn't look like you'll
miss just one," she replied.  

Even in my inebriated state, I saw that she had sized up the
situation and was completely unconcerned, even quietly defiant. 
I could sense even then that being the only woman with four
strong men, drunk enough to do things we wouldn't normally do,
was appealing to her.  In retrospect I feel that she knew exactly
what visions our hormone-driven minds were conjuring up, and she
revelled in it; it would make the day more fun for her.  I see
now that she had come expecting a dull party with an obnoxious
host, but this more intimate situation suggested a quite
different prospect, one that would have alarmed almost any other
female, but which she welcomed.  This powerful aplomb, as much as
her athletic hourglass curves, made my heart race and I was aware
that I was not too drunk to prevent a phallic salute in her
honor.


"Hi, I'm Linda," she thrust out a smoothly muscled hand attached
to a thickly muscled wrist and forearm.  As I rose and tried not
to flinch from her exuberant grip, Stan, the suddenly solicitous
host, introduced me as the shortstop on his softball team.

"So, you're a glove man," she said with what appeared to be a
modicum of respect.  "Slow pitch is a game for couch potatoes and
beer bellies," she turned to drink in the sudden red that flashed
onto the faces of our stout company,  "except for the shortstop
and the left fielder," she finished, turning back to me.

I grinned to let her know I was on her side in this opinion but
let it rest without a word in response.  I was fascinated with
her fearless goading of these guys.  Was she really as superior
as she seemed to think?

"How's Phil, guys?" she asked in what seemed a very sincere tone.

Still, inwardly, I winced.  She was like a matador inciting three
bulls.

"As if you care.  He's going to be out for at least three weeks."

"Look, I told him not to lift those cartons.  I knew they were
too heavy for him.  I told him I'd take care of it myself.  No
need to get the forklift for just two lousy items.  But after I
put the biggest one up on the stack, he had to try one himself. 
You guys just refuse to admit how much stronger a woman can be. 
If I hadn't grabbed it away from him as soon as he started to
collapse, he'd be in much worse shape, believe me."   She turned
to me, "I suppose they've been telling you all about lethal Linda
and how she breaks rules and puts good men in the hospital."  Her
story and the gleam in her eye had my member bone hard and poking
through the old jock I'd worn.

"Right, that's a good one, Linda.  You lifted one of those
cartons on top of a stack.  I suppose you pressed it way over
your head first, huh," the right fielder said in a tone as
sarcastic as he could manage.

"Look, I'm very sorry about Phil, but if he had listened to me,
he'd be here to rag on me along with rest of you.  I'm tired of
this silly macho delusion you guys have.  And there's only one
way to put an end to it," she said spiritedly.  "Stan, it's time
to put up your hand and prepare yourself for a bruising of the
old ego.  I had hoped for a bigger audience to witness your loss
but -- how about a little monetary prize?  I've got about fifty
dollars in my purse.  Are you willing to match it, winner take
all?"

"Can anyone else get in on the action?" asked the catcher.

"Sure, Curly, you're the next victim after Stan, if you like,"
she smiled sweetly.

"You really are full of it, aren't you lady.  No, I meant I'd
like to place a bet that Stan beats you in less than a minute. 
And I'll give you whatever odds you like.  I've never seen Stan
lose at armwrestling in the bar we go to."

"You guys should spend more time at the gym and less at the bar. 
Your muscles are all in your head," Linda snorted.

I cut in, "I'll take that side bet, Frank, but first I want Linda
to know that Stan just lifted that barbell over there five
times."  I needed to know whether she had real confidence, based
on real data, or whether it was bluster.  "Curly" -- Frank --
blinked and just stared at me in shock.

She stared at the barbell and then asked, "Pressed it or curled
it?" 

"Pressed it with some difficulty," I answered looking steadily at
her and ignoring the glares of the males who disgustedly
considered me a traitor to their sex.

"Let me make you some money, Glove Man," she grinned at me.

"Okay, Curly -- " whoops, she had me saying it now, "Frank--" I
corrected myself, "fifty dollars."  Shaking his head at my
treason and what he thought was stupidity, or perhaps flirtation,
on my part, he shook my hand to seal the bet.

"Okay, clear us some room, guys," she said, settling her sexy bod
with feminine grace at the middle of one side of the big table we
had been sitting at and placing her elbow in traditional
armwrestling position.

"Oh, all right," Stan growled testily, "but I'm not going to go
easy on you.  I want you to agree that, if you get hurt because
of this, it was not my fault.  This was your idea."

"Oh, I'll not forget that.  Even now, you'd back out of it if you
could.  But you can't now.  I'm assuming that you'll hold ME
blameless for any injuries YOU suffer?" she taunted back.

He merely grumbled, "Let's get this over with."

They locked hands and, without seeming to exert herself much at
all, she was able to get him to really strain.  And within a few
seconds his hand hit the table with a resounding thump.  She'd
won!  

I thought "Curly" was going to faint.  Both of Stan's friends sat
in open-mouthed shock.  Stan was red-faced and looked like he
might bolt into the house at any moment.  "That wasn't fair," he
said, trying to laugh as if he hadn't been trying.  "I never got
a proper grip and you started before I did.  But if you want to
say you're better, go ahead.  I'm not interested in this."

She let go of his right hand with a smug look on her face, and
then, with a magnanimous air, announced to us, "Okay, you deserve
another chance.  Best two out of three."

"Hey, don't I get any say in this?  What about my bet?"  I was
trying to take the heat off Stan, because, although I despised
him, I was conditioned to be embarrassed whenever a female
triumphed over a male.  It was a perverse denial of the one thing
that infused my private fantasies.  Why was that?

However, she ignored me and grabbed his right hand again with
hers.  Stan reflexively tried to extricate his hand but, to his
obvious surprise, wasn't able to.   In fact he grimaced as she
grasped more tightly.

"Look, okay, but this is not a proper grip," he grunted.

Grinning superciliously, she let him arrange their hands as he
wanted, and let him push down first.  Stan forced her arm down
quickly almost all the way, but not quite.  It was obvious that
he was trying now.  His face was a beet red grimace and veins
stood out on his neck.  When he could not get her arm to move
down further, he rose in his chair to put more weight on his arm.

Linda began to chuckle at his effort and then to laugh outright
as she forced his arm slowly back.  Finally, she slammed it to
the table once again.

Stan's friends gasped; this was not at all what they had
expected.  They had been counting on her comeuppance.  Instead,
they were witness to as humiliating a thing a cocky jock could
suffer, being beaten convincingly by a girl -- a young WOMAN --
at least fifteen years younger.  Even I couldn't help being
embarrassed for Stan and our sex, but I of course was excited as
well.  My mouth was dry.

"I think this settles once and for all who's stronger Stan," she
tauntingly announced.  

Linda kept taunting and belittling him; it was obvious that she
was goading him into further confrontation.  Stan's face was
getting darker and darker.  He had to find a way to get even.  
"One more crack and I'm throwing you in the pool," he growled.

She giggled, "You and what army, wimp?"

"That does it!" he yelled, and he charged at her to lift her on
his shoulders but went stumbling behind her as she side-stepped
and pushed him. 

Tauntingly, she turned her back on him and began to peel off her
clothes.  She had arrived in a loose half-sleeved swimming
jacket, a long, wrap-around skirt, and high-heeled sandals.  As
she removed the jacket to reveal a bikini top, I became aware of
two things.  One, it was obvious now how she could triumph at arm
wrestling, and two, for a heavily-muscled woman, she had very
large breasts.  She was obviously into bodybuilding and had been
for a long time.  And what a body she had built!  I was now hard
as a rock and sat spellbound hardly able to breathe, anxiously
awaiting the unveiling of the lower half of her awesome physique.

As she reached down to loosen her skirt, Stan tackled from behind
with a triumphant shout and they went rolling in the grass. 
Linda managed to slip away and remove her skirt from luscious
long muscular legs.  Stan attacked again and the fight became
serious.

It became clear that Stan was overmatched.  She seemed to know at
least as much about wrestling holds and was faster and stronger,
and she was a big girl in every way except for her sinewy waist. 
As her muscles flexed and bulged, although I guessed that Stan
was taller by at least four inches and heavier by as much as a
hundred pounds, she seemed to dwarf him.  

Her strategy, if she had one, seemed to be to wear him down. 
She'd let him get her in a hold and then slowly reverse it.  Then
she'd put him in a strength-sapping hold such as a full-nelson
and ease up just enough so that he fought furiously to escape.  

At one point, out of breath and trembling with exertion, he
yanked off her top, perhaps hoping that she would run for cover
and that would end it before he collapsed.   But it didn't faze
her in the least.  Now completely bared, her large, jutting
breasts undulated with her movements.  My cock, which had been in
a wrestling match of its own with my old, torn jockstrap, became
rigid and poked wetly against my light swim suit.  It dawned on
me that her meaty globes were as beautifully tanned as the rest
of her.  

In retaliation she bent one of his arms behind him, forced him to
the ground, and with her other arm slowly removed his swimming
trunks and then his jock as he flailed away with his legs.  The
she turned him over and began to rub her breasts in his face
while rubbing one sleek, muscular leg along his stout, hairy
legs.  Soon he was sporting a full-blown erection.  

She giggled delightedly, "You like this, Stanley!  You really are
a wimp.  Is this what you guys had in mind?"

She insinuated her voluptuous, perspiring, body sensuously
against him, trapping him with those awesomely muscled limbs. 
She alternately smothered him in the deep chasm between her
breasts and trailed those firm globes and their turgid nipples
down his torso as she clamped his arms to his sides with her
obviously stronger arms.  These ministrations had Stan writhing
in sexual frustration, his prick bobbing excitedly near eruption.

Though almost exhausted, Stan began to thrash around to escape
his humiliating predicament.  His face was as red as a ripe
tomato.

I looked furtively at the other men.  Their faces were as flushed
as mine undoubtedly was and, like me, they were swallowing
loudly.  I vaguely felt that someone should intervene to stop
this sex show with which Linda seemed intent on entertaining us
and humiliating Stan.  But it wasn't going to be me -- they were
his friends and yet they did nothing but leer.  Fully in control,
Linda turned nonchalantly, and, noting our lust-laden paralyzed
states, she smiled exultantly.

She clamped a scissors across his lower torso so that his bloated
cock was trapped under the velvety skin of one bulging thigh and
continued to hold his arms in a steely grip, eventually weakening
him to the point that she held both his wrists in one hand.  She
traced her other hand lightly over his torso.   Stan, now
exhausted, could only curse and did so loudly and vilely.  But
very soon he gave in to the inevitable.  We, his guests, still
sat spellbound without intervening to save him.  

The end came as Linda folded him against her in a bear hug that
lifted the huge man off his feet as if he were a toddler.  It was
a fitting statement of her total physical victory and, yet it
became a tool to send the overmatched male over the edge, as she
pressed his chest against hers and rubbed his cock between their
sweaty bellies, her trim corrugated muscle and his bloated beer
belly.  Stan in his exhausted, sexually dominated state, moaned
almost blissfully.  Apparently feeling Stan's prong contract,
Linda lifted him triumphantly overhead -- a prodigious display of
brute strength in itself -- and at that very moment in a stunning
proclamation of her dominance, he spurted in a milky eruption
onto his face, his chest, and then like a feeble fountain merely
dribbled out over the head of his spasming member.  No words, no
concession of defeat could have stated more aptly his utter rout
and her complete mastery, physically and sexually.

Laughing at how ridiculous he looked, she marched triumphantly to
the edge of the pool, still wearing the sexy high heels that
emphasized her spectacularly muscled but smoothly feminine legs,
showing off her outrageously heavily muscled upper body, massive
chest, meaty boobs, as she held him high over her head.  Then she
tossed him high into the air out over the middle of the water,
where he landed with a thunderous splash that sent spray almost
to where we sat twenty feet away.  Alas for Stan, the humiliation
continued.  He apparently swallowed water as he went in and
swallowed more as he was unable to keep his head above water as
he weakly flailed in panic.  Quickly tearing off her sandals,
Linda dove in to bring him to the edge of the pool, where she
hauled him up with one prodigious arm onto the grass.  He lay
there more dead than alive, wheezing and coughing, and trying to
draw a breath.

Her conquest of Stan emphatically complete, she switched her
attention to the rest of us, three hale and hardy males, slightly
drunk, red-faced, open-mouthed, dry of throat, and speechless. 

She put her hands on her granite-hard broad hips, thrust out her
breasts intimidatingly, and tossed her head in silent challenge. 
"What's next?"  she queried, totally in command of the situation,
despite being almost naked.

One of Stan's beefy friends managed to croak out to his cohort,
"Come on, Frank, let's cool her off!  She's begging for it."  And
off they charged, grinning, while Linda giggled and tensed her
body to ward them off.

Even as they grabbed her, she peered between their broad backs,
unconcerned, and taunted me, "Afraid to touch a girl, Glove Man? 
They'll never get me in without your help."  

Sure enough she managed to hold them to a standoff close to the
edge and soon maneuvered them so that they were both closer to
the pool than she.  If she could manage to disentangle their arms
from her, a strategic push from her and they would be in the pool
instead of her.  At this point I intervened.  Thinking it would
be funny to send them all in, I sneaked up and pushed one guy as
hard as I could.  He fell toward the pool, pulling on her, and
she pulled on the other guy.  Perfect!  They all fell in with a
giant splash that just missed drenching me as I danced out of the
way.  

Once she surfaced, she proceeded to dunk the big guys one after
another under the water as they floundered clumsily each time
they surfaced.  Soon they were gasping for breath, spitting
water, and close to drowning.  It was hilarious and magnificent
at the same time; they were defenseless against this amazon.  I
laughed convulsively; after all, I was dry and safe, and they
were getting their just desserts.  But at the same time, I was
tremendously aroused.  Her awesome boobs were jouncing on
display, and her beautiful muscles flexed and bunched, her
animated face breathtaking in its beauty, and somehow the wet mop
of thick hair added to her allure.  The dryness in my throat and
the racing of my heart made the pitch of my laughter sound like a
teenage boy entering puberty.  And I felt like a teenager in
other ways as well.  I was conscious of the huge boner springing
out the side of my torn jockstrap, and I hoped the tenting of my
loose pants would recede before anyone noticed me.  No such luck!

"Hey, mister Glove Man!  You got me wet, and now you're going to
pay," she yelled playfully.  Leaving her two victims to try to
recover from her horseplay, she dove for the side of the pool, as
I raced away.  To my surprise, she caught me even before I had
time to run out of breath and slow down.  She tackled me gently,
turned me over, and stretched out her ultrastrong, heavy body
prone on top of me.  Face to face with this young goddess and
with her large firm breasts pinning me, I was close to
ejaculating in my shorts.  And she felt it.  Playfully, she
ground her crotch against mine and pinned my arms above my head. 
In my younger days, I would have spurted right then.  As it was,
I was leaking pre-cum juices freely and making the inside sticky
where the outside was getting wet from her wet bikini bottoms. 
Giggling impishly, she lifted me in the air, purposely grabbing
my crotch so that she could feel my joystick through the shorts. 


"MISTER Glove Man!" she exclaimed in mock disgust, "You are a
dirty, dirty old man.  Such behavior must be dealt with.  I
believe a good old fashioned dunking is in order."  She literally
threw me, much farther than I thought possible.  I flew into the
water and far under the surface in graceless fashion.  When I
surfaced, she was waiting for me and dunked me under before I
could breathe.  She then proceeded to assault the other two, who
had been clinging to the side of the pool gasping and spluttering
and coughing.  Soon it was a dunk fest, with her on top and us
underneath.  She would push two down at once using the other of
us as an underground horse.  

Finally, three utterly bedraggled, bleary-eyed middle-aged men,
coughing and sputtering in unison, beheld her taunting us from
the edge of the pool, where she stood, hands on hips laughing at
us, and jiggling her tits back and forth at us in a triumph of
one sex over the other.

The other two guys struggled clumsily out of the water, one after
the other, and were effortlessly thrown back in.  Finally she let
them gang up on her, while I watched safely out of range.  They
tried to pull her back in, but, despite the huge advantage of
their combined weights, she pulled them in the opposite direction
toward the grass.  The bulging, the definition, the sheer
explosion of massive muscles all over her body and the way her
breasts shot outward with the expansion of her chest was
breathtaking.  I was so hard it hurt and the intensity of sexual
arousal had me perspiring despite being half-immersed in water. 

I was jealous of these two guys grappling with her lusty
perfection completely bared except for a minuscule bikini bottom.

They were trying to salvage male pride by pinning her beneath
their considerable masses, which to me was hardly a victory if it
took both of them to do it.  I was lifting myself out of the pool
to intervene when I realized to my delight that she was also
winning this contest of strength -- handily.  One beef jerky was
being crushed between her thighs, her huge muscles etched in
granite ridges, while the other beer jock was trapped on the
ground face-down in a vicious bear hug.  She was so much in
command that she smiled at me as if to goad me into joining the
fray.  

Things came to an abrupt halt, though, with a gruesome crunching
sound.  Seemingly without meaning to, she had applied too much
pressure to her scissors and our catcher screamed in agony.  She
broke off her holds immediately.  The catcher clutched his ribs
in agony and gasped that he had to leave.  The right fielder and
I followed him out to his car, but he was in no condition to
drive.

"Look, maybe I ought to go to the clinic," he wheezed to his
friend, giving him the keys to his car, and off they drove with a
spraying of loose gravel as the tires spun out.

After assuring herself that he probably wasn't hurt as bad as he
thought and shrugging her shoulders, Linda had gone back to the
side of the house where the pool was.  I gazed at her swaying
hips until they swept out of sight, musing that now she had
eliminated a second guy from our team, most likely for at least
for a couple of weeks.

I headed for an upstairs bathroom to relieve myself before I
headed home myself.  The bathroom had a window that looked down
on the pool area, and, as I performed nature's ritual, I heard
Stan and Linda arguing.  Apparently, Stan was sufficiently
recovered that he wanted to wipe some of the luster off Linda's
absolute triumph over him and his friends to this point.  As I
washed my hands, I could see them and hear them distinctly
through the open window.

"What you need is a good hard fuck, slut," he said grabbing his
exposed privates.

She laughed and put down the towel she had been using to dry her
hair.  "THANK you, old man," she said sarcastically.  "And I
suppose you are willing to do me this favor?"

Stepping toward him, she rubbed her body sensuously against his
and gently caressed his crotch area.  Viewing the spectacular
sweep of her torso from the corded valley of her abdomen to the
Himalayas across her deep chest, I was struck by how perfectly
she would fit against the huge beer belly of our right fielder. 
Stan was in much better shape than his friends, and the gap
created by her mountain and valley physique allowed Stan's
immediately erecting member to fly up unimpeded against his own
thick solid belly as she pressed her magnificent tits against
him, kissed the startled man on the neck, and held him closely
against her.

"Are you the man I've been looking for, Stan?  I need it bad."
she breathed hotly.

Breaking away from him, she took off her bikini bottoms and lay
down on the grass, beckoning him with crooked finger.  As Stan,
panting with lust, plunged down to mount her, she suddenly
pressed her legs together, covering the furry landing zone he was
aiming for.  She grinned up at him as his ample midsection
slammed into her bent-up knees.  Lying with her torso flat on the
ground, her hands laced together behind her on the grass and her
head resting on them, she grinned up at the surprised would-be
stud, angrily grunting to catch the breath that had been knocked
out of him.

"The prize is down there, stud," she teased, nodding her head
toward the pussy clamped from view between her iron-thewed gams. 
"All you have to do is open the gates and I'm yours he-man.  But
I don't think you can do it.  I've got more muscle in my legs
than you do in your entire body, including the muscles in your
head, fat boy."

"You need to be taught a lesson, smartass," he snarled.

Stan was not fat and the muscles on his nude monstrous physique
bulged impressively as he furiously pried at the cleft between
her legs first just with arms, and then, becoming more and more
violently incensed, he pried with both arms and legs -- to no
avail.  With her upper torso completely relaxed, she seemed to be
expending no effort at all in repelling his savage advances and
insulted him further by laughing almost uncontrollably at his
frustration.  Finally, he began to pound his fists and feet on
her body, the vicious punches thudding against her steely body. 
He rained them first on her legs and, when the only effect seemed
to be pain in his wrists and ankles, he pounded her tensed
abdomen, again with the only effect being that she laughed even
louder and taunted him to hit harder.  As he proceeded further up
her body in a maddened rage, she merely folded her arms to
protect her breasts from punches that he delivered with grunts of
energy, but which still had no effect on her impenetrable
physique.  

Nearly collapsing with exhaustion, the almost sobbing man threw a
final punch at her face, but she caught his wrist as it flew
toward her laughing visage.  Grabbing his other wrist, she beat
his fists together -- as if he were a child -- so forcefully that
he bellowed in pain and crumpled down beside her on the ground.

"Naughty, naughty.  Are you the kind of male who tries to cover
up his weakness by beating up on defenseless women?  Shame,
shame," she chided.

She clambered atop him, pressing his arms down and outward in the
classic pin, and overpowering his legs with hers in a grapevine. 
She lowered her prodigious chest over his face, smothering him in
the deep chasm between her large globes.  From my surreptitious
perch, I was hard as a rock and dripping with arousal.

"I could smother you.  I could break your legs in half.  I've
done that to a man in this hold.  I could do anything I want with
you, old man.  You're completely at my mercy.  Not what you had
in mind when you invited me here, is it, you devious bastard --
the only woman with four men.  But you couldn't rape me, Stan,
not even all three of you.  You're not strong enough.  You're not
men enough," she spat out.

"As a FEMALE I am so superior, I can punch out your lights
without using my fists or feet.  You like to punch a woman's
breasts.  How about my boobs returning the favor?"  She twisted
her powerful torso from side to side, slamming her heavy
ultrafirm breasts into his jaw.  "I once dislocated a big
fellow's neck this way," she remarked.  Stan's head rocketed from
side to side, pounding into the ground on first one side and then

the other.  I believe with a few more blows she would have
knocked him out, such was the force of her blows, but she stopped
and gazed down imperiously at the woozy man.

"Are you ready to be a good boy?" she asked.  He nodded. What
else could he do?  

"Then stick out your tongue, Stanley boy," she demanded.  He did
and she lowered her breasts to run the nipples over his moist
tongue.  Even from my vantage point, I could see the nipples
swelling and the breasts hardening in arousal.  

"That's good.  Now suck them gently."  Soon she shifted positions
so that Stan could apply the same ministrations to her snatch. 
She plopped it down forcefully on the cowed behemoth's mouth and
nose.  "Yes!  Yes!  You are good for something after all.  Keep
it up!  Yes!"  Her head thrown back, she lifted and rubbed the
protesting man's face against her wet honey pot.  Oblivious to
the man's muffled screams, she squeezed her legs tightly in the
throes of a violent orgasm.  As she slowly wound down, Stan's
head fell limply against the ground between her parted legs.

Seeing that he had passed out, she slapped him to revive him. 
"You can't quit on me now big fella; you've really got me hot!"
she grinned down at him.  Still woozy, Stan blinked at her
stupidly and then, as sentience returned, quizzically.

She twirled her naked body onto the grass and pulled the
befuddled male on top of her.  She parted her legs in the ages-
old open invitation of a woman to a man.  "Come on stud, get it
up for me.  Show me your stuff, big man."

Her aggressive challenge obviously had Stan on the defensive, not
to mention the confusion of whether to trust her, but, shaking
the cobwebs from his lust-laden brain, he tried to retake the
initiative.  "This is what you've been wanting all along, isn't
it?" he said, no doubt hoping to sound masterful, but in his
underlying anxiety at being forced to prove himself, the words
came out shakily.  

"Well, COME ON," she taunted.  "Is this what you call a HARD
fuck, old man?  SOFT is what I'd call it so far," she giggled
reaching for his limp member.  Like almost any man in this
situation, Stan was finding that things were moving too fast.

"Hold on babe, you're rushing it.  Let's relax a little and start
again," Stan said, desperately struggling to gain some control. 
But he had jumped into the barrel and now he was approaching the
waterfall whether he knew it or not.  He was stretched out on top
of her, braced on one arm, with the other hand reaching to
worship one of her firm hard-nippled melons, his limp member
nestled near her pubis.  As he reached to caress her breasts, she
raised her legs so that the thighs were snug against his middle
and her toes trailed sensuously along the backs of his stocky
hairy legs until they flicked against his ball sacks.  "Yes," he
sighed, "I can feel it getting hard."  He rubbed it back and
forth across her furry snatch.

"You want something HARD?" she hissed contemptuously.  "Feel
THIS."

Resting her head on her arms in languid fashion, she clamped her
thighs roughly around Stan's bloated torso.  I marveled at the
instant ridges that swelled up in those thickly muscled legs, so
alluring in feminine strength but once again being used as
instruments of torture.

"Ach --" Stan gasped and then wailed, "No!  What -- are -- you --
doing?  Stop, please," he wheezed in barely audible grunts.

"Stan, you are such a wimp.  I'm not even trying hard.  Imagine
what it would be like if I squeezed as hard as I can?  Here, I'll
give you a taste -- three quarter power," she taunted gritting
her teeth and raising her torso in the effort.  Her legs swelled
even further and straightened out in layers of ridged feminine
steel.  They sliced deeply inward on Stan's middle, causing
purplish male flesh to fold over her vise-like thighs.  

Stan screamed and then lost all capability of making a sound
until she relented moments later and relaxed her grip.  But as he
dropped his arms inside her legs to push them aside and escape,
she clamped her legs back together, trapping his arms against his
tender sides and even managing to entangle his legs so that he
was completely immobile.  In obvious pain he tried to get all his
thick muscles into play to force her legs apart, but once again
it is no contest.  She merely blew on her fingers as if nothing
were happening.  "How do you like our HARD fuck so far, Stan?"

Relenting once again, she pushed him away from her and stood up,
hands on powerful hips.  Stan grabbed his abused abdomen and
groaned softly.  She straddled him so that he had an unimpeded
view of all her parts.

"Stan, how could you presume to make love to me?  You apparently
don't have enough testosterone to keep it up long enough to put
it where it'll do some good, and you can't even take a little
squeeze.  If we continue, I'm afraid I'll kill you or put you in
the hospital without meaning to," Linda derided him. 

Sick with pain and humiliation, Stan unwisely began to hurl
insults at her.  "You're just a musclebound bitch who wants to be
a man.  No man could want you anyway, bitch.  Only a miserable
lesbian looking for a dyke could want you."

Linda merely laughed,  "That's good, Stan.  I'm glad you still
have some spirit but you'll have to try harder.  I don't insult
that easily.  I know you want me.  You probably wank off at night
thinking about me.  You've already shown your colors, remember?  
But how about another contest?  I think I can get you so hot
you'll beg me for it.  I'll even make you fuck yourself, you'll
want it so bad."

And with that as her goal, she was all over the poor man.  Once
again she was rubbing her awesome naked flesh on his.  And as
night follows day, he was soon hard and beside himself in
delirious lust.  He did beg her to give him relief, but her
response was to make him lick and kiss her special parts. 
Finally, he was at the point of no return.  

At that moment she did something so awe-inspiring that later it
would play itself over and over in the bijou of my mind.  She
swept the surprised but lust-enveloped man off his feet and
cradled him like a baby.  Placing one mighty arm under his white
tush and the other behind his shoulders, she flexed mightily,
folding his thick torso so that his cock pointed at his face. 
Despite the pain and surprise, his orgasm continued unimpeded and
he spurted ridiculously on his face.

"See, you did fuck yourself, fat boy," she giggled, bouncing him
up and down.

But she didn't stop with that.  As if testing the limits of her
strength, she continued folding him.  The explosion of muscles
was like nothing I've ever seen, even on her previously that
afternoon.  It was an outrageous display of sheer brute strength.

It should have been enough that she was completely supporting a
250+ pound man in her outstretched arms, but in addition, she was
folding him like a closing suitcase against the resistance of his
leg, arm, ab and back muscles, not to mention the thickness of
his beer belly.  Stan was bellowing, first in embarrassment and
then in sheer pain, and struggling violently to get out of her
grasp or at least to counteract the ignominious constriction of
his thick body.  

The expansion of her bare chest was eye-popping.  Mountainous
ridges of muscles stood out all over her body in this Herculean
display.  How many such exercises must she have done to get to
this point?  What dedication, I thought.  I was leaking copious
sticky fluid onto my shorts and I could hardly breath.  

"Fight it, old man.  Give it all you've got.  Is this the best
you can do?  I could break your back, wimp, and you're too weak
to prevent it," she hissed.  

She was now clearly exerting herself, perspiring profusely, but
she was compacting him still further.  Audible cracks reached my
ears amid Stan's screaming.  

"Now do as I say:  NO more ABUSE at work. I WILL break you in
half if ANYBODY does ANYTHING.  Now eat that spunk that you have
so disgustedly loosed on yourself."

She used his own hand to wipe the comical globs from his face,
forced it into his mouth, and commanded him to lick it off.  He
did so, gagging and almost whimpering.  "This is too much, you
crazy bitch," he whined.  

I shook my head in disbelief.  Did he have a death wish?

"Stan, Stan.  After all this, you would call me a bitch?  And as
for being too much, consider what you guys had in mind for me."

"You've got it all wrong.  You're just the only woman who showed
up --"

She cut in before he could go on, "I'd like to believe that, but
there is still the matter of your language.  All day I've been
sparing you, but now some bones must be broken.  Choose what you
want broken, Stan."  He kicked out of her grasp and leaped to
escape.  But before he had taken a step she caught him with one
arm and threw him roughly to the ground with it.

"Okay, I'll choose.  I'm going to break your nose with these two
fingers.  But to make it sporting, I'll give you a chance.  I
think that my FEMALE right arm is stronger than both your MALE
arms and legs combined.  I'm going to hold your head with one arm
and press down against both your arms and legs with just my other
arm until I grab your nose and twist it at the bridge.  If you
can keep me away for a minute, you escape.  Begin!"

As the day had proceeded, she had revealed more and more of her
prodigious strength.  Were there ANY males this strong?  Once
again I was spellbound as her nude chest, arms and shoulders
exploded in bombs of sensuous muscle.  Inexorably he gave way to
her flexing colossus, despite grunts of effort and panic at
suffering yet more pain.  His muscles stood out as well, but,
whereas when they had first faced off, his had seemed equal to
hers, they now seemed puny -- the beautiful female muscles
overwhelmingly superior to the homely male ones.

She soon had him so wadded up that she tweaked his nose
teasingly.  "Okay, here goes the nose!" she rhymed.

Stan lost it completely.  "No, no!  Stop, please.  I've had
enough. Enough. I'm sorry, I'm SORRY!" This last shriek escaped
his lips as she began to twist and I thought I heard a little
crack.  At that point, the effect of Stan's beers and his
complete unmanning at this last insult resulted in a stream of
urine that Linda adroitly managed to avoid.

"That's pathetic, Stan.  Too bad your friends missed that!  You'd
be a legend for sure," she derided him.  "Geez, it was just a
nose.  What if I'd chosen your jaw or your impotent little
balls?"

"I've broken my nose before.  And it hurt!" he whimpered.  "I had
to have an operation."

"It hurt!  It hurt!"  she mocked the big man.  "What a baby!"

She threw the thoroughly cowed and humiliated former bully toward
the house.  "Get out of my sight and don't come back out until I
leave, you blubbering wimp."

She looked up at the very spot I had occupied during their long
confrontation, squinting her eyes against the sun.  Then, wiping
her brow and rubbing the perspiration from her sexy intimidating
prow, she decided to leap back into the pool.
 
I slipped out through the front door, avoiding Stan, who I had
heard collapse inside the back door.  I then crept around the
house and, while Linda was swimming away from me, walked
rapidly toward my keys and wallet, and retrieved them from
where I had left them on a table.  But before I had taken two
steps away, I heard the sound one makes when emerging from the
edge of a pool.

"Enjoy the show, Mister Glove Man? or should I say Mr. Voyeur?  I
knew you were watching."

I turned around to face her. I didn't ask how she knew; goddesses
are omniscient.

Before I could think of a response, she burst out, "My, my, what
are you hiding in there?  You like muscles on a girl -- or is it
something else?"  She smiled knowingly, expanding her chest and
then flexing her arms."

As I have stated, she was not a beauty in the conventional,
societal use of the term, but to me she was a goddess.  And that
body was completely exposed, gleaming in the late afternoon sun,
with droplets and little streams of water causing her breasts and
nipples to stand at attention.  I was about to loose more juice,
and glancing down I noticed to my chagrin that my shorts had
dried sufficiently that the wet goo recently deposited was
showing through.  It was all the more embarrassing because of the
difference in our ages.

"Tsk, tsk. I must punish you for being a naughty voyeur, Glove
Man.  Are you in the mood for a little punishment?" 

"I- I'm married," I croaked, thinking it might be relevant.

"So conventional of you.  Well, your wife surely understands that
a man must be punished for his sins.  Besides she's not here."

She leaped at me and in almost a single motion had my shorts off.

Now I was naked and my arousal could not be more apparent.

"A little sticky, aren't we?  Is this one of those old-age
control problems?" she observed sardonically.

"It's really your fault.  I think it may have something to do
with the way you're dressed," I croaked out, clearing my throat.

She chuckled, "There's something about you I like."

"Well, don't forget I bet on you," I reminded her.  Despite what
I had seen her do and despite my normal anxiety in the presence
of desirable women and despite her touching me with all her body
exposed, I was almost calm, except for rampant sexual excitement.

"Oh, I haven't.  Otherwise, you might be crippled too.  But you
should be thanking me; I made money for YOU.  Why were you here
today anyway?  -- Oh, never mind; it doesn't matter," she broke
off, signalling that our conversation was at end and my
"punishment" was at hand.

Deftly, she dumped me on the grass nearby and got behind me,
pulling the back of my head between her legs.  My hair was
resting on her hot, wet snatch, and her legs had my shoulders and
torso pinned.  My lack of resistance didn't seem to bother or
stop her.  I knew or thought I knew that a word of protest from
me would put a stop to whatever she had in mind, but I said
nothing, letting a girl barely half my age dominate me
completely.

She then bent over me, dangling her delectable chest over me, to
reach my legs with her hands.  And then she pulled my legs up
until my rear was up in the breeze and my feet hovered near my
shoulders.  I felt like a turkey ready to be carved.

"This is not very dignified, you know," I protested.

"Punishment is not supposed to be dignified.  You know you
shouldn't have been watching," she replied, "although I confess I
did prolong things a little for your benefit," she breathed hotly
in my ear.

Her hot and cold treatment of me continued, as she first amused
herself by reefing me back in excruciating pain, perhaps just to
reinforce her credentials as the manbreaker of the day.  Next I
became aware of her large, luscious, firm, and steaming tits
hanging over my head.  I fantasized about sucking on them.  Then
I became more aware of her sopping slit, burning with heat behind
my ears. I felt smooth, bulging leg muscles rubbing my chest and
inner legs.  Simultaneously, I discovered I had a painfully
aching, slimy erection that was being massaged by femininely
smooth calf muscles as they rippled with tension and relaxation. 

Despite my embarrassment and not a little guilt, I was in heaven.

"I'm fascinated by your lack of self-control, Glove Man.  And
flattered," she murmured.  As if any man could have comported
himself differently, I thought but said nothing.  "I wonder if I
can deflate you as easily," she continued airily.  I didn't like
the sound of that but could do nothing as she pulled and parted
my legs with her mighty arms so that I almost fainted in pain.  I
was no longer so erect.

"Isn't this fun?" she exclaimed brightly.

"Are you asking my opinion?" I grunted sourly and she chuckled,
easing up her pressure.  

Once again she made me aware of her physical charms and again I
became urgently erect.  I could see the element of youth in this.
Sex and the sexes were still far from tiresome to her.  The utter
power of a female to control that silly-looking but fascinating
male organ can be an aphrodisiac.  Demeaning a worshipful older
man was no doubt exciting as well.  She crooked one awesome leg
so that she could lift and lightly massage my prick with her
toes.  She would stop and feel me palpitate with sexual
anticipation, often tittering softly with delight.  She was
playing me like a video game or a cat with a small prey, getting
off on the thrill of total sexual domination.


With her legs across my upper arms and her mighty arms still
immobilizing my trussed up legs, I was completely powerless, even
had I wanted to escape.  But I had no desire to escape.

I was going crazy with the sexual tension, and I could feel the
heat building behind my scorched ears.  Finally, she stroked me
over the hump and I spent, the goo dribbling along the my chest
and some squirting onto my chin.  That seemed to be a specialty
with her.  

Then she also came, violently, almost strangling me in the
process.  As she subsided, she released her hold and let me
recover.  I stared admiringly, as she partially covered her
unbelievable body in the clothes she had on when I first saw her.

Stooping to kiss my cheek, she ruffled my hair, now matted and
scented with her juices, and giggled, "Nice head of hair for an
old man. I've always wondered what that would feel like.  Try it
with your wife sometime."

Putting on her sunglasses, she sauntered off, both of us unaware
that we would meet again.  And the second meeting was to have
much more unsettling consequences for me.


Part 2  The game  

(to be continued)
--