Diana's Chum 
By Diana the Valkyrie
Diana finds herself a chum - introducing Vicky the Valkyrie


This is the tenth 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. 

I've completely lost interest in the guy on the underground. I don't 
know where he's gone to, maybe he's changed jobs. I still fantasise 
sometimes about what it might have been like if he'd spoken to me, and 
I'd answered, and so on, but it just isn't going to happen now. Never 
mind, I'm in a different carriage now, and there's this rather cute guy, 
a bit older than I usually go for, but I think he's noticed me. Sorry, 
you don't want to hear about my personal life - on with the story. 


If sex and violence isn't you, then don't read this. 



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


I couldn't sleep. It was hot, the full moon was brightly glaring into my 
room, and I was horny, having totally failed to score at the last dance 
I went to, which is my own fault for getting too interested in dancing, 
and forgetting the main point of the exercise, warm meat. Anyway, I 
couldn't sleep, being horny does that to you, at least, it does it to 
me. I thought of resorting to a cucumber, but that's just *so* lacking 
in style, on the whole, I'd rather be horny. Maybe I've never been 
really desperate. Well, I must have been pretty desperate, just the 
thought of a cucumber was getting me going, long and cool, hard but 
flexible, with that wicked, delightful spiny skin. Brrh. Hey, look, 
Diana is getting wet at the thought of a vegetable. I looked at 
the clock, and it was past five, the night almost over. Could I get back 
to sleep for a couple of hours? No, I could not, and the thought of that 
long, cool cucumber kept invading my brain, and then I thought, Diana, 
you are NOT lusting after a vegetable, are you? 

So I jumped out of bed, pulled on a skirt and T-shirt, ran downstairs 
and got Fay going. Before you get the wrong idea, let me explain that 
Fay is a car, my Morgan convertible, turbocharged for extra power (see 
Diana's Turbocharger). I just love that car, she's my pride and joy, and 
she's the finest machine a woman ever made. Well, I installed the 
turbocharger myself, anyway. She responded immediately to my touch with 
a roar of power, and I started feeling good immediately. I released the 
hand brake, put her into first gear (if you've only driven an automatic, 
you've never driven) and Fay and I roared off into the pink dawn light. 
And no, I didn't burn rubber, I have too much love for Fay to abuse her 
like that. 

It was chilly, as a summer morning in England often is, and as I speeded 
along the wind tousled my hair and caressed my breasts, naked under the 
thin T-shirt. So my horniness got worse; still, horny as actually a 
fairly nice sensation, as long as there's at least some possibility of 
doing something about it. And if push came to shove, I have quite a long 
list of ex-lovers who would happily push their current partner out of 
bed if Diana happened by, all hot and horny. But I don't like 
revisiting the past, I like to move forward and on. And Fay was 
certainly doing that, very fast. But in the pink predawn light, with not 
a soul in sight, breaking the law seemed so easy, and I needed the 
sensation of speed to substitute for the satisfaction of sex. 

And then I turned a corner, saw someone running towards the middle of 
the road, and swerved and slammed on my brakes to avoid this early-
morning jaywalker. Even though the road wasn't wet, the savage 
deceleration as I jammed on the brakes as hard as I could, caused a 
front wheel skid, and I steered into the skid as I'd learned, and 
brought Fay back under control just in time to avoid hitting a tree. And 
stopped. 

I sat there, waiting for the adrenaline to subside, my eyes closed. Then 
I opened my eyes, looked round, and saw a figure slumped in the road. Oh 
no, I must have hit him! I leaped out of the car, and ran over to see 
how much damage I'd done - had I killed him? But it wasn't a him, it was 
a her, and she lifted her head and looked up at me, her eyes wet with 
tears and said "You missed me". I crouched down next to her, and said 
"Are you all right?" "No", she said, and pulled her head down to her 
knees and started crying. I looked at her; she didn't look injured. And 
I hadn't felt a bump, so I don't think I'd hit her. And she said that 
I'd missed. So ... 

A horrible suspicion hit me. Did she run in front of me on purpose? Was 
she trying to top herself, and was upset because she'd failed? I sat 
down on the road next to her, and put my arm round her. "Hey, love, 
what's the matter? You trying to end it all, or what?" 

Yes, she was, and she'd screwed up her courage enough to run out in 
front of the next car that came along. It was lucky that my reflexes are 
fast enough, and my braking foot strong enough, to stop in time. But she 
didn't want to have to do it all again, she didn't have the courage to 
cut her wrists, and she didn't know how to get hold of enough sleeping 
tablets to kill herself. 

I've never encountered a suicide before, and I didn't really know what 
to do. But I do know one thing - a hug never hurts. So I hugged her for 
a while, and then I helped her to stand up, and led her to the car, and 
pushed her into the passenger seat, and drove her back to my place to 
give her chicken soup. Yes, I know it's a stupid thing to do, to get 
involved with an emotional, suicidal casualty, but I'm a sucker for 
stray cats, injured birds, and people at the end of their tethers. 
Chicken soup - my mother taught me this. It's like emotional penicillin, 
good for comforting and healing the inner woman. You make it thick and 
with noodles, and you add a bit of butter to make it richer, and maybe 
some cream, and thyme, and tarragon, and you make it from chicken bones, 
not from a packet of powder. I always have some in the freezer, because 
I often find myself having to mend the emotional wounds of some man, and 
it's a bit less traumatic for them that my other method. My other 
method? Read "Diana's Therapy". Well, I don't need a cucumber, I can 
tell you. 

Her name was Victoria "Call me Vicky" and she was eighteen. Well, I'm 
not eighteen, but it wasn't that long ago, and I remember what it was 
like. "Is it a man?" I asked. Yes it was. She loved him, he fucked her, 
she got pregnant, and then he told her he was married. So she asked if 
he was going to leave his wife, and he said he wouldn't, and that she 
should have an abortion, but she thought that was murder, and refused, 
so he ... 

I won't bore you with Vicky's story. It's the same story you've heard 
dozens of times, seen on TV dozens of times. The man has the fun, the 
woman has the baby. Or in this case, not, because Vicky had just 
miscarried, and now she had no lover, no job, no baby, no love, no life, 
nothing to live for. She explained to me, unless it's happened to you, 
you have no idea how truly awful a miscarriage is. Yes, the pain goes 
away eventually they say, but at the time, you wonder if there was 
anything you could have done to prevent it, if it was your fault 
somehow, if maybe there's something wrong with you. "And there is 
something wrong with me", Vicky whispered to me. And then she stopped. 

She was a big girl, not tall, but not short either, maybe a couple of 
inches more than my five foot five. She was stocky - not fat, but heavy-
looking, thickset. She wasn't pretty. Her hair was too short, her face 
wasn't fine-boned in the way that models are, her bones were heavy, her 
face was square and even a bit chubby. Her mouth was too big, her nose 
too big, her cheeks too full. Her body wasn't much to shout about either 
- she walked with the slump of a defeated person, her whole attitude 
seemed to be that of a victim, of prey. Her waist was much too broad and 
her upper body was very heavy-set. She wasn't fat, though - when I'd 
hugged her, I'd have felt the soft squishy feeling of a fat person, and 
all I'd felt was solidity - and unhappiness. 

I sat close to her, and took her hand in mine, and stroked it gently. 
"What's wrong, Vicky?" She shook her head. I turned her hand over, and 
stroked her palm; it felt hard to my touch, like leather. I moved my 
hand up to her arm - she pulled away, but not before I'd felt what I'd 
suspected. 

Her body reminded me of my own, too broad, too deep, and too strong. Not 
too strong in the sense of stronger than I like, but too strong in the 
sense of too strong for a man to handle. And when I felt her forearm, I 
knew that she had the same genetic heritage as I do. She was a Strong 
Woman, like me. 

I take after my grandmother, the famous strong-woman Joan. She astounded 
people in the fifties with feats of strength that would be impossible 
for any two ordinary men. And she didn't get that way by weight lifting, 
she was born that way. And so was I. I can bend a six inch nail in my 
hands, in fact that's one of my favourite things, and my habit of doing 
that when I need cheering up, has made my hands especially strong and 
hard. I've never met a man who can stand up to my hands, and I've more 
or less decided that I never will, although I haven't given up entirely. 
My body is thick-set like Vicky; stocky and chunky. People think I'm 
overweight (and according to the charts, I am, at 86 kilos). But men 
don't think that if they see me without many clothes, in a bikini, for 
example (I'm not really bothered what women think). Then you can see 
that my waist is big, but not with fat; my chest is big, but that's 
partly because my breasts jut aggressively forward, and my backside is 
big, but not compared to my thighs. I could see that Vicky was a Strong 
Woman like I am, but the big difference, is that I'm *very* happy with 
my body, but she wasn't, probably because she didn't know what she could 
do with it. 

"Vicky, look at me." I stood up, and stripped down to my panties. I 
showed her my waist; not tiny like the ideal fashion model, but small 
compared to what is above and below, and that's what counts. I showed 
her my breasts, and how they proudly tell the world that I am a randy 
sexy woman, take me if you can, and you'll only be able to if I want you 
to. And then I got one of my six inch nails, and bent it while she 
watched, wide-eyed. "You see, Vicky, I'm a Strong Woman. Now let's have 
a look at you." 

She needed a lot of coaxing, but gradually I helped her get her clothes 
off. She was very reluctant to let me see her near-naked body, but when 
I finally persuaded her to take off her sweater, I saw that I was right. 
Underneath, I could see the body of a strong, hard woman, probably as 
strong and solid as me, another Strong Woman. "I don't even like to wear 
swimwear at the beach", she said. I got her to flex her biceps, by 
showing her my own, and she shyly "made a muscle" for me. I felt it, and 
it was thick and hard, and I know that men would have trouble with this 
iron lady, but there was no reason why she should ever have problems 
with a man. 

As we got dressed again, I told her that she was one of the very few 
really strong women in the world. "Yes, I know I'm stronger than most 
people, because they have such trouble with jam jars, and lifting 
things, and stuff like that." I explained to her that it wasn't 
something to hide, to be ashamed of. "But women are supposed to be the 
weaker sex, that's the way men like us." So I told her about something 
I'd discovered; that although most women are the weaker sex, there are a 
few women, "like you and me, Vicky" who are actually the stronger sex, 
the Strong Women as I call them. "I've never met a man who can even come 
close to being able to handle me, Vicky." "But they must hate that, and 
avoid you like the plague?" So I explained that in fact, sex with a 
really strong woman is the most ecstatic experience a man can have, how 
if you know what you're doing, you can control their sexual responses in 
a way that a normal woman couldn't possibly do, and give them far more 
sexual pleasure in an hour than an ordinary woman could deliver in a 
year. And quite often, this does something to them inside, something 
breaks and they become totally attached to you, and you can do pretty 
much anything you like with them. 

Vicky was listening carefully, but I'm not sure that she was believing 
me. All her life, she'd been called fat, overweight, gross, chubby, 
heavy, even obese. And she had believed what she'd been told, that she 
was an unattractive, overweight girl that no man could possibly want, 
with arms that were too heavy with muscle, and legs like tree trunks. It 
wasn't surprising that the first man who had showed interest in her, 
she'd fallen for, hook line and sinker. "I loved Eric, he was so nice to 
me. He touched me in nice places, he made love to me. He was so 
wonderful to me, and he even gave me his baby." "Honey, the baby was an 
accident, he didn't mean to get you pregnant. And he was just using you 
as an away-fuck, he didn't care for you, not at all. He didn't even tell 
you he was married until you scared him by getting pregnant, then he was 
off like a scared rabbit. Vicky, you're lucky to be rid of him." "But my 
baby, my baby ..." and she started crying again. Well, I've never even 
been pregnant, so I can't begin to understand what it must be like to 
have a miscarriage. "I killed my baby, I killed my baby" she wailed. Oh? 
An abortion? "Vicky, what do you mean?" "I didn't want her, I lost Eric 
because of my baby, and I hated her for it, and I didn't want her, oh, I 
killed her, I killed her, oh Diana, I killed her." 

So I just put my arms round her, and hugged her, and reassured her that 
she hadn't killed her baby, that about a third of pregnancies end in a 
miscarriage, it's entirely normal, it's usually because there's 
something wrong with the foetus, some malformation or wrongness, and the 
body diagnoses a problem and terminates the pregnancy, and there's 
nothing anyone can do about it. And it isn't good, and it isn't bad, 
it's just the way things are. And thinking thoughts doesn't make the 
slightest difference, even if you wish you didn't have the baby as hard 
as you can full time, it wouldn't make the slightest difference. And you 
didn't lose Eric because of the baby, you never had Eric, he was just 
using you as a nice place to put his dick. And you're better off without 
a scumbag like that, who would cheat on his wife, and get a young girl 
pregnant by not taking precautions. 

I cuddled her and soothed her until she stopped crying. And as she sat 
on the sofa, sniffling slightly, and asking me if I was sure about the 
baby, and I was reassuring her that it was true, all that time I was 
thinking, what am I going to do with her? I can't just chuck her out. 

"Vicky, was your mother built like you?" She shook her head. "Mum's slim 
and svelte, I don't know where I got it from. "Things sometimes skip a 
generation. What was your grandmother like?" "I've seen pictures, she 
was big, very big, you know? Broad and deep, but she didn't look fat, 
not in the pictures." I nodded. "She had the gene too, then, another 
Strong Woman. Vicky, there's a gene that some women have, I don't know 
how many, but I do know it isn't common. You've got it, I've got it, and 
both our Grans have it. If you've got that gene, then your body grows 
and grows, and you have big, heavy muscles on top of big, heavy bones, 
and that's the way you are." "But I don't want to be a freak, I want to 
be normal" she said, a catch in her breath. "We're not freaks, Vicky. 
We're strong women, very powerful women, Strong Women, not freaks, 
there's a difference. We're normal, but with muscles that can do more 
than ordinary people's muscles. Have you ever tried to squeeze a man's 
hand in yours?" She nodded. "Yes, I did it once, I gripped it really 
hard, and it felt sort of soft and squishy, and he shouted out in pain, 
so I let him go." "Have you ever squeezed an apple?" "Yes, I wanted to 
know if I could crush an apple in my hand, and I can, unless it's a 
green apple." "I can crush any kind of apple, Vicky, even a green one. 
But that's probably because I can also do this ..." 

I went to the kitchen, and got a few of the six inch nails I keep there. 
I gave one to Vicky, and showed her how to put your thumbs in the 
middle, fingers at the ends, and gradually increase the pressure until 
the steel begins to bend, and I bent it until it was almost bent double. 
She tried, but soon gave up. "It hurts, digging into my hand, Diana". So 
I showed her how to roll it up in a piece of newspaper to protect her 
hands, and then, not easily, but after a lot of effort, she managed to 
put a bit of a dent in it. When I unrolled the newspaper, she could see 
what she'd done, and she guiltily looked round as if to see if there was 
anyone watching. She was as strong as I'd hoped she was, and at last, 
I'd found someone like myself. 

"Vicky, you've got a lot to learn, and if you like, I'll teach you. If 
you can come to terms with what you are and what you have, your life can 
be ten times better than any ordinary woman. Men will grovel at your 
feet in adoration, you can have sex with pretty much anyone you fancy, 
and when you fall in love, the man you choose will have no alternative 
but to fall in love with you. You have to learn to be proud of what you 
are and what you have, you have to learn to flaunt your sexual charms, 
and you have to learn that men were put on this planet for the enjoyment 
of women. And a woman can give the most wonderful experience to a man, 
if she wants to. But you have to learn how to be a Strong Woman." 

"Oh, Diana. Really? Really truly?" I nodded, seeing the hope in her 
eyes. "Diana, do you think I could have another baby?" "I would guess 
so, Vicky, we could consult a doctor to see if there's anything wrong 
inside you, but there's no reason to do that, you're a normal healthy 
girl, you've proved that your ovaries and womb work according to 
specification, and one miscarriage really isn't a big deal." "But I've 
never heard of anyone having a miscarriage, ever." "No, well, as you 
know, it's a sad and unhappy thing to happen, so people wouldn't go 
around telling all their friends about it, would they? It's just a 
private grief, but one that is healed by time." I didn't explain that it 
would be healed fastest by another baby, because I didn't think she was 
ready to start a family just yet. "Look, Vicky, phone your Mum to let 
her know where you are, that you're staying with a girl friend, I've got 
to go off to work now, but I'll be back this evening, and we can 
continue then. While I'm out, have a bath, use my bath lotions, have a 
rummage through my clothes, maybe you can find something that'll fit 
you, watch the TV, help yourself to the fridge. I'll see you later." 

I put on my business suit, pinstripes and a skirt only just above the 
knee, black nylons, white blouse, one brooch and I put my tortoise-shell 
combs in my hair. Under the jacket, where you wouldn't see it unless I 
took off my jacket, round my waist, I wore my secret weapon number 
three. Vicky watched me getting ready, and asked me about it. "What's 
that you're putting round your waist, Diana?" 

So I explained about secret weapon number three. It's a whip, a bull-
hide whip, the sort of whip that the B&D people use, or the S&M people. 
I'm not sure which. I'm not into that myself, you understand. Well, I 
don't think I am. Hmm. I've never tried it, so I suppose I might just 
like it if I did. But anyway, that's not why I wear it, I wear it 
because it's *incredibly* sexy, and it distracts attention from my 
waist, which is a couple of inches larger than you might have expected. 
But no-one notices that, they only ever notice my whip, wound five times 
round my waist, the end tucked into the windings in a knot, and the 
handle hanging down by my hip. "So what are secret weapons numbers one 
and two?" asked Vicky. So I squared my shoulders back, and let my jacket 
slide off them, showing Vicky how my silk blouse clung to secret weapons 
numbers one and two. She nodded. "I see what you mean. I wish I was 
built like that." "You are, Vicky. You just haven't learned how to 
flaunt them yet." 

"Diana, you look so smart and business-like." "But sexy", I reminded 
her, "It's important for a girl to look and feel sexy, especially in an 
office full of trousers." Vicky nodded. "What's your job?" Actually, my 
job is fairly simple, but I get paid ridiculous amounts of money to do 
it, so I have to make it sound complicated and difficult, and there 
wasn't time right now. "I'll tell you this evening, I must dash" and I 
walked downstairs (you can't run in high heels), got into Fay, and drove 
down to the city for the day's battles. 

Nigel, who quite a lot of people think is my boss, but he and I know 
different, was being a darling. Round about half past eleven, he went to 
lunch, and he didn't get back till gone four, which is great, because it 
means that he gets the silly business of entertaining potential clients 
off my back, and I can get on with the real work. We make a good team, 
Nigel and I, he as the pretty paint job, as it were, and me as the 
brains. And my bodywork isn't too bad either, or so people tell me. 
Usually after I've taken them for a long hard drive round their 
erogenous zones, and showed them my dangerous curves. 

Anyway, my real work is done in negotiation meetings, which I'm *very* 
good at (see Diana Pulls it Off), where I get deals signed up that 
people just can't believe are possible, using a mixture of sex and 
violence, erotic arousal and physical intimidation. Plus bribery, of 
course, although we don't like to call it that. And today was an easy 
day, I didn't have any meetings, all I had to do was read some documents 
to prepare for a big meeting next week. About three kilos of documents, 
yuk. 

And while I was working my way through that tedious pile, I was thinking 
of Vicky. You see, Vicky was very much like I was when I was her age, 
but the difference was, I had Gran to tell me about myself and what I 
could do with my beefy body. It was Gran that taught me that I didn't 
have to be ashamed, that I wasn't ugly and unattractive, that I was a 
Strong Woman, and that men would crumble in my hands if I wanted them 
to. All Vicky had were people telling her she was fat and ugly. Well, 
she was neither. I won't say she was beautiful, in fact she'd have to 
work a bit to look plain. But she certainly wasn't fat, just very big 
all over. And used properly, a body like Vicky's can be the biggest 
turn-on a man can ever encounter. 

I made a list of what she'd need. Make-up, and teaching how to use it. 
Clothes, and teaching how to choose and wear them. How to deal with men 
- it's completely different for a Strong Woman than for a normal girl. 
Sex, and how to get more out of it. Self-confidence, and how to get it. 
She stood with a slump, and walked with a slouch, so deportment - how to 
walk, how to stand, how to sit. How to flirt, how to flaunt. How to get 
the most out of the two bumps in front, how to use the large bump 
behind. Golly, but Vicky was so ignorant in so many areas, no wonder 
she'd been easy prey to the first male bastard she'd encountered. 
Speaking of which, when I was through with Vicky, it might be a good 
idea to get her to pay a little visit to Mr Bastard when she was good 
and ready. 

The list was long. Making a list isn't a substitute for action, though, 
it's to try to make sure that you don't forget anything important, and 
that you trigger off the actions that take a long time first. And the 
most important thing on the list, was to give Vicky some self-
confidence, a sense of self-worth. Currently, she was thinking of 
herself as ugly and worthless, and I wanted her to realise that she was 
attractive, sexy and very desirable. Which means that I needed a man, a 
man to gaze worshipfully at her, a man to adore her, a man who would 
immediately appreciate how wonderful a strong woman can be. And the 
obvious candidates were my ex boy-friends, which left a very wide field, 
and I was just wondering which one would be the lucky lover, when in 
walked Nigel, three sheets to the wind, and smelling of tobacco smoke. 

"Hard lunch?" I enquired sarcastically. Nigel just put his head in his 
hands and moaned. "Oh, Miss Diana, please, I can't take much more of 
this, couldn't you take them to lunch occasionally?" "No thank you, I 
have to watch my figure." "I'll watch it for you", said Nigel. There was 
a short silence, as we both took in the fact that Nigel had just made a 
joke; he isn't usually smart enough for humour, but he'd heard that 
somewhere, and trotted it out for me. Then he said "Because, Miss 
Diana, you're the most incredible woman I've ever met." And he wasn't 
joking then, I knew, because after "Diana Pulls it Off", he had an 
intimate understanding of what it's like to undergo the intimate 
attentions of a very strong woman. And then I thought, he'll do very 
nicely for Vicky, he knows the ropes. "What are you doing this evening, 
Nigel?" Bless him, he started explaining what his plans were, so I 
interrupted him. "No, Nigel, what I meant is, forget what you had 
planned, you're coming home with me." 

He looked at me, rather apprehensively. He knows that whenever I want to 
play with him, he tends to wake up the next morning feeling a bit under 
the weather, I know I shouldn't, but he's such a complete victim, he's 
hard to resist. But I don't hurt him very much, and I always make it 
worth his while. So he has rather mixed feelings about playing with me. 
Not that he gets any option, of course. "Phone your wife, and tell her 
you'll be staying in town this evening, and for the weekend." I'm not 
sure what Nigel has told his wife, but I know their marriage isn't 
exactly blissful. "I've got a friend staying with me, and I need your 
help." 

When Nigel and I got back to my home, Vicky was slumped on the sofa, 
gazing at the TV. I told Nigel to go have a bath and get rid of the 
stench of tobacco, and while he was gone, I explained to Vicky what was 
going to happen. "Vicky, you've never had anyone to show you how to be a 
strong woman. Girls learn how to be a woman by observing their mother, 
and other girls, but it's different for us. We have a different 
relationships with men, sex is different, everything. And I'm going to 
teach you how to be like me, a sexy, confident Strong Woman. And I 
promise you, you'll love it." Vicky looked at me, nervously. "But Diana, 
I'm not like you, I don't think I can. I'm not pretty like you, I'm not 
confident like you, I can't handle men ..." "Vicky, you've got the same 
basic raw material, you just need to learn how to use it." 

I took her into my bedroom, and stripped off down to my panties. I'm 
proud of my body, I know it's wider and deeper than ordinary women, and 
my arms and legs are thicker, but that gives me capabilities that 
ordinary women can't even dream about (and that ordinary men do dream 
about once they've experienced them). I stood proudly, my shoulders back 
and my head high, and Vicky admired me. "Oh, Diana, you are amazing, I 
wish I had a body like yours." "Strip off, Vicky, let's see you in the 
nude." "I can't" "Don't be silly, Vicky, you haven't got anything I 
haven't got, get them off." So Vicky also stripped and stood on the 
carpet, but what a difference. Her shoulders were slumped over, her 
hands covered her breasts, her head low. I led her over to my big 
mirror, and showed her the two of us. 

"Vicky, put your hands by your sides, push your shoulders back, and hold 
your head up high, stand as tall as you can." She did, and immediately 
looked tons better. "You see, Vicky? You see how much better you look 
when you stand like that?" She nodded. "Now put your hands behind your 
head, and pull your tummy in." She did, and we both admired the lovely 
Amazon in the mirror. "But I'm still ugly, Diana, I'm not pretty like 
you, I don't like people seeing me, that's why I try to be 
inconspicuous." "Watch this, Vicky", and I used cleanser and tissues to 
get my makeup off. Then we stood side by side, close to the mirror, and 
she could see that without makeup, my face is pretty ordinary, my cheeks 
too wide, my jaw too strong. Then I put my hair up in a bun, and she 
could see that my ears stick out too far, and without my hair round my 
shoulders, I look positively plain. "You see, Vicky? I don't have any 
more to start with than you do. The difference is, I *want* to look 
pretty and sexy, so I do." "You're lucky, you've got long hair and ..." 
"No, Vicky, it isn't luck. My hair is long because I want it to be; you 
could too, if you want." I have a wig that I use when my hair looks like 
rats tails and I don't have the time to fix it. I dug it out and put it 
on her head. I put lipstick on her lips, making them look fuller and 
kissable, and a touch of shadow on her cheeks. Well, I won't say she 
looked beautiful, but she looked *miles* better, and when we returned to 
the mirror, she had to agree. 

"Stand up straight, Vicky" I reminded her, and she threw her shoulders 
back, and raised her head. "Now you're beginning to look rather tasty, 
you know," I said. "Next comes clothes." Vicky's idea of clothes was a 
skirt down around her calves, a sweater that might have belonged to a 
Normandy fisherman and a sort of blanket thing on top of it all that 
probably looked better on the horse that it presumably came from. I 
proposed to give them away to charity, there was probably some 
impoverished horse-owner who could use them. But Vicky was a few inches 
taller than me, and although my skirts would likely fit, I couldn't see 
her getting into one of my silk blouses. So I got out a cashmere 
sweater, fine and soft, and she put that on. Then a skirt, but a couple 
of inches above the knee. Well, it was a couple of inches on me, but 
Vicky was taller, so it was more than a couple, it was quite a few. Now 
she was standing up straight, I could see that she was actually a lot 
taller than me, she was maybe five foot eleven or so. She put on my 
sweater and skirt, and we examined the lovely woman in the mirror again. 

"I'm too tall, and *these* stick out too much", she said. "And where's 
my bra?" I sighed. "Vicky, men adore tall women, and they'll go 
absolutely gaga over *those*. And you don't need a bra, strong women 
like us have got enough muscle to support our breasts against gravity 
without elastic to help." "I don't like being so tall, and I look tarty 
with *these* sticking out, even a bit obscene, and without a bra, you 
can see my nipples," and she slumped back into her old posture, losing 
about four inches of height, making sure her breasts didn't stand out, 
and completely hiding her nipples. 

I was exasperated. She really did look nice, and all she needed was to 
be proud of herself. Still, I had something in reserve for that - I had 
Nigel. "Look, Vicky, just do it, OK? Stand tall, stand proud, and show 
the world what you've got. If you've got it, you should flaunt it, and 
you've definitely got it!" She straightened up again, and I knew I'd 
have to keep nagging at her. "Now, just a dab of perfume", and I applied 
the merest touch of musky scent to her skin, the hollows of her neck, 
behind the ears and between her breasts. Then I looked at her feet - 
she'd look infinitely better in heels, but her feet were much bigger 
than mine, and there was no chance of getting her into my shoes. Well, 
at least we can do something about those grungy old runners. "Take those 
off, we'll get you some decent shoes tomorrow, but for now, bare feet 
look better than those horrible things." Vicky had long, slender feet, 
really rather nice. I looked her up and down, appraisingly. "Yes, I 
think you're ready." 

She followed me out into the living room; Nigel was sitting quietly in a 
flannel bath robe that I kept for male guests. He stood up when we 
walked in, because if Nigel has nothing else, he has perfect manners. I 
walked up to him and put my arms round him, under his arms, my hands 
meeting in the small of my back. Nigel recognised the posture, and 
moaned, "Please, no, Miss Diana. Please?" "Hush, Nigel, I'm not going 
to hurt you. Vicky, come over here and see how I've got my arms round 
him.  How hard do you think you could hug a man?" "I don't know, I've 
never really tried." "Try now." 

Vicky stepped up to Nigel - she was a bit taller than him. She put her 
arms round him like I had, and started to squeeze. "Like this?" "Harder, 
Vicky, I want you to squeeze him so hard, he can't breathe in." I could 
see her muscles tensing as she pulled Nigel closer towards her body, he 
was now trapped between her strong forearms and her firm body. I could 
see from his face that he was feeling the crush, but he could still 
breathe. "Harder, Vicky, I want you to really scrunch him into your 
body." Now I could see her trying a bit harder, but she'd gotten so used 
to holding back, she still wasn't using her full strength. "More, Vicky, 
more. Imagine you're a python and he's your prey." 

Now Nigel was having trouble, and I could hear him pleading with her. 
"Please, you're hurting me, please stop." As soon as he said this, she 
released him. "I'm hurting him!" "Yes, Vicky, that's the general idea. 
You aren't actually hurting him very much, but by using your strong 
muscles to crush his body, you can establish total dominance over him. 
Try again, only this time, don't ease up just because he asks you to." 

I heard Nigel whimper as Vicky took him in her arms again. This time she 
moved rapidly to the point where he'd been having trouble, and then I 
explained what she had to do. "As he breathes out, take up the slack, 
and don't let him breathe in again." Vicky stood, her legs a bit apart, 
with Nigel in her arms. Soon, he started to struggle. She looked at me, 
raising her eyebrows, but I shook my head. "Don't release him until I 
tell you, Vicky. Don't worry, I've done this to him before." Her arms 
gradually tightened round his body, and when he found he was running out 
of air, he started to struggle really hard. She let go of him at once, 
and he stood there, panting. "Very good, Vicky, but you don't let go of 
him just because he's fighting with you." "I was afraid I might do some 
damage, he can't breathe." "Try it again, but this time, ignore what he 
says, ignore his struggles, just mash him to your body." 

She looked down at Nigel. "Are you all right?" she asked. "No," he 
breathed. "Please, leave me alone?" Vicky smiled at him, said "I'm 
rather enjoying this", and gathered him in again. We listened to his 
moans, we watched his feeble struggles, until eventually he stopped 
trying to get out of her embrace. "You can let go of him now, Vicky". 
She stood, still holding his limp body in her strong arms. "Vicky, let 
go of him." She hugged him to her bosom, harder. I tapped her on the 
shoulder to break the spell. "Vicky! Let go of him right now!!". She 
released him, and we laid him on the couch, unconscious. "Vicky, when 
they pass out, you have to release them, otherwise the lack of air will 
kill them. That's how a python kills it's prey. We don't want a dead 
man, just an obedient one. 

"Oh Diana, it was the most wonderful feeling of my life! When he was 
struggling in my arms, and I knew he couldn't break free, I knew I had 
his body overwhelmed, I could do anything I wanted with him. Is it 
always like that?" I went into the kitchen and made three cups of 
chocolate; Nigel would be needing one quite soon, when he came to. Vicky 
followed me in. She was walking proud and tall, and I wasn't needing to 
keep reminding her. "Vicky, you've just discovered how wonderful it can 
be, but that isn't all. There's so much more. Your body can overcome any 
man, and if you ever need to demonstrate your female superiority without 
doing any major damage, you've just learned how. But now that you know 
how to overwhelm a man, you need to learn what to do with that power." 

Vicky sat next to the unconscious Nigel, and stroked his arm. "I feel 
so, I don't know, like I could do anything to him. Are men always as 
easy to overcome as that? Is it always like this?" "It always was, 
Vicky, you just didn't know it. Stand up for a moment." She stood up. 
"Look in the mirror, see how you're standing now? No slouch, no stoop. 
You're standing like a strong woman should." She pushed her breasts out 
further and grinned at me. "And I know what I'll do with him, now. As 
soon as he comes round, I'll knock him out again!" 

"No, Vicky. That was the first lesson, how easy it is to deal with men 
if you want to. The second lesson, is that you don't have to. Now that 
you know what you can do to them, you don't actually have to do it. You 
can look any man in the eye, and think to yourself that if you just put 
your arms round them and hugged, they'd be on the floor in a few 
minutes. But you don't actually have to do it, because any man, when he 
encounters a Strong Woman, something inside him tells him to give way, 
to let her have what she wants. You shouldn't be rough with men, not 
unless you really have to be, you should be sympathetic, kind and 
gentle. And that's what you should do with Nigel when he wakes up." 

She nodded, and we sat sipping our chocolate, until eventually Nigel 
groaned and stirred. I nudged Vicky, and she turned to him, and held him 
close while he recovered himself. When he realised where he was, he 
struggled a bit, but soon he realised that she wasn't squeezing him, and 
he subsided. I let her cuddle him a bit, then it was time for a bit more 
teaching. I opened up Nigel's bathrobe, and started giving her an 
anatomy lesson. After a few minutes, Nigel groaned loudly, and bucked 
his hips. "Look, Vicky, you can see the wetness at the tip, and you can 
hear from the noises that he's making that he's ready to come. What you 
do now, is you don't let him have an orgasm, not yet. You keep him in 
suspense, and you stop him from coming." "How do you do that?" I showed 
Vicky how I had my finger under his penis at the base, pressed against 
the urethra, blocking his passage. "With that finger pressed in place, 
he can't do anything. Now we just wait until the need to orgasm passes." 
While we waited, I told her about my plans for tomorrow; "shop till we 
drop". Vicky needed clothes, lots of them, if her current wardrobe was 
as bad as what she'd been wearing. "I don't have much money, though 
Diana" she said. "Don't worry about that. You can pay me back by finding 
another strong woman and doing for her what I'm doing for you." "But I 
don't earn very much, I've got a very low grade job." "Vicky, you'll 
change that, as well. You'll see. Men can't help it, they just have to 
do what you want, something inside them tells them that they can't 
resist. We'll find you a great job." 

I explained to Vicky what my job entailed. I negotiate deals. Any 
negotiation is basically a battle of wills. And there's no way any man 
can win a contest like that against a strong woman like me. All I have 
to do is demonstrate my strength to them, which I usually do by bending 
a six inch nail in my hands, which they can't even dent, or some such 
stunt. And then I demonstrate my femininity to them, usually by taking 
off my jacket and flaunting my breasts at them. And the whip round my 
waist intimidates them terribly, and there's various other techniques I 
use. Anyway, by the time a negotiating team has been in a meeting room 
with me for a couple of hours, they're willing to do anything I say, and 
I don't even lay a finger on them, I don't have to. The promise of sex 
and the threat of violence; the threat of sex and the promise of 
violence, that's all it takes. No man can stand up to a real Strong 
Woman, not for more than a few minutes. No matter what their brain says, 
their instincts over-rule any intelligence they have, and they submit. 

"Could I get a job like that?" she asked. "Yes, I'm sure you could. Lots 
of companies need good negotiators, and a Strong Woman makes the best 
kind." "Oh, Diana, that sounds so wonderful. I hate the job I have, I'm 
a shelf filler in a supermarket." I was shocked. There's no way in the 
world that an Amazon should do a job like that, except that she didn't 
know any better. Well, she would now. Time for a demonstration of the 
power that a strong woman can wield. "Vicky, I want to show you what you 
can do. Make Nigel do something humiliating." 

She thought a bit, then pulled his head away from her shoulder. She held 
his shoulders in her hands, and spoke directly to him. "Nigel, get down 
on your hands and knees like a dog, and lick my feet." Not exactly 
imaginative, I thought, but it served its purpose. Nigel clearly didn't 
think twice about it, he got down and started licking, just like that. 
Vicky turned to me, and there were stars in her eyes. "Oh, Diana, is it 
really that easy?" I smiled back at her. 

I let her play with Nigel for the next couple of hours, sticking around 
mostly to make sure that she didn't do anything that would damage him - 
after all, I wanted him in the office next week. Eventually, I told her 
it was time for bed, and I separated them. "Sorry, Vicky, he's mine 
tonight". Vicky slept on the couch, Nigel and I in the bed. And that 
night, I made it up to him for all the terrible things that Vicky had 
done to him, all the humiliations and degradations, and I gave him the 
sort of monster orgasm that hits a man so hard that he can't breath, and 
once more, Nigel passed out from oxygen deprivation, but not because I 
was squeezing him, but because I was forcing such an overload of 
pleasure into his brain via his penis. And we both fell asleep. 

Next day, Vicky and I went shopping, and it was such fun. I haven't 
spent so much on clothes since I first got my new and rather well-paid 
job; there's only so much that a girl can wear. But Vicky needed 
everything, from top to bottom. Skirts, slacks, blouses, sweaters, 
dresses and accessories. 

It wasn't that easy to find nice clothes for Vicky. I measured her; she 
was five foot eleven tall, and when she stood up straight, fifty two 
round the bust. At nearly six feet tall, she was a lot taller than the 
average, taller than shops tend to cater for.  And the combination of 
deep chest, wide shoulders and large breasts made it even harder to find 
clothes for her. I thought I was a problem to dress; Vicky was almost 
impossible. 

"You can forget about any kind of jeans or trousers", she said. And 
after we measured her bust, it was clear that we wouldn't be able to get 
any off the peg blouse over that lot. "You can see why I wear men's 
sweaters and long skirts", she said. I nodded. "I have a similar 
problem", I said, "although on not quite such a heroic scale. The answer 
is, made-to-measure." We went out shopping, and got some skirts that 
would work; some ankle length, some above the knee, and some to show off 
her extremely long legs. Sweaters weren't too big a problem, you just 
get extra large for men, and rely on your firm breasts to push the 
sweater into shape. 

We found some shoes, too - that just took a bit of persistence. I even 
found some high heels; Vicky demurred at first "Aren't I too tall 
already?", but I explained that the heels would show off her legs even 
better, and anyway lots of men like women who tower over them. And to a 
man like that, the combination of height and physical strength leaves 
them soft at the knees and hard in the groin. Sometimes soft in both. 

So we visited Judy, my dressmaker. She measured Vicky, and most of her 
impressive upper body was chest rather than breast, but nevertheless, 
her breasts were more than adequate. Judy said she'd make them loose-
fitting, Vicky didn't need tight blouses to look splendid. And she'd 
also alter some bras to fit, Vicky could wear a standard GG-cup with 
longer straps to accommodate her big upper body. 

Next, a wig. Vicky's hair was frankly terrible, and it would take months 
to grow to a decent length. Meanwhile, we found a lovely long black wig, 
and when she put it on, it transformed her appearance. The scared, mousy 
teenager was completely gone, an as we looked in the mirror, we saw a 
tall and strong, confident and sexy woman, who looked as if she would 
crush any man who got in her way, and rape any man who hesitated before 
saying "Yes." Vicky was a classic Strong Woman, and both she and I were 
proud of her. 

Then accessories. I only ever wear a small shoulder bag, I think it 
looks terrible if you're carting a suitcase around with you. That was 
easy to get, but Vicky also wanted a belt like mine, a whip wound round 
her waist. Eventually, we found something suitable at a saddlery. The 
proprietor said it was something that should never be used on a horse, 
and initially he didn't want to sell it, he only kept it as an ornament. 
So I looked at Vicky, and Vicky looked at me, and I nodded towards the 
wall. So she slipped off her jacket, revealing the most magnificent 
shoulders the guy had ever seen, not to mention the even more imposing 
bosom just a few inches lower. Then she took a horseshoe off the wall 
display, and with a show of brute strength, she twisted it into an S 
shape. Then she said "I promise not to use that whip on a horse." 

I looked at his trousers, and saw a big wet patch. That's interesting, I 
wonder if I could do that. I'm not as big and impressive as Vicky, but 
I'm stronger than she is, she can't bend six inch nails like I can. 
Probably because I've done so many. And I fell sure I could do better 
with a horseshoe than she could. I directed Vicky's attention to his 
loss of control, and she laughed. "There's going to be a lot of men with 
that problem," she said, and I smiled, she was getting the idea. 

Of course, after that, he was like putty in her hands. Could you imagine 
saying "No" to a Strong Woman who has just caused you to come in your 
pants?  We bought the whip for a silly price. 

People ask me sometimes, how come a woman is so strong. For a long time, 
I used to just answer that I was born this way, it's heredity. But once 
I went to bed with (that's the genteel way of saying "fucked") a medical 
student, and he persuaded me to have X-rays to see if he could identify 
the cause. 

My bones are bigger and thicker than normal, which is one of the reasons 
I'm so heavy for my height. But Alec also discovered that my muscles are 
attached to my bones in a slightly different way to normal. I mean, it's 
still tendons and ligaments, but they attach in a slightly different 
place. Where a normal attachment might be five centimetres from the 
joint, mine would be eight, or even ten, giving me a big leverage 
advantage. And all my joints seemed to work that way. 

Bend an elbow, and look at it - you can see the tendons and where they 
attach. Mine are the same as yours, but they attach further away from 
the joint, so my tendons are more prominent, but you'd only spot it if 
you're looking out for it. And when I looked at Vicky, she was the same. 

There's no obvious reason why a man couldn't have the same anatomical 
difference. Maybe it was just coincidence that the three people I knew 
like this were women - me, my Gran, and Vicky. Or maybe not - I keep my 
eyes open just in case. 

So Vicky now had clothes (Judy had a couple of nice blouses ready when 
we got back there) and accessories (she was really pleased about the 
whip). And I was pleased about the progress she'd made in just one day, 
from scared little girl to strong, confident amazon. 

Saturday night was probably the worst of Nigel's entire life. I used him 
to teach various man-handling techniques to Vicky, and we often had to 
muffle his screams with a pillow. But, as I explained to Vicky, we 
couldn't get too rough with him, I needed him at work on Monday. As it 
turned out, on Monday he really surprised me; he got me a bunch of 
flowers, and the enclosed note said "For the best night I've ever had". 
So maybe it wasn't the worst night of his life after all. Men can be so 
sweet sometimes. 

Sunday was quiet. On Sunday, I showed Vicky how to put on the minimum 
amount of make-up that transforms a Plain Jane into an attractive woman. 
I also taught her some of the elementary techniques of flirting, and 
some of the most useful ways to flaunt your breasts - the turret swivel, 
the jouncing jiggle, the accidental nudge, the gentle brush, the soft 
squeeze, and the devastating double-prod. When you have breasts like 
Vicky's, you want to learn how to use them as weapons of destruction. 

Vicky learned fast, but there was so much ground to cover, and so little 
time. So I tried to just teach her the basics, and made a list for her 
to study later on. By the end of Sunday, she looked quite presentable, 
and I thought she would be fine on her own. So on the Monday, we both 
dressed up in business wear (skirt-suit, black stockings, three inch 
heels, not too high, but not low either, crisp white silk blouse, touch 
of jewelery), and we took the underground down to the City, and we got 
stared at the whole way. 

But we didn't go to the bank I work for, we went to another one, a bank 
where it just so happens than I know some people, and who have offered 
me a job in the past. I didn't have an appointment, but as soon as the 
Corporate Finance Director was told I wanted to see him, suddenly that 
wasn't a problem. 

"Hello, sweetie." "Hello, Diana." He was an old friend of mine, and as I 
sat down and crossed my legs, he tried to see how far up my skirt he 
could look. Of course, I helped by letting it ride up a bit, but then 
tugged it down, as if it had been a mistake. "James, you remember you 
offered me a job?" He nodded. "It's still open, if you're interested. We 
need a negotiator like you, Diana. You always bring home the bacon." 
"That's because I know how to handle pork", I joked, but from the 
reddening of his face, he knew what I was referring to. "I'm not leaving 
where I am, I'm quite happy there, and thanks for the offer. But what 
you really need is a strong negotiator to give you a hand." James had 
personal experience of what it felt like when a strong negotiator got 
her hands on your assets, and he crossed his legs defensively. I smiled. 
"Meet Vicky." 

Vicky walked over to his desk, and smiled down at him as they shook 
hands - it must be nice to be tall, and the high heels she was wearing 
gave her about four inches over him. She held his hand gently in hers, I 
think there's nothing worse than giving a man a crushing grip when you 
shake hands with him. "Vicky's a friend of mine. She's got no experience 
at all, but I know she'll be good at the job." James looked doubtful. 
"Diana, with no experience ..." "Hush, James. Vicky, show him." 

Vicky slipped off her jacket, the way I'd shown her, letting it slide 
off her shoulders, and now James stopped staring at my legs, because 
he'd never seen anything quite as astonishing as Vicky's breasts. I was 
a wee bit jealous of them myself, although I consider that my own are 
entirely adequate. I think it was Vicky's extra height that did it, but 
her much bigger breasts seemed to suit her just fine. And, of course, 
she wasn't wearing her GG cup bra, just a silk underslip to blur her 
nipples slightly. I saw the bulge in James trousers as he watched her. 
She just sat quietly on a corner of his desk, her shoulders pushed back, 
her breasts thrust forward. Then, when she had his full attention, at 
the point when he couldn't see anything in the room except the front of 
her blouse, she pulled a six inch nail out of her bag, and showed it to 
him. 

"Oh, no", he groaned, knowing what was coming. Vicky smiled and nodded, 
the motion making her nipples jiggle slightly. "Yes. Watch me" she 
commanded. She rolled the nail up in a sheet of paper, to protect her 
hands, and took the nail in both hands. With her thumbs in the middle 
and her fingers at each end, she exerted her arms. For a moment, you 
could see the silk sleeves of her blouse bulge as the fabric was 
strained by the muscles within, and then the moment passed, as the nail 
began to twist in her hands. Then you could see the front of her blouse 
strain to contain her breasts, because bending a nail makes them move 
apart, and that causes stress problems. She got it as far as a right 
angle, we'd practised this a lot. Then she stripped off the paper, and 
handed the bent nail to James while he sat in his chair. "James, Vicky 
is another Strong Woman, and you're going to give her a job doing what I 
do. She'll learn fast, and she's got outstanding qualifications." James 
stared at Vicky's outstanding qualifications, then down at the bent 
nail. Then Vicky kicked off her shoe, and rested her foot softly in his 
lap. 

It was almost too much for the poor lamb. We could see him struggling to 
keep control of himself. But then Vicky whispered to him "You will have 
an orgasm now, James", and he completely lost it. It really is 
impossible for a man to resist a woman who has just done a demonstration 
like Vicky had done. He writhed in his chair, while we watched the wet 
patch on his trousers grow. I thought it was a bit of a waste, but 
sometimes you just have to accept that. After he was done, I told Vicky 
not to accept less than a six figure sum, and left her to it. I didn't 
think James would have any resistance left, and I was right. Later, she 
told me that he just crumbled in her hands like a biscuit. 

So that was Vicky sorted out. She came round that evening to thank me 
and tell me that everything was fixed up, and I told her how pleased I 
was, and we promised to stay in touch. She told me that she planned to 
visit Eric, and teach him that you don't mess with a Strong Woman, not 
if you don't want her to mess you up somewhat, and I made her promise to 
tell me what happened. And she told me she'd gotten a loan from the bank 
to tide her over "James has been *so* sweet and helpful, I never need to 
more than hint what I want" and I nodded, I often find that men are like 
that. She'd found a flat and moved in, just her, and I agreed that that 
is best, because it means you can bring men friends home and fuck their 
brains out without worrying about disturbing a roommate with their 
screams of pleasure. And she told me she was going to grow her hair like 
mine, and I told her I wouldn't be unhappy if I had breasts as good as 
hers, even though I think my own are entirely adequate, and lots of men 
agree. And we hugged each other, and we're chums. It's nice to have a 
real chum, I just can't relate to ordinary women, and you can't just be 
chums with a man, because sooner or later, you-know-what rears its 
lovely head. 

But after she left, in bed alone, I cried a little bit. Not a lot, but 
just a little bit. Because no-one has ever hugged me the way she did, it 
was really hard and firm, a proper strong hard hug, not like the feeble 
efforts I'm used to getting. And I hugged her back, for ever such a long 
time, and as hard as I could, which I daren't do with boyfriends, 
because they start making "unnnh" noises. And I thought, wouldn't it be 
nice if there was a man somewhere that I could be like that with. And I 
cried a little bit, because there isn't. 





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