June
by Tom Walker
She scissors him over the edge.
Update: 21/09/1997 to walker

One o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon in November. The crowd at the
bar is thinning out as the lunch eaters head back to work. This is a
dark place, the basement of a 51-story office building, neo-modern
lighting, dark blue decor with white highlights, a 60-foot bar with
gleaming mirrors and bottles running the length of it, a constant
undercurrent of "pop" music --- not quite Muzak, but low and
essentially indiscernible.

I'm one of perhaps a dozen still sitting at the bar, empty stools on
both sides of me as I nurse my fourth whiskey and water.  I hear a
mumbling behind me, look up, and see a bizarre figure stomping
through the bar shaking its head. On closer view, the figure is a
woman, wearing dark sunglasses in this dark place, a ratty rabbit
jacket, collar pulled up around her ears, hair wrapped in a flowered
bandana, a long full slit skirt, pink-and-black flowered pattern,  and
low dark boots. 

I call out: "Dazzled by the light? What's with the shades?"  This is a
risk. She might be albino and unable to handle light, but that turns
out not to be true.  

"I forgot I have them on. Want to buy me a drink?" Her voice is
guttural, deep, her accent not regional, as if she had lived in a number
of different towns over her life. There is a jagged, wild edge to her
speech, an incoherence, lack of connections between phrases. She
sits next to me, and I can see that she is at once used and young ---
probably in her late 20's. When she takes off  her glasses, her eyes are
narrow, tired-looking, irises faded to gray from once-blue. Her facial
structure is almost elegant, finely chiseled cheek bones, narrow
straight nose, strong wide chin, but hard-lined mouth, and skin that is
not cared for, leathery.  Her hands are work-worn, short nails, very
strong looking fingers, vascular trails along the backs to pronounced
knuckles. I see the edge of her hair under her bandana. The color is
auburn. The texture is wiry, not soft.

She starts a one-sentence-run-on 5-minute soliloquy, almost without
drawing a breath. Her talk is an uninterrupted flow of complaints,
about her life, about her husbands, about her boy friends, her job, the
women she knows (none of them her friends, all of them "phony"). 

She grips my hand, then pulls it down under her skirt, crosses one
thigh over it against the other thigh and sandwiches it tight.  She tells
me she is feeling "hot." As if to prove it, she loosens her grip and
pushes my hand up into her crotch, which is wet and steamy. She is
telling the truth.  

Then she moves to a new soliloquy. The subject is herself, not who
she is but what her body is.  I learn that she is 5'5";  that she thinks
she is "fat" at 122 pounds; that her "boobs" are too small, her hips
and thighs too big;  that her current boy friend thinks she has
beautiful lower legs. She keeps in shape with her own ballet practice
barre in the house she lives in, which is owned by her mother, who
lives out of town.  

She boasts that she has very strong legs. In proof of this, she clamps
my hand hard between her thighs, then flexes her interior thigh
muscles to such density that it feels as if they will powder the small
bones between my knuckles and wrist. I think for a moment that she
must have a metal weapon of some kind between her legs --- a gun
or a blackjack, or something like that.

"Ouch. What do you have in there, rocks?" I ask.

"No babe, just these muscles, and they would really like a chance to
work you over. Buy me a drink, and I'll show you when we get out
of here." She punctuates this statement by making a deep rumbling
sound in her throat, dangerous, like the warning growl of a four-
legged predator, while she rhythmically varies the pressure of her
thighs' grip on my hand, relaxing to the leathery feel of human
muscle, then flexing suddenly to inhuman, bone-crushing granite.

I am used to being approached by women in bars. I am fairly good-
looking, a professional, well groomed, dark-haired and in good
physical shape from playing a lot of tennis on week ends. Her
approach, however, is outside the usual games --- totally direct,
startling, peculiarly honest. She has the kind of frankness and
ultimate authenticity that makes it easy to call her "eccentric," but, at
the same time, validates the crudeness of her approach.

"What'll you have?" I ask.

"Boilermaker with a double shot of bourbon. I'm thirsty as hell."

I order her drink. When it comes, she downs the bourbon in a single
gulp and swigs down the accompanying beer without pausing.

"Thanks. I feel better --- and hornier --- now."  Again she crushes my
hand with her thigh muscles, at the same time clamping my wrist with
her strong fingers to make sure I cannot pull loose.

"Geezus, let go, will you. You're pulverizing my hand.  Stop now,
before you do any more damage."

"OK" she says, releasing my hand and wrist. My fingers feel numb,
my hand tingling from lack of circulation. I shake my lower arm
vigorously to restore feeling.

She laughs and says "Need some new blood, eh? If you think your
hand feels numb, think about what you'd feel like if I squeezed your
stomach full strength with my legs. You'd have no feeling from the
waist down, but you'd be screaming from the pain in your guts.  I
don't have to guess about that.  I know what these thigh muscles do
to a guy's belly."  

"Forget it." I reply. "I'm not in the market for that stuff."

"Really? That bulge in your pants makes me think different. You'll
think about it too, and, one of these days..."

With that, she pivots off her stool and darts out of the bar so fast that
I can see only her back when I turn to where she has been.  On the
bar at her place, however, is a paper napkin with a brief message ---
"June. 565-1717. Call me."

I put the napkin in my pocket, pay for the drinks, and go back to my
office.

                   * * * * *

Three weeks later. It's 9 p.m. on a cold night. I've had a bad day at
work. My regular female friend is out of town, and I'm needing
company. I open the top drawer of my bureau --- a mess with
business and personal cards I've picked up at various places over the
past year or more --- and I see the napkin.  

I dial. The telephone rings 6 or 7 times, and I am about to click off,
when the ringing stops and she picks up. The voice is deep; I
recognize her peculiar timbre. The speech is slurred, as if she is on
something.  

"Want some company?" I ask. 

"Sure," she says, without inquiry.  "Are you home or hangin' out in
that fancy cellar bar?"   She has recognized my voice. 

"Now?" I ask.

"You bet. Right now. I'll be waiting for you." 

She recites her address, which I write down. I have a rough idea of
the location, and  tell her I will be along in about an hour. Nervous, I
fortify with a quick double shot of vodka, change into casual clothes
from my working suit, and head out in my car.


Her place is not easy to find. It's in a neighborhood high on a city
hill, with a lot of streets that dead end at the bottom of the hill, and
only one or two that continue up and over it to connect with streets
of the same name on the far side.

The house is small, two stories, set back from the street, dark, with
an overhang and small front porch.  I walk up, grope around for the
doorbell, and press the button. I hear a chime inside, but no
immediate movement.  I ring again, and wait. I still hear no
movement inside, but the door opens inward in front of me.  I sense,
rather than see, a front hall. The place is pitch dark and I walk in
tentatively, not knowing what to expect, nor even who is there. 

I hear the rasp of her voice in the blackness.

"You sure were quick getting here. I was just getting out of the
shower when I heard the bell. If you'd been a few minutes earlier I
probably wouldn't have heard you at all. As it is, I'm just in my bath
towel. Let me turn on a light. You sit in the living room. I'll be down
in a second."

She clicks a wall switch and a single bare ceiling bulb illuminates the
hallway. It is enough for me to see into the adjacent sitting room and
note the long Salvation Army couch that extends along one wall.
When I turn toward her, she is already on her way up the steps. 

I can see the backs of her legs as she climbs. Her lower legs are scary
--- rawhide muscled, sinewy calves, sharply etched, knotting and
releasing, the muscles stretching her pale skin, tapering downward to
prominently-chiseled anklebones and long-toed prehensile-looking
feet. The tops of her calves taper inward into the backs of her knees,
and I can see her prominently defined hamstrings flex like biceps each
time she raises a leg to climb to the next riser.

The sight gives me an instant erection, and my excitement keeps
increasing as I wait for her to come back downstairs. By the time she
returns, barefooted and wearing only a bathrobe, I have thought
myself to full tumescence. 

She sees the swelling in my pants and barely pauses before taking
action. Standing in front of me, her legs widespread, she seizes my
wrist in one strong hand and yanks me to my feet. With her other
hand, she clamps a claw hold on my buttocks to guide me from
behind.

"Looks like we have to attend to your body now." she says. "I'll
calm you down in a hurry. Follow me."

Embarrassed, I try to pull back. She reacts by squeezing me tight
with both hand grips, goosing me playfully but making clear that I
have to follow as she hauls me toward the stairs. I am getting more
excited as I anticipate what she will do to "calm me down," and
sexual fantasies are racing through my mind.

When we reach the top of the stairs, she flips off the lights. I can't
see anything. She yanks me through a doorway, and I feel myself
being shoved forward over the edge of what feels like a bed. Her
hands get busy tearing off my shirt, then she pulls my pants down to
my ankles. She yanks my shoes off and completes the stripping by
whisking my pants free of my ankles.  I am bent over, lying face
down, dressed only in my undershorts and socks. 

In the blackness of the room, I feel her moving up and astride my
lower back, her legs encircling my hips, her feet curling under me,
hooking my thighs just below my groin. She gropes with her hand
under my armpit, then clamps my upper arm in the V formed by her
forearm and biceps, trying to hook her hand behind my neck in a half
nelson. She tries the same thing with her other arm, but I am able to
block her by pressing down strongly with my arms and seizing one of
her wrists with my hand. I grope with my other hand to find a way to
pull one of her feet loose from its hook-hold in my crotch. Just when
I think I have succeeded, she unhooks both feet and interlaces them,
locking me under her in a "stretcher" body scissors. 

"Oh yeah, baby. This is good." she crows, "My muscles have you
now. Let's see, suppose we start with a little stretching just to loosen
you up." 

She rolls her weight forward, pressing down on my back, and lifts
with her legs, extending and stretching my stomach painfully, making
it impossible for me to flex my abdominal muscles. Her pelvic bone
digs at my back like the beak of a giant snapping turtle. Her hips feel
very dense, as if she has somehow increased the gravitational pull on
her body to increase their pressure.  

"That's enough stretching; now we get to the part these thighs have
been itching for --- the crushing and the squeezing."

Then she slowly begins to destroy me with her thighs . . .

"'Ever imagine a woman's legs could hurt you like this, Tom?  I can
use these thigh muscles like sledge hammers and pound your kidneys
until you're screaming  and pass out from the pain--- or I can just
pump your guts until you feel like mush, and then squeeze all the air
out of you until you black out. Maybe I'll try both. Hang on, baby,
you're in for the ride of your life." 

Her interior thigh muscles swell as she inflates them by force of will,
nestling them into the concave curves at my sides below my ribs. I
feel a sudden jerk, and the thigh muscles flex iron-hard, digging into
me, then easing, then flexing again, pounding at my kidneys with
repeated blows that break down my resistance until I am grunting
and moaning with pain. The feeling is a combination of the
percussive jolt of being kicked in the side by some sadistic kickboxer
and the internal agony you get when something heavy and hard
crashes into your testicles. I feel my stomach convulsing, forcing any
food it still contains up into my throat. I am choking with nausea.   

Terror overcomes me. Locked in the inhuman vise of her thighs, I am
cringing helplessly, waiting for their next constriction. She interrupts
the hammering and screws down steadily on her legs' pressure, the
thighs becoming iron rams that slowly crush and mangle my waist
like one of those huge compactors that press old automobiles into
blocks of scrap metal. 

She holds the pressure, squeezing the life out of me until I am lying
limp between her legs, offering no resistance, the only sound in the
darkness being a prolonged combination hissing-moaning that I emit
involuntarily in helpless submission to her killing constriction.

"You're all mine now, big boy. These legs own you."

I feel my mouth fill with vomit, and I expel it with a loud ugly
whooshing sound. I have no feeling in my lower body, but I sense
that I have wet myself, and the odor permeates the room. She keeps
squeezing me until I am beyond gasping, beyond coherence, a dying
male mammal being murdered in the constricting coils of this sinewy
female predator.  The room is still pitch black, and I imagine I am
spinning crazily down into the pit of hell. As I lose consciousness,  I
hear her screaming like a banshee, and I know I am about to die.

                   * * * * *
It is no longer dark in the room. Morning sunlight glints through the
slats in the window blind. I am alive, but disoriented. All my nerve
endings are on fire, and waves of pain flow upward from the base of
my spine.  I try to rise to go to the bathroom. I am unable to
straighten up because of the agony in my sides and back. I limp, half
bent over, into the bathroom and see myself in the full-length door
mirror. I have huge black-and-blue bruises on both sides of my lower
back, souvenirs of those murderous thighs. I see a red bruised area in
the center of my lower back where her pelvis had slammed into me.
My ribs and stomach feel sore. Everything aches but no bones feel
broken, and I am grateful to be alive.

I stand over the toilet. I feel a burning sensation when I try to
urinate. When I do pass liquid, I see that it is multi-colored, streaked
with blood.  I realize then that she has inflicted grave damage, that I
am bleeding internally, and that I need medical help in a hurry.

I call out to her. "June --- June--- where the hell are you? What the
hell have you done to me? I'm bleeding when I pee. Get me a doctor.
I need help --- NOW!"

"Sure shing Tommy," she slurs from the next room, and I can hear
the alcohol and other drugs in her speech. "But before we get a doc,
let's get it on. I'm hot again, and you were no ushe at all lasht night."

"No way, for Christ's sake! I can't function. You damn near killed
me. I don't want to go near you!" I screamed at her.

"Too bad, baby. You don't have a choice."

She bursts into the room. This is the first time I have actually seen
her in the light. She is naked, almost bony-lean, sinewy, long arms
and legs, small torso with small erect breasts, pale unhealthy white
skin, broad in the hips, however, with those  thick murderous thighs
that taper like two inverted pyramids to sharp-boned knees, the legs
otherwise slender, striated with nervously twitching ropes of sinew,
taut hard calves, sculptured ankles, and those long prehensile feet
which had hooked and held me under her last night.

I am still very weak, and she knows it. She climbs past me onto the
bed and stands behind me, then straddles my neck, seating herself on
my shoulders with her legs draping down along the front of my chest,
her feet at my crotch. She crosses her ankles, then gently flexes her
thigh adductors against my neck. I can smell her musk. The smooth
interior warmth of her thighs embraces me, comforting as a mother's
hug --- yet sensual --- and dangerous as the rippling body of a boa
constrictor. I sigh contentedly.

She places her hands on the sides of my face, her fingers interlacing
under my chin. I feel her mouth against the top of my ear as she
bends over me, at the same time pulling my head back with her
hands. She licks at me softly, pulling my head back until I am looking
upward into her face. Her eyes are focused on mine, staring intensely
as if she wants to drill her gaze into my head. Her thigh muscles flex
a little harder, the pressure now becoming threatening but not
dangerous, a suggestion of what she can do to me if I displease her. 
Her feet extend into my groin, then seem to circle and enfold my
scrotum, her long toes curling around my testes and clamping the
base of my now-erect penis. She squeezes with her feet, rhythmical
pressures and releases, until she has me pumped to the verge of
ejaculation, my skin stretched taut, quivering.

Suddenly, she yanks me sideways, off-balance, shifting the weight of
her hips to pull me down to the mattress until I am lying flat on my
side, the back of my head pressed against her crotch, my neck
clamped tightly between her thighs. She extends her legs again and
resumes the caressing rhythms of her feet in my crotch.

Her thighs tighten around my neck as she issues her command:
"Now, Tommy. Now, let it all go! Give yourself up to me. NOW!"

Her feet squeeze my genitals with an increased tempo and tighter
pressure. I am gasping, unable to breathe in her neck-scissors,
dizzying from lack of blood to my brain as her thighs shut down my
carotid arteries.  The pressure behind my eyes feels as if my head is
about to explode. My nose is bleeding. I sense the trickle on my
upper lip, taste the saltiness on my tongue. 

Her hips are driving, her pelvic bone hammering now against my
neck. She is thrusting to satisfy herself while her feet and thighs are
squeezing me to irresistible climax, even as my body is quivering with
terror, every live nerve-ending sending searing emergency messages
of pain to my benumbed brain.  I feel my own hips responding to her
rhythms. Her feet tighten and yank my penis until it explodes in a
seemingly endless series of eruptions, the viscous hot semen spurting
upward into my face, soaking her clutching calves and ankles. I feel
her wetness at the back of my neck as her own orgasmic juices flow
over me, dripping along the length of her legs to join with mine.  

I remember nothing more. 

When I awake, it is evening.  I am in my car in front of her house,
half dressed. A note is taped across the steering wheel of my car.

     "See a doctor or go to emergency room about all that
     bleeding. I don't pay medical bills for my victims. I enjoyed
     having you.  Now that I own you, wait for my call, and come
     when I call you, or suffer the REALLY PAINFUL
     consequences."
                     * * *
She calls about two weeks later. The doctors have cleared me and I
am fully recovered from our first session together. She "asks"
whether I can come over.  I know I really have no choice. Besides,
something weird is telling me that I want to go back, and I am
getting ready now . . .