NAN By Tom Walker She seduces and wipes him out with her scissors. Nan was a true "world-class" athlete, unique and gifted. Her sport was track and field; her game, the heptathlon. The heptathlon is a competition among women in seven different track and field events, and the world's champion heptathlete is generally regarded as the best woman athlete in the world. The seven events are the 100 meter hurdles, shot put, high jump, 200 meters, long jump, javelin throw and 800 meters. By the time she was 18, Nan had become the second-ranked heptathlon competitor in the United States, her personal best marks falling less than five per cent below those of the U.S. champion, a 28-year old woman from California. When she was about to graduate from secondary school, Nan was one of the most sought after women athletes in the United States. Co-educational and women's colleges alike sought her as a student, expecting that her athletic prowess and the attendant publicity would bring credit --- and cash --- to their schools. I was an inveterate track fan and Nan was well-known to me by reputation. She was about 5'10", 145 pounds, symmetrical in every way, perfectly balanced, from her beautiful heart-shaped face with its almond-shaped transparent green eyes, thick honey and gold mane of hair, to her powerful shoulders, slender waist, narrow hips, sinew-striated thighs, chiseled knees, hard calves tapering to sharply delineated ankle bones, long-toed, large prehensile feet with high graceful arches. I had been impressed by the pictures of her in various sporting magazines. Being around her in person, however, was like nothing I had ever known. I was smitten with a weird, almost queasy feeling in my stomach in the presence of her overpowering "femaleness." I use "femaleness" rather than "femininity" because the latter does not convey the animal aura that overwhelmed me. She was not like a lingerie ad --- rather like a lioness, moving with the predatory grace of a giant feline. I found her overwhelming. Her pale skin, stretched taut over rippling sinews, glowed from within, glistened with energy. Her body gave off a warm musky scent that made me dizzy, exciting me more than any perfume possibly could. Her powerful musculature was balanced by a litheness, an almost-effortless grace of movement that reminded me of a lioness and, at the same time, one of Balanchine's long-legged ballerinas, an intoxicating mix of great strength and breathtaking femaleness. Her lips were very full, her mouth wide; when she smiled, she displayed a slight overbite that seemed to me to heighten her kinship with the beasts of the wild... ________________________ Autumn--- yellow, orange, red --- an ideal day in Connecticut in late September --- in a park that was a foothill, rocky, with flower and grass clearings here and there, screened by overgrown thickets of wild shrubbery. We were each 19, a fit, well-cared-for pair of post-adolescents. At 5'9" by 160 pounds, I was in pretty good shape, a so-so athlete, tennis player --- good hand/eye coordination, quick feet, but nothing to write home about in terms of physical strength. For our walk, she had simply put on her track clothes --- wearing flat athletic shoes rather than spikes--- covering her competition wear with a loose-fitting sweat suit that bore the logo of her college. She walked with an easy, almost loping gait, long powerful strides that forced me to move at a half-trot to keep up with her as we climbed the park trails. After about 20 minutes of climbing, I was feeling both sweaty and winded. I suggested that we detour and take a bit of a rest in one of the shrub-walled clearings that showed on my small guide map. She laughed and readily agreed. "Good idea, Tom. I was getting a bit too warm in this sweat suit. We'll both be more comfortable with fewer clothes, don't you think?" With that, she winked at me, her face lighting up in a broad dazzling smile, which she finished off with a quick flittering thrust of her tongue along her upper lip. We found the clearing shown on my map. It was completely secluded, a green sward surrounded by shrubs and flowers, a long wood-slatted and wrought-iron bench along one side. I took off my sweater and removed the sweat pants I had worn. I was then dressed only in my tennis shorts and a short-sleeved, collared polo shirt. We sat down next to each other on the bench. "Oooh, Tom" she said, "You have a lovely tan. You spend much time in the sun?" "Not on purpose," I replied, "But I don't wear sun block, and I am out on the tennis courts most week ends." "That must account for those legs. You have really nice muscle tone. Kind of like a runner." With that, she removed her sport shoes, pulled her sweat pants down, and quickly removed her sweat top by pulling it off over her head . She was breathtaking. "My God --- you're even more beautiful than I imagined. Your pictures don't begin to do you justice." I stammered. "Thank you, Tom." she replied. "I worry sometimes about being too sinewy- looking, especially with all the stretching and running that the heptathlon requires. Look at my legs --- they look "ropy" to me right now, like a bunch of cables braided together. My regular off-season shorts and sweat pants hang on me when I'm like this. There is one kind of neat personal compensation for that though --- in addition to the competition benefits." "What's that?" I asked. She paused then, pensive. "Frankly? You won't be turned off when I tell you?" "I don't know. Try me." "Plain and simple, when my legs are in this kind of shape, they feel absolutely deadly." "Deadly?" "Yeah, deadly. That's my thing. I love to squeeze guys with my legs. Once I lock my scissors on a guy, its only a matter of time before he submits. Most of the time, if he can still talk at all, a guy will wind up begging me to stop squeezing him." "Wow! That's gotta be something to see. I don't know about really big guys, but you look like your legs could slice right through a guy's stomach if he was anywhere near your size. What does it feel like when you squeeze a guy?" "What does it feel like? You want me to squeeze you so you can see for yourself?" "No, no, that's not what I meant. I mean how does it feel to you when you do it to a guy?" "That depends." "On what?" "On how he reacts. How his body feels between my legs. On how I'm feeling at the time ---that kind of stuff." "But you said you love to do it." "Most of the time, that's for sure --- whenever. Sometimes it's the most unbelievable turn-on, especially when the guy writhes and squirms against my crotch and is completely out of control. I've had guys gasping and squealing with pain from what my legs are doing to their bellies while they shudder and quiver themselves to orgasms at the same time. I don't know what it is about some men, but there's a real aphrodisiac for a lot of them in feeling like they're on the edge of dying between my legs. That pain-pleasure mixup is a real stunner. "The first time I felt it happen, I was 15, and the boy was 16. I was already something of a 'jock' around school, and I hung out with a lot of the guys on the athletic teams. Jimmy was on the boys' wrestling team, and he was showing me some of the holds. He sat next to me and had me lock my legs around his stomach. Then he told me to squeeze him. At first, his stomach felt real firm and resilient, offering a lot of resistance to my squeezing. He told me I should straighten my legs as hard as I could against him, rather than just pressing him with my knees. I did what he told me, and he went down on his back in my scissors. I found that I could squeeze him much harder and with less effort than when we were sitting up. "After I squeezed him for maybe half a minute more, I felt his stomach cave in --- just turned to mush, no resistance at all --- and his guts started to heave and convulse between my thighs. His face was turning a bluish-purple color and he was gasping for breath. I got scared that I might really injure him, so I started to unwind my legs to let him go. He wouldn't let me. Instead, he grabbed my ankles and tried to make me re-lace them, begging me to keep scissoring him. "I saw then that he had pulled his wrestling singlet to one side and wasn't wearing a jock strap. He was naked below the waist, and he was beginning to ejaculate, his sperm spurting, then shooting up in the air like a geyser, soaking my legs and splattering his chest and face. I thought he was some sort of pervert, and I got scared that he might try to rape me or something. All I could figure to do was keep squeezing him until he either passed out or was too weak to go after me. I squeezed him until he was perfectly still --- unconscious, in fact. I unwrapped my legs and took off, leaving him lying there on the mat on the gym floor." "My God! What happened after that?" "It was weird --- he kept hounding me, begging me to wrestle with him again. I guess the word got out, too, because a lot of the other boys I knew suddenly decided they wanted to try to teach me how to wrestle. I let a few of them try it, and I found out that my heptathlon exercises had made my legs so strong and flexible that I could use them like an extra pair of arms to wrap around and grab a boy, or turn him over, or just hold him under control. Wrestling me was kind of like tangling with an octopus. I didn't do any hard squeezing, though, mainly because I was afraid of hurting a guy so he wouldn't be able to play on our school teams. That would have been a real bummer. "When I got a little older, I found out that Jimmy wasn't alone in what turned him on. What I thought made him a pervert was really pretty common stuff. Before I applied any pressure, most guys would get all hot and out of breath in seconds when I wrapped my legs around them, and a lot of them came in their shorts when we wrestled. I got so I could tell when this was happening, just by the way their movements would get kind of jerky; and their breathing would get an in-and-out gasping rhythm that would keep speeding up until they popped. I started to like the way I could turn them on, and I would purposely wind my legs or my feet into a guy's crotch and pressure him until he lost control and shot himself off. I never let on that I was doing this on purpose, though; it was always an 'accident' when it happened." "Are you doing this on purpose?" "Doing what?" "What you're doing now. You've been turning me on like a light switch, between showing off your body and letting me imagine what your legs could do to me. Just looking and listening to you has got me so hot that I need ice or a real cold shower to cool down --- either that or you could just make me another one of those 'accidents' you used to have --- but promise not to laugh at me when I spout." She laughed, turning toward me, and extended one long leg across my lap, her hard calf muscle pressing against my erection. She wiggled her foot, flexing and relaxing her leg muscles, watching my reaction. I was so hypnotized by what her leg was doing to me that I found myself involuntarily thrusting my hips --- almost like a dog in heat, my breathing rapidly speeding up until I was panting aloud. "Oh my. You really are turned on, aren't you. Are you out of control?" She lifted her leg off my lap, bringing me back to my senses. "No. I'm OK, I think." "No you're not. I've got an idea. We'll wrestle. I'll bet I can lock my legs around you and make you come in less than one minute. This will be a good test of your self-control and your grappling skills. Are you game?" "Sure. What do I have to lose?" "I'll tell you what you have to lose later. We'll play a few more games, and whoever gets the most points will be the winner. Take off your shoes, though. We don't want any unnecessary bruises." "Let me get this straight. All I have to do is stay out of your legs for a minute and I win? That's it." "You have to do that, and you have to keep from coming. Do you want to start on your feet or should we both be on our knees?" "The feet, for sure. At least I might be able to run away from you for a minute." "OK. Enough talk. Let's go." Both barefooted, we stood in semi-crouch positions facing each other. I could feel the cool thick grass under my feet. The ground was damp, fairly soft. I figured my best chance was to keep from tying up with her. I knew she was strong and quick. Once she got any sort of hold on me, she might be able to bring those legs into play enough to make me lose. I skipped back and forth in front of her, imagining myself like a bullfighter trying to stay out of reach of her arms, which were spread and coming at me like a pair of deadly horns. She slapped a hand out toward me, aiming toward my hip. I slapped her hand aside and pivoted away from her, thinking she would pause to review her strategy. This was my mistake. She already had a strategy, which included getting me to pivot so my back was to her. Before I could react at all, she had seized my ankle in a powerful handgrip and, pulling sharply, dumped me face first on the grass. I tried to crawl away, kicking to make her release her hold. I thought I had succeeded when I no longer felt her fingers holding my ankle. As soon as I started to rise, however, I felt both her arms encircle my hips. She tackled me from the rear, driving me down again, moving her weight up the back of my legs until I could feel her chest against my back, her head just below the back of my neck. Her arms now encircled my chest. I squoonched my knees up as closely as I could, and pressed my upper arms tightly against her circling arms, trying to close off any opening she might use as an access for her legs. She stood up then and lifted me by my stomach, draping my whole body across her strong arms, swinging me back and forth under and between her spread legs until she suddenly released her arms and dropped me to the grass. With lightning speed, she lashed one leg under me, drove her foot into my crotch and encircled my thigh, then hooked her instep behind the knee of her other leg, trapping my upper thigh in a figure-four scissors. Her calf was pressed tightly into my groin, and I could hear her giggle as she rhythmically flexed and relaxed the leathery muscle against my obvious erection. I shivered each time she applied the erotic pressure, my breathing accelerating the way she described for her other victims. "I don't have your body wrapped yet, Tommy, but you're going to come, right now. Big time. No accident." Saying this, she pressed her lips against the back of my neck. Opening her mouth to use her tongue, she began slowly licking along my jaw line, then up my cheek, then into my ear, applying excruciating caresses that made me tremble, then shudder involuntarily as she timed her tonguing to match the sinuous rippling of her calf muscle. "Come on, Tommy. Let's go, baby. Nan wants your juices. You better give them NOW!" With this last command, she really attacked my ear with her mouth, thrusting her tongue, licking and nipping, at the same time pumping my genitals with her calf muscle, holding, then releasing the pressure in rapidly increasing rhythm, making me grow so hard I thought my skin would tear. I was bucking helplessly as my body gave in to her sensuality, her femaleness overwhelming my will to resist, her constricting muscles pumping the orgasm out of me as I moaned with a combination of ecstasy and defeat. "That's 30 seconds, Tommy, and you've got nowhere to go." She was right of course. I was so disoriented from her sexual attack that I couldn't even locate what she was doing with her legs, much less try to block them. The next thing I knew, still lying face down, I felt her thighs clamp my stomach. I was trapped in a noose of steel cable, the various strands of the cable being the individually flexed muscles and tendons of her thighs, all barely padding the hammer-hard femurs that dug into my flesh like giant metal pincers. "My ankles are locked, Tommy, which means I have my legs all the way around you. Do you concede, or do I get to squeeze you into submission to make my point?" As she said this, she applied a quick jolting constriction with her thighs that made me grunt aloud. "Yeah. I concede." I gasped. "You win. I lose. What's next?" "Next, we go back to my place." * * * We were back in her house, in the cellar, where she had several wrestling mats set out in a spacious area. "OK. The first contest was really to test your horniness and your quickness. The next test is to see what kind of stamina you have after 3, 6 and 9 minutes of wrestling against my legs. I won't try to make you submit --- just drain your strength, if I can." "How do you propose to measure my stamina?" "I can't, exactly, but I can measure your strength, and how much you lose as the match goes on. I don't have fancy equipment, just an ordinary hand gripper that has a pound indicator to measure the strength of your grip. We'll start by measuring you fresh, then we'll measure again at 3, 6 and 9 minutes. My side of the contest is to reduce your grip strength by 50% or more at each measurement. If I do two times or more, I win. If I fail two times or more, you win." "OK. Let's measure." She handed me a black handled spring gripper attached to which was a pound indicator. I took it in my right hand and squeezed it hard, watching the meter go up until it reached 110 pounds. She watched carefully, and jotted down the reading on a piece of paper "Wow! You really do have a strong grip. I think you're the first guy I've done this with who had a starting grip of over 100 pounds. 'Must be from hanging on to that tennis racquet on week ends." "Yeah, sure." I replied, not knowing what to expect next. "How do we go about the wrestling?" "Well. This time we should just start the conventional way. I get the advantage position to start the first 3 minute period. OK?" "OK" I said, getting down on my hands and knees in the referee's starting position. She moved next to me on her knees, slightly behind me, draped one arm over my back, and, with her other hand, gripped my elbow. "Ready. Wrestle!" she barked, and I immediately felt her arm tense across my back. She reached under my chest with her other arm trying to encircle me in a kind of side bear hug. She locked her hands and drove into me, forcing me off balance to my side on the mat. She rolled me onto my stomach under her, keeping her arms locked around me. I tried to rise to my knees. She felt this and instantly whipped a long leg over my back and round my hips, hooking her foot into my crotch. "OK, Tom. This is step one in the stamina test. I won't hurt you, but I will drain your strength. We start with the stretcher scissors." With that, she drove her weight forward and lashed her other leg under me, interlacing her ankles to close me in a stretcher body scissors. Keeping me under her, she rolled forward, pressing her pelvis into my lower back, and lifted my hips with her legs, stretching my stomach. I struggled to get to my knees. She released her arms' hug and I felt her hands pressing down hard against the back of my head, flattening my face against the mat. She slammed my hips down under her, making the air whoosh out of me with a loud gasp, and flexed her thighs into my sides compressing my torso to keep me from drawing a full breath. While I was wearing myself down with futile efforts to break free, she repeated this slamming and squeezing maneuver about a dozen times. I was not in great pain, but I felt myself running out of breath and gasping to replenish the oxygen she was pounding out of me. She heard my gasping, and changed her approach to one of slow attrition, pressing her weight against my upper back and lifting with her legs, just enough to keep me bearing all her weight on my rib cage, restricting my breathing. She held me like this for what felt like a very long time, but was probably less than a minute and a half. "Two minutes 45 seconds, Tom. Here, take the gripper and see how hard you can squeeze." I grabbed the small tool and closed my hand powerfully around it, pressing and watching the needle move from 40 to 45, 46. 48, 50, 52 --- and then I could squeeze no more. I was amazed at how much she had already drained me. I didn't really feel exhausted, but the numbers were clear --- she had reduced my grip strength by more than half in 3 minutes of applying skillful pressure. Staying on top of me, she commented: "Nice try, but you can't quite make the 55 pounds you need, can you, Tom. That's one for me. I took a little more out of you than I wanted --- now I have to get your grip below 26 pounds, if I'm to win round two." "Do I get a chance to get a rest first?" I asked. "No way. The point of this is not to let you recuperate but to test your stamina. We're now entering the figure-four stage. This is one of my favorites." With that, she unlocked her ankles and folded one long leg under me, her calf pressing against my stomach, just above my navel. She kept me straddled between her thighs, but straightened her other leg out along my side. I felt her reach her hand to grab the foot of her bent leg and pull to hook it behind the knee of her opposite leg. She completed the hook, closing the grip to encircle my body in a figure-four body scissors, a grip which had been outlawed for some time because it was used primarily to exhaust or torture an opponent, not to effect a pin. "You know this hold, Tom? I really love it. It's easy to apply pressure, and I can drain a guy with practically no wear on my leg muscles. Now that I've stretched you in the stretcher scissors, and with my legs in this kind of hard shape, your strength won't last long in my figure-four. Feel." With that, she flexed her calf muscle into my stomach and rolled her weight forward, lifting my hips as she arched her back powerfully. The hold was applied to perfection, all the weight of her body and the pressure of her calf concentrated in one narrow band crushing my stomach, grinding my internal organs between the leather-hard stone of her calf muscle and the rigid unyielding bone of her loins, while her arched back stretched my abdominal muscles to prevent their flexing to resist. Then she pounded me down to the mat under her, her pelvis hammering my lower back and jolting my stomach against her calf muscle in a series of blows that felt the way body punches must feel for a boxer being smashed by an opposing heavyweight. Resting on me, she sat back and coiled her legs tighter, using her thigh muscles to compress my sides, her adductors easily overwhelming what was left of my mangled stomach. I heard myself gasping, moaning involuntarily from the pain of it, my internal organs seeming to convulse, nausea and dizziness attacking me at once. She rolled forward again, stretching me in the rack of the hold, squeezing the breath out of me, holding the position. My gasping subsided, and my body went still. She repeated this maneuver several times, until everything around me went silent. I heard nothing. The room dimmed and went dark. I felt her thrust the hand gripper into the open palm of my right hand, felt her bend my fingers around to grasp it, heard her quiet command. "Squeeze your grip, Tom, as hard as you can." Then heard her bark, loudly "NOW!" Startled, I reflexively squeezed my hand against the contraption, felt no give at all, as if the springs had been welded in place. Laughing now, she taunted: "Wow! Tom, five whole pounds of pressure! You needed 26 pounds to take this round. You're weak as a baby. My figure-four really finished you off. Lie still now and I'll unwrap my legs and let you recover. "Don't try to get up yet. You'll probably feel dizzy if you do. When I squeeze a guy in my scissors for any length of time, I wipe out his equilibrium for a while, and you could fall down if you try to walk." As soon as she uncoiled her legs, I began to cough uncontrollably. My stomach heaved and churned, bringing its contents up into my throat. I was on the verge of vomiting and I tried to scramble to my feet to make it to the bathroom. My legs went out from under me, and I fell forward, flat on my chest. "I told you not to try to walk, Tommy. You're still dizzy; your legs haven't had a normal blood supply for the past ten minutes, and they're stiff as a board. You've got the heaves from the pounding I gave your internal organs, and I know you need to vomit. Lie there and try to hold it, and I'll get you a bowl to puke in. The coughing will pass pretty quickly. It's a reflex from having a sudden rush of air into your throat after having everything working so hard to suck in air when I was restricting your breathing." I was stunned by her familiarity with the effects of her scissors; as if she had done this many times before, knowing exactly the damage she inflicted on each victim. She left the room for a moment, then returned with a large stainless steel bowl. She helped me get to my knees, then held the bowl under my chin while I spewed out the vomit, my stomach still writhing. Even that effort was beyond the limit of my strength, and I again collapsed flat to the mat. "OK, Tom. That second squeeze gave me the stamina game. I'll give you a 30- minute rest before we get into the next games. You could use a longer rest, I know, but we do need to finish some time." She left the room again, came back with an afghan that she threw over me, then slipped a small pillow under my head. I fell asleep instantly. I awoke in the dark. My body ached all over, as if I had been in a highway crash. My neck was stiff, and every muscle felt sprained. My stomach muscles burned to the touch. My ribs shot pain when I breathed, and I could feel the sore spots on my stomach wall where her calf muscle had pounded me in her figure-four scissors. When I tried to change my body position, I moaned with the effort and the pain. * * * I must have nodded off again. In the darkness, I felt a rustling under the afghan, and I could smell her next to me. Lying on her side facing me, she coiled a sinewy arm around my head, then gently pulled my face next to hers. She gently thrust her lower leg under me, then slid her top leg across my upper stomach. She locked her ankles and slowly constricted, tighter, ever tighter, gradual and almost painless, squeezing me against her loins, sucking me into the darkness... * * * This is a dream I had ... or not a dream...