(C) Diana the Valkyrie, 1996. Email me at email@example.com
First, let me explain that this is fiction. A story by Diana. It didn't actually happen, I made it all up. I wouldn't do a thing like this, but it's one of my fantasies, especially when someone is nasty to me. If any of this reminds you of another story, I acknowledge the inspiration of Sam Rabbit and his friend Carol.
If sex and violence isn't you, then don't read it. Also, if you're a minor don't read it. Click on the picture for a bigger version.
It was a lovely summer evening, and I took a bottle of fine wine, sandwiches and Lord of the Rings down to the park. I sat on the grass, sipped the wine, and read and read and read. Tolkien is so entrancing, his imagery so vivid. I didn't realise how late it was getting until I couldn't read the words on the page - I looked up, and dusk was falling.
You know that lovely time, just after sunset, when it isn't light and it isn't dark? Some people call it twilight, but I prefer gloaming. It's the time when the Orcs and Goblins start to come out, and the Night Riders saddle their horses, and all good children should be safe at home. I put my book and things in my bag, and set off home, walking across the dark green grass.
I saw someone walking towards me from about two o'clock, but I didn't think anything of it until he came right up to me, and said "Hello, darling. Out for a bit of a walk then?" I ignored him and walked on, one doesn't speak to strange men in the park. But he followed me, and grabbed me from behind, turning me to face him. "Hey, I was talking to you." Then he reached out, and grabbed hold of my blouse and pulled, tearing it open. I was in a state of shock - that sort of thing doesn't happen, not here, not now. Does it? Yes, apparently it does.
He took my wrists in his hands, and pulled me towards him, and it was obvious that his intentions were not good. I came out of shock, and started reacting. I brought my hands together, and gripped his left wrist in my right hand, his right wrist in my left. Then I pulled my hands apart, and as I did, it broke his grip on my wrists, so that I was holding him, instead of the other way around.
He wasn't expecting that; I think I was supposed to tamely submit, or scream, or something. But there wasn't any point in screaming, the park was deserted, and anyway the rush of adrenaline had left me short of breath. He wasn't expecting me to fight back, and he certainly wasn't expecting me to squeeze his wrists so hard that my fingers were hurting his arms.
I suppose I'd better explain, in case this gets separated from the rest of the thread. Gran was a famous strong woman, active mostly in the fifties. She didn't look strong, but she could do some tremendous feats. She's my grandmother, and her capabilities skipped a generation and emerged again in me. One of the things she could do, and I can too, is break six inch nails with my fingers.
I do that a lot, in private, where no-one can see me. It gives me such a feeling of power, of inner strength. The first time I did it, it was really difficult, I had to persist to get anywhere. But after I'd been doing it for a year, I found it got easier, and now I can do it and make it look not too difficult. I don't show people, except Gran, but it looks like I'm being quite gentle with the iron nail, and it curves under the pressure from my fingers, then I straighten it, bend it, and so on, until I feel it weaken and soften, and then I can finish it off with just my thumb and forefinger.
I love breaking six inch nails. I buy them by the kilo; no-one ever asks me what I want them for. If they did, I'd say that I need them for a project. And, because I love to break iron nails, and because I do so many, the exercise has made my hands very strong. You can't really see it on me unless you know what you're looking for, because my hands are only a bit bigger than you'd expect. The pad of my thumb is thicker than other people's, but you wouldn't be likely to notice. Most of the muscles for your fingers are in your forearm, where they don't show very much. My forearms aren't at all like Popeye (although I love spinach, raw and fresh, and I hate it cooked to a slimy mess), maybe a bit wider than you'd expect, especially a couple of inches below the elbow, but who looks at a girl's forearms? The only way you might notice, is if you spotted the fact that my hands are harder than you'd expect, and no-one ever realises. When people shake hands with a girl, they just hold her fingers, they don't grip like men do. No-one else I know can break iron nails (except Gran, of course), not just because they don't have the strength in their fingers, you also need to know the technique. Here's how to do it, Gran taught me.
First, you wrap them in paper, which is flexible, so it doesn't make them harder to bend, but it protects your skin from the sharp ends; you use several turns of paper, and make it really thick. Second, when you straighten them, don't even try to use your thumb and fingers, because it's much harder than bending them. Well, you can after you've practised for a while and strengthened your hands, but don't try it at first. You take one end of the nail in each hand, and push the bent middle down on your thigh (you have to tense your leg to get the thigh muscle hard enough). There's this specially hard bit running down the top of your thigh, you use that. That straightens it, not completely, but enough so that you can bend it again between your two hands. And you keep doing that, bend and straighten, bend and straighten, as fast as you can. You do it fast, so that the middle of the nail heats up from the bending. The wrapping of paper helps here as well, acting as insulation so it heats up faster, and as it gets hotter, it gets easier, so you start bending and straightening it just with your hands, and now the paper protects your hands from the heat (they get quite hot!) until suddenly the nail breaks, and then you make sure it cools down before you give it to anyone. Most people don't realise just how important the paper is. When you pass the nails round the audience, you don't give them the paper. Some men can put a slight bit of a dent in the nail, but that won't matter, because they can never work out how to break them.
So the same fingers that can break six inch nails, were now gripping his wrist, squeezing and constricting as hard as I could. I've never done that before, not on a person, but I was fighting for my life, I thought, so I didn't hold back at all, I used all my strength. And I dug my fingers into the soft place in the front of his wrists, you won't believe how much that hurts unless you try it on yourself. But try it gently, carefully! He was trying to get free of my hands, but I was holding on too tightly. I heard him gasp, and I knew I was hurting him, and then he kicked me in the shins. What a dirty rat.
That was extremely painful, he was wearing hard shoes. All I had on was trainers, so kicking back wasn't going to accomplish much. I'm not used to fighting, I expect there's a skill to it, but like all skills, it has to be learned, and they don't teach you street-fighting at the school I went to. So my response was more instinctive than thought-out. I brought my hands together again, let go of his left wrist, and grabbed his right hand in mine.
Hands are a lot softer than wrists. Wrists have huge great bones in them, and you can't do much to them, except at the front. Hands, though, are full of fragile little bones, with delicate joints and tender little muscles and slender, soft tendons. I gripped his right hand in mine as hard as I could, then slid my left hand down to help increase the pressure, so I could use both my hands on one of his. There isn't a pickle jar that can resist my grip, and I leave leaky taps stuck fast when I turn them off. His hand yielded under the pressure of my two hands; I could feel it collapse and soften, and the little bones inside bent and distorted. I could feel the bones sliding over each other, I could feel the muscles give way and the tendons tear. I don't think I broke any bones, I didn't hear a crack. Maybe hand-bones don't make any noise when they break? I don't know. But I knew he was in a lot of pain from the noises he was making.
I twisted downwards, so that his wrist bent. I twisted more, and either his wrist would break, or he'd have to move his arm down. He followed his arm down, until he was kneeling at my feet. Now he couldn't kick me any more, but he still had a free hand. He punched me once in the belly with his left hand, and that hurt, it made me gasp a bit. So I let go of his other hand with one of mine, and got hold of his left hand in mine as he tried to punch me again.
I kept hold of his softened right hand in my left, hand in hand, and continued to squeeze his weakened hand while the tiny bones moved and creaked under the pressure - there wasn't any resistance. And now I held his left hand in my right hand, and started to apply pressure on that, too. I held his hands as he knelt down in front of me, looking up at my face. I heard his moan of pain, and I saw the look on his face, and I knew that he was getting what he deserved. I also started to feel very turned-on by my dominance over him, girls don't usually get a chance to be like this. Kneeling as he was, his head was halfway up my naked chest, naked because his initial attack had torn my bra off and left my blouse hanging open, and I knew what I wanted from him. I wasn't scared of him any more. He just didn't look very scary now, kneeling in front of me with his face contorted in a grimace of pain, and his hands turning to mush in my grasp. I felt aroused, and confident, and I thought I might as well use him the way he had intended to use me. "Lick my nipples" I ordered. "Carefully, or..." and I gave his tormented right hand a burst of pressure. I pulled his hands out to the side, so he could get closer, and he started to lick. What else could he do?
I must say, he did it very well, and if he started to flag, I'd remind him that I still had his right hand hostage. While he licked, I explained to him that the hands gripping his could break six inch nails, not just bend them, actually break them, and offered to demonstrate to him if he wanted. I told him that I could easily apply twice as much force as I was (quite true, actually, I'd had to ease up because his hands felt like squishy bean bags). I told him that I could break the little bones in his hand if I wanted to, and that if I did, he'd never be able to use them fully again. I kept him in abject fear of my hands and what they could do to him, and he could feel the constant pain as a reminder. In fact, as time passed, I could feel his hands softening and yielding even more to the steady pressure I kept on them. The flesh of his hands just gave up trying to resist my grip. I think I must have done something to the muscles inside his hands, or the tendons, or something.
The cool evening air blew over my breasts, and as the moisture from his tongue evaporated, the cooling effect on my nipples excited me more. Meanwhile, his tongue was busy on my other nipple; every so often, I told him to change sides, reinforcing his obedience with a squeeze on his trapped hands. It felt lovely, partly because of the sensations on my body, partly because of the way I had this big strong man submitting to my desires. And, naturally, I started to get aroused. Very aroused. I could feel that lovely squirmy feeling inside me, and I wanted more.
So, still holding his hands in mine, I walked towards him, and pushed him over, making him fall on his back. Then I sat down on his legs, and pulled his poor, abused hands towards me, pulling his body upright. Then I put my legs round his waist, and locked my ankles together.
I'd never done this before. I knew that my legs were strong, of course they are, most women's legs are their strongest muscles. But I've never tried to do anything clever with them. Gran never did anything that wasn't ladylike, and cracking coconuts between your thighs is definitely unladylike. So I don't know if I can. But I knew that I could give his waist a lot of grief, I just wasn't sure how much, and whether I'd have to use my full leg power. I held on to his hands for a bit for safety, I didn't want him using them to punch me again. It hadn't hurt that much, but I didn't want to give him a chance to repeat the punch.
So there we sat together, like lovers facing each other in the dark, in the park, on the grass. Except we weren't lovers, we were combatants, although it was rather one-sided by now. He'd tried to attack me, rape me probably. I felt no sympathy for this scum. I kept my ankles locked together, and tried to straighten my legs. All that stopped me from doing so, was his soft waist, trapped between them. And it was soft, I could feel it give as I brought my thighs together and straightened my legs.
At first, he whimpered softly. Then he screamed, the way I was supposed to scream when he attacked me, but the park was deserted, no-one would come to his rescue, the way no-one would have come to help me. He screamed a bit more, but then he was having trouble breathing as I pulled his body forward by pulling on his tender bruised hands. And all the time my legs were squeezing, squeezing, crushing the air out of his body and replacing it with fire. I felt a crack, then another; I think it was his ribs going. I eased up, not wanting to do too much damage too quickly. He stopped screaming soon, and went back to whimpering, and then he even stopped that. His eyes closed, and I wondered if I'd gone too far. I relaxed my legs a little, and I could feel him breathing, his lungs sucking in the air he needed so badly. For a while, I played with him by using my legs to inflict pain on his body, and pulling him towards me so that with the combination of his diaphragm under compression, and the vice of my thighs round his waist, he couldn't breathe. After I heard that cracking noise, it got a lot easier to give him pain, I scarcely needed to use any force. Just a friendly leg- squeeze was enough. I must have broken something, I suppose.
At some time during this stage, I let go of his hands. I just didn't feel that I needed to hold him still any more. My legs could do everything I needed, and I leaned back on my hands and enjoyed the view of a sobbing man in terrible pain from my long, strong legs.
But the combination of his supine position, his submissive attitude, and the big thing between my legs turned me on again, got me sexually aroused. I gave him a little squeeze with my thighs, to get his attention, and started talking to him. "What's your name, sweetheart?" "Harold" Harold the horrible, I thought. Great name. Reminds me of Harry. "I want you to do something for me, Harold." I gave him another little squeeze; my legs had bruised and tenderised his waist so much by now, that I didn't have to try very hard to get a gasp of pain from him. "I want you to bring me off, using your hands, both hands, on my breasts sweetheart."
He was lying on his back, not quite horizontal, because my legs didn't allow that. He struggled to sit up, wincing with pain as his cracked ribs and bruised sides told him about their unhappiness.
I saw his struggle to sit up, and saw I'd have to give him a helping hand. "Give me your hand, sweetheart" I said. He lay there with his hands by his sides, looking at me, obviously reluctant to put his hand in mine again. So I persuaded him a little, bringing my legs together compressing his body again, and shaking him like a terrier shakes a rat.
By now, it only needed a little pressure to make him wince in pain; I gave him more than a little, and repeated "Your hand, sweetheart, give me your hand." He still lay there unmoving, his hands obviously reluctant to put themselves back in mine. I had to make the alternative worse, so I gripped a bit harder with my legs, held out my hands, and said "I won't ask you a third time." His throat sang a formless groan, and he raised both his hands towards me. I took his wrists in mine, roughly, and pulled him up so he faced me, like two lovers. Then I released his wrists and gripped one of his shoulders, leaning back on my other hand, and inclining my head back. My hold on his shoulder helped him stay upright, and he had both hands free to do whatever he wanted to my vulnerable neck and breasts.
Except that I still had my legs round him, and he knew that he'd better behave. I gripped him lightly between my thighs, but with the occasional twitch to remind him of the power that I could use to inflict more pain and damage on his body. "Touch me, feel me, stroke me, sweetheart. And make it good, do the best you can, or ..." and I gave him a reminder that my legs controlled his body completely. He grunted in pain, then set to work.
There's a very big difference between a man feeling me up without my consent, and the same man doing the same things under my control. When I get groped on the tube, I hate it. But the touch of the hands I'd so badly injured was very erotic on my breasts, and he soon learned from the noises that I made, what pleased me most. And, if he paused, or didn't seem to be trying hard enough, I'd open my eyes, frown at him, and clench my legs together, and he'd get fresh energy from somewhere.
Foreplay is so important, especially to a woman. Men seem to want to get the whole thing over as quickly as possible, I find; I want to linger over it, draw it out, make it last. The longer the foreplay, the bigger the subsequent orgasm. His hands were bringing electric thrills to my breasts, and my nipples, and my whole body glowed. I began to feel attracted to him, until I realised the absurdity of falling in love with a random rapist in the park.
But I felt so warm towards him, I wanted to kiss him. I brought my arm up from the grass, up the side of his body where my legs had tenderised the meat, up to under his shoulder. My fingers reached round his back, my thumb nestled in his armpit. I brought my other hand into the same position, and pulled us close together. Sitting on his legs, my head was slightly above his, so I looked down at him as we kissed. For a moment, I felt tender and affectionate, maybe he wasn't so bad after all, and then he tried to push his tongue into my mouth.
It tasted vile, bitter and sour. It tasted of tobacco, and I could smell the stale beer on his breath. He was totally repulsive, and I wanted him out of there. So I dug my thumbs in, as hard as I could.
His body jerked like someone had put a thousand volts through it, and his head flew back. He screamed as my hard thumbs burrowed deep into the soft flesh under his arms, crushing the main nerves that conduct the brain's messages to the hands and arms. His arms flapped uselessly by his side with the burning pain that my thumbs were causing, and I felt that I could do anything I wanted to him now.
I let my thumbs release the awful pressure on his underarms, and he stopped jerking spasmodically and started to cry. "Please, no more, please leave me alone." I wondered how many women had made the same plea to him, and whether he'd taken any notice, or whether he'd just smiled and continued to rape them. The thought made me angry, so his begging had the opposite of the desired effect; I want to hurt this bastard, and hurt him bad, like he's hurt so many women before me. I dug my thumbs in again, sending white fire into his brain. After a few moments, I released him from his agony, to let him recover a bit, so that he could understand what I was doing to him, and so that I could taunt him. "What's the matter, is the little girl hurting the big tough man? Do you want to give up?" "Yes, I give up, please, I'll do whatever you want." "I'm not finished with you yet, there's lots more we can do together. Tell me, how many women have you attacked?" "I don't know, please, I can't think, please stop hurting me." I eased up for a moment, then dug my thumbs in twice as hard. "How many women have you attacked? Tell me!" He knew he was on the horns of a dilemma. If he kept silent, I'd go on tormenting him, if he confessed, I'd punish him. He tried to work out what to say, what lies to tell me. I squeezed his cracked ribs again, dug my thumbs in some more, and said "I can keep this up for ever, it's no effort now you're so weakened. I'm going to count to two, then you'll tell me how many women you've attacked, or I'll just keep making the damage worse until you permanently lose the use of your arms. One, ..." "I'll tell you, I'll tell you. Fourteen." "Fourteen women?" He nodded. "Rape?" He nodded again, silently waiting for his punishment. But how do you discipline a multiple rapist? What could be a fitting penalty? I guessed he'd get a life sentence if it came to court, but there was no way that I could prove anything.
The main purpose of punishment is to stop the offender from committing crime in future. All I really wanted to do was to stop him from raping any woman from now on. And I had the means to do this. All I needed to do was inflict enough physical pain to make him afraid of women for ever, and make him afraid of meeting anyone like me again. I'm not big, and I'm not particularly muscular. But my hands are very strong, from all the six inch nails I've broken. Looking at me, you can't tell. And I explained that to him. "You've been lucky so far, you've never met a woman like me. But now you know, there are women who can crush you with their hands, who can inflict terrible pain with just their fingers and thumbs, who can break your ribs with their legs." I demonstrated to him as I talked, showing him how helpless he was in my hands, how I could hurt him as much and as often as I wanted to. "And you can't tell just by looking. You've been lucky so far, never encountering someone like me. But your luck's run out today, Harold. Today, you met a woman who can destroy you with just the grip of her hands."
I continued this for some time, alternately using my thumbs to inflict dreadful pain under his arms, and then using my legs to move the centre of pain to his body. After some minutes, he was incoherent, and I had to stop to let him get his wits back. As I waited, I explained to him.
"The next time you think about raping a woman, remember this" and I dug my thumbs in again. "Remember the time that a woman gave you the worst experience of your life" and I gripped with my legs. "Remember how I damaged your hands." He couldn't move his arms at all now, I'd damaged his nerves so much. "Remember how it felt to have a woman's legs round you" and I squeezed, hard. "Remember what a woman's fingers can do" and I thrust my thumbs hard into the delicate mass of nerves, blood vessels and tendons that are normally protected by the mass of the arm. "Next time you see an attractive girl, remember this" and I crushed with my legs at the same time as I dug my thumbs in hard, and then I held him like that, shaking him a bit to increase the effect. He whimpered softly as I hurt him. After a little while, he fainted, so I released him.
As he lay unconscious, I stripped him naked, putting his clothes away in my bag, except for his jacket, which I put on, it was getting a little chilly. Then I sat next to him and looked at him, thinking about what I'd already done and what I planned to do. By the time he came to, I had my knickers off and I was all ready.
I put my fingers on the sides of his throat. He already knew what my hands felt like under his arms, and he shook with fear at what he thought would come next. His arms lay limp and useless by his sides, I'd done too much damage to the controlling nerves for him to be able to use them for a long time. He couldn't stop me from doing whatever damage I felt like inflicting to his soft, defenceless neck. He must have been expecting to be strangled, or choked. But he was wrong. I spoke to him, softly. "You're going to do exactly what I tell you, aren't you sweetheart?" "Yes" he whispered submissively. "And I won't have to tell you twice, will I?" He shook his head, not taking his eyes off mine. "Good", I said, pushing in gently with my thumbs. He looked gratifyingly terrified, and moaned with fear, so I pushed a little harder. "Obedience is so important, isn't it sweetheart?" He nodded, agreeing as hard as he could. I pushed my thumbs in harder. "You don't want me to have to punish you, do you?" "No, please, I'll do whatever you want, please don't hurt me any more."
I lay down prone on his naked body, my head pillowed by his large belly, and I wriggled myself up until my crutch was just over his mouth. "Lift your head", and I used my thighs to grip his head and force it into my pussy. I tensed my thighs a couple of times, to show him that his skull was now in a place of great danger, then I slid my hands down his side so that my finger tips rested in his armpits. "I can split your skull open with my thighs", I said, and I'm sure he believed me. I could tell from the way that he tensed, that he remembered what my thumbs had done to his armpits, and what my legs had done to his waist. "My fingers are strong too, strong enough to break six inch nails, strong enough to inflict plenty of pain" and I rested them lightly on the place that my thumbs had mangled so thoroughly earlier.
"You know what to do - do it" I ordered, reinforcing the command with a squeeze of my legs and my fingers digging in to his underarms. There was plenty of pain left; I could feel his body twitch and spasm each time I pressed in with my fingers.
Yes, he knew what to do. His tongue was heaven on my genitals, absolute heaven. Far, far better than anything I've ever had before. I don't know if it was the feeling of control that I had, or whether he really was trying harder to please me than anyone ever had. Men are usually so selfish about sex; Harold was being as giving as he could be. And he did whatever I asked him to, did it instantly, without argument, without discussion. When he was especially good, I rewarded him by reducing the pressure from my fingers. When he got tired, I reminded him of the penalties that I could inflict with my fingers and my legs. And in his weakened state, it was so easy, he had no resistance left.
The end result was inevitable, although I delayed it as long as I could. Eventually, I came to orgasm. I had him so well trained, he didn't stop even as I came, he carried on licking and sucking, extending my orgasm long past anything I'd ever had before, blasting my brain with ecstasy. Every time I thought it was over, his tongue brought another pulse of pleasure through my body. But eventually, I was completely spent, and I told him to stop.
I lay on him for a while, getting my strength back. Then rolled off him and sat up. I sat back on my heels and watched him as he lay there, his eyes closed with exhaustion, having given me the greatest sexual experience of my life. I wanted to reward him somehow, to give him something to remember me by. I thought about it as I watched him lying there, my sweet little rapist. His eyes fluttered open, and he watched me watching him. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. "I've got a present for you", I said, smiling. I saw, for the first time since we'd met, an erection. That's one of the most endearing things about men, they can never hide how they truly feel. After all I'd done, he still found me sexually attractive.
So I sat on his chest again, facing away from him, and I took his elbows in my hands, my fingers on the inside, my thumbs on the outside. You know the exquisite agony when you bang your elbow, hitting your funnybone? That's actually a nerve responding to the impact. I moved my thumbs over his elbow until I found that nerve, his reactions telling me when I'd found it.
Then I held his elbows in my hands, pressing my thumb down on his funnybone and digging my fingers into the soft vulnerable flesh of the crook of his elbow. He screamed, and his body bucked, but he was weakened so much by the damage my legs had done, he couldn't shake me off. I held on to his elbows, squeezing them alternately, so that one could be given time to recover while the other one got the treatment. It felt great; without much effort I could make him feel like his arms were on fire, but without too much danger of him escaping into unconsciousness. As I tortured his elbows, I was surprised to see that his erection continued, even got harder and stiffer. He moaned and groaned, and I began to wonder if he hadn't gotten confused about what I was doing to him. I could see a spot of moisture at the tip of his penis, and his body started to buck again, threatening to dislodge me from my perch on his chest. So I twined my legs round his waist again, to secure my position, and since I had his body in the right place, I added a crushing squeeze from my legs to the pain that my hands were giving his elbows.
It had a most surprising and climactic effect! Semen spurted from his cock as he climaxed. It rose a few inches into the air before falling back onto his belly, making a disgusting slimy mess. I was revolted by the smell and by his foul body, I almost vomited onto him. But I managed to keep my self-control long enough to bear down on his body and elbows with all the force I could muster. He passed out again.
I stood up, and straightened my clothes. I brushed my hair as best I could in the dark and picked up my bag. I looked down at my sweet little naked rapist, lying on his back, his arms paralysed and useless, his eyes closed, unconscious. Getting home without any clothes would be another interesting experience for him. I thought that women would be a little safer as a result of tonight, he would be unlikely to attack a random woman in future. "Goodnight, sweetheart" I murmured to him, and I turned and left for home, bath, cocoa and bed.
Diana the Valkyrie
Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org