Joan and David By Diana the Valkyrie Joan sat quietly, watching TV. Her hands clenched and unclenched restlessly, wanting something to grip, something to crush, something to kill. Her long, strong fingers curled and flexed, the hard powerful thumbs wrapping over them. Her body began to get aroused, thinking about possibilities. But not now, not tonight. She stood up, moved to the kitchen. She opened a can of Pepsi, cut a piece of cheese, washed an apple, then went back to the TV. They were showing a rerun of the "Boston Strangler", and Tony Curtis looked so, so ... her hands ached with her need. So squeezable. So adorably squeezable. And the Strangler himself, such a complex individual, so strange, so driven. Yet she could sympathise with this serial killer of thirteen women. And he wasn't insane, at least that's what the jury decided. Just ... different. And it was a difference that Joan could relate to; there was nothing, absolutely nothing in the world that compared to the sensation of having your hands round a man's throat, slowly, slowly squeezing the life out of him, watching his eyes as the realisation that the woman who was fucking him was also killing him and that there was nothing he could do to stop her. Then the death- struggles, the fight for air that would never again reach his lungs, and the final orgasm and relaxation of death. She looked down at her hands. The can of Pepsi was almost flattened in her right hand, the apple she'd been holding was crushed and broken, the juice soaking her skirt, and the pulp feeling soft and mushy in her grip. She closed her eyes, and took control of herself again. "Not now, not now." she thought. "But soon", she whispered. "Again. Soon." Next day, Joan dressed in her office clothes, and took the subway to the place where she worked as a legal typist. They were very strict about dress code here, long skirts and high-necked blouses; shirts and ties for the men, even in the worst heat. You could barely see their Adam's Apple, and rarely that soft hollow just below there that she loved so much, the hollow that was almost designed to be invaded by a woman's thumbs. The law firm was old, traditional, very conservative. They found it difficult to get typists, because they insisted on using the old mechanical Remingtons; every keystroke needed at hard pushing action. The new electric typewriters were so much easier, you only had to touch the keys and they responded, a bit like a man's cock. But the manual Remington, that needed firm strength to operate, just like a man's neck. Joan liked it here. They paid well, because it was difficult these days to find typists willing to develop and use the finger strength that the Remingtons needed. But Joan loved having strong hands, hands that could crush a man's trachea in spite of his struggles to survive. Using the Remington helped improve her hand power, and the other exercises she did, meant that using the Remington was no difficulty for her. But nothing compared with the ultimate exercise, the exercise of life-and- death power that was more than just a hooby, it was the defining moment of Joan's existence. Here came Henry, one of the senior partners. Senior in age too, he had to be well over the retirement age. He dropped a handwritten document on her desk. "Six copies please Joan, and I'm afraid it's a bit of an emergency, and rather important. Sorry I couldn't give you more warning, but when can you do it by?" Joan smiled up at him, his neck thin and scrawny. She wondered if he was feeble enough for her to strangle him one-handed - she shook off the day-dream and said "This afternoon, Mr Coverton." He smiled. "I don't know how you do it, you're an angel." She smiled back at him, thinking about how she could dig her thumb into his Adam's Apple and get her fingers round the back of his neck in an unbreakable hold, and still have a hand free to finger his cock into his last erection. "No problem, sir." She took a fresh sheet of linen-weave paper, and put a sheet of Trucopy carbon paper on top. She added another sheet, and more carbon, until she had a six-layer sandwich, then she rolled it into the Remington. To type through so many pages needed powerful keystrokes. You don't punch the keys, you push them, accelerating them through their travel, levering the letter-rod up and over so that it struck the paper heavily enough to leave an impression through all that paper, down to the bottom. A photocopier would have been easier, but the law firm believed that copied documents could not be legally binding, because of the possibilities of forgery. So everything had to be an original. No-one else there could make six copies at once. Usually, the others made one top and one carbon; when they tried a second carbon, the impressions were too faint. But Joan's strong hands could drive the keys hard and sure, her Remington sounding like a Gatling gun as she worked. And now David walked up. "Stop what you're doing, I need this done at once." She glanced up, continuing to type. "I said, I need this NOW!" She stopped typing, and rested her elbows on the desk, her fingers interlacing with each other, making a chin-rest. She looked up at him. "Mr Coverton asked me to type this for him, he's expecting it this afternoon. If I interrupt it, he won't get it till tomorrow." David was an selfish and arrogant bastard, nothing else mattered except his cases. Joan had had problems with him before, but up till now, she'd always meekly done as he commanded. But now, the thought of Henry's soft, delicate neck still in her mind, and the possibility of a one-handed strangle still occupied her imagination. "I don't give a ... I don't care what Coverton told you, I'm the boss around here, and when I say jump, you jump. Or else. Understand me?" Joan looked up at him. He was getting angry, his face turning red. She loved seeing a man's face turn red; then purple, and finally blue as her fingers crushed the life from his throat. She thought about how pleasant it would be to have her hands round David's throat, his eyes bulging with pain, his lungs desperate for air. She felt a familiar stirring, deep inside her. "OK, I'll just finish this, and then ..." and then he interrupted, with a shout. "Like fuck you will. OK, bitch, you've been asking for this. Into my office, NOW!!!" He stamped away, and Joan sat for a moment, trying to unclench her fists. This sounded bad. She looked round the office, but everyone else was very busily typing, not looking in her direction. Very much not looking. She felt like she'd suddenly become a non-person, and guessed that she was about to suddenly become an unemployed person. She stood up and brushed her hair, tidying it into a bunch with a ribbon. She dabbed a little perfume onto her wrists and neck, and then, ready to face the Wrath of David, she marched to his office. She knocked. "COME!" he bellowed. She opened the door and entered, then turned to close it and switch on the "In conference" light that would keep them from being interrupted. She walked towards his desk, and as she did, he began. "You're a stuck-up insolent bitch, and you're going to learn a lesson. Come here." She stepped around the desk. His trousers were opened, his dick hanging down. Quite a nice one, she thought. "Suck my dick" he ordered. Joan smiled to herself - this wasn't in her Job Description. He really was making what was about to happen a very attractive proposition. She walked towards him, passing behind his executive chair and then, standing behing his chair, her hands moved gently forward, sliding over his neck, just under his clean-shaven chin. "I've always wanted to do this to you" she said, dreamily. "Come on, bitch, get a grip." "Oh, I will, I will." Her hands touched the soft skin of his throat, gently, caressingly. Her thumbs crooked round the back of his neck, the tips of her fingers sliding into the hollow of his throat. "Oh lover, lover, you don't know how much I've wanted this, how often I've dreamed about you." He tried to turn to look at her, but she was pressed against the back of the chair, and it wouldn't swivel. She kissed his ears, first one then the other, and her soft tongue licked his earlobe. He moaned slightly. "Hurry up, quickly". She smiled again, and sighed. "Yes, darling, I will." Her thumbs pressed hard into the back of his neck, giving her the purchase that her long, strong fingers needed to dig deep into his throat. He tried to shout, but no noise could come out, his windpipe was too compressed by the pressure of her fingers. And now her fingers moved, inwards and down, against his larynx. She squeezed harder, and felt something give way. "There, darling. Now we don't have to worry about you screaming." She held him tight; he was a big man, and he was struggling for his life. But sitting in the swivel chair, he couldn't get any leverage, and flailing his arms around didn't help at all. Then he tried to pull her hands off his neck, and she laughed. "Yes, go on, fight me. I want to feel you struggling." It was like trying to open a steel clamp, his big soft hands scrabbling against her small hard hands crushing his neck, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. She could feel him trying to scream, she could feel his lungs trying to shout for help. So she relaxed her grip a little, just enough to let the air out. Then, as he tried to breathe in again, those steel fingers clamped round his neck, closing the air passages and holding him helpless. He thrashed around some more, but without the air of life, he was weakening fast. Joan felt his efforts growing feeble, saw his head turning purple as the blood cells were unable to re-oxygenate. The lack of oxygen to the brain made him begin to grey out, his tongue started to protrude from his mouth, and Joan decided that he was weakened sufficiently, and ready for the next stage. She released his neck; he slumped forward, shaking feebly, still alive. She walked round to the front of the chair, tossing her hair out of the way behind her. She straightened him up in the chair, he looked terrible. His face was purple and his throat looked like someone had crushed it with a tourniquet. Joan flexed her fingers, and smiled, anticipating. She sat on his lap, facing him, and kissed him on the mouth. Not a lovers kiss, not yet. First the "kiss of life", blowing air past his shattered throat into his lungs, the air that his body needed so badly to live. Joan took in great lungfuls of air, and, covering his mouth with hers, forced it into his chest, inflating his lungs; then she pressed to deflate them again. She repeated this ten, twenty, thirty times, until his eyes fluttered open. "Oh, lover, you're still alive. I was so worried, I thought I'd killed you. I didn't mean to kill you just then, I just wanted to strangle you a little bit." He opened his mouth, and tried to shout. Nothing happened. "Sweetheart, I've broken your larynx, you won't be able to talk. But you should be able to whisper, can you whisper?" "What do you want?" he whispered. "Please?" Joan smiled, pleased. "There, you see! You can whisper, I told you you'd be able to. Hey, you said please! I've never heard you say that before." She put her hands round his neck. Now she was sitting on his lap, facing him, so she could get her thumbs into the front of his throat. "This is my favourite strangle, lover." "No, please." And she gently dug her thumbs into the soft throat, her fingers curling round behind his neck, all except for her forefingers, which she used to carefully feel for his carotid artery. She found it, and pressed it, a light pressure. "This is the artery that carries blood to your brain, sweetheart. When I press it, your brain gets less blood." "Noooo" he whispered, "please no." "Did you know that your brain needs more blood than any other part of your body? It's a very important organ, your brain." He tried to moan, but only a gasp came out. Then he bucked, trying to throw her off him. She licked her lips. "Yes, good idea sweetheart. Let's do that." She dug her right thumb into his throat; pain flooded through his body, robbing him of strength and reason. Her left hand felt between his legs, and held his limp penis. "Did you know this isn't a muscle? An erection is just an increased inflow of blood to your cock." She squeezed it carefully in the hand that had just almost ended his life, her thumb brushing the top, feeling it twitch into life. Joan marvelled that even in a life-and-death situation, the cock would still respond to her touch. "So what we need, sweetheart, is more blood here" and she squeezed and stroked his cock as it began to grow and harden "and less blood here" touching his right carotid with her forefinger. Now his dick was fully erect, standing up hard and proud. Joan slid herself down, enveloping it in her warm wet pussy. "Doesn't that feel good, lover?" He gasped again. She had both hands round his neck now, her thumbs strangling his throat, her fngers digging into his carotid artery, blocking off the blood from his brain. "You see how good if feels, sweetheart? Now all the blood that was going to your brain isn't wasted, and there's so much more for your dick. Can't you feel it swelling, getting huge and hard?" Joan moved up and down, gripping with her pussy, crushing with her hands. He felt that the world was just an ocean of pain radiating from his neck outwards, but the pain was slowly getting less and less. The world faded from colour to monochrome, then to shades of grey, which merged into each other until he passed out. Joan sat quietly on his lap, waiting for the man to regain consciousness. As she sat, she talked to him, even knowing that he couldn't hear. "It's a real turn-on, don't you think? Yes, of course you do, my goodness, you're still hard. But it's no fun unless you're conscious. I think I should have let a bit of blood through to your brain, but you know, I get excited, carried away by the heat of the moment, you know how it is." His eyelids fluttered. "Oh good, you're back with us again" Joan said happily, puttng her hands round his neck again. "Now isn't this cosy, just you and me, and that lovely soft neck of yours." She snuggled up against his body, pressing her large breasts against his chest, wriggling a bit to arouse him, her hands crushing round his throat, closing it completely. "Now I'm going to give you the best orgasm of your entire life." He guessed what she meant, and tried to escape, bucking hard to throw her off. She kept her grip tight round his neck, closed her eyes, and gasped "Yes, yes, more, more..." as he bucked, bouncing her up and down on his stiff dick. "Yes, yes, yes" she panted out rhythmically, riding his bucking like a horsewoman breaking in a wild horse. "Oh, don't stop" she said, as his efforts wore him out. He lay back in the chair, spent and exhausted, deprived of oxygen. She released her grip a little, allowing him to take a gulp of air, just enough to keep him alive; then squeezed down again. "Sweetheart, as long as you keep me happy, I'll let you breathe. Understand?" The pressure of her fingers round his neck meant that he couldn't nod, but she saw the yes in his eyes. And the fear. He bounced in the chair. Now he wasn't trying to fight her, he was just trying to give her what she demanded, in the hope that she'd allow him to take another breath of air. That was all he wanted now, just one more breath. Just one more. And for a while, this arrangement worked fine, bringing Joan closer and closer to her orgasm. But it couldn't last. Joan knew what she needed to climax. "It's like this, honey. There's only one way I can come, and that's by strangling a man in my hands. It's just the way I am", she said. Now he knew. Now there wasn't any doubt any more. She wasn't going to let him live, and that made him desperate. His big body shook and tossed, trying to get free of those iron fingers round his neck, his hands gripped her arms as hard as he could, and he tried to pull them off his neck, but Joan's hands clamped harder round him. His efforts weren't wasted, though. Joan's breathing was becoming ragged and she started to make little high-pitched grunts as her orgasm began to swell through her. Then it struck, overwhelming her from head to toe, like a storm of thunder and lighting through her body. Her back arched, her muscles convulsed, and her crushing grip on his neck tightened the way a nutcracker squeezes a nut. "Nnnh, nnh, aaaahhhh" she moaned, as her body shook and shuddered through what felt like an earthquake. He would have screamed too, as his orgasm flooded out, except that Joan's hands made it impossible to breathe, let alone make any sound. After a minute or so, the sensations subsided, and Joan opened her eyes. "Ooh, you were so good, lover" she said to the dead man. "So good. You gave me everything you had, didn't you sweetheart. So good." She released his neck, it was a mass of black and red bruises. His face was blue, his body purple. He slumped forward onto the desk, face down as Joan got off his lap. "So good, so much to give." She brushed her hair, gazing thoughtfully at the corpse. "But you don't want to get me into trouble, do you? Now, how do we explain this to people ...". She bit her lower lip, thinking. Then she moved. First, she took a pair of pantyhose out of her handbag, and put them on. She rubbed them against herself for a few moments, then she took them off again. She made a slip knot at one end, and put it round his neck, pulling it as tight as she could. Then she moved his chair away from the desk; he flopped down, bent double in the chair. She tied the other end of the pantyhose around his legs at the knees, forcing him to remain bent double, and making it as tight as she could, so the pantyhose stretched under the tension, pulling the slip know tighter round his neck. She checked the office, and examined David carefully. It looked as if he'd been playing some sexual game with her pantyhose, and accidentally strangled himself. The bruises he'd made in pulling on her arms would help. She went to the door, opened it and screamed "Help, help, please someone come quick".