Blogger's Archives

September 2007

Monday 3 September 2007 20:31 BST (GMT+1)

It took about three seconds for the arms-dealer's puny male brain to process my statement about being ready for the next course.

When my words finally sunk in, he hurried to grab another weapon from his big box. There was a further moment's hesitation as his hand hovered between two different items. If I wasn't as wondrously generous as I am, I would have punished his slowness (say, with a blast of heat-vision to the kneecap, or just a simple tap with my toes in his gut to throw him clean across the room into the far wall...) Fortunately for him, I showed patience and understanding far beyond what my companion could have hoped for. How sweet of me to appreciate that the extra few seconds were dedicated to making sure his choice would not displease me!

Eventually, he settled on an twin-barrelled rifle. Having pulled the two-foot long weapon from the box, he remembered that he was under pain of death to make sure it was loaded before he handed it over so he plunged his hand back in for ammunition. As he inserted two shots, using his wounded hand as little as possible, I smiled at his involuntary gasps of pain. Finally, he snapped the weapon closed and, tentatively, almost as though he was holding a burning match up to a leaking gas-pipe, he offered it up to me.

I took it from him wordlessly and turned it over in my hands, examining the long barrel.

"How much do these sell for?" I demanded, without bothering to look at my host.

"Um, it depends, ah, I mean, there's a-"

I cut him short by stamping my bare foot down on the kitchen floor hard enough to make a loud Boom!, shatter quite a few ceramic tiles to dust and make the whole floor shudder. "I didn't ask for your life story," I told him as he regained his composure (my sudden stamp having made him panic). "What did I tell you about answering my questions directly? Do you want to die painfully?"

He shook his head, vigorously.

"Well?" I prompted.

"Two hundred and fifty to six hundred each," he blurted.

"Make up your pathetic little mind!" I snarled. "Which is it? Two-fifty or six?"

"There's a discount for large volume orders..." he started to explain.

"So, just the one would cost six hundred?" I checked.

"Yes," he said.

"Well, why couldn't you tell me that before?" I asked. "You know, I think you actually want me to kill you!"

"No! No!" he protested.

"Hmmmm," I said, pretending to be unsure whether or not I believed the denial. While he sweated over that, I turned my attention back to the weapon."Six hundred, eh?" I mused out-loud. "Tell you what," I announced. "I'll give you nothing for it. Deal?"

"Deal," he accepted, although for some reason he didn't sound particularly overjoyed about it.

I held the rifle up in front of my head, and turned it around so that I was pointing it at the centre of my face. Then I brought the double-barrel right up to my left eye and squinted, pretending to be examining the inside of the bore. "I think there's something in this barrel," I said as I squeezed the trigger.

The gun spat out a tongue of flame that licked my eyeball, my lashes, my brow and the beautiful skin all around them. That alone might well have been enough to kill an ordinary person, even before the bullet had travelled the length of the tube. Of course, the extreme heat didn't even make me feel warm.

A split-second later, the slug finally reached the end of the barrel. I was holding the end of the gun so close to my eye that the bullet didn't actually get to fully leave the weapon before the tip of it met my retina. At first it just crumpled up against the impenetrable surface of my eye. Then, with a dull Plink! it rebounded away, immediately jamming inside the end of the barrel which stretched and finally split as it tried to accommodate the shortened, widened ricochet. Meanwhile, I hadn't even so much as blinked.

"Oh," I said, rolling my eyes at my own (faked) naivety as I lowered the rifle. "that's what was inside the barrel... a bullet. It kinda tickled!" That was a complete lie, of course. I'd barely even felt the tap on my eyeball. Nonetheless, I turned the weapon around in my hands. "Do you want a go?" I generously asked my host.

"No! NO! NO! Please no!" he pleaded.

I chuckled.

Continued next post.

Tuesday 4 September 2007 23:40 BST (GMT+1)

So, the arms-dealer had rejected my kind offer to let him experience a rifle-bullet fired into his eye from point-blank range, even after I'd demonstrated how much fun it can be.

I turned the gun around, so that it was pointed at me rather than my host (who seemed visibly relieved by that, for some reason). Holding the butt of the weapon with my right hand, I used my left to pull up the bottom of my T-shirt, treating my enthralled, kneeling audience to a view of my flawless, flat midriff. He seemed impressed by the sight: his eyes actually flickered away from my chest to check out the expanse of perfect female flesh I was showing, and the stench of male arousal that wafted to my sensitive nostrils grew more intense.

One barrel of the rifle had been irreparably damaged when I shot myself in the eye, but the other was still usable, so I pressed it against my navel, the gun just the right size to completely cover my deep bellybutton. Obviously, I didn't push the weapon hard against my abdomen. It was only steel and I didn't want it to bend...

Once I was satisfied with the positioning of the rifle, I pulled the trigger. The bullet raced down the bore, only to find its exit blocked by the hardest substance in the universe: my silky, smooth skin. The tip of the shot tried to bury itself in my navel, but it had too much momentum, and my sexy stomach was just too unyielding. The slug had no choice but to rebound from my perfection without even leaving a bruise and head back down the barrel, still holding enough energy to shatter the trigger mechanism.

Most of the resulting shrapnel was contained by my hand, but a few small pieces escaped through the gaps between my fingers. One of these struck the arms-dealer in the thigh, tearing through his trousers and penetrating his weak masculine flesh in exactly the way it hadn't penetrated my invulnerable feminine body. He yelled in shock, clutching his newest bleeding wound.

I looked down at him as he tried, vainly, to stem the flow of blood. "Well, if you are going to be so close when I'm playing with your guns, that's the kind of thing you can expect to happen," I told him.

He started to crawl, painfully, backwards, clearly eager to put some distance between us. "I didn't say you could move," I pointed out to him. "I just said you were close enough to get hurt. Now get back here now!" Confused, and afraid, he obeyed, returning on his hands and knees to his previous post.

"I'm done with this one now," I announced, opening my right hand and letting the ruined rifle fall in the tiny space between his head and my legs. I used my other hand to pull my T-shirt back down while I ordered him to fetch me the next toy from his box.

Continued next post.

Wednesday 5 September 2007 22:17 BST (GMT+1)

Next out of the toy-box was a submachine-gun.

My (frankly) substandard assistant handed it to me, having clumsily loaded a fresh clip, moaning and wincing all the while. It's amazing how fragile males can be. This one had received nothing more than a couple of gentle taps from me and one tiny little ricochet, but he was acting as if he was in terrible pain.

"If you don't stop moaning," I told him as I took his latest offering from him, "I'll give you a proper injury to complain about."

"I- I'm s- sorry," he stammered. "It h- hurts!"

"Hurts?!" I exclaimed. "HURTS?! You pathetic creature! Look at me. I've been hit directly by nearly a dozen of your bullets now and you don't hear me going on about being hurt, do you? Well?"


"Exactly. Now shut up or I'll pull your arms and legs off and play football with what's left of you. Actually, I might do that anyway. Would you like that? So what if you would or not. You wouldn't be able to do a thing to stop me. Would you?"

"P- p- please don't do that..."

"Answer my question, worm! Would you be able to stop me?"

"N- no."

"You'd better hope I don't decide to do it then," I told him.

Having put my companion in his place, I turned my attention to the latest weapon he'd handed me.

"How many rounds a second does this thing fire?" I asked.

"Thirty," came the reply.

"Is that all?" I said, disappointed. "I could carry a hundred bullets one by one across this room in a second. In fact, I could carry a hundred of YOU individually across the room. But all of you would die, of course. Pity there aren't a hundred of you to try it with!"

My host swallowed hard.

"Well, let's see what this thing can do then." I turned the gun around and pointed it at my face. Then, I pulled the trigger. It spat red flame and a rapid series of little bullets at me. Compared to the rifle I'd tried before, each slug was lightweight and utterly unimpressive. And the rifle bullets had felt like gentle caresses anyway. These ones bounced off my beautiful face like little plastic balls would bounce off a sheet of solid steel, flying out in all directions before falling to the floor.

To try and get some excitement from the latest toy, I moved it about, spraying its ammunition into my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. I even opened my mouth and sprayed a few in there. They tasted pretty boring. After a few seconds I released the trigger.

"I don't think this thing is working right," I told the arms-dealer. I can hear a lot of noise, but I can't FEEL anything."

"It... is... working...." he hissed through clenched teeth.

"What's wrong with you now?" I demanded. "Why can't you talk properly all of a sudden?"

"My... legs..."

I looked down. There were eight or nine new blood-splattered tears in his trousers which must have been caused by the little bullets ricocheting from my face.

"Not your day, is it?" I observed with a chuckle. He didn't respond.

Continued next post.

Thursday 6 September 2007 18:05 BST (GMT+1)

The little submachine-gun was a disappointment when I sprayed it at my face.

Although, I have to admit, it was a little funny seeing the damage the rebounding bullets had done to the arms-dealer’s legs. If it wasn’t for that, I would probably have demanded he fetch me something else to play with straight away. But thinking about the trajectory those little pellets had taken from my face to his legs, I decided to give the weapon another try.

“You don’t deserve it,” I pointed out to the bleeding man kneeling by my feet, “but I’m about to give you the thrill of your life.” So saying, I gripped the collar of my T-shirt with my left hand. A gentle tug tore the garment off my body, revealing my unsurpassed naked torso in all its breath-taking glory. Dropping the torn top, I let him stare, wide-eyed, his heart pumping, breath rasping (and all that despite the pain from his injuries which he just could not hide) at the erotic perfection of my two large, gloriously round and superhumanly firm, upstanding breasts.

“Magnificent, aren’t they?” I said, justifiably proud.

“Uh-huh” he panted.

With my glorious chest fully exposed, I turned the submachine-gin towards it and depressed the trigger. Immediately, I felt myself being stroked by the feathery touch of thirty bullets a second. I moved the gun around slowly, letting its gentle output stroke all the way around each of my big mounds and then finished off by aiming a solid blast for several seconds at each of my nipples in turn.

The points of my breasts responded to the stimulation, swelling from their usual impressive size to their mind-blowing aroused state. Of course, there is no material in the universe harder than my nipples when they are engorged and the bullets rebounded from them with an almost metallic clanging sound as I threw my head back and concentrated on enjoying the delicate sensation.

Sadly, the gun ran out of ammunition long before I was satisfied. In fact, the light touch of its discharge only served to leave me wanting more. Frustrated, I used my hand to press the entire weapon against my left breast, the metal groaning as it deformed around my feminine perfection until it was utterly unrecognisable. By the time I was done, I’d turned the gun into something that looked more like a breakfast bowl more than a firearm.

“Here you go,” I said. “A little souvenir of your encounter with a goddess.” I dropped the “bowl” towards my host. Only then did I notice that the number of wounds in his thighs had doubled, and that there were also about a dozen new, large tears in the flesh of his shoulders and torso. There were also tears in his eyes. His lower lip was bleeding too.

It took me a moment to realise that this last injury hadn’t been caused by a ricochet, but was actually self-induced. Scared of the consequences of voicing his fresh agonies after the various warnings I’d given him, he had tried to silence himself by biting down on his lip.

“Aww…” I said, “You’re in pain. Never mind! As you can see, I’m perfectly fine. And that’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

Slowly, resigned, he nodded.

“That’s the spirit!” I said. “Now hand me the next toy before I do to your face what I just did to that gun…”

Continued next post.

Monday 10 September 2007 17:51 BST (GMT+1)

“What’s that?” I demanded, not hiding my disappointment as the arms-dealer held out his latest selection in his trembling hands.

“I-It’s a b-b-best seller…” he began.

“Looks like another rifle,” I said. “I’ve already played with one of those.”

“I-It’s a c-c-custom m-modification,” he stammered, clearly terrified that he had displeased me with his choice. I raised a single, perfectly-arched eyebrow to indicate that my curiosity had been aroused. “Sh-Shorter b-b-barrel… F-fires high-p-powered shells with exploding t-t-tips… For p-p-piercing armour…”

I took the weapon from him. He remembered to hold it out on open palms, so, sadly, there was no fresh damage to his hands as I grabbed it. I made a mental note to make up for that by causing him some extra pain later.

“Hmmmm,” I said. I gave the modified rifle a quick once-over, examining the mechanism with my X-ray vision. “Armour piercing… It won’t even scratch me.” I predicted with supreme confidence. Possessing complete invulnerability and the powers of a goddess means it’s easy for me to make predictions like that. The supreme confidence comes from possessing the invulnerability and powers I just mentioned at the same time as also being devastatingly sexy and disarmingly beautiful….

I turned the gun around, and, holding it at arms’ length, fired it directly at the already engorged centre of my big, round, left breast. The special bullet did indeed, as promised, explode on contact with my superhuman nipple. Built to kill a man wearing thick armour, it didn’t manage to pierce my silky erotic flesh, or compress the magnificent point of my breast, or even dent the immaculate roundness of my supremely feminine mound, although it tried. How it tried! In the end, the bullet paid the ultimate price for its failure, disintegrating into a million, misshapen pieces. My nipple, of course, continued to sit perfectly and proudly on my incomparable chest, untouched by the short-range high-powered shot. If I had to describe how it felt in one word, I would say “nice”. Nothing amazing, but better than any of the other toys from the arms-dealer’s box up to that point.

“Ow! Ow! OW!” cried my audience. With the gun still smoking, I looked down at him to see what all the fuss was about. Although I’d ordered him to stop moaning every time he got injured, it seemed the eight little bits of hot, sharp shrapnel that had lodged in the skin of his face, making deep, bleeding wounds, were just too painful. He simply couldn’t hide his discomfort.

“Some host you are!” I admonished him. “All you’ve done since I arrived is moan. At this rate, you won’t have anything left to say if I really start hurting you later.” Obviously, that was an unfair thing to say. I’m prepared to admit that. What I should have said was: “When I start hurting you later…”

He did not respond to what I actually did say, other than to bite his lip (which I assumed was his latest effort to keep quiet).

“That’s better,” I said. “Now, this so-called armour-piercing pop-gun…. It’s designed for penetration, right?”

The arms-dealer nodded, his cut-filled face contorted in pain.

“Well, let’s see how well it penetrates,” I announced.

Continued next post.

Tuesday 11 September 2007 17:42 BST (GMT+1)

So, I had shot myself in the face, the mouth, the belly, and in my glorious breasts. Several times.

I had enjoyed what little sensation there was to be gleaned from all those wasted bullets. The tiny stimulations of these special areas of my magnificent body had put me in the mood for something a little more… intimate. By contrast, my host was probably ready to call it a day. I looked down on him kneeling at my feet. With his badly injured hand, and his clothes and skin covered in bloody tears (the result of various ricochets and bits of shrapnel as bullet after bullet had failed to even scratch my perfect skin) he looked in a bad way.

I smiled, thinking about how much worse things were about to become for him.

The last time I had fired, it was a so-called armour-piercing bullet that exploded in vain against my big, super-hard nipple. The special slug broke into countless pieces and sprayed the arms-dealer’s face with fragments, leaving him sporting eight new bright red wounds. I intended to make the next armour-piercing shot explode much further down my body and much nearer to his fragile, bleeding face.

I opened my hands, letting the shortened weapon fall from my grip and land, with a clatter, in the small space between my feet and the arms-dealer’s hands.

“Pick it up!” I ordered him. Just the act of looking down as he put his hands on the rifle made him wince in pain.

“Point it at me!” The strain on his face made it look as if he was manipulating a coffee-vending machine rather than a lightweight, easy-to-handle hand-weapon.

“Not at my face. We’ve already shot that enough. Lower!” I commanded. “Lower…. Lower… There! Hold still!” It was hard for him to hold still with all the blood oozing from his wounds and his busted fingers, but, eager to please me, he did his best. Meanwhile, I began to slowly undo my jeans. My host could not help the involuntary gasp of desire as I slid my tight trousers over my hips and revealed my perfect womanhood. (Why bother with knickers when you’re invulnerable?)

I bent low and eased the jeans off, one leg then the other before tossing them aside. Then I stood up straight once more, towering over the arms-dealer in all my goddess-like, naked glory and planted my hands on my hips. The gun had only moved slightly in the pathetic male’s hands after I’d told him to “hold still”. Now its ten-inch long, cylindrical barrel was pointing directly at the waiting entrance to my sex.

I licked my lips.

“P-P-Please don’t make me f-f-fire….” blubbed my host.

“Has the sight of me naked wiped your mind, male?” I asked. “Have you forgotten what I told you would happen if you spoke out of turn?”

“I’m s-s-sorry,” he sobbed. The tears must have stung his cuts badly. He seemed to have abandoned his dignity completely. “I don’t want to die…AAAAGGGHHHH!”

I merely directed a gentle beam of heat vision at his groin, and only for a few seconds. Not enough to neuter him, just enough to cause mind-consuming agony while it lasted, and to leave a few painful burns once I was done. Somewhere in all the drama, he nearly dropped the rifle.

As he gasped for air, I snapped “Point the weapon at me!”

With the tears now streaming over his cut cheeks, he complied immediately, his hands shaking like autumn leaves in a stiff breeze. We both knew that he was going to get showered in painful shrapnel when the armour-piercing bullet exploded against my invulnerable labia barely two feet away from his face. The thing was, I didn’t care and he didn’t have a choice.

Continued next post.

Thursday 13 September 2007 17:28 BST (GMT+1)

I was standing, completely naked, displaying my goddess’ body with my hands on my hips, my feet and legs slightly apart and my breath-taking chest thrust out.

Kneeling immediately in front of me, the wounded arms-dealer squinted along the shortened barrel of the modified rifle, his eye fixed on his target: the entrance to my superhuman vagina. I glared down at him, over the top of the swell of my breasts, a sneer on my beautiful face.

“You’d better be accurate,” I said. “or you’ll wish you were dead.” He swallowed hard and re-checked his aim.

“Now!” I commanded.

The arms-dealer shut his eyes as tightly as he could, screwing up his bloodied, cut-covered face. (As if that was enough to protect his fragile skin!) With fingers trembling like a plate of jelly during an earthquake, he squeezed the trigger.

There followed a sequence of five distinctly different sounds.

Bang! With a flash of light, the special, “armour-piercing” bullet was fired, rocketing out of the end of the gun.

Clang! The tip of the shot slammed into the perfect, unyielding flesh of my labia, desperately trying to penetrate my womanhood, but, of course, failing completely.

Boom! The explosive charge in the cap of the bullet detonated as it made one final attempt to “pierce” my “armour”. Instantly, my crotch was showered in red-hot metal pieces that pinged futilely off my silky skin.

Crack! Crack! C-c-c-c-r-r-r-r-a-a-a-a-ck! The remains of the bullet, having bounced off me without leaving so much as a bruise, began to rain down all around, damaging the walls, chipping the ceramic floor tiles and….

Aaaaaarrgh!!! Ow! My face! Aaaaargh! My face! …peppering the arms dealer’s head, face, neck, chest and thighs, ripping open his flesh time and time again as countless new wounds appeared all over him. He dropped the rifle as he continued to yell. The explosion and resulting shrapnel had caused my most sensitive, feminine flesh no harm from point-blank range. At many times the distance, the arms-dealer’s supposedly tougher masculine skin had been penetrated four or five dozen times, leaving him covered in blood, and (apparently) suffering in agony.

“Silence!” I ordered.

He bit down on his lips, at first merely muffling his own screams but then, with an effort that brought fresh tears to his eyes, ending them. He panted slowly, shaking, sobbing, bleeding…

Continued next post.

Friday 14 September 2007 23:41 BST (GMT+1)

people are so inconsiderate!

The trembling arms-dealer is a good example of such selfishness. He had dropped the modified rifle, just because he'd been badly cut forty or fifty times by shrapnel. How was I supposed to have any fun with the gun or its special armour-piercing bullets if it was just lying on the ground? And yet, despite that, he seemed content merely to shake and sob and bleed without making any effort to pick up the weapon.

Fortunately, I am, as regular readers will know, an exceptionally considerate goddess. I bent low towards my kneeling host, reaching down with my arms. His bruised, swollen and bloody eyes bulged as my big, pendant, super-firm chest filled his fading vision. While he was distracted, I grabbed the gun in my left hand and cupped his red-streaked chin with my right.

I lifted his face up, forcing him to look straight into my eyes instead of straight into my breasts. Leaning my own, flawless face towards his battered, bleeding excuse for one, I sneered at him with undisguised superiority.

"You think you're in pain now, male!" I mocked. "This is nothing. Wait until I've punished you for dropping the gun!"

"Oh no, please! No..."

"Do you want me to punish you for speaking out of turn as well?"

"No!" he pleaded.

"Too bad for you, then." I pronounced, flippantly. "Now shut up and don't move until I order you to."

I let go of his chin, and his head immediately drooped in defeat. Standing up straight, I lifted the gun towards my crotch whilst my free right hand made its way between my warm, silky thighs.

When the arms-dealer had shot me with the rifle, the armour-piercing exploding slug failed to move my lovely indestructible labia even a hairsbreadth. I knew that to get the most enjoyment from the weapon, I would have to give it a little assistance. My fingers effortlessly achieved what the bullet could not, parting my nether lips and holding them open as I slid the shortened barrel of the rifle into me. I was careful, keeping my inner muscles relaxed so as not to crush the gun, especially when I withdrew my fingers. It was only steel after all.

Leaving half the gun sticking out of me, I placed my hands on my hips and, looking at the arms-dealer, I commanded him: "Pull the trigger! Now!"

Continued next post.

Tuesday 18 September 2007 17:50 BST (GMT+1)

So, there I was, completely naked, hands on hips, towering over the kneeling arms-dealer with the business end of a sawn-off rifle inserted into my sex.

The gun’s butt was sticking out of me, pointing slightly downwards, towards my badly-injured companion. I had just ordered him to pull the trigger, but his countless cuts and bruises were restricting his movements so that it took him all of four seconds to reach his trembling, bloody hand towards the trigger mechanism. Finally he laid his battered fingers on the firing lever.

He placed his vibrating hand on his end of the gun with great care. I wondered if he was afraid of dislodging the weapon. Of course, there was absolutely no chance of him being able to achieve such a feat. Sure, I was taking great care to not to tense the superhuman muscles of my love-canal because the gentlest internal squeeze on my part could have reduced the thick steel barrel to nothingness. Despite my relaxed inner grip, a dozen big men working together would have lacked the required strength to move the gun even a millimetre.

(Actually, now that I think about it, that might make for an interesting tug-o’-war. Maybe I’ll try it sometime. Of course, I’d need to round up, oh, a couple of hundred exceptionally fit, muscular males to make the contest last long enough to be enjoyable…)

I soon realised that the lightness of the arms-dealers’ touch was not down to his fear of removing the rifle. A quick glance at his hand with my X-ray vision revealed large numbers of damaged ligaments and significant amounts of swollen tissue; no wonder he was being so cautious: every tiny movement would have been difficult and extremely painful.

“Quickly!” I commanded, “Or I’ll crush your hand to paste!”

Having made absolutely clear the full extent of my concern for the male’s injuries and discomfort, I glared down on him and waited for him to painfully obey my instruction to fire the gun.

Tortuously slowly, his digits trembling violently and the strain etched on his cut-riddled face, the arms-dealer pulled the trigger…

Continued next post…

Tuesday 25 September 2007 17:29 BST (GMT+1)

I know, I know. You’ve missed me. Who wouldn’t miss reading the day-to-day adventures of a supremely-beautiful, supremely-powerful goddess?

I also know that you want to hear all about what I’ve been up to during my posting absence. All you need to know for now is the following:

* Most importantly: I had very good time indeed.

* Nobody got hurt (apart from a couple of dozen males, and they don’t count).

* There was no significant damage as my clothes were easily replaced. (The two seventy-tonne battle tanks that I crushed to inch-thick sheets of scrap-metal against my perfect body aren’t significant as far as I’m concerned, and like I said above, the men who were inside the tanks when I crushed them don’t count).

Anyway, I was still telling you about that arms-dealer when I last posted. Remember that specially-modified rifle and the supposedly “armour-piercing” bullets he had fired at me? How each exploding shot had barely tickled me…. even the one that hit right on my perfect pink labia? Meanwhile, as your inferior mind is no doubt beginning to recall, the ricochets and shrapnel from each failed bullet had severely injured my unwilling companion.

I also told you that I had picked up the gun after he had dropped it, and, using two of my superhumanly strong fingers, I had parted my nether lips and carefully inserted a length of the rifle’s barrel into my sex. At the end of my last entry, I explained how, despite the arms-dealer’s myriad cuts and the pain that was clearly ravaging his body every time he moved, he was still able (just about) to obey my command to activate the rifle’s trigger.

I felt the kicking of the weapon against my intimate flesh as it fired. Then there was the strong discharge of hot gases from the end of the barrel deep inside me. The extreme heat felt lovely. Finally, the armour-piercing bullet emerged. At hundreds of miles an hour, the red-hot steel casing of it brushed momentarily against the walls of my canal as it tried to force its way through me.

Unfortunately for the bullet, it was powerless against my vaginal muscles. The gentlest squeeze contracted my femininity all around it. My inner grip, although a fraction of my maximum, was still strong enough not only to instantly halt the speeding shot dead in its tracks but also to crush its tough metal casing, deforming it like so much aluminium foil.

Of course, the crushing effect of my internal muscles was enough to detonate the explosive charge inside the bullet. Designed to punch a hole through the thickest battle-armour, the explosion felt delightful inside my sex, causing waves of delicious warmth to wash over my most sensitive flesh and then stimulating my inner core with a million tiny pieces of shrapnel, countless supposedly “deadly” impacts inside my vagina, a thousand times more intense than a man ejaculating inside me.

As I closed my eyes and threw my head back, I felt the little pieces of metal still bouncing around inside me, striking the sides of my invulnerable canal and bouncing off them. A small, but very pleasant orgasm tore through my loins and my body shuddered, vibrating for a few moments. I let my body tremble as I peaked, the movement causing the handle of the gun to be yanked away from the arm’s dealer’s hand, ripping the finger he had curled around the trigger completely free of the rest of his already battered hand. I heard his screams, but ignored them, concentrating on my own intense feelings.

Eventually, I started to come down. Opening my eyes, I saw that the rifle had not moved. It was still wedged deep inside me exactly as before. I saw the smoke curling out of my crotch around the edge of the weapon’s barrel. And I saw the fresh blood that had splattered my perfect flat belly and the blood still spurting from the hand of the man kneeling at my feet, soaking his wrist and his clothes. I also spotted the remains of his newly-amputated finger, lying a few yards to my left.

“That was nice,” I announced, making the arms-dealer look up from his mess of a hand and stare up at me once more through tear-filled, terrified, pleading eyes. “Don’t worry about the mess,” I said, generously. “I’ll make you clean it up later. Right now, I want you to fire again.”

“M-m- my f-f-finger!” he protested weakly.

“You’ve still got a few more left!” I rebuked him. “I’ll punish you later for questioning my orders. First, fire the gun again or your penis will be lying on the floor next to that finger.”

“Ow! Ouch! Ow! Ow!”

I almost chuckled as he painfully reached up and manoeuvred what was left of his fingers around the trigger of the rifle. His skin slipped a little as the firing mechanism quickly became coated in his blood.

“I’m waiting,” I reminded him, glaring down at him over the glorious swell of my breasts, my hands still on my hips.

Finally, he managed to work the trigger.

Continued next post.