Conceptfan's Shorts

No.6 - "Get Conceptfan ("Beaten Up": The Remix)"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: All of my stories have been written for an exclusively adult audience. They contain descriptions of violence, some of it of a sexual nature. They also include other sexually explicit depictions. They are in no way suitable for minors. Furthermore it is against the law in many parts of the world for this type of material to be read, either by minors or by minors and adults. Please make sure you are not acting contrary to local legislation before reading on and please do not read any further if you find this type of material offensive in any way. This is a work of fiction and any similarity between the characters and events depicted and any people/events in real-life, past or present, is purely co-incidence. A number of the characters and events portrayed are inspired by, or based upon, existing works of fiction. Although I have made every effort to keep plagiarism to a minimum, I must acknowledge a debt of thanks to the many artists and writers who have shared their talents with the public. I've released my stories to the public domain to make sure that as many people as possible who share my interest in this type of fiction can enjoy them. Please feel free to re-distribute them by whatever means you like, provided you respect the following points: (1) The stories will be re-distributed exactly as they are - unchanged and unedited. (2) No other person will claim authorship of any of these stories or any part of them. (3) The stories will not be distributed for profit, either on their own or as part of a group of other works. Lastly, thank you for your interest in this story. I hope you enjoy it!

Below is a copy of an e-mail I received the other day.  The sender used the on-line comments form on this site and didn't fill in the e-mail address box, so I couldn't reply.  To be honest, I'm not sure I want any further contact with this person, but anyway, here's the message that was in my inbox:


"Dear" Conceptfan,

I've just read your short story "Beaten Up".  I thought that it wasn't quite as bad as the other rubbish you've posted on your site.  I almost enjoyed your description of the girl who beat you up. You've really got the hots for her, haven't you, you sad little fetishist?  Too bad.

If you hadn't already guessed, it's me, your friend in the tight t-shirt.  And like I said when we met, I'm perfect and you're anything but. So, forget it, boy.  Count yourself lucky I've bothered to type out my version of what happened that day. Consider it a gift from a goddess to an insignificant mortal.   It'll  help you think of me as you play with yourself.

Signed: Your fantasy.


What follows is the text that was contained in the attached file:


Just because I'm superhuman, it doesn't mean I don't have any leisure time.  And just because I'm stunningly beautiful (that's truth, not immodesty, as you can verify), it doesn't mean I don't enjoy surfing the 'net every once in a while.  Anyway, I was on-line the other evening, jumping from page to page, not really doing much more than passing time, clicking on links and seeing where it got me.

Now, being superhuman and stunningly beautiful, I don't need to explain why my interest was fired when a search engine threw up a site claiming to contain stories about "super-powered", "gorgeous young women" with "bad attitudes".  I read on.  It quickly became clear that the stories had been written by a guy with a fetish for super-women.  Again and again in the fiction, these women were flaunting their power, hurting men, and in particular, crushing guys against their chests.

I'm always amazed by the extent of the heterosexual male's obsession with women's breasts, but this guy seemed especially fascinated.  All his female characters had "generous" or "magnificent" chests, and he described them in great detail.  I wondered about the guy who had written the stories.  I mean, there I was, a young woman with superpowers like those he was writing about, with a face as close to perfection as any on planet Earth and a body to match (in other words, I, too, have "magnificent" breasts).

I soon realised that I was the absolute living embodiment of this guy's every fantasy.  It'd be funny, I was thinking, if he ever met me.  I could make him think his dreams had come true, and end up having a good time myself, roughing the poor bastard up a bit. After all, I figured that a little taste of what a superhuman young woman with a "bad attitude" could do was just what the writer needed.

So, I sent an email to the address given in the website, asking something pretty banal about one of the stories.  When he replied, I asked another question.  And so on it went, until I could tease a few little bits of information out of him, like a rough idea of where he lived and worked and how he travelled between the two.  Once I knew he took the London Underground daily, I managed to find out which line.   I also found he did much of his writing on the train, using a PDA.  He was also obliging enough to tell me the name of the model of Pocket PC he used, all without suspecting a thing.

I spent the next four or five mornings standing on various platforms at tube stations, watching the over-full commuter trains fly past.  With my superhuman vision, it was no bother for me to scan each passing carriage for anyone using a PDA.  I was even able to read what was on the screens of those portable devices as they decelerated from forty-odd miles an hour to stationary.

Most folks with hand-held devices were playing games, or drawing up expenses sheets.  One guy caught my eye, however.  I couldn't read his PDA screen at first because he was hiding it from view with a cupped hand but another passenger jostled him and his fingers momentarily moved enough to let me catch a glimpse of screen.  In that split second, I was able to read around fifty words.  More than enough to tell me that I'd found my man.   How easy it had been!  I memorised his face.  The next morning I went back to the same station and let trains pass until his came in.  I noticed him immediately as the tube pulled onto the platform from the tired, furtive look in his eyes, the PDA in his hand and the scruffy, ill-coordinated clothes he wore. I know my outfit - a bright, tight T-shirt and hip-length shorts, specially chosen to display my fabulous form - wasn't exactly inconspicuous for the last weeks of winter in London, but he looked like he'd chosen his get-up from a pitch -dark second-hand shop. It's one thing having no sense of style, but it's another thing to be so determined to make it obvious.

As I got on the train, the commuters shuffled aside as best they could to allow me to pass down the carriage.  I'm used to men making as much room for me as I want just in response to the most throwaway little smile.  It's just something that comes with the way I look.  I mean, when you've got a face as lovely as mine, guys just love to help.

I'm also used to men checking out my body.  Again, with a figure like this, it just goes with the territory.  It's no secret that I happen to be extremely attractive. And, as I mentioned, on that morning, I was squeezed into a t-shirt that is, I guess, possibly a size or two too small for me.   But none of that excuses the way my little web-site guy stared at my chest once he finally caught sight of me.  His eyes lit up as I passed into his field of vision and he did a quick head-to-feet scan.  As soon as that was done he just locked his pupils on the top part of my t-shirt.  And stared and stared.

Once or twice he did manage to tear his eyes away for a split-second to check out the rest of the carriage, but each time he quickly returned to studying the shape of my breasts.   Sure, all the other guys in there were checking me out, but none of them were being so unsubtle about ogling my chest.

I got close enough to him (a couple of yards away) to hear the way his heart went into turbo-drive every time I looked in his direction.  His breathing was pretty rasping too.  He started shifting his legs to hide the growing bulge in his crotch, but to be fair he wasn't the only man in there beginning to get erect.  It's just the effect I seem to have on guys - the price of being so perfect, I suppose.  But this particular idiot was different from the other guys.  Rather than looking away or trying to do something about his stiffening organ, he just kept on staring at my t-shirt and getting harder and harder.

I made my way through the crowded carriage towards where he was sitting.  I'll admit I put on a little bit of a show for him, putting a little more wiggle than absolutely necessary into my hips, and making sure that my breasts bounced with every movement I made.  I could see the way his gaze flickered occasionally onto other parts of my body - my legs and face, for example - before resettling each time, without fail, on my front.

I don't have the ability to read minds, but I didn't need it at that moment.  I could see the man was drowning in a sea of fantasies, all starring me, that were forming in his mind.   I knew he was wondering what it would be like to touch me, to stroke my skin, to press his ugly lips against my perfect mouth, to cup my glorious breasts in his clumsy hands.  Like I've said, I'm used to attention from men, although I've got to say this guy's obvious obsession was getting a little out of hand.  And he didn't even know about me being superhuman - his particular "area of interest".

I got through the crowd until I was right in front of him.  Still, he didn't stop staring for a moment, even though he was now looking almost straight up at the top half of my torso.   I thought I'd tease him a little and turned until I was in profile to him, giving the horny idiot an even more dramatic view of my fantastic curves.  Now his tongue was practically hanging out of his mouth as he stared at the swell of my breasts and the way it contrasts with the smooth flatness of my stomach.

I waited until I thought he was on the point of soiling his underwear before "accidentally" catching his eye and tossing him a casual smile.  He stared back, probably surfing a new wave of fantasies inspired by the brief glimpse of my flawless teeth.  Then, I started to lower myself slowly into the vacant seat beside him, making absolutely sure that he had plenty of opportunity to appreciate the firm roundness of my posterior.

Once I was seated beside him, I kept my back straight, my lips pouted and my chest thrust out so that every time he threw a glance at me (thinking I wouldn't notice, no doubt) his hormone levels increased still further.  He re-crossed his legs, obviously uncomfortable with his throbbing erection. Each time he strained his eyeballs to try and see my breasts pushing out my t-shirt from the corner of his eye, he had to shuffle his legs once more.

I stayed put for quite a few stops, knowing that his plan was to ride to the end of the line.  I had originally intended to speak to him on the train but it was becoming increasingly obvious that I didn't need to say a word.  He was already completely under my spell.  I knew that he wouldn't stand letting me out of his sight.  My little fish had well and truly swallowed the hook.  I could lure him to the spot of my choosing.  I just waited until there was a stop where not to many other people got off and stood up.

I made the most of the short journey to the door, letting my rear sway in classic fashion, no doubt drawing attention from quite a few pairs of male eyes.  The only pair I was interested in were definitely focussed.  I knew that without having to check.  Nonetheless, I put on my most self-confident air as I walked, knowing that it would be irresistible to him.  I was proved right.  My reward was the now already familiar sound of his breathing as he suddenly stood up, hurrying nosily to follow me off the train.

I walked slowly to the escalator, not hurrying as I listened to the sound of my target following noisily about twenty yards behind.  He probably thought he was being discreet.  Discreet!  Puffing his way up, his heart pounding like a bass drum from the effort of climbing a few stairs...  Meanwhile I had to keep pretending I couldn't hear him and keep forcing myself to be slow so that he wouldn't lose sight of me.  Of course, I could have run up the stairs a thousand times (without breaking a sweat) in the time he could have done it once.  But I'm a "superhuman young woman" and he's just a man.

I made sure that he saw which exit I took, striding with an air of authority so that his urge to follow me would be further strengthened. Out on the main road, I had to tone down my performance a little, so as not to attract too much attention.  I wanted to get this guy alone, not have him and fifty other drooling males following me like rats after the Pied Piper.  In truth, I was beginning to get a bit bored of walking slowly down the road.  Then, at that very moment, I spotted a quiet-looking residential, tree-lined side-street.  Perfect!  I turned the corner, certain that my new "friend" had spotted me.

As soon as I was away from the main road, I checked to see if anyone could see me.  Satisfied that I was alone, I bent my knees a little and sprung up off them, leaping effortlessly over a eight-foot-high brick wall to land immaculately at the bottom of someone's garden.  For such a small jump, I hardly had to bend my knees to absorb the shock of my feet hitting the ground.  I just stood against the wall, resisting the temptation to smash it to dust with my fists, and listened out for the ancient-steam-engine-like sound of fetish-boy puffing around the corner.

It took him an age, but eventually, I was "treated" to the racket of him passing by.  Another easy standing jump carried me back over the wall (with quite a few feet to spare).  I came down on my training shoes about a yard behind him.  Although I clearly heard the sound of my soles hitting the pavement, the guy's pathetic senses detected absolutely nothing.  I just stood there for a while, trying not to laugh as he frantically scanned the road ahead for a glimpse of me whilst I waited a couple of paces behind him.

In the end, I had to speak to get his attention.

"About time, pervert. I see you're as slow as you are stupid." I said, and I meant every word of it.  It was fantastic to see the surprise on his face as he whirled around, but the way that surprise changed into pure lust as his useless brain took in the information his eyes were providing was, to say the least, a little predictable.  That in turn had the usual effect of making him breathe hard and, I noticed, making his penis fill with blood so that his little stiff was incredibly obvious in his jeans.  I wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to tease him for it.  Indicating his groin with my head I mocked: "I suppose what little brains you've got are all in there."

"H..How did you get behind me?" the poor fool stammered.  I figured he was uncomfortable with my use of the word "little" in conjunction with his reproductive organs and was trying to alter the course of the conversation.  As if I cared either about the size of his equipment or his choice of topic!

I just dismissed his question with a curt "Work it out for yourself."

I didn't mean for him to take it literally, but I could see the frantic workings of his mind showing on his face.  His hopeless mental struggling almost amused me.

"You really are stupid, aren't you." I said.  I wasn't teasing now, merely observing.  Men can be incredibly unintelligent.

This one seemed to be no exception from the rule.  He even seemed offended by my comment.

"Actually, I'm not, OK?" he protested.

Being a perfect superhuman, I don't accept being corrected by lesser beings, especially not lesser beings of the male variety.  I needed to let him know the rules of our interaction. I did it in no uncertain terms:

"No, it's not OK and yes, you are stupid. Don't argue with me. It's not in your interest. You're already in enough trouble."

I could immediately see the effect of my words on him, but it wasn't the effect I intended.  He was getting even more turned on by it.  I don't know if it was the authorative tone of my voice appealing to his fetish-ridden fantasies or the sight of my lovely mouth as I spoke, but something was driving the guy wild with desire.  His heart was pounding so hard I thought he would collapse at any moment.

A look of resolve came over his features.  He'd clearly made his mind up about something.  "Look," he said, "I'm sorry for following you.   It's just that I wanted to ask you if you wanted to come for a drink some time."

I couldn't believe my ears!   Was this... this... sad excuse for a man actually asking me for a date?!  It was the most ridiculous suggestion I'd ever heard. How could anyone - even a stupid man - be so deluded?  Laughter exploded from within me.

"You really have no idea, do you?" I noted, still chuckling.  Using my hands to demonstrate the contours of my perfect body, I asked "What would someone like me want with someone like you?"  I knew he wasn't going to provide me with any kind of a response to that.  Instead he reverted to his usual default activity - staring at the top-half of my t-shirt.  Typical, useless, puny man!

"I've got a face too, pervert." I scolded him. "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."  That was an understatement.

"S..Sorry."he stammered pathetically.

"Oh, you will be." I assured him.

"Look, I'm sorry. It's just that I -" he started.  I'd had enough of his clumsy attempts at excusing himself.  He was beginning to anger me.  He needed to be taught a lesson.  In less time than it took him to form his next syllable, I walked the two paces up to him and reached out with my left hand. I'd already curled my fingers as gently as I could around his flabby neck before he even realised I'd moved.

Although the guy was large and carrying plenty of excess weight on his disgusting frame, it was never going to be a problem for me to use that one-handed grip on his throat to lift his entire body off the ground.  (In truth, I could have picked up a hundred of him without straining.)  Suffice to say, in a blink of his eye, I had him dangling helplessly on the end of my arm.

Finally, his brain managed to work out his predicament.  His reaction didn't surprise me.  Actually, I've seen it dozens of times before - each time I've lifted a guy off the ground with one hand.  It's always the same.  He brings his hands up to his throat and his fingers try like crazy to pry mine off his neck.  Then he starts fighting to pull my hand away.  Then he has a few attempts at pounding my forearm.  Of course, none of this ever has any effect on me or my grip.

This guy was no different.  He struggled like a trapped animal (which is pretty much what he was.)  The strain creased up his face and the sweat dripped from his forehead.  But, I could have told him, he might as well have been attempting to pull the moon down from the sky.  There was nothing he could do.  No way he could ever hope to resist my strength.  Not even if he got a hundred friends to help, and I doubt whether someone like that would even have two friends.  I just let him hang there.

After a while, he finally understood that his hands were useless against mine.  So, he tried using his feet instead.  He slammed his filthy shoes against my beautiful bare knees a couple of times, but if either of us felt anything, it would have to have been him.  Me?  I've been caressed harder than he was hitting me.  He was so pathetic, but at least I was starting to enjoy myself.  In fact, I couldn't help grinning.

He caught my eye.  I think he was trying to say something, but with my hand on his throat, there was never going to be enough air passing into or out of his lungs to allow him to speak.  Still, it showed that he'd at last worked out that he couldn't oppose me physically.  Now I could explain the nature of our relationship in a way even a man could comprehend: "You speak to me out of turn once more and you're dead. Understand?"

He couldn't say "yes" but he could nod and he did so enthusiastically.  I guess my hand crushing his neck and holding his whole body in the air was hurting him.  I just relaxed my fingers and let gravity do the rest.  He fell like a sack of potatoes.  Where my feet would have absorbed the tiny impact, his legs collapsed under his torso and he finished up in a heap on the ground.  He started to rub his throat where large purple marks were forming around the spots where my gripping hand had bruised it.

"Get up, idiot." I instructed.  He obeyed, albeit extremely slowly.  "Good." I said once he had finally risen to his feet, adding  "That wasn't hard was it?"

It wasn't a question, merely a throwaway, piss-taking remark.  I was stunned when he answered with a pitiful "It hurts."  Hadn't he heard what I had told him about speaking out of turn?

"It's going to hurt an awful lot more." I told him.  I saw no harm in informing him of my intentions.

"I'm sorry." the guy mumbled, nervously. I moved towards him (not as fast as I could have done, but certainly faster than he could hope to react) and put my hand threateningly near his throat once more.  This time I didn't bother lifting him.  It was enough to remind him how easy it was for me to do it.

"I told you what would happen to you if you spoke out of turn again. You do understand, don't you?"  I asked.

"Yes," he answered.  So I dropped the hand from by his neck, resting it on my hip in a defiant pose that I knew would appeal to his fantasies.  I smiled.  I could hear the changes taking place in his body as his simplistic male brain switched from scared mode to horny mode.  Such a basic creature!  I couldn't resist teasing him a little more.

Leaving my hand on my hip I bent slightly forwards in a provocative gesture that forced my chest to press visibly against my t-shirt.  "Let's kiss and make up." I said, cheerfully.  Of course, there was no way I would ever allow his greasy lips anywhere near the perfection that is my mouth.  Neither did I harbour any intention of "making up" with him.  But when I pushed out my lips as if preparing to kiss, I think the stupid guy really believed it was his lucky moment.  His hormones must've made him forget everything else that had happened up to that point.  Men!

I let him take part of a step towards me, his own ugly lips already extending in anticipation of a kiss he could never experience.  Amazingly, his heartbeat accelerated still further.  How could he be so arrogant?  He actually thought I would allow him to embrace me - not to mention in such an intimate manner.

I put paid to his foolish hopes by just blowing gently at him.  That's all it takes to deal with an over-eager man if you're as superhuman as I am .  One little puff of breath (even more effortless then a "normal" person extinguishing a candle) is always enough to knock a full grown man well and truly off his feet.  In this case, my easy exhalation picked up the idiot and tossed him a couple of yards back through the air.  When I closed my lips, he fell to the ground, but his momentum sent him tumbling along the pavement for a few seconds more.  And I hadn't even strained myself!

I made my way over to where he'd come to a stop.  I moved at a leisurely pace by my standards (in other words, too fast for him to follow) so that I was stood over him before he had started recovering.  Imagine: needing time to recover from someone blowing on you!  But that's how vastly superior I am.  As he tried to raise himself into a crouching position, I made sure he got the point by lifting my foot and tapping him lightly on the shoulder.  Nothing hard, just enough to send him rolling helplessly until he smacked into a brick wall, crying out in pain.

Beginning to enjoy this rare chance to express myself, I wasted little time. I was standing right by him before his scream ended.  I extended my hand downwards and got a good grip on the back of his clothes which I used to pull him off the pavement. His entire weight hung from my hand, but it was nothing for me as I stretched my arm out, away from my body, carrying him like a bag full of refuse.

As I might have expected, he began to beg: "Let me go! Please!"  How pathetic.  I had to laugh.

With him dangling from my grasp, I decided to just toss him down the street. But I couldn't resist playing with him a bit first, swinging him around at the end of my arm a few times before eventually releasing him when I reached the apex of the final swing. Off he flew, yelling all the way, his limbs flailing wildly as his body arced skywards. I tossed him high - high enough for the fall to have killed him (I thought it would be funny to give him a proper scare) - but I made sure he would land in the relative safety of a leafy treetop.

Needless to say, my aim was perfect. He crashed down into the tree, his shouts at last coming to a halt as his back smashed into a particularly thick branch. My superhuman senses allowed me to glimpse some of his fresh injuries and to hear his rasping as he fought for breath, which saved me having to call up to ask him if he was still conscious (or even alive...)

Understandably pleased with myself, I was smiling broadly as I strolled casually over to the tree on which he was perched. I glanced upwards at him to make sure he was watching and slowly placed my open hand flat against the trunk. Pushing very carefully, my negligible effort was rewarded by the sound of first straining and then cracking wood as the tree began to yield to my vastly superior strength.  To be honest, a sixty-year old oak was never going to be a challenge for me. The only reason I went about it slowly was to increase the drama of the situation.

Inevitably, my single hand began to bend the thick trunk.  The frequency and amplitude of snapping sounds grew as, one by one, the wood fibres tore inside the tree.  The roots, having spent decades securing themselves beneath the street, held fast as the curve in the trunk became ever more apparent.   I was really just comfortably leaning against the tree with one hand, the way anyone else might do for a rest.  But unlike anyone else, my comfortable "lean" contained more strength than a mere tree could resist.

Soon enough, the trunk began to split just below my hand.  I didn't even have to push hard to make that split expand noisily right through the entire tree.  Looking up, I was entertained to see the look of horror on my little man's face as the trunk broke completely in half and Newtonian forces took over from my hand.  The top half of the tree, branches, leaves, web-site writer and all, began to tumble towards the waiting road.  He was hugging his branch as it fell, looking helpless and pathetic, which, after all, is what he was.

The tree hit the road with the greenery absorbing the bulk of the impact.  There was still enough force to break the guy's hold on the branch, but then when you're that weak anything can break your hold.   He looked quite funny as he bounced a little into the air after the initial crash, only to come back down into the foliage once more, deep amidst the leaves.

As I walked along the fallen half-tree, I saw that the guy was still moving, trying I think to climb out of the mess of branches.   Bending down, I wrapped both my arms around the horizontal trunk and then stood up straight once more, lifting the tree with me.   It was no bother  (it wasn't even a whole tree, anyway) to raise the thing off him, but the look of amazement on his face as he saw the ease with which I picked up the trunk was priceless.  I couldn't help but show off a little as I casually tossed the broken tree aside as though it were nothing more than an old newspaper.

Now he was lying prone in the middle of the road with no tree to cling to for comfort.  I could tell from his moans that he wanted to stand but couldn't.  I started walking slowly towards him, enjoying the way my approach inspired such obvious terror.  Unable to run or fight (even his useless male brain had been able to figure that much by this point) he could do nothing but plead in the most pitiful way imaginable:

"Please! It's enough! I'm sorry. Please!"

I was standing over him now, my total superiority made all the more obvious by our relative positions - him lying on the ground, begging for mercy and me, towering over him, looking down at him, my hands dominantly on my hips.  He was looking straight up at me, his expression a mixture of fear, panic, awe and pain.  I didn't exactly calm his inner turmoil when I told him "I haven't even started with you yet."  His only response was to begin crying.  I wasn't surprised.  Underneath all the macho posturing, all men are just overgrown babies.

I leant over him and stretched out my right hand, curling its fingers around one of his ankles.  I was careful not to crush his fragile bones to powder, but clearly not careful enough to avoid hurting him all together because he gasped in pain immediately.  I stood tall, holding on to his ankle so that his whole body hung upside-down from my hand.  Then I let him just sway there as if he were nothing but a child's floppy doll (although he felt a lot lighter than a doll to me.)

I quickly got bored of the guy swinging from my grip, so I let go and watched him crash down and roll helplessly over the concrete until his head banged the pavement, brining him to a stop.  Walking over to him, I saw a fresh cut on his face.  His eyes were crossed, as if he was having trouble focussing now, but he must've seen me because he blurted out in panic "You're going to kill me!" I didn't bother to either confirm or deny it as I approached him.  I didn't bother to bend down either.  I merely kicked him very, very gently in the stomach.

It was enough to lift him off the concrete for a moment.  Once again, when he landed he went tumbling sideways, the momentum of my little kick carrying him down the street for a while.  Only a brick wall stopped his movement, his flabby backside smashing into it mid-roll.  He wasn't moving much and his breathing sounded terrible - really laboured.  His face was against the pavement and he made no attempt to turn around as I strolled over to him.

I picked him up with one hand on the back of his trousers, lifting him so that his head was slightly above mine.  I held him at arm's length, his back to the wall and used my other hand to press against his chest, pinning him to the bricks.  I could see that my fingers were crushing his lungs so that he couldn't breathe because his face turned blue immediately.  I wasn't even pressing hard!

Taking my hand away I let him slide down the wall until his feet touched the ground.  Even with a brick wall behind him for support, I could see that he no longer had enough strength to stand up by himself.  He would have slumped forwards onto his face if I hadn't stopped him.  I just moved in close to him, using my body to hold his in place, trapping him between myself and the bricks behind him, holding him upright with nothing but my torso.

Of course, pinning him in that way meant I had to lean my chest very lightly against his.  Being a man, he responded in typically primitive fashion to this contact, his heartbeat accelerating, his breathing becoming harsher and a swelling in his groin becoming apparent.  Here he was, too battered, too weak to even stand, and yet I was making him hard just by brushing my nipples against him (through my clothes and his!) I smiled at the pathetic sight of him.

Leaning forwards, I let my breasts press into his chest, his male bone and muscle powerless to do anything but yield to my supposedly soft feminine perfection until I had forced all the precious air from his puny lungs.  I felt his ribs bending beneath my breasts, about to succumb entirely to me.  At the same time I felt his erection that, despite everything, was becoming ever firmer.  He was getting turned on, even as I crushed him!

I confess I was amused by his total inability to resist my "charms" even now after I had hurt him so badly and even as I robbed him of the ability to breathe.  I extended a single finger and used it to tilt his chin upwards so that his eyes were staring straight into mine.  I didn't think he had enough energy to lift his own head.  In fact, looking at his face at that moment, I realised that he would not remain conscious for long.

Playtime was over.  That much was obvious.  Sadly, his pathetic male body just wouldn't survive any more punishment.  I could see he would be passing out at any moment.   "It's been fun. Thanks." I told him before backing off him.   Without my body to lend him the support he desperately needed, he immediately collapsed to the ground.  He was completely unconscious, but at least he could breathe now that my chest was no longer crushing his lungs.

I lifted a strand of my hair from in front of my eye, pushing it behind one ear.  As I did so I noticed that a few splinters from the tree had attached themselves to my shorts.  I brushed them away.  Once I had done that, I was as immaculate as when I had left home that morning.  After all, beating up a man (and knocking over a tree in the process) was never going to be enough to work up a sweat.  I turned my back on the comatose jerk and walked off.


Conceptfan, Nov. 2003.