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A co-worker said to me, “Everybody’s got a broken heart story!” I imagine that they do. I had a lot of trouble getting over mine. You’ll never know how many times I wrote this story, reliving the moments described here. This is a true story. In the interest of my good mental health it’s far past time for me to post this story and delete all copies I have of it and be done with it. Don’t ask me for additional copies, real names or real places. Any mail I receive regarding this story will be ignored and forgotten.

April Fool’s Day of 1981 – “Playing the Fool”

I used to work nights at the hospital. I liked how quiet the hospital was on night shift. With only a few duties to perform, I often read all night long. At the end of night shift would come a beautifully still morning, where I could go downtown and take care of daily business before most people were awake.

The only problem with night shift is not being able to sleep with my girlfriend, Jane. Because her schedule was opposite of mine, she had stayed home all night and would go to work later in the day. The only time I had a chance to be with her was early mornings. I treasured these mornings we had together. My future plans at the time included not only mornings together, but living our lives together.

I walked softly down the hall in the early morning light, trying not to wake my neighbors in the adjacent apartments. I opened the door and threw my coat on a nearby chair. I tiptoed to the bedroom door hoping I could slide quietly into bed with my lover, Jane. As I neared the door, I noticed it was shut. As I stood just outside the door I heard a low sounding noise.

I will never forget what I saw next as I walked into the room. That moment will replay in my head for many years to come.
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I think it was the blood that kept my attention, really. Not that there was so very much of it, but it was quality blood. I mean the image. I’m not explaining this right. I mean amidst the almost three dozen rising welts on her back there were only three slashes that were bleeding. I think they were on purpose. But they were bleeding so well. Not a lot, mind you, but attractively.

You see, the blood was trickling in rivulets from these three lashes and running down her back. The scarlet tracks split and joined and resplit as they made their way to her shapely ass. Just in the small of her back they spread thinly into the fine lines and contours of her skin like a red river delta. And surrounding each gash, was a slight red spattering, where the blood mist flew from the lash had settled.

Where not rising or running red, her skin was pale. It was beyond pale, it was white, like snow or alabaster. Like the little cotton puff clouds on a fair day, her skin was. The contrast was shocking.

She hung there, her knees bent, legs unsupportive. Still conscious, but no longer holding herself up, she hung there by her arms. Almost without will. Her head was bent to her chest, and I could see that the strain on her shoulders was tremendous. Yet she hung as she had been told to before the whipping. The fact that she could relieve the pressure on her shoulders but chose not to was unfathomable. Admirable. (click to read entire story…)

Boy, it’s frustrating. This morning, the unseasonably cold temperature and a filling bladder ganged up on my short sleep cycle to wake me at 6:30. And, after I get up, I can’t get back to bed (not that I was particularly sleepy). So now I have to sit here and watch you not log in. Sigh.

I’ll pass the time somehow. Where was I? Kneeling in front of a tree in a park somewhere, I think. You standing before me, the breeze catching your hair and the airy fabric of your skirt. Concentrate on that for a moment — it could almost lift you away, couldn’t it? Perhaps if you held out those arms and breathed in, holding very still, the wind could just pick you up and steal you away with it.

I’ll have to hold you tighter, then; I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen. You’re feeling the breeze against your skin, tasting it through the stuff of your blouse and skirt, but you’re also feeling my hands on your bared hips, rubbing them gently to keep you warm. (Which works better? The friction of my palms against your skin, or the delirious feeling you get just from knowing my hands are pressed against you?) And, most of all, you feel my eyes.

I return to kissing your stomach, my lips barely moving but gliding across the silken surface of your stomach, painting it as if with camel’s-hair. It is one of the most frightening, ecstatic things I can imagine right now. It is, in fact, the only thing to surpass the delight I feel at sliding my fingertips around the waistband of your underwear, inserting them slightly underneath in order to taste the wonderfully extra-special taboo of your delta and lower hips. (click to read entire story…)

If her front view had been devastating, the view of her back was even more awesome, a wide “V” of rippling muscularity that tapered to her narrow waist as she slowly straightened her arms to reveal the incredible development of her triceps. Then, turning again to face him, she flexed abdominal muscles that stood out in bold relief like a washboard under the curve of her ribs.

“Enjoying the show, little boy?” she asked mockingly. “D’you like big girls? Me, I stand 6’8″ in my bare feet and weigh 265 lbs., all muscle! And I’m still growing!”

Tom tried to swallow, but his mouth was almost completely dry. “You–you’re unbelievable!” he was finally able to croak. “I–I didn’t think it was possible for a girl to have such huge muscles.”

She smiled faintly. “Lots of people think that,” she said softly. “As you can see, they’re wrong. Male hormones aren’t the only reason most men are taller and have bigger upper bodies than women. It’s a matter of genetics. Today only a few women have the genetics to develop muscles like mine, but as more and more women develop themselves physically there will be more of us born every day. Women’s bodies are inherently stronger than men’s; they have to be to be able to bear children. And in time women will have the size and muscle to go with their superior bodies, and then it will be men’s turn to become the weaker sex. And when that happens, we’ll take over and straighten out the mess you men have made of the world.” (click to read entire story…)

The new girl at Central High was the talk of the school from the day she arrived. At only fifteen years old, she was a veritable giantess, towering over six and a half feet in height, and looked like she weighed well over two hundred pounds, although only her broad, powerful shoulders and massive breasts were evident under the loose, high necked sweaters and baggy slacks she invariably wore. Her hands and feet, big even for a girl her size, were half again as large as the most of the boys’, and her dark hair, cut in a short page boy, framed solid, squarish, but strikingly lovely features which, though larger than life, could easily have adorned the cover of any fashion magazine and dispelled any notion that, despite her immense size, she might have been fat.

As luck would have it, she was given a locker right next to Tom’s, and as they exchanged their books after the first of their morning classes, his 5’2″, 110 lb. frame made him feel like a small child as they stood next to each other, his eyes barely reaching to the bulge of her breasts under her loose sweater. Although, like many small boys, he had always been fascinated by taller, bigger girls, he could not help but feel that this girl was far too overwhelming even for his taste. But she seemed not to notice his discomfort as she looked down at him and greeted him with a dazzling smile, “Hi! I’m Angie McPhallon. Looks like we’re going to be neighbors.” (click to read entire story…)