By Miranda Givings
A young woman finds herself in a tight corner with a dangeous psychopath
"Oh...SHIT!" I exclaimed.
"Well, are you going to do the overtime or do I shave you?"
"Well, Convent Girl, what's it to be. Overtime or...?" The
scalpel was now a hairsbreadth away from my shrinking pussy. If I moved
I could kiss my furry front bottom goodbye.
The thought of 'fun' with her was not something I wanted to contemplate. I was in a locked cupboard with a six-foot, two hundred pound psychopathic lesbian with the sex drive of a nymphomaniac on Viagra. The blade circled my groin. Her sweaty fingers undid my bra and began kneading my boobs. Was I frightened? Does shit stick to a bear's fur? I was a quivering wreck and all the clever remarks in the world were not going to make her stop. Her lips fastened on my neck as she ground her wobbling tummy against my hips.
"Has anyone ever told you how small your titties are?" she
I got the impression that what she considered a 'good little girl'
was someone who shared her idea of 'fun'. I was sure it would make me
feel very, very bad. I had to get out of there. But there was only one
door; she had the key and weighed two hundred pounds — a hundred
and fifty of which were pinning me against the wall.
As soon as I said I regretted it. My bladder regretted it sooner;
but that's another story.
The woman smiled. When I say she smiled I don't want you to get the idea that there was anything remotely friendly or comforting in her smile. It started with her mouth making the shape men make when they catch their best friend in their zipper. Then it widened, and the ends rose in a mask-like grin to reveal a set of teeth that would keep an orthodontist in bridgework for a year. They were large, yellow, chipped and misshapen. They reminded me of nothing so much as a row of disintegrating tombstones praying for dissolution. Looking into her mouth was like looking into Satan's bottom, except that her breath was a lot worse than anything that could conceivably come from his back orifice.
Slowly she withdrew the knife, and with a ponderous slowness that
was calculated to prolong my torture as long as possible, unlocked the
door. I had barely managed to get past her heaving bulk when she clapped
a massive hand on my bottom and squeezed it. Painfully.
That's when I realised that being a woman has its compensations. Had I been a man I'm pretty sure I would now be looking for a job in a Middle-Eastern seraglio.
The moral of this tale is never to be cheeky to a 200lb Lesbian psycho bitch armed with a 12 inch bread knife — particularly inside a small cupboard to which she has the only key.
Author's note: Believe it or not, this story is based on a real event!
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