Ripping Yarns
don't mess with fat lesbian psychopathsA close shave
By Miranda Givings

A young woman finds herself in a tight corner with a dangeous psychopath

"Oh...SHIT!" I exclaimed.
There's not a lot else to say when you're a clever, but sexually naive, 19 year-old female locked in a very small cupboard with a very large woman holding a bread knife two inches away from your groin.

"Well, are you going to do the overtime or do I shave you?"
Her voice rasped in my ear. It was a cross between the heavy breathing of a sexual pervert and the bark of a very vicious dog moments before it bites your head off. Only it was not my head that I was worried about. Her hand trembled in a most disconcerting way as the knife edged ever nearer. Her bloodshot eyes were riveted to my groin with an expression of malignant anticipation that can only be described as bladder loosening. Her short, leather skirt was pushed up to expose a pair of enormous thighs that looked as though they could crack coconuts, and probably had. All the time she massaged her horror-sized breasts with her other hand and licked her lips with a tongue that looked like something you've left in the bottom of the fridge too long. I don't know which was worse: the terror of the knife poised to separate me from any chance of a clitoral orgasm, or the rolls of glistening fat that wobbled obscenely before my startled gaze.

"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.
Do I have any other options?" I asked.
"I can cut them off."
"Apart from circumcision I mean?"
She wriggled her hips coquettishly and slid her other hand inside my blouse. "You could drop your knickers and — we could have some fun."

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 rasped excitedly.
"Um - er - no." I replied and struggled to avoid her gaping mouth.
"Still, it's not your titties I'm going to fuck."
"Yeah...unless you'd rather I go down on you?"
"W-w-will you let me go afterwards?" I stammered.
"That depends..."
"On what?"
The bread knife slid menacingly across my midriff. Her mouth twisted into an expression that Hannibal Lector would have been proud of. This was getting very scary. If I clenched my buttocks any more my knickers would fall down.
"Whether you're a good little girl or not."

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.
"So.. let me get this straight. The choice is between circumcision or having sex with you, is it?"
"You forgot the overtime. You can always do the overtime. Of course, if you DO take your knickers off I can't guarantee you won't have to do the overtime. You're a pretty scrawny kid and I'm used to having my fun with real women."
"What if I won't do the overtime or drop my knickers?"

As soon as I said I regretted it. My bladder regretted it sooner; but that's another story.
Her reply was to push the knife into my groin. Not for the first time I thanked the god of lingerie that I had never taken to going commando. There is a lot to be said for a pair of stout cotton bloomers in a tight corner.
"I think I'll do the overtime."
"Good girl"
"Can I go now?"

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.
"I like you. You've got balls".

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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© 2004
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