The Long Squeeze Goodnight

Donnie grabbed hold of the hood, and pulled himself upright. But Carmella had lost the mood for play, it seemed. She planted her palm on the car body, and used it as a springboard, whipping her entire lower body up and off the ground, supported only by her arm. Her legs were steel bars whipping through the air as she kicked. She caught Donnie across the face. He spun sideways, and landed somewhere on the other side of the car where I couldn't see him.

Gary scrambled to his feet then, and there was a flash of metal in his hand. She was standing on the hood of her own car now. He advanced, brandishing his flensing knife. She leaped, turning over in midair. Her hands landed on his shoulders. For a moment he stumbled, surprised, as he bore the weight of her entire body, but then she was behind him, landing like a cat. She'd used him to cartwheel off the car, and flipped behind him, and now he was looking wildly left and right like a putz.

Two swift kicks to the back of his knees, and Gary sank down, groaning and clutching his legs. His knife fell from his hand, forgotten. Carmella had used her left leg for those two flashing kicks, and that leg stayed suspended in the air. Slowly, she lifted it straight up into the air. She had better balance than any tightrope walker -- she stood on the tip of her right toes, and her entire muscled body stayed stock still as she extended her left leg straight up above her. Her crotch -- her muff -- was completely exposed. She seemed not to care.

I don't know what came over me then, but I leaped into action -- the plan had fallen apart, before it could even get properly underway. I had no idea what we were dealing with here -- Carmella was some sort of Amazon ninja warrior, or she knew some Chinese kung fu or something -- but all I could think of right then was that I'd sent my friends into the maw of the beast, and I had to at least try and get them out.

"Hey!" I shouted, angrily, not caring who might be around to hear. "Hey, lady!"

She turned to me then, and my throat went dry. She really was very lovely, even with all those muscles. Especially with those muscles. They looked right on her somehow. I don't think I'm queer or anything, but I have to say, Carmella Keyes's body really gave me a strong ruttish feeling. And her skin had the shimmering luster of a pearl, especially on her round breasts sporting those large dark nipples.

"And who might you be? A peeping tom, at this time of night? Mmm, no," she tilted her head to the side, "I know you. Oh, yes. I saw you in the speakeasy, with the alderman. You're a gumshoe of some kind, ain't ya?"

And just like that, she'd made me. I felt awfully bare, exposed, even though I was the one fully clothed and she was the one as good as buck naked, in that outfit of hers.

"Oh, I can guess what you're after," she chuckled throatily. She posed prettily, in a demure pose, almost coquettish, but utterly without self-consciousness. Her hands wandered slowly all over her front, and her lips parted slightly as she proceeded to touch herself all over, as prostitutes or showgirls do. She moaned as she kneaded her breasts lightly and massaged them in circles, pushing them up and out, and down again. Her fingers traced the lines of her arm and belly muscles. Then her hands went around back to her buttocks, and she thrust her hips out slightly to the back. Her butt and thighs jiggled a bit, but it wasn't fat; not a bit of it. It was all muscle, because one moment the flesh was jiggling, the next it was rock hard, flexed rigid. By this time, her muscles weren't the only things that were hard, if you catch my meaning.

"Sorry to disappoint you boys. But your operation's going to be a bust, I'm afraid. The Boss's package stays with me," she said, drawing herself up and pouting as she posed.

I slipped my hand into my pocket. "I wouldn't be too sure about that, Ms. Keyes," I said as levelly as I could. Out of the corners of my eyes I could see Donnie clambering to his feet on the other side of the car, and Gary standing up shakily, looking around for his knife. "There's three of us, and one of you. Maybe you can do a few tricks. You caught us flat-footed, I'll admit, but I still wouldn't give good odds on you right now."

She just laughed, covering her mouth with her hand and bending over a bit while clutching her stomach theatrically. I pulled my hand out again. I had slipped on my trusty brass knuckles. Done some amateur boxing before, been in a few street scraps. Handled myself well enough. Would be a shame to mar that beautiful face or skin, I thought, but a job was a job. It was time to wrap this up.

Her lip curled in contempt. "What gents you are, treating a lady so nicely," she sniffed, the sarcasm dripping from every word. "Well, Mr. Gumshoe, if you're fixin' to be the alderman's lackey, take your best shot with that toy, then."

And then she just stood there, put her hands behind her head -- which did amazing things to her breasts -- and flexed.

I think she tensed every muscle she had in her body. If I'd thought she was flexing hard before, I was wrong, because now I could see what it looked like when she was really putting effort into it.

"Come on then," she said, as her abdomen undulated like a Romanian belly-dancer's. "Take your best shot."

She meant for me to throw a punch at that perfect belly of hers. I hesitated. I had my brass knucks on. I didn't want to smash her lovely flesh into a pulp. I'd seen how Donnie's kick and knees had bounced off them, but surely they weren't impervious to brass knucks.

"What're you waiting for? If you can make me give up with a punch to my belly, I'll give you the envelope. That's a promise."

Her taunting tipped me over the edge. I adopted a firm fisticuffs stance, shuffled to within striking distance, and threw the hardest punch I'd ever thrown.

Of course, I broke my hand on the wall of her abdominal muscles.

The brass knuckles hurt me far more than they did her. I collapsed, clutching my mangled hand, trying to blink away my tears of pain. A red mark was there, to show where my fist had collided with her belly. That was all the impression I'd made on her. She didn't even gasp.

"That stings," she remarked, as she relaxed her pose and rubbed at the spot. Somehow, I doubted it.

I fumbled inside my trench coat for my revolver. My right hand was useless -- I'd have to try to use it with my left hand. She seemed to divine what I intended, and just as I got it up her right hand flashed out, and clamped around my left hand, forcing me to point the barrel straight up.

Gary came around then, with his knife, limping a little but still game for the fight. More gallant than he ought to have been. Or maybe it was the same stupidity we had, all three of us -- choosing to disbelieve the evidence of our own eyes. We still thought she was just a woman. We were three men, two of us armed, one of us built like a bull. We thought we could take her on.

With her left hand she caught Gary's right as he stabbed at her. One yank, and he was on his knees yet again, clutching at his captive hand. One hard squeeze, and the knife fell again, from his nerveless grasp.

Donnie had come around the car, but now he stood there, sweating bullets as he saw what was happening.

Carmella held Donnie's gaze, as slowly she began to force the revolver to point at my face. I couldn't stop her. My arm was being completely overpowered by hers. Grabbing at her with my injured right hand didn't help much. Kicking at her leg was like kicking at a marble pillar. I tried to twist away from the barrel but it tracked me, relentlessly. I was staring death in the face down the barrel of my own gun.

Donnie took a step forward, but Carmella kicked out with her left leg, and Gary yelled as his kneecap shattered. They say he'll take months to recover, and he'll always have a limp. He was out for the count, rolling around clutching at his leg, crying like a baby. "You bitch," he was sobbing. "My knee. You smashed it. To pieces. You bitch."

She ignored him and stood facing Donnie. Slowly she raised her left arm and flexed it. I couldn't see her muscle too well from where I was kneeling, and frankly at the moment I had other things on my mind. But from the way Donnie swallowed and started trembling, I could tell her flexed arm was putting the terror in him.

Then she giggled, and her breasts began to bounce. She just stood there, in the middle of that parking lot, and performed that feat of muscle control. And why not? To her left, poor old Gary was out of commission; to her right was poor old me, unable to even drop my revolver, struggling like a fly caught in a fly-trap; in front of her was a man twice her size who was afraid to come any closer. Why not perform tit tricks at a time like that? She had us all wrapped around her little finger. Left, right, left, right, she made her bountiful breasts bounce with each twitch of her chest muscles.

And then she released me, but kept hold of my revolver. I clutched at my useless hands. With a push of her thumb, the cylinder fell out, spilling .38 bullets every which way. She tossed the empty weapon at me. It hit me across the face, and I flinched. No use to me now. No use to anyone.

Donnie charged in swinging. His last hurrah. Man went down fighting, at least. She ducked his first wild swing, dodged back from the second, and blocked the third on her forearm with a meaty thwack. Donnie's eyes widened -- his arm must've gone momentarily numb from the impact.

Then her fishnet-clad leg swung up in a perfect arc, slamming into his blocky chin. He went cross-eyed. That strongly-muscled leg hit with the momentum of a wrecking ball, and he went down like a collapsing building. But as he did, she caught hold of his right arm, in some kind of wrestling hold, and when he was flat on his stomach she held onto it.

Looking me in the eye, she snapped Donnie's arm as if it were a twig.

I'll remember that sound for the rest of my life. When I close my eyes at night, I can still hear Donnie's scream piercing the night, Gary sobbing like a child. I can hear the rush of blood in my ears as she approached, holding Gary's knife out to me, handle first, with her other hand on her curvy hip and a smirk on her lips.

I'll always remember how I looked up at her, weeping, and shook my head, refusing to take the knife. She'd beaten us, crushed us. Utterly. There was no fight left in any of us that night.

And then she... she lay down on her back, and...

She took hold of my head, and guided it in between her legs. The jaws of death were her leg muscles closing about my face, the silence of the grave was her leg muscles shutting out sound around my ears. She gave me the long squeeze goodnight, with her legs. My face was plastered against her muff, but after a while my vision was a few silvery sparks on a dark background, right before I blacked out. Like stars in the night sky. Diamonds on black velvet.

There you have it. I was squeezed into oblivion between the legs of Carmella Keyes. And it'll be a cold day in Hell before I tangle with her again.