Chrissy's Seashells
by Mr. Nobody
They easily break.


--This is intended for mature readers and contains explicit, sexually
oriented, violent narrative. Names are totally coincidental. The actions
described herein are not endorsed and would be illegal in just about any
locality. This is fiction, folks, adult-oriented fiction.--

The report wasn't going to improve with another draft, so I emailed it to my
partner in New York. Outside, the sea breeze was cool and blew through my
bedroom window. I packed up my laptop and set it next to the luggage for our
departure the next day. Chrissy was downstairs, straightening up things. I
could hear her in my daughter's bedroom.

Missy visited me for a week and left the day before to return to her mother. I
didn't want to drive her, so Chrissy did it for me. They caught the morning
ferry and drove to a rendezvous point where Missy's mother and her new husband
took them to lunch. Chrissy then had the day to herself.

I had peace and quiet for the first time in a week with no distraction from my
daughter and her au pair. Besides, I knew my ex-wife was dying to meet the
toothsome college girl half our ages who had been tending Missy at my cottage.
I kiddingly told Chrissy before she left to hint out loud about my love-making
prowess, just to rile the nosy woman.

I gave Chrissy seven hundred dollars. She wanted to go shopping on her way
back and spend the night in a motel by herself. At ten the next morning she
returned and showed me her deep appreciation by fucking me in a way that
reminded me how little I knew about sex.

Chrissy bounced off the bed when we were done and pranced around my bedroom in
her panties and short tee-shirt. She gave her signature flex and asked whether
I still found my ex appealing, preening in the mirror and peering at my
reflection from the tops of her doe eyes with that thick-lipped poutiness I
find so intoxicating. I'm well trained to rave about Chrissy, and I always
answer in ways that please her.

Then she went downstairs and began working on Missy's room. I went back to my
report, sitting at my old writing bureau in my undies and staring out my
window at the beautiful coastline beyond.

We fixed sandwiches and ate lunch in the kitchen as Chrissy's feet reached
under the table and teased me between the legs. I grabbed my sweater after
finishing up and started to leave. Chrissy said she would remain excited every
moment I was gone, even if it'd be just a few hours, and then we kissed, the
teenager holding me with her strong arms and moving me about to her advantage.
Then she went back to picking up Missy's things as I drove off.

McMurry Bunker is a concrete box supporting a gun emplacement from World War
II. The gun was removed years ago and much of the structure has fallen away in
the salt air, but a room still stands to provide shelter for beachcombers like
the one I met a year ago. Men like him are harmless. They come and go with the
season, staying clear of tourists and keeping the island's resident teens from
trashing the area with late-night parties, bonfires, and beer cans. Actually,
the locals like these old men. They add color. You see them on the daily
ferries with bags of shells to sell on the mainland at the tourist shops.

The old man stepped into the sunshine with his burlap bag full of shells. He
was ready. I handed him one-hundred dollars that I promised to him earlier in
the week when we talked, and he seemed speechless at this amount of money. The
deal was for him to come back to my cottage and stay for the night. Chrissy
and I would drop him off at McMurry the next day on our way off the island. If
he wanted, we'd take him on the ferry so he could sell his shells on the
mainland.

When I mentioned earlier in the summer that old men like him frequent the
island, Chrissy became insistent on meeting one of them. It was perfectly
clear to me the purpose of her demand, something that became an incessant
reminder every time I was around her. "Don't forget, you promised," she'd say,
tugging on my arm and squeezing it with her hand. She had her ways of
convincing me to do things. By this time in our relationship, especially in
bed, I was unable to resist her methods of persuasion.

Chrissy was out front, waiting for us when we returned. When she saw the old
man, she gushed like a long-lost relative, extending her hand and welcoming
him. "I'm Chrissy. Tom has told you about me, hasn't he?" The old man was
overwhelmed, not sure what to make of all of this, the grand beach cottage,
the pretty teenager, and so on. "You are our guest. So please, please come
in."

She took the bag of shells and set it outside the front entrance. Inside, she
showed him the bathroom where he could shower and then handed him some clothes
that belonged to my father. They were clean, if perhaps a little large for our
guest. His eyes opened wide at the prospect of free clothes. Chrissy showed
him the back porch where he would sleep. I had an old deck couch and she set
out a quilt to cut the cool night air. I suggested before leaving that she
might want to put a sheet on the couch to protect it from stains, and one was
already fitted to the cushions by the time we returned home.

We sat out on the deck in the early evening after our guest had napped a few
hours. I fixed some salmon. The old man didn't seem to know any better, so I
chose a cheap wine. He liked it. Chrissy had bought a pack of cigarets on the
ferry. We don't smoke, but she was correct in guessing that our guest would. I
gave him the pack and he began going through them like bread sticks. The old
man warmed somewhat and thanked us for letting him stay the night.

We learned very little about him. He wasn't terribly conversant. There had
been an accident of sorts and after that his fortunes declined, or so he
seemed to indicate to us in a rambling, evasive way. He told us he had been
homeless for over a decade, visiting the island every year because of the
accepting attitude of the locals and the abundance of pretty shells on the
beach.

Chrissy let the cheap wine get to her and she became more interested in acting
hot than learning about him. She began slapping on the sexy-girl act pretty
thickly. It was obvious her intention to tease our guest, her assumption being
that an old man like this had no sex drive at all and would react to nothing
she did to me in front of him, much like stripping off your clothes and
parading in front of a blind man. I thought her more or less a fool for acting
this way, but, damn, she was seductive.

She stood up from her chair and moved my way past the old man's back. Her
finger dragged across his neck. I heard her purr. Then she sat on my lap and
lowered herself in a hip-twisting way, nibbling on my ear while unbuttoning my
shirt as she smiled at our guest, her fingers tickling the hair on my chest. I
pinched her leg and frowned at her to stop this silliness, but she ignored me.

Perhaps she was correct after all, for our guest seemed to prefer the cigarets
over her!

That night in bed, with the old man outside on the porch snoring so loudly we
could hear him through the open window of our room, Chrissy went for me. She
climbed on top, her ever preferred position, and lowered her face slowly to
mine. Her hands cupped my head and her mouth opened wide as she sealed her
lips against my face as if she wanted to swallow me. She thanked me repeatedly
for bringing the old man to the house. Her tongue was hard and active and she
made me choke several times she was so aggressive with her French delights.

None of this was new, just like a night earlier in the summer when I learned
fully of Chrissy's past.

It was in May. We were a good month into our relationship and I knew full well
by then her ways, her needs. I was familiar, for example, with a type of sex
that necessitated my total subservience to a sexed-up, narcissistic teenager
who had to have rough sex her way or no way. (But, it was good.) At times she
literally frightened me. The fact she was only nineteen seemed to magnify the
contradiction in terms. So young, yet so vicious.

In bed and out, on cue and off, daylight or night-time, I found Chrissy a
difficult person to understand. Something about her repulsed yet fascinated me
at the same time. Away from her I grew rational and wary, but then I began
thinking of how she looked and her magnificent build. I was a sap for college
girls, athletic and muscular college girls, girls with hypersexuality and
unfettered urges to sustain it, girls egocentric in both their physical and
expressive senses, so forward they seem dangerous. So, while away from her I
could just as easily crave Chrissy as dismiss her. I never knew a woman could
actually be like her, insatiable and self-indulgent, often coarse, and so
terrifyingly dominant.

Damned if I didn't try to keep up with her on that May night, but I simply
couldn't. This was a repeat of many nights before. I rolled my head back and
forth in a violent fashion, side to side against my pillow, comically begging
her for mercy. In actuality, I truly was spent. I simply could not keep going.

She sort of liked it that way, bragging how she was strong, pounding on that
theme and describing her turn-on controlling a man. Listening to her in
semi-awe, my powers recouped, and, as if she ordained it from the very
beginning, I found myself coming back and wanting more of her. She did this to
me night after night.

She sat on top, peering down at me. I could see the whites of her teeth in the
darkness, that hedonistic smile of hers. She bent forward and spread out on
me, her arms consuming my skull, her lips lowering, her tongue slapping
against the side of my face and hardening to gouge my ear. I felt her teeth
tug on my lobe and her hot breath as she spoke, speaking in a husky way, a way
that makes you shake knowing the person speaking is still a teenager.

"I break men like you."

Her slippery pelvis began sliding up and down on me, her entire body slowly,
slowly moving until the bed began to gently bang against the wall behind the
headboard.

She repeated herself. "I break Ôem. Like, make Ôem beg...scream."

"Oh, please, stop it!" I showed some impatience with her. She was descending
into another one of her deep zones of arousal and I was not sure I could
handle it. "Chrissy, I can't go on right now." I said nothing more and opened
my eyes into her face, her eyes tightly shut, her grimace growing as she tried
to salvage something from me with her pelvis. I said nothing while I watched
her.

Her jaw tightened and she tensed, grinding on me. It turns her on when they
suffer, she said to me. I jolted at that sentence and tried moving away from
under her, but her arms tightened around me more, her legs slipping under my
body as her mid-section pressed into me with the signal of lower body strength
the magnitude of which I'd never known before.

He cried. So she said.

"He?" I spoke loudly. "HE, Chrissy!?"

There was a handyman. Just last year. She was a counselor at a day camp. She
didn't know the handyman, but she fucked him in the woods away from the camp.
Then she killed him.

She killed a man. Killed him! Killed a man she didn't know. Fucked him and
then killed him. She broke his neck. Something like that.

I watched with disbelief the selfish satisfaction on her face as she felt
herself gaining steam bucking against me, unconcerned by my reaction to her
trivial, "oh, by the way" aside about murdering someone. Her eyes still
closed, she uttered an indulgent "Yessss, oh yessss," while moving against my
body.

I'd like to report that I kicked Chrissy out of my bed, right then and there,
and then out of my high-rise condo. But I didn't. I'd like to report that I
called the police and reported a capital offense.

But I didn't.

I blinked a slow blink to squeeze the sweat from my eyes. The bed was soaked,
the sheets wringing wet. I felt chilled. She opened her eyes and saw the ashen
me beneath her. Her impudent smirk spoke volumes, but all she asked was,
"Like, what's wrong?" and her head cocked left, almost tauntingly, daring me
to answer.

I swallowed. "Chrissy." I swallowed again to capture air. "You killed a man."

Her tongue slithered out and licked the tip of my nose. She snickered while
licking me. She lifted her head high enough to make sure I could see her
entire face as she answered back.

"So?"

I couldn't answer. Any answer would have been lost. Chrissy pulled my head
into her chest and pressed my face so hard against her pectoral cleavage I
could not breathe. I felt her rub almost frantically against me, holding me
fast with powerful arms wanting to twist my head and snap my neck if I
resisted. I'm not sure I felt her this tightly sprung before, and I wasn't
sure I was getting screwed or killed.

I was a husk conveniently in her grasp. She wasn't to be denied. Her head
turned away and stared out in the distance as she concentrated on her pelvic
thrusts, ignoring my silence and forgetting her confession. My body bent under
the force of hers and slid around on the sheets as she worked me, her deep
nasal exhales mixed with the moans of expectancy. Then she reached down and
grabbed my soft penis with one of her hands.

I could not believe that I was becoming erect. She was doing it, yet again.
The girl managed it from me, murder confessional and all. Once satisfied that
I was ready, she mounted.

She sat up again. I could see her face smiling about, but not at me. She
clasped her hands behind her head and tightened her body. I watched her
show-off to the wall. She released her hands and then clasped them again to
work her biceps and her tummy at the same time. She smiled, totally ignoring
me, seemingly satisfied with herself, her lips puckering as if teasing some
reflection in a mirror that wasn't there.

Chrissy pistoned me so hard I was barely able to capture my breath as her
thrusts drove the top of my head into the headboard. There was something
orgiastic about her at this point. My mind swam, spun, tumbled at her display
of total control, the stunning eroticism of the moment, her absolute
self-indulgence. She was indomitable.

I watched a teenager smile smugly and describe some victim she didn't even
know. "That fucker was fun." I felt my penis suddenly stiffen inside of her at
the way she said it, so matter of factly. The sound of her wet vagina
absolutely intoxicated me.

"Keep talking that way!" begging her, overwhelmed by her sensuality. I wanted
to hear this nasty girl go on.

"The way he squealed?" and at her simple question I felt myself expanding
inside of her.

"Yes! Please!" Don't stop! It's driving me nuts!"

She smiled a deeper smile of satisfaction, as if relishing the memories now.
"Oh, yeahhhh, he begged me to stop, beyyyygggged."

I pushed my shoulders into the mattress and arched my back to penetrate her
more deeply. My head rolling back and forth again on my matted pillow, I
screamed, "Gawd, DON'T STOP!"

"Fuckin' eggshell...he broke like a fuckin' eggshell," and she snorted while
laughing, her manner suggesting a chilling teenage indifference that scared
the hell out of me as I drove my steel-hard self deeper into her.

"ChrissssEEEE!!!!" and I released as never before.

She just stared at me twisting and wincing, riding me for the fun of it. My
movements shook her body and flung sweat from her glistening shoulders. I
looked up into a face that was blank with a detachment that preyed on my
weaker impulses. In fifteen short minutes, she had me. Fifteen minutes, and I
went from shocked disbelief to slavish complicity.

I did not sleep at all that night, physically and mentally exhausted as I was.
Nor did I go to work the next day. Something about the daylight sobered me to
the reality of the night before and I preferred to be alone in my study,
pondering my options, waging a war in my mind whether it'd be okay just to
deny what I now knew or go to the police with it instead.

Sensing something unreliable in me, Chrissy didn't leave my condo that day.
She fixed breakfast for herself. I could hear her singing in the kitchen. Then
I heard her in my exercise room, working out, watching television, playing her
CDs on my sound system. If she heard me moving about my home, a door opening,
a toilet flushing, then she appeared to check on me. If I quieted down in my
room, she stayed away. I knew she was watching the light on the telephone to
see if I made a call. At two in the afternoon I woke from what must have been
a doze on the leather couch next to my desk in my study. There stood Chrissy,
gazing down at me, wearing her familiar panties and tee-shirt.

She stood there fingering herself, her head cocked sideways, her jaw hanging
in a lazy, naughty way, her jaw rocking to the rhythm of her hand under the
elastic of her panties.

"Oh Chrissy, not again."

But, she kept at it because she knew she could get to me. I watched her slowly
build it, slowly increase the tempo, slowly spread her feet apart and lift up
to flex her shapely legs for me, slowly sashaying like someone hungry for
more, hankering for something that had to be delivered to her, like pizza. Her
eyes fired up as she watched how she made the tent of my shorts grow so tall
from seemingly nothing, her smile making way to a pucker of her thick lips as
her fingers became more active inside herself. It was unmistakably clear to
both of us that I was ready for her yet again.

Chrissy dropped to her knees, waddling across my expensive carpet with one
hand still in her panties, her head lowering, her free hand pulling at my
shorts, and her head making a soft landing as her mouth took in all of me. I
could not help myself if my hand reached for her curly hair and took a ride on
her bobbing head while the other hand stroked the nice muscles that rolled on
her upper back as she became more invested in her suction...

...the old man was asleep when I went downstairs to the kitchen at about eight
o'clock in the morning to pour some coffee. Chrissy had set the timer the
night before. She slept. She liked staying up late, sleeping late.

I waited with a good novel for her to come downstairs, and, when she did at
nine-thirty, it was evident this day would be all hers and hers alone. Gone
was the youthful grungy look, the baggy shirt, the running pants. Instead, she
wore a sun dress that made my heart palpitate as she walked past me and my
book. She stopped at the door to the kitchen and let me stare at her for a
moment, her face examining the swinging door as if it really mattered to her
one whit, her head turning back with that "Sure you're ready for me?" look on
her face. She let my eyes travel up and down her body, from the leather
sandals strapped across her vascular insteps to the defiance of her unruly
hair.

Soon the sound and smell of crackling bacon wafted through the swinging door.
I heard two voices, then the flushing of a toilet. Our guest was up and
chatting with Chrissy as she fixed breakfast.

We sat in the kitchen, our guest at the head of the table, me to his left and
Chrissy opposite of me on his right. She made many trips from the table, to
get more coffee, to fry up more eggs, and to clean off a few dishes. I tried
to remain faithful to my guest, but I couldn't ignore Chrissy. She was simply
too much to avoid, the situation almost laughable in the way the old man
remained oblivious to her appearance. A blind man would stare at her, she
seemed that good to me.

It's the way she sometimes walks, and stands. Maybe orthopedists have a term
for it, but she uses the balls of her feet when she walks, an admittedly
unfeminine way of moving about, more like an adolescent than the nineteen year
old woman she is. But it shows off the leg development. Standing there at the
sink, staring out the window and listening into our conversation at the table,
her calves naturally flexed for me as she lifted up, so God-awfully muscular,
her skin stretching paper thin over magnificently sculpted brawn, the backs of
her legs pronouncedly vascular.

She grew up up-state, far north of New York, in a small town where the
pastimes were those of her older brothers: rowing (mostly kayaking) and
speed-skating. It's unappreciated by most mortals, that admixture of
high-octane Scandinavian genes and a life of full-bore physical activity, but
a life of sports, of working out, of competing and overtaking the big
brothers, does magic for a young woman's body.

I romanced her legs as she stood there, drinking in the power she packs from
her waist on down, from her industrial-strength glutes that thrust past the
competition in skating, to the breath-taking development in her thighs that
scull across the finish line, to those singular calves of hers, both of them
shaped and sized like Greek statuary.

Above her small waist, a broad back with impressive trap muscles at the base
of her neck, her rower's shoulders of a width you don't typically see on
girls, the straps of her sun dress sliding towards the base of her traps from
the curvature of her deltoids, deltoids often deliciously oozing themselves
out of the short-sleeves of the tight tee-shirts she likes wearing, oozing
like greasy ointment oozing out of a tube, now taking a deep breath and
expanding, blocking the sun and throwing a shadow across my kitchen table.

Her hair, all thickish and nasty, and her face, a kind of well-scrubbed look,
lacking in classical features but packing the ammunition of an explosive
sensuality on the order of the proverbial girl next door swinging on her
porch, her lusty stare when you come home from work enough to make you
reconsider going into your own home that night. Yes, that kind of face.

The old man sat in one of the Shaker high-backs around my kitchen table. At
the top of each chair's back are simple finials, or knobs. Each chair has a
basket woven-type seat. Uncomfortable, yes, but faithful to those who like
such furniture.

She stood at his rear and I knew it was time. He spoke about something very
inconsequential and Chrissy waited with a baleful look until he finished his
sentence and his coffee.

I pushed away from the table and turned my chair to the right, perhaps a
signal to my guest that I was finished with my breakfast. In reality, I was
readying myself to watch him die.

She grabbed the two finials and tipped his chair backwards, herself stepping
backwards to make room for the travel of his chair, his face clearly confused
by the falling movement. She held the two finials and spread her legs widely,
lifting one foot off the floor to mount his face. She closed down quickly with
her thighs.

Imagine the pressure she brought to bear on this poor man, so quickly, so
completely, so suddenly incapacitating him that there was little he could do
but wave his hands and grab at the region where his head once was, finding
nothing but hard, muscular legs. She opened slightly to adjust, to take in
more of him, to move forward on his head, holding tightly the finials and
shifting herself to increase purchase on him, pressing her quadriceps against
his shoulders, his entire head caught by her legs under the short sun dress.

He looked like a man on his back in a wheelbarrow, a wheelbarrow pushed by a
muscular teen-aged girl with a toying giggle about herself and a cocky,
impudent smile on her face, a clear sense in her expression that she wanted to
hurt this old man and hurt him badly. I sat there, my knuckles white from
gripping the sides of my Shaker chair's seat, trying to keep in control and
not vibrate too much or yelp some cheerleader's chant. The imagery was nearly
overpowering as I watched my girl bear down, powering into it with a relaxed,
almost blase, look on her face as if everything was so perfect now, ready for
her to torque down and crush this fucker.

I doubted if the the physics of the situation would have allowed that, but if
Chrissy accomplished anything with her grip on the old man, she surely cut off
his ability to breathe, because all I could do was look the other way as she
made him convulse and spasm from the complete lack of oxygen, his legs kicking
sickeningly at my Shaker table, random and futile in their ability to gain
traction with the lower portion of the chair between his legs and blocking any
meaningful position he could achieve. Had he tried rolling left or right to
work his way out of the chair, a doubtful maneuver given his angle of repose,
the weight of his rolling body would have broken his neck, Chrissy's leg grip
being that total, that convincing.

She let go of the finials and the back of the chair dropped to the floor, the
old man hanging by his head from her bear-trap legs, his face looking up into
her crotch, her unseen adductors kneading him, working his face and skull, his
skin growing slippery from her panty-less crotch sweating underneath her sun
dress, her legs pulling on his head by squeezing it, a lateral pull formed by
the rock-hard curvature of her thigh interiors rolling on him like an old
fashioned crank wringer on a tub-type washing machine. Slowly but surely, her
legs gained traction on the skull, slowly but surely milimetering their way
down his face towards his neck, slowly but surely chewing on this man until
her legs would begin stretching his neck and the spinal column inside of it.

I was light-headed now. Not sick to my stomach, but clearly breathless.
Nothing could have prepared me for this kind of abuse, no amount of boasting
while making love to me on a humid summer's night, no amount of bragging how
much fun it is to break a man, no amount of self-worship describing the feel
of pulling someone apart with your really muscular, really strong, really sexy
legs. Nothing. I had to experience the rawness firsthand to comprehend her to
the fullest, to make sense of her nonchalant approach to treating a weak old
man so cruelly. Her expressions said nothing, but everything. They varied from
a cold, mechanical application of strength to a playfulness that chilled my
spine as she opened her mouth and let it dance to the syncopation of her
thighs tightening on his head.

I watched in disbelief her presence of mind to tease me. Something in her
brain allowed her to partition parallel themes. One had her in command of
positions and grips and movements and abusive pressures that tortured this man
unmercifully. Another had her studying how sexy her body looked as she hurt
him, how it performed, from her glances down her legs to her occasional peeks
at her strong wrists and forearms. And, the other part entertained me with
mind-blowing snap-shots, each picture inviting me on a ride that seared my
simple, unpartitioned brain.

I sat there a sweaty, shivering man, in complete capture as Chrissy had her
way with not one, but two, men. She peered down her left side to watch her leg
flex and torsion her victim. She had to move her left arm out of her way to do
this, so she moved it slightly to her rear. This rolled her left shoulder and
threw forward her chest. As her back arched, it bent her body in an
unbelievable display of physical flexibility, her front convexing, her back
concaving.

Her shapely bubble-butt, one of those heavenly creations of hard orbed beauty,
created an incomparable shelf of gluteal development as it jutted from her
backside. My loins filled with pressure as her butt kept pushing out, as she
giggled while bending her body this way for me, as she watched down her side
while doing this, as her eyes darted to my face with her mouth open again and
her husky grunt of cockiness blowing past me like a steamy, tropical wind.
"Ooh! Ooh!" her sexy squeaks of teasing superiority mixing with her
self-assured exhales, "Mmmmph. Mmmmmphhhh!"

The side of her thigh spread as she pressed against his skull. She dipped,
bending at her knees, lowering herself. Flexing her calves, she lifted her
heels off the floor and the entire weight of her body and part of his
converged on the tippy-toes of her powerful feet. She went up and down this
way, up and down, dipping and then standing, exaggerating the movement further
by dipping lower and bending her body like an "S", then standing erectly
before dipping lower again, her movements abusing, her movements
disrespecting, her movements stressing the old man's neck beyond
comprehension.

I watched her contortions slide her tight sun dress up on her glutes, her arms
reaching up to the ceiling to pull on the dress straps until her butt was
nearly exposed, as well as her dark bush. My naked eyes could now witness a
grown man's neck disappearing into a vortex of sweaty pubic hair and muscular
legs. From the mind-boggling rocking undulation of his shoulders and the
almost imperceptible rise and fall of his middle back, I could tell Chrissy
was chewing him to death with her legs, and loving every bite she took.

The loose, lightweight nylon of my running shorts placed no restriction on me,
so my erection slid easily out the pant leg of my shorts for Chrissy to see. I
watched her pursing lips spread away for the tip of her tongue as she licked
the corner of her mouth and then her upper teeth. She brought her hand to her
cheek and rubbed her face until her mouth and tongue moved in aroused
anticipation of my erection, her hand making a fist and her mouth biting down
on it, sucking on her fist as she grew more excited from the engorged, purple
head peeking at her from my shorts.

Chrissy bent over in a sudden motion, her back completely parallel to the
floor and her head tilting up to stare at me as she did this. Her butt jutted
further to her rear and she smiled as I watched her. With her arms hanging as
if she were about to do a dead-lift with a set of barbells, she reached down
and gripped the sides of the chair's back to lift the chair until it met the
old man's back.

I watched her spread apart her feet in order to open her legs and loosen the
grip on his head. His head dropped with a plunge, his back now slumping into
the back of the chair, her elbows pointing out as she held the chair in
suspension off the floor. I couldn't tell if he was dead. His chest and her
legs obscured his face. His arms hung like a corpse's on a hospital gurney.
His legs were lifeless and sloped away meaninglessly from the lower portion of
the chair.

Chrissy lowered the chair to the point where her calves could capture his
neck, shuffling her feet to the proper position and then clamping on, letting
the back of the chair fall to the floor again. The old man more or less lay
there, his back flat on the chair, excepting that portion sloping down from
the ligature of her lower legs. She stood up and stared at the wall of the
kitchen as if about to take instructions from a panel of judges wishing to see
her technique. Her face was without feeling, as if, in killing contests like
this one, expressions of emotion, anger or pleasure, are forbidden.

I stared at Chrissy's lower legs, riveted to them, ignoring her face.
Sometimes in theatre lines in the city I do the same. I stand to her rear and
look down her legs to increase the angle of sight and soak up the expansive
terrain, an amazing thing to see when someone has legs as muscular as hers
are. When I do this, she loves to look ahead and speak out loud, asking me to
describe her legs to her, caring less if others hear her. She might ask if I
did this with her ex, if I got as erect then as I do now. "Huh, Tommy,"
calling me by my mother's infantile usage, "You ever stare down her legs like
this?" as she rolls forward on her toes to expand her calves. From this angle
they seem twice the size of my ex's pipe-cleaner legs, her back and shoulders
dwarfing the narrow, sloping silhouette of my former wife's physique. In bed
Chrissy gets on her back and has me walk on my knees to her butt as she lifts
her legs and places the backs of her calves flat to my chest, her feet
climbing to my shoulders and clasping behind my neck with her toes playing
with my hair. My hands slide up and down her legs, feeling the width of her
vascular shins, my Chrissy so seductively rugged and athletic, her vertical
thighs massaging my erection.

I watched Chrissy's calves against that poor man's neck that morning. It was
the end of him. Tanned, thick, large legs that dwarfed the pale, weak,
pencil-necked man. I watched a girl with legs more powerful than my own, with
the physical capacity to crush a man for fun, crushing a handyman a year
earlier by driving her bare heel into his skull, giggling with each hit,
watching her leg deliver each hit and then feeling her vagina sting at the
sight of his head, bragging about it a year later while making love to me--I
watched those legs move in on the man's neck as her feet wiggled closer to
each other on the wooden floor of my kitchen.

I watched her right calf, farthest from me, remain stationary as her left leg
slid up the side of his head. The toes of her sandal dragged on the flooring
as her heel lifted. She kept pressing her leg against his head to maintain a
hold on him, her leg moving past his cheek, beyond his temple, to the side of
his head near the top where the leverage would be most advantageous for her
and disadvantageous for him.

I watched her stationary calf act as the fulcrum and her other leg press
against his head. Chrissy pointed her lifting foot, flexing it, her instep
stretching the velcro strap of her sandal, stretching, stretching until the
strap popped open and her sandal slid down and dangled from her flexed toes. I
watched my girl let the sandal swing a tad before straightening her toes and
allowing the footwear to drop to the floor.

I watched her return to the main event, bending his neck with her leg, bowing
it, literally wrapping it around her stationary calf.

I watched Chrissy break the neck.

The distortion was difficult to accept and difficult to believe. The power in
her legs staggered me, almost impossible to fathom. She clipped the toes of
her bare foot behind the Achille's Heel of her stationary leg for anchorage.
With that positioning complete, it was simply a matter of scissoring the man
by pressing against his head and listening to his neck pop.

"Mmmmphhhh..." and I listened to her, her nostrils flaring with sexual
pleasure, her leg feeling the old man's neck completely fail. "Oh, fuckkkk,
yessss," she let out in a deep, rumbling exhale. I watched her begin to shove
his head more vigorously now, shoving him with malice, snarling, staring
unmovingly at that wall, tearing an old man's neck with her muscular legs,
getting rough with it, curling her upper lip, getting off at the sensation of
something ripping in her grip.

At her wince of exertion, her earthy smugness spreading across her face, I
released down my leg. I looked at Chrissy towering above me, her shoulders so
broad, her fists on her hips, her leg pushing a man's head, her look at the
twisted neck an unfazed look that gave me the shivers; her head jolting to the
movements of her calf, shoving the skull, working my cock with each thrust,
watching my semen, her leg stretching the bluish skin of his neck, working my
cock with her athletic good looks; her face a confident face, working my cock
with her relentlessness and her tongue pushing on the inside of her cheek,
monitoring his deformation with a cursory, almost dismissive, glance; her face
urging her brawny leg, bemused how easily his neck pulled apart inside...

...I was relieved she didn't break my chair killing him, more relieved his
feet didn't scar the edge of the table when he kicked it early on. There was
little mess to clean. The smell of urine was pungent, but his release stayed
pretty much confined to his pants. There was some blood, but mostly it
remained on Chrissy's legs from what appeared to be his nose breaking early in
the compression she applied to him and from the inevitable smearing when she
broke his neck between her calves.

Chrissy left him for me to tend. She stood at the sink with one leg propped on
the counter, a wet washrag wiping the inside of her thigh. Then, the other
leg, each time wringing the rag under the the faucet. Chrissy looked back and
over her shoulder as she lifted up her foot to examine the back of her calf
where she had pressed against his skull. Then other calf, looking over her
other shoulder. She saw no more blood.

She stood there, watching me clean up, leaning against the counter and sucking
a popsicle as I mopped the floor with a large wad of paper towels. I then
repeated the procedure, using ammonia to cut the stench of the piss.

She disappeared for a moment and returned with the bag of shells. She set it
on the floor and removed her other sandal, her right heel slowly moving over
the bag.

"No, not in here! No way!"

I stopped her just as she was about to stomp the bag, just as I imagine she
did to that handyman a year earlier. I didn't want the dust of broken shells
or the shards and splinters digging into the soft wooden flooring of my
kitchen.

We spread out the old quilt on the porch floor. Chrissy took his feet and I
took his hands and we carried the body to the quilt. She waddled backwards
with her popsicle tightly held in her lips and resumed sucking on it as I took
the sheet from the couch and placed it over the old man's body. I then folded
the quilt and sheet, wrapping the body, going to the kitchen to get some duct
tape.

"No, wait."

She scampered to the kitchen and returned with the burlap bag, unfolding the
quilt and placing the bag of shells next to the man's head. I then refolded
the quilt and tightly wrapped the package, using the entire roll of tape.

I went upstairs to sit at the foot of my bed swigging brandy from a stainless
steel travel flask. I closed my eyes. I listened. I could hear Chrissy
downstairs, out on the porch. I could hear her stomping the shells inside the
quilt.

I could hear her stomping his head.

I stood at my bedroom window and looked outside as she walked on the balls of
her feet down the sandy path to the shore. So leggy, walking in the soft sand,
the quilt like a feather pillow over her right shoulder. The low sun made
shadows on her leg muscles.

She tossed the body into our dinghy and rowed into the ocean a half mile or
more. She is much better at this than me and her shoulders powered through the
choppy waves, probably enjoying the work-out. The undertow is so deadly at my
part of the peninsula that no one swims the waters. I imagined it taking a day
for the quilt to disappear completely. No one lived at McMurry's Bunker to
report his absence.

I loaded my car. She wanted to fuck before we left and was quite insistent,
but I prevailed upon her it was best to leave just now, as much as she looked
inviting to me. She decided to stay in her sun dress and sat facing me with
her back to the passenger door, her legs stretched across the console and her
feet teasing me much of the way to the ferry.

At the ferry she reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of sweatpants to
stand outside the car without drawing attention to herself, forgetting, it
seems, how exceptional she looks with bare arms, back, and shoulders. Maybe
she didn't forget, for she seemed to enjoy having people staring at her build.
It was dark by the time we reached shore and a long drive yet to New York. We
got a room at a nice motel, the same one she stayed at two nights before. She
wanted a fancy dinner, so I gave it to her.

Chrissy fucked me all night, bragging how easy the old man was, saying he was
more fun in some ways than the handyman the year before. She laughed,
mentioning the quilt, "...I couldn't tell like which was his head and which
was his fuckin' shells!"

I closed my eyes to the sounds of Chrissy enjoying herself. I forgot when it
was I fell asleep.

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