This is your brain. This is your brain in my headscissor. Any questions?
I SCISSOR
My name is Marissa. I'm 22, blonde, blue eyed and beautiful. I stand 5-9, weigh 140 pounds, lift, run and wrestle, and am rock solid, head to toe as a result. Especially my legs.
Oh, a word about my legs. Don't fuck with them. I'm a scissor queen.
Case in point, or should I say case in legs. I met this guy, Jim, while jogging in the park one day, the guy couldn't stop staring at me as I wore tiny red satin short shorts, tight sports bra, also red, short white socks and sneakers. When I run, my legs get wicked big; the calves, all 17 inches of them, twist into fists of flesh above my socks and my thighs, nearly 30-inches of head-splitting muscle, ripple like a marble statue, my quads bubbling, hamstrings etched hard beneath the tanned flesh.
This loser was tailing me one day, so I sprinted hard and laughed as he struggled to keep up, the scrawny little shit, standing about 5-5, 120 pounds. I darted into a wooded area and waited and when he chugged by, I raced up beside him, startling him.
"Hey, you watching me, pal?" I asked with mocking anger.
"Oh, no, no, not at all, I was just…" he panted, "running the same way…you were…"
"The same direction, not the same way," I growled. "Not with legs like mine, not with those skinny little pipes of yours."
He blushed as we ran. I laughed.
"Name's Marissa, what's yours?"
"Jim," he gasped as I speeded up and he struggled to keep pace.
"What do you do?"
Haltingly, he told me he worked in marketing, specifically for non-profit, drug-abuse fighting groups and he was on the team that concocte the "This is your brain on drugs" commercial with frying eggs in a pan.
"Nice, I like that commercial," I laughed, then added. "Reminds me of my own little message. Wanna hear it?"
"Uh, sure, I guess," he breathed heavily.
I scooted into a stand of trees and Jim followed. I sat on a patch of grass, cross legged, my massive calves flared along my shins and ppatted the ground before me to have him sit theb same way.
"This,"I said, leaning forward to tap his head, "is your brain.
"And this," I said, cupping his head in my hand, spreading my legs wide and hauling his face to my crotch, "is your brain on HEADSCISSORS!!"
I slapped my thighs shut around his ears and locked my socked ankles tightly around each other, suddenly and savagely bridging up off the ground on my hands, putting insane pressure into his skull with my muscle-popping thighs. Jim screamed in agony, his voice muffled in the meaty maw of my iron-braided thighs, his hands shooting to the sides of them trying to pull them apart.
"M…Marissa, stop, please," he gurgled from deep insipde my scissor clamp, only his water eyes and forehead visible in the meaty grip.
"This is my own little message, Jim, a warning to be careful that the legs you stare at could be the legs you find headscissoring!" I growled down into my legs.
I twisted to the side and leaned way up on on arm, arching my back to put a horrendous squeeze on the little fucker's moaning head. His arms flailed helplessly, the rest of his body twitching and thrashing as his head remained pinned in my gargantuan thigh meat.
"Remember, this is your brain," I teased, releasing him only to spin him to face away from me as I reattached my huge thighs to his ears from behind and locking up with brutal power, "and this is your brain IN MY HEADSCISSORS!!"
I punched my stony glutes up, lifting my hard ass off the ground and watching his head disappear in the gory clamp of my mammoth thighs. His hands slipped from the sweaty girth of them as he babbled his submission and then passed out cold, my thighs claiming yet another victim.
I shook my thighs free of his face, peelig the sweaty flesh from them, and stood up, bending to pull up my socks before resuming my run, leaving a snoozing scissor victim sleeping peacefully in the wooded glen.
What can I say? I scissor. It really is that simple.