Shapeshifter's blog

Found this while visiting an old online group I'm a member of that's quietened down over the years, it's a very brief scissor story I posted back in 2010 simply titled "Two minute teaser" and was something that at the time just came to me and I wanted to share it. I thought I might as well copy/paste it here since I've never written a blog entry before. I have others there as well I could bring over, but anyway, this was the first one:

It wasn't the fact that the full thickness of his thighs resting purposefully either side of my enveloped head made me deaf to his taunts that pissed me off. It wasn't the sheer futility of my full attempts at escape that pissed me off. Nor was it the way he casually laced his fingers and rested his folded hands behind his head, controlling me with only the prison of his legs that pissed me off. No, of all things, it was his grin, that single, smug expression. To say I was competitive was an understatement, I'd started this match envisioning my shorter opponent enduring nothing but total defeat at what I'd deemed my greater strength and skill, but this single manoeuvre of his had had me trapped and restrained for the past full fifteen minutes. My heated arguing and thrashing had worn me out after the first five minutes of entrapment; I'd rolled, knelt, even stood, trying every means possible to break the grip of his thighs from about me, but each time it ended the same, and right between his thighs I remained. The next five or so had been taken up with sudden and intermittent bursts of escape attempts as my energy returned, each deftly met with a measured dose of his pure skull crushing power as his stifling (though gloriously THICK) thighs went from flesh to marble in the space of a heartbeat, bearing down and draining my pent up reserves. My taps had never been so frantic, he knew this, and this empowered that grin all the more. Made it that much more unbearable.
"I know you give" he'd simply shrug, not relieving the pressure an ounce "That's never a question"
And then there I'd been for the remainder of this quarter hourly lesson in defeat and humility, laid full on my front, the weight of his lower body pressing me into the mat as it spread from my shoulders to my waist. His feet were crossed, the heel of one making its own mark on my flesh, its own red brand of dominance. My arms had grown tired of trying to pry his thighs apart, and lay useless on the mats, resting now from their latest morse-code dance of `I surrender!', the only communication I had as my mouth was misshapen beyond its ability to form words once those living walls began to harden and close. I lay there seeing nothing but his crotch, and beyond that, when he raised his head, his grinning face as he looked down at me.
It seemed he'd never tire, seemed he'd never relinquish this hold….