In honor of Bach1369, my inspiration and the most refined of scissor connoisseurs. And in perpetual adoration of UK Steve, the immortal Scissor Daemon.

Copyright Notice:  These stories are copyrighted and may not be reprinted, copied, distributed, or altered without the express written consent of the author. Thank you.

When at the fatal moment the gradual action of scissorlocking legs around my body went from simple immobilizing pressure to more complicated breath-taking constriction, to unexpected... inexorable... frightening... physical intrusion beyond the trigger point of my most agonized wish for it all to stop right now, oh please, oh please... When I now only had barely a wheezing "okay, okay..." in answer to the domineering words: "Give? Give? You give up? I got you, dude! Need more of it? Give..?"

Wake up! We had been hiking up Mt. Lafayette, gangling our way on a mountain climbing diversion to whatever else hucked our carcasses over the cliff of our wired up lives. Awesome beautiful from a distance, the White Mountains are inviting but historically they are occasional maulers. These peaks had always been a familiar feature of our childhood. For sure, they appeared safe enough for us 16-year-olds. After all, we were young guys, raw summertime-job loggers, rowdydowdy kickers of ass after weekend movies when the Vermont boys from over the river wanted to fight. Wannit, you asshole? New Hampshire, be proud. We were tough and full of it.

All of us jabbered about girls. Duh! A couple of these jerks were too youngish to even know whatever to rave about. (You handjob, Bobby.) Our teenage hormones were so thick in the air that it was a touchable substance. Being with these guys turned me on. I thought one or another of these simpletons was actually maybe like me. Could I find a clue in someone’s boy-man, soft- hard, sweet-sneering, open-forbidding face? Wishful thinking. And here I was, troubling myself with manly exertions to get even stronger and taller—yet the wish didn’t go away. Hot swelling manias bowled me over day and night. No regrets. And damnit, I’d probably have pimples forever, too. Fuck it. The outwardly real but yet imaginary adolescent tease game. Dangerous to be labelled a faggot. But anyway at least on the surface, I was a similar enigma. I was like them too: a confused and untried kid with an attitude. Yeah, like them.

Like Brad, God’s super-cool gift to women (oh, sure thing!)— Hey, big boy. Yeah you, Mister Wanna-suck-it. In your dreams, you reeking ass-wipe! Brad was always testing leggy boa constrictor holds on me in so-called "practice" for the jock-rot high school wrestling team. He had legs like humongous German sausages all bundled together with duct tape. I still hear what he fagged out of me: "I give, I give, goddamnit!" Christ, what roiling Atlantic waves of fishy, flexy muscle.

And also like Sean the Indian Boy—Sean’s hairless body was made of catgut and beefjerky. He could still any time be Thanksgiving dinner for my tongue. I cannot forget the time in the pines after smoking Jamaican pot when he threw me down against all my willing and announced that then and there we were indian wrestling, and subsequently laughed at my tears, because he didn't know that his forever-hard scissorlock was killing me to death. Screw you, Rasta bitch!

But I was even like Bobby the Dinkleberry—Yeah right, Bobby, you. The kum-kiddie with the pearl-handled hands. Get scissored by this little idiot and you might initially laugh at what you thought was just a kid’s antics at squeezing you. Too bad; he was only getting set. And set, his legs kept closing in on you; and when in surprised consternation you reached to push at those legs, you touched touchingly youthful muscular earnestness that didn’t stop. The swelling outsides of those legs turned into flat- slabbed walls of treacherous anatomy. Having to submit to young Bobbie was particularly humiliating. "Check it out, big man!" he’d crow. Okay, Bobby, smell my fingers, robo-cock!

I would never have admitted to any of these dudes that when I lay myself down to sleep alone at home, I blew it all off inside a shag-rag sock while dreaming of a guy's legs squeezing the final hell out of me. His sadistic crushing. My ecstatic submission. Solitary passion’s inner eye always scanning for the ideal image in the right photogenic perspective. On the following day, I led two lives. Peeping eyes in public places. Wanna fight?

On a lark, this bunch of us buddies had decided to slog up the Greenleaf Trail, setting out to haul our asses up to the halfway hut and on from there all the way to Lafayette’s stark, stony summit. We carried our faded old packs. We had our sandwich lunches and water containers. A happy band of brothers. With no underwear, I was getting a lot of crotch chaff from my stupid shorts. Hours to go—fuckin-A. For a while the ascent was easy enough. And the virginal trees, the intense greens of mosses and ferns, the greys and pinks of the granite were awesome.

Banter, jokes, mock wimpy flake outs, smoke breaks, piss stops. At a higher point, the trail became rocky and wet; it was risky in the steeper places. God, was it beautiful, though. Whatever degree of raggedy-ass shoes we were shod in proved inadequate. I didn’t give a shit; squishy, fragged sneakers were all part of the novelty. I soon felt my exhaustion and looked back to see the others lagging even more. We zombied on up, slog- slog, step-by-step.

We had gotten way beyond civilization, up here. So I was shocked when growing firm breathing and the sudden confident strides of a stranger came upon us from below. At first sight of him my mind went into slow-motion record mode. Along came a dude with long wavy blond hair, bandana, checked shirt, watch on one wrist, a tennis sweat band on the other, jean cut-offs, and purposeful hiking boots. Loaded on his back was an impossibly huge framepack racked up with food cartons. Like, one full box was factory-labelled Campbell Soup, Chicken Noodle.

He smiled at us. Time stopped. He greeted us,"Hi, fellas." Sunlight suddenly shone in the gloom of our forest trail. His legs paralyzed my eyes. The light played reflections off the multiple angles of milling grooves and striations and rolling sinews—the sun-bronzed skin shape-shifting like a way-crazy ad for an exotic butcher shop.

You see this vigorous strength, this healthy radiance; and you think of a Paleolithic hunter of bison. Man in his fullness as nature designed him to be. Every perfection of shape honed by indeterminate superlative effort. You shrink from the bigger than life physicality and go dumb the way people do up close to, like, a pro football star. You back off the trail just to get out of the way of his aura. He was gone.

I freaked.

The others behind me had stopped. Someone cracked a short laugh. I looked back and laughed, too. Dude! Phew, what was that? Fuckin-A. Oh ho ho! Awesome. "He’s a survivalist with the munchies." (Shut up, Bobby, you fart stain.) What was up there? The Olympic Games or something?

We reached the climate-worn hut and learned that there were college guys who worked as hutboys in the summer mountain climbing season. Their job was to tote loads of food and supplies up the mountain. Cook for hikers, maintain the overnight sleeping quarters, guide people, rescue them if they got into trouble. We were informed that the hearty meal we were eating had all been brought up the mountain side by such hutboys. We said we were passed by one of these guys on the way up, and they said, "Oh sure, that was Lonny. His turn today. Great guy. Great. The bestest." A kickin bunch of dudes.

We ate in silence. The whole time, we never saw that particular hutboy. An hour later, we trekked through scrub pine alleys and blueberry meadows, and mounted Lafayette's alpine top. Just a lot of rocks. Fuck that. The view spaced us out, though, getting right in the face of five visible states.

My pals hooted and hollered with relief at finally cresting the top. The little rats, they all succeeded in stretching and rolling their stinking arms, while of course incorrigibly managing to flex their legs all over the place. Nice reward for my efforts. Made me recklessly pissed.

I began messing around with Sean, grabbing him around the chest. He pushed me off; then he lunged for me and got me in a headlock. Intense. I heard my neck bones cracking. Then he shoved me away again. (Get atta here, punk.) He was like a car suspension spring; not much you could do to him.

Of course Brad had to make his own contribution. Jeeze.

"I know what you need," he said. He muckled me down. Bam. In an instant I was in his scissors. The bastardly hunk began to have his fun. Squeeze, squeeze, release, squeeze, squeeze, release. (These damn quick releases made my ribs snap back painfully. A pisser. Mr. Super Cool didn’t seem to care.) Squeeze, release, squeeze, hold, more hold, and then as hard as he could. He thought it all would be cute to keep up the torture. I couldn’t take anymore of the stinking sweat-box dimwit.

"Coming up next on Animal Planet," he intoned in a phony announcer’s voice, "we’re travelling to the Amazon where rare, sexy anacondas coil around wild giant rats and eat them all squished up like mashed potatoes. We got a specimen right here. More in a moment..." Then—mean shithead that he was—he mashed me extra bad to make his supposed TV Special specifically special.

"We gotta get... ahh... down... Aah... before it gets too dark... Aaahhh..." Brad released his scissorlock. At least one of us booyah boys needed to take responsibility for nudging us down to the valley. (And back to the bum trip of having to explain ourselves to the adults: Mom! Yo! We’re home, Ma. Here’s the car, just like you left it. Okay?) If this wild bunch could have left trash, they would have. Soon enough, we plodded down the mountain. And that was that.

* * *

You spend the summer being horny and being with guys who obviously won't "do it" with you, and you get tired of just beating off. That’s what I had been thinking about while driving the family farm truck back up from running a load to a down-state grocery wholesaler. Between the persistent hop-skip action of the truck and my too-tight jean crotch, I was feeling warmly, warmly uncomfortable. The faithful road brought me rolling past the mountain trailhead us guys had taken three weeks before. There were always tourists in this area, and sure enough somebody was hitchhiking. Would I slow down and stop? What the hell.

It was The Hutboy.

I freaked.

I heard the thunk of his tall backpack chucked over into the cargo bed, and he slung open the passenger door and hopped up into the seat like a wriggling happy puppy. He beamed at me.

"Thanks! You going to Franconia?" he asked.

No one could have turned him down. A friendly grin, ready with humor. Haunting grey eyes with penetrating black pupils. Wavy blond hair that curved both sides down around his face—a tender, fresh face that was darkly handsome. A cool attitude. God, where did someone like this come from?

"Yeah", I said.

"Great! Thanks, buddy."

I didn’t know how to act. I drove back onto the pavement, rampaging through the gears. Poor truck. I settled her up at 10 mph over the posted limit and then pushed back in the seat. Playing it cool, like a dingdong.

Inside, I was a bag of stoned out energy that was zinging all over my body. I didn’t want to tell him that I had seen him going up the trail. It would have been an admission. No, I wanted to be new to him and maybe start out like this was all spontaneous. Yeah right, like it made a dent in his life whatsoever. Fuck this.

We got to talking in a natural way. His summer on the mountain was over. (Do you guys really get paid for doing that?) Tomorrow he planned to hitchhike an hour down the road to college. Had a tent and sleeping bag for an overnight in somebody’s hayfield.

"Stay at the farm. There’s room," I said. Well of course there was. I would have erected a palace for him, constructed out of my own bones.

The old homestead. Family and farm helpers were used to the fact that I was 16. They were relieved that I had moved out of the house and into my "office" that I’d carpentered as a livingroom/ bedroom with bathroom in old Barn #3. Now who cared about my attitude or who I had over and how loud and crazy it got? Moo to you, folks.

Lonny dumped his pack on the floor. He wanted to clean up, take a shower, change clothes, and all that. I would, too. (Sure, end of the work day, man.)

Oh yeah, for sure he certainty maybe needed to be carefully demonstrated where the bathroom was and how it worked, how the water turned on and where the towels were. Soap? Sure thing, buddy.

Me brash, him taking it natural, I whipped off my tee-shirt, kicked off the ratty sneakers and dropped trou. No problem here. He ravelled agile fingers down to the final unbuttoning of his shirt. Me with peeping eyes... He was way-lean. His chest was muscle-feathered, ridgy bronze. His shoulders were waterfalls. His biceps danced. His forearms jumped around so much I couldn’t keep up. Shit. A killer.

"You first?" he offered. The shower.

"No, you’re the guest. I’ll wait and go in in a sec," I replied.

His cut-offs dropped down. (Underwear off too, please? Not yet, damnit.) Then the subtle whiff of his body, the hint of hard exercise mixed with the wood scent of campfires and spruce scrub. Now the full view of those legs close up. Swelling contours within an arm’s length. So odd—his rugged outdoor skin in contrast to the pale, veiny delicacy of private skin which his faithful climbing shorts had shaded all summer...

I freaked.

I guess I was staring. I was shocked when he asked me if I liked his legs. (Huh? God... lay with me, please... just let me touch...) But at the same time I was pissed, or insulted, or something. (Wanna fight?) Whatever. Unlike adults, 16-year- olds don’t have committees in their heads. They have Congress along with all the lobbyists. That is why there can be strange decisions in the lives of teenagers.

"What?" I said. (Was this guy a queer?)

"You like what I look like?" he asked. (Was he hitting on me?)

Yet my eyes shot up to search for The Clue. I was a blob of burning model airplane glue.

"Yeah," I said, "your legs.... Your legs; they’re awesome."

"Look", he said. He flexed. Swelling heat rose in my face. I got lost... Maybe I leaned closer. He shifted stance and turned full on, flexing again. Vee-shaped body with an hour-glass waist. He did an about-face and lifted up on his toes. Those calves. Dead stoned.

I freaked.

"Come here," he said. "I want to show you something."

He was all-wheel-drive, pulling me along. It was the first time we had touched. His hands were larger than mine, calloused and strong. I was shocked at the sensation of being drawn into my own room by somebody else. Continuing to grasp my hand, he flopped onto my bed and sidled himself to the far side.

"I just want to try something," he said. "I’ve been climbing all summer and I want to know how strong my legs have gotten. Don’t worry, I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to test them on somebody. Let me just squeeze you a bit, okay?"

A reasonable request. (Maybe not a queer, after all.) Absolutely no sign of noticing my hard-on. Maybe he didn’t even notice the stench of my reeking summer-long pile of tee- shirts thrown consecutively in the corner, either. (Shit, what about the telltale cum-wad socks under here?) Still gripping me, he tumbled me down sideways into his waiting legs.

I freaked.

"Sure," I said. I looked. Those solid thighs. The wiry sweep. The hairs of his legs at the thickest part chafed by his cut-offs to mere stubble from months of way-cool mountain activities. The taut skin was glossy-moist. And yeah, these were the iron muscles that I had seen powering along up the trail. Totally far- out. The hard-up kickin evidence of summer-long development.

With impulsive abandon I reached to feel them. Unbelievable. Like touching a piece of burnished oak. Or now tracing the contours of a Greek statue. These were the sort of legs that I had seen only in the most blown-away drop-dead wet dream. Scissor fantasy’s perfect cum-making machines.

Yes! And in a belly-fluttering millisecond from now the whole of it would—

He did it. Hardness, rockness. Immediate. Thewy. Brawny. Pressing, compressing, invading, and... Whoof ! (God, his calm power—my God, the sound of my Whoof!)

Bitchin sensory overload. Too fast for my scissor fantasies to calibrate with the reality. Friggin clinical shock. (Stupid Sean’s voice in my head saying, "Right now you’re no better than an empty returnable bottle with a ten cent return value for a road ditch scavenger... ") It wasn’t that I didn’t want to remember all this; it’s just that my scissorlock-whipoff mental movie theater was empty, closed for repairs—No show tonight. (Why now?) Because it was excruciating beyond whim?

"Feel it?" he said.

I felt unstoppable stacked weight pressing down into me. I worried about the stacker. The strain of this burden effortlessly hiked up. Then... De-ja-vu: I was startled by remembrance of where all this would lead: Long-forgotten desperate, defenseless terror. Lonny’s legs mangled my adolescent invulnerability. The meaning of He can break every bone in your body was crystal clear. There were indeed people out there who could kill you "with their bare hands". I hadn’t imagined this sort of dominance. This terrible duress. This mind-blowing mysterious potency hidden within another person’s body.

I freaked.

He relented. I could again tilt my head down to survey the thigh just only right here, still in my gut. Not for long—although this time he started out more slowly. Only gradually did the muscles begin to get defined and more intentional—to look angry—and gradually to ridge into a mountain range, a glinting horizon over my stomach. Awesome sensations zapped through me. (This is it. You can die now, little brother, because now you’ve had it all.)

His force was smooth, maybe even gentle, letting up then bearing down, then crushing down further but then letting up again. I was only just able catch my breath from my upper chest, relying on the old trick I used with so many guys who tried to put a deathgrip on me. But then disaster struck—I never quite expected it to be like this—a gradual serious surprise.

Whoa dude! The inside of his thighs were already compressed together, pinching my waist ever more. His knees were closing together, almost touching now. I glimpsed how the toes of his two feet were curled fiercely against each other. His legs were welded into my gut, cutting off everything except my survival instinct.

I gaped at his laid-back blond hair, his unflinching dusky face with flared nostrils, those gray eyes, the jet black pupils now two windows into the void—and his teeth biting down on that crimped lower lip. Again I was overpowered once more by him. Scissored by a guy who so thoroughly knew how to do it and who was shockingly strong enough to so vanquish me.

What I was undergoing between his two legs was dire. I managed to tap somewhere at his flesh. Submission. (Okay... Aaaah... I give... Aah...) No response. Lonny owned me—I was his. There was nothing else for me to beg. (Ghaaaahhh...)

At his own pace... slowly... he eased off... (No instant release like stinking Brad would do, killing my ribs in the rebound.) ...and uncoiled.

"You okay? I don’t want to hurt you," he said.

Dude! This was so amazing. I didn’t say anything. I caught my breath. Screwy scissor maniac that I am, in a second I felt like I didn’t want this hutboy’s "strength test" to stop. My hard- on rocked; it was beginning to do that handless, unaided throbbing thing. I was wicked fazed he might see it. I looked down and saw fluid slowly dripping out, forming a drool.

I freaked.

Shifting and twisting around, I rearranged myself facing away from him between his thighs. (Go ahead, man, let your leg test begin again!) Without a word, I leaned back into the inner thigh meat, the supportive power-alley cushions. He accommodated this new position. His legs spread open, closed, found just the right spot, and settled around me. His feet crossed ankle over ankle.

The next scissorlock began to come on. I glimpsed him leaning and straightening himself out on the bed behind me. He slowly, slowly stretched and flexed all the muscles in his body. At the point were his feet met and pressed together, I could see how the flesh whitened from the blood being pressed out as he applied greater, greater strength along those legs. I couldn’t bear the might that had conquered a mountain all summer. I tapped out.

Again a slow release. Yet still I had to breath hard for a moment. Lonny was breathing hard, too. A different kind of breathing. I felt myself being pulled round on the bed. He was maneuvering me back into a side scissors from the other direction, this time also pulling me up against his chest—the sweet heat of his breath now close, his six-pack cinched.

He wrapped his arms tight, pinning my arms, and clamped his legs, and began straightening them to apply a new onslaught of ordeal; but he didn’t squeeze that much. Instead he was doing, like, an up and down motion with his legs. His arms pumped me. His hips were moving back and forth, and he was flexing himself along my body. Next, he relaxed his arms a bit and applied straight-legged stark concentration. Then he eased up; again he grappled me in his arms and began hunching against me. Now I understood everything. Squeezing turned him on.

I freaked.

"You okay?" he asked. The grinding gyrations stopped. He unwrapped his legs from around me. I was looking at his hard- on when he said, "I guess you like this, too."

I felt my face go red, but then the meaning of what was happening between us hit me. (Give it up to him.) I looked into his beautiful eyes and said, "I’m cool if you’re cool."

He nodded, stood up, and headed for his shower. I lay on my back for a while. Then I leaned over and reached for one of his amazing hiking boots. Sniffed it. Mysterious aroma of well- used leather. Inside, the smell of woods, greenery, man-sweat. Outside, the scuff marks and wear points. The rock-ravaged rubber soles were gnarled, chipped out, and worn down. They were like the beaten-up tires of heavy road equipment. My hard- on rose and throbbed.

After chilling out on my bed for a bit and letting dreamy stuff, like, wander in my head, Lonny returned—a cougar treading smoothly into the room, naked. It always seems a revelation, a change of your impression of a person, when you see their genitals. God’s imposing notary public seal on the certified exquisite document of his body. I watched with appreciation his preoccupied countenance as he concentrated on getting fresh items of clothing out of his backpack. He looked over at me and saw the state of my own genitals.

"Haven’t had enough, eh?" he funned. "Not finished with me yet? I know I’m not through with you yet."

"Uh uh, no way. Never enough," I said. God it felt good just then to sigh with satisfaction and anticipation.

The deepening light of sunset through the windows had mellowed to purple, making objects in the room seem farther away. Watching Lonny was like dreaming.

In the shadows he dropped the clothes and came back over to the bed. Sitting down next to me, he swung a leg around over me. With his arms he drew me sideways up against his groin. It took but a moment for him to set his legs. The Mountain Range again; the rocky ridges. The broad vista of dense effectiveness. This time he went at me with abandon. And even though I tried to gasp my submission, he kept squeezing. No one was around to rescue me from him. I didn’t have the breath to call out for help. Teary eyes. Crazed dead meat.

Then finally and again, that slow release of his. But not the end of the action. Now there was the raised up leg... the iron- fingered grip pulling on my wrist... the other hand pulling my head down into his groin... the head scissors... the inner muscles of his legs slicing my neck... the strangulation... the slight release... the easy pulsation of the tightness and looseness... the workings of front, middle and back thigh muscles... the unwavering control of bearable-unbearable, just bearable-slightly unbearable, gently bearable-sensitively unbearable—just like a caress.

I freaked.

Slowly let out from this awesome hold, I rolled off the bed onto the bearskin rug to recover—wracked, spent, all his, but needing just then to retreat. He came down onto the rug and softly lay beside me, the luster back again in the black pupils of those gray eyes.

"I hope... I hope I didn’t hur—"

"No, no, man, I’m okay. For real. Just gotta rest a minute. Whew, your legs are strong from all that hutboy stuff," I said.

"You like it, though, right?" he said. No denying.

We just lay there. Sweet. We were on our backs, staring up at the rafts. I had drawn back my feet to bring my knees up; he brought his knees up, too. He let his thigh tilt over against mine. Muscle, tendons and bone. After a bit, he asked me about my first time being put in a scissorlock. An interesting question.

"I was about eight years old," I began. "At summer camp. There was a kid there, Billy, who was always being bullied by the other kids, including me. So one of the counselors decided to teach him a move to turn the tables in a scuffle. The day came for Billy to test it out; for some reason they set me up into taunting him. We began scrabbling around on the ground. I was on top. Billy seemed calm. He sort of pulled me towards him in between his legs. I thought, what a joke this was. I had him good. But a weird straining feeling around my waist began to bug me, got pretty worse; I was trapped, couldn’t move. I looked back and discovered that Billy’s feet were, like, joined together. Like he was doing this bad-ass thing on me intentionally, know what I’m saying?"

Lonny rolled over facing me—his intense grey eyes pouring light and vitality into me—and casually brought his legs around mine, like relaxed and easy. I felt my hard-on coming back. A pleasant distraction.

"Um uh, and then, um," I continued, "and then to my shock, uh, I realized that he had me in some kind of wicked-killer wrestling hold. I couldn’t breath; then it became unbearable. Someone said to me, you give up? And I’m like, you know, "Oh, yeah!" Billy wouldn’t let go, though, and a counselor had to tell him to release the hold. Had to get, like, stern about it. So there I was, humiliated in front of everybody; I remember crying. Jeeze, before then I could always top him with a schoolboy pin, but from now on Billy would have the upper hand.

"I was mystified by what Billy had done to me. It was an entirely new experience. They told me it was called a ‘scissorlock’. Many of the other kids were fascinated from then on; wanted, but were too cautious, to have Billy show them what it was like. When a rare kid did ask to get squeezed just to see what it was like and then tried to feel those legs, Billy always said, "Don’t touch", like he was protecting his secret weapon. To emphasize his point he’d squeeze even harder, and the horrified kid would gasp and beg and end up in tears.

"Toward the end of camp, The Event occurred. The evening’s Kick-the-Can game was over. What I didn’t know was that Billy had disappeared for a while and had came back with his special damn scissorlocking shoes, leather with crepe soles in place of his usual sneakers, which couldn’t gave him a secure enough foot bind. Billy suddenly came up behind me and got his legs around me. ‘I’m tired of you,’ he said. This time no counselors were around. I had never been in such fearful, helpless agony. I kept saying, ‘I give up, I give up, I cannot breath. Ahhh.’

"Billy wouldn’t stop, and the more excruciated noises I made, the more he laughed and squeezed harder. The stupid kids standing around just gawked. I think they had bloodlust or something. Anyway, he worked the hold. The leather of his shoes creaked. Finally, one the kinder guys came up and tried to unlock Billy’s feet. He almost succeeded. He had to call for someone’s assistance, but Billy managed to regain his hold. It took three or four of the boys to lift his legs away and allow me to escape. I remember crying and running away.

"After that... Well, before that I had had a thing for shoes... But after that, it was, um, legs."

"So," Lonny said, "that became your ideal, right? From that moment on? I mean, now when you’re alone by yourself at night, that’s the scene you... you think about when you’re doing it with yourself?"

"Yeah," I said. Lonny released my legs and shifted closer to me, his handsome face intense—stoned heartbreaking.

"You should relive that moment," he said. "That is your big ultimate thing, the one you always return to. All this time you’ve been frustrated. You’ve thought you could never have it again just like it had truly been, to savor and enjoy, get fully turned on by, right?"

"I suppose," I said.

"No, really," he went on. "Don’t you want to relive that time? We can do it. Now. While we’re together like this. Look, I’ll help you. I’m here."

At this point I was confused. Did he really mean we could re- enact what had happened with Billy and me, all that time ago?

"I’ll be Billy," Lonny explained. "If you want, I’ll even wear my hiking boots. Anyway, I know you like shoes. I’ll make them creak, too. We’ll do it just like it happened before."

Now I understood what he was getting at.

"Yeah, I see. Awesome, let’s do it," I said. "God, I can’t believe this. Yeah, let’s go for it!" I babbled to him about the details of what had happened during The Event. (Make it right!)

It begin; we got into it. I got scared. Suddenly it was too much like when Billy got me. Now Lonny’s legs terrified me. I tried to push his legs downward so that he would end up just squeezing my pelvic bone. No luck. Lonny began just as Billy had—quick, hard squeezing. He immediately brought on my panic response. It was worse than Billy. I wanted it to stop. (Wait, wait... Hang on. Hey, uh, stop, stop. Okay, okay... I give. Okay... Goddamn it. Okay...)

I freaked.

But Lonny—cruel now like Billy—wouldn’t let off. (What if he didn’t stop this, the way Billy hadn’t?) There was nobody around to rescue me this time. Lonny’s face was grim. To my front was only the shadowy room. When I tried pushing myself forward to relieve the pressure or maybe even get away, the legs just moved along with me. Lonny was an efficient predator suffocating a hapless prey.

Under my body, over my body, his legs were right into me, killing coils of, like, stone and steel. By now the tendinous inner musculature of these legs had contacted my spinal column. My belly met my back. Bad thoughts arose. Here was some unknown stranger I had accidently picked up on the highway. Now it all might turn out to be one of those bad-ass hitchhiker murder cases.

I freaked.

I guess I passed out or at least my memory tapped out. Whatever. Lonny had released me; his legs lay loose around me. Wham, I realized that at last, finally, right here and now, I had experienced total fulfilment of my oldest and deepest scissor fantasy.

"Okay, look," said Lonny, intensely engaged in this. "Let’s do this so you get to enjoy the shoe thing, too. I won’t do you from the side. Let me get over here in front of you, and that way you get to see my boots right front of your face, kind of. I don’t know... Here..."

He turned himself around so that he could lock both feet around my neck. A mini-scissors. A ferocious choke hold. I felt my windpipe cut off. The leather of his hiking boots, the laces, the heavy socks—mashed into my neck. In front of me the long, phenomenal fronts of his leg muscles got serious, with the complicated muscles doing extravagant things.

He applied full force with those incredible hiking boots. A strangler’s innovative method of suffocating his unlucky victim.

Again, the boots and their spice of fragrant wood smells and superman sweat and leather and rubber tang. But also a steel trap. I couldn’t escape but I didn’t want to either. I rubbed my hands up and down his legs, checking out the various valleys and knobs of muscle that met just above his knees. I could hear the friction of his leg hairs, of his skin, of the socks and of the leather as he made certain of my capture and kidnapping. The hiking boots creaked. His head was tilted up at me. His expression was not of effort but of focus as he clasped and held my head and neck.

He crooked his knees and worked me forward and back as though handling the tenderest part of his own anatomy that he was intent on bringing to rarest release. Yet in moments he was again strangling me. He stopped right off when I tapped out.

He shifted his legs, crooking the left one around my neck, so that the back of my head was caught inside the crux of his left knee. His calf clamped against my neck and ear. I heard the hairs and skin chaffing. There was no stopping this. His hamstrings were like razor blades hashing into me. He crooked his right leg over his ankle and drew it in, levering me into a triangle hold. The inner muscles of this other crook-locked leg drew taut, compressed, packed, hard into my throat and face. I was caught there in his crotch. I caught the aroma of his man scent, the rugged musk of his groin and genitals.

Unbearable strain and distress. This is the submission hold that some guys use in Ultimate Fighting matches; even the most feral fighters submit to it. Lonny didn’t kill me this time. He unwrapped. My face, neck, even my skull ached, bent out of normal shape. I pressed my hands around my head to make as if to reset the bones. My neck was out of kilter and I rubbed it, trying to sooth the panicked muscles and over-stretched tendons.

We both lay back on the bearskin rug. After resting a bit, I swung an arm around his neck and pulled him sideways. We snuggled. Neat and nested. I was grateful to him. It only seemed right to return the favor. I asked him about his own first scissors experience.

"Wow, amazing," he began. "I guess I was around eight. A couple of us kids were on a sleep over. Just young weeners. That kind of away-from-home thing was new to me. Spooky. In the night I woke up; there was a thunder storm, cracking and rumbling, you know? Strange big flashes coming in the windows and stuff. I got scared. Thing was, I was sharing a bed with one of these friends and that sort of made it okay for a bit.

"The fear was still there, though; so for comfort I wrapped my legs around his legs. This made me feel secure, but more than that, after a bit, there was a nice warmth between my legs and in my groin. A cool new kind of excitement in my body."

Lonny jinked up on one elbow. "Here, you getting uncomfortable down here? Let’s get back up on the bed," he said. He got to his feet and gave me a hand up. The bed felt so much better than the floor. I relaxed. Again we lay close together on our backs.

"Some time later," Lonny went on, "maybe it was the same year, I don’t know. Anyway, we had another of these sleep overs. I had been curious about the leg thing; so when everyone was finally asleep, I did the same leg-wrapping deal around his legs. I got turned on—like hard—but I didn’t know what it meant. I only know that from then on, I was hooked."

Lonny looked over at me. I nodded.

"The third time was my Big Event. It happened when I was quite a bit older, early teens. I was with a buddy wandering around on a river bank. Just fucking around and stuff. The guy decided we should wrestle for fun. It was all kind of clumsy; we did the usual wrestling things—headlocks, throwdowns, bearhugs, hammerlocks, just-about-pins."

I turned over to face Lonny and lay my arm over his chest. Reaching to feel his shoulder, I let my hand settle on the comforting apple of his biceps. Sniffing deep, I savored his body smell, caught the scent of his humid birch bark breath. My hard- on rose as he spoke to me.

"So I don’t know. We were on the ground and I was behind him. Without even thinking, I wrapped my legs around him and hooked his arms back with mine. I caught him up and I squeezed. The touching and then my little bit of pressure bit by bit. The feeling between my thighs. It was incredible."

Lonny went to being the quiet, vulnerable, heroic hutboy. Then he said, "You ever notice how some guy will put his hands together and put them down between his legs, cross over his ankles, and squeeze them together? That’s a guy, you can bet, who enjoys that erogenous zone. Inside the thighs. They like to squeeze, probably real hard, real close, real long."

"Danger zone," I jollied.

"Yeah," he laughed. "Inside the thighs and up in the groin. Erotic turn on. Guys like me, we get off on that." He abruptly pulled me over on top of him and gripped me with his knees, digressing. He rolled back over on his side, with his legs around me.

"Oh, this is funny," he said. "I once knew a guy who’d get off squeezing all his different girlfriends when they were in bed. Figure it, those chicks were pretty put out."

We both laughed.

"Anyway, I got incredibly turned on when I was squeezing this guy down by the river. I came in my shorts, didn’t know what had happened, really. I panicked but managed to distract the guy by jumping up and calling back that I had to go off in the bushes and take a leak. I don’t think he had a clue, anyway."

I hiked myself up on my elbow. (Why not, why not definitely, do what he did for me with my Billy fantasy, like right now?)

"Want to replay the scene on the river bank?" I asked. "Do the whole thing like it happened. Like, episode by episode or something?"

Lonny looked over at me. Confusion, recognition, surprise. Open nice guy, the hutboy all the way. He nodded.

I don’t know why he did this next thing—still a mystery to this day. Maybe just celebration. He got himself around back of me and got me in a figure-four hold. Fast action. Whoa, what was this all about? Rolling over top of me, he put the pressure on as I lay trapped there on my belly.

In a steady motion he raised his upper body to lever his thighs down upon my back, crushing down on me with awful weight, bearing down through my final resistance, smothering me down towards unforgiving doom. It felt like a tractor roll-over. Maimed ribs and a lot worse.

He quickly lifted his body up, loosened, uncoupled. Just in time. He rolled off me. Lay with his legs splayed out. For the first time, I touched his blond hair, combed my hand through the waves, thrust it back, lay it smooth to each side. Looked him over.

I found that I was lowering my head into his groin. With the surest of instinctiveness he brought his legs up gently against the sides of my face. I licked the insides of these thighs. Still in his loose clutches, I lapped my tongue against the hairs and the soft skin beneath and the ropy veins and the hard-thewed definition below. Licked raspy... wet... slick... slippery... And came in hugh gouting throbs. Unfathomable journey into finality, finality, finality... Finished, I drowsed off.

He was patient. Why expect less? We must have been laying like that for a while. With a jolt I remembered.

"Okay, so it’s naked on the riverbank—you and the friend," I said. "But uh, hmm, we gotta do this on the floor; the bed’s kind of a mess. Sorry."

"It’s okay. A mess? You mean here?" Lonny leaned down for a look. "Oh. Yeah, I see. Anyway, cool. Get down on the rug, dude. But forget the first stuff I had done back then, the clumsy wrestling around kind of thing. I just want to do the scissors part," he said. I smiled at him.

We positioned ourselves, him behind me. He straddled me with his legs, locked his feet. He hooked his arms around mine. Now I was about to get beat up the way his friend had been. (Cool?)

I freaked.

"Okay, this was the way it was," he said. With a sudden action, he squeezed me as hard as I had ever been crushed. Press/ compress/done-in. Just like that. Then he tightened somemore. You do think of snakes and their coils of pure muscle. Pessimism became my religion. The ridges and hill of his thighs disappeared into flatout bands of sweaty sinew. The muscles had the impassible contours of a terrifying wall built deep into my body. Much of the actual mass of his leg muscles were not visible; they were deep, deep in me. I panicked at the danger. I could feel his brawn cutting right to my spine, both sides.

Helpless, immediately ready to submit, submitting even now. His legs were... Were what? Annihilating my body? Going beyond what I thought were the limits of endurance? He was devouring me. His muscles were flatout, iron, invincible, killing. I begged a lot of things. I promised to gave unto him a lot of what I thought might matter to him. He wouldn’t cease. The granite-iron did not falter. I couldn’t speak, not even grunt. I was ready to pass out—defeated, whoosy, dying, dead.

"Oh, yes... God... Yeah...," he intoned to himself.

I freaked.

I was so totally vanquished that I began to vow to myself that scissors holds were nothing I ever wanted to have anything to do with ever again. This was enough. Now I knew what the ultimate scissors were all about. At last I had been educated. I had learned my lesson. Thanks, teacher. This had expanded beyond the ultimate Billy experience, relived as I had never imagined I’d remember it. I glimpsed my room, the stuff in it, the things that I had done to make it my home—and in this moment it all seemed alien. I had lost it to Lonny. Lost my sense of myself as the cocky owner of my barn #3 "office". Time ceased. Space disappeared.

Lonny stopped. He released me, letting go of my arms and letting his legs splay out to the sides from around me. He was breathing hard. Free and relieved and still alive, I pulled myself away. I sat up facing him. I looked at his legs—dreadful but loose, but still so menacing. The skin in the insides of these clamping thighs was red with the blood gorging back into them. Just sitting between these legs was unsettling, because they could again at any moment now do me and do me, and do me once more.

His hard-on was smeared slippery wet. I reached around attentively to feel at my back. It was slick, too. The turned-on odor of Chlorox. Lonny lay fully back down on the bearskin rug. He was in ecstasy. Something more than his cum had been released.

"I can’t believe it," he mumbled. "Wow, I just can’t believe it. I never thought it would happen like this. The river bank again. Amazing that I’ve finally found someone who likes to be squeezed, too. Thanks. God... Thanks, man. That was amazing for me. Really."

He sighed and closed his eyes, just laying there, happy with fulfilment. His legs were still splayed around me. (God, what if he gets crazy with me? Gets a maniac passion attack or something?)

I freaked.

But of course nothing of the sort happened. (God, where did someone like this come from?)

"There’s one more thing," he said. "Let me try it, okay? It’s okay, it won’t hurt, not like just now. I want to squeeze you from the front, okay? Then we’ll roll over on the side, and roll somemore so I’m on top, holding you up with my legs. You’ll be below, but I’ll hold you there, over on top of you. Think of a tripod. You’ll see, okay?"

Lonny rolled over onto his back and drew me down into his thighs. I was up there above, facing down at him. He locked his legs around me. He put on a lot of pressure, but it was just enough for him to hold me there firmly. He swung us both over to the side, still holding me between his legs.

Then he levered himself up, twisting us both so that I was on my back with my shoulders down flat on the bearskin rug in a pin position. Lonny was above me, I was below—still held between his legs. An upside down scissors. His hands were planted out beyond my shoulders. His arms straight.

I reached up to run my hands over these arms. Feeling how the biceps jutted bulbous right out from his elbows and then ran thick up to his deltoids. Feeling how the triceps were broad, flat, and hard behind these arms.

A regular wrestling match would have been over, because I was pinned. It was over, anyway. Lonny made me give up. He released his scissorlock so that I lay back down on the rug. He brought his face down close to mine, neared his lips, and then electifying my whole body in a massive-sweet shockwave by kissing me ever so gently.

He eased back from this heavenly pose. He rolled over onto his side and pulled me back between his legs. Then he rolled back on top of me, again scissoring. He pulsed a gripping crush with those singular legs, relaxed, and now pressed his hips up and arched towards me. His hard-on was right there in my face. He dipped the silky end across my lips. Yes, he was naked, and I saw his thighs still around me, extensive as peril yet now my safety, security, and comfort. Easily natural, he smoothed himself in between my lips.

"Do it," he whispered.

He wished, I complied. From this point onward we were different people. That late evening we got to know each other as in an ideal legend that blossomed in the indigo night. Sweet. And that was that.

He had just needed to sleep over somewhere. The next day he caught his bus, but later he did come back. (Uncanny...) It took me a while to fully realize that, like, this had all been true.

And I freaked.

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