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A Tryst With Jotunda

Henry sat down on the bed and looked around him. Not much of a room, but he had stayed in worse in his time. He bounced experimentally on the bed. Not much of a bed, either, but it would certainly be adequate to lay a young Swedish girl on. Jotunda, eh? He had fallen on his feet, he thought.

He looked up as the door opened. It was several seconds before his brain could act upon the information it was receiving from his eyes and allow his jaw to drop. The girl who was entering was completely naked except for a leather band across her forehead to control her long blonde hair. However, it was not her nudity or her blondness which caused his amazement. It was the fact that, although the doorway was a standard six feet six inches in height, she had to stoop a little to pass under the lintel. It also seemed that she had to turn slightly sideways to get her shoulders through the width. She had none of a woman's usual pear shape. Hers was an inverted triangle. The breadth of her upper body made her head seem disproportionately small. On any other body, the face in that head would have been considered attractive, with intelligent, bright blue eyes and a snub nose. Below mighty shoulders, bulging biceps increased her width. Where breasts ought to have been, huge pectoral muscles rippled in their place. Her only concession to femininity in that are were her nipples; too large for a man.

His gaze passed downwards over the washboard musclulature of her flat stomach and rested on her thighs. Not soft and inviting, but great thews of solid muscle. Except for a small area around her forehead, cheeks and nose, she was covered all over with a down of light gold hair which thickened to profusion at armpits and crotch.

She pointed a blunt, powerful finger at him. "Henry?"

He scrambled off the bed. "Yes."

She rapped with her knuckles in the cener of her chest, producing a dull, booming sound. "Jotunda!"

Henry felt a little faint. "Oh, my God!"

She pointed at him and then at herself. "You! Me! Sex! Yes?" To make the point, she formed a ring with her left thumb and forefing and stabbed through it with her right.

"Er, no. I don't think so, thank you," he said, backing nervously towards the far wall.

She threw back her head and laughed. "Henry not dress, now," she said, and to render her meaning clear, made gestures as though she was shedding non-existent clothing.

"No, really! I don't think so," he said, then as she advanced towards him, still laughing, he continued. "Keep away! I'm warning you!" He clenched his fist and, as she came within range, swung at her face. It was probably a mistake to aim at a target so far above his head. She waited, cooly, until the blow was a couple of inches from her, then slipped it with a dextrous body swerve and countered with a professional choppy punch to his solar plexus. Winded, he dropped to his hands and knees, gasping for air. She grabbed his belt and the back of his jacket and picked him up as easily as if he had been made of polystyrene foam. Carrying him to the cot, she dropped him on it face down and, with a nimble leap sprang onto the bed herself and straddled him, facing his feet, her hindquarters grinding against the back of his head, forcing his face into the pillow. He twisted his head to get air and felt the damp curls of her pubic hair against his ear. Her hands went under his mid-section and he felt his belt being unfastened. His arms were trapped under her shins and there was nothing he could do except kick his legs as he felt his trousers and undershorts being pulled down his body to mid-thigh.

She pulled his shirt up to bare his backside. "Henry bad! Clap arse!" she said and proceeded to beat his buttocks with the flat of her hard and horny palm. She gave him six stinging smacks, then stopped. "Henry good; no clap arse, yes?"

He said nothing, so she gave him three more smacks. "Henry good, no clap arse, yes?"

"Yes! Yes! All right! Henry good!" he said. "Just get off me!"

Jotunda got off him and went to the shower. She revolved under the spray, soaping her hairy body and washing her massive chest. Glistening with water, she came back to the bed and stood looking at him. "You wash now!"

"No, that's all right, I'll do it later."

She grabbed his legs and hauled him off the bed. He managed to break his fall by grabbing at the bedclothes, but lost them as she marched backwards to the shower towing him behind her as easily as other women pull shopping trolleys. Unceremoniously, she dumped him on his back on the tiles, then straddled him, looming over him, terrifying in her gargantuan stature. Her stomach muscles tensed and a stream of golden urine emerged from her equally golden crotch, raining hot on his skin. She shuffled forward, still straddling him, so that it approached his face and he wriggled desparately to avoid it. Her capacious bladder enabled her to subject him to this humiliation for quite awhile. When the stream finally stopped, she stood staring down at him. "Henry dirty now!" she remarked drily and turned on the shower.

From "The Ice Queen" by Stephen Ferris

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