The substitute teacher is teaching the class about human anatomy, and how it all works. She uses her own magnificent body to grab their attention, and to illustrate the lesson. Jane can lift and roll a small car, and she shows the class her massive biceps, and amazing quads, and talks about crushing coconuts and men. Imaginative story by Diana the Valkyrie.

The Plough Girl Squadron moves to Chicago, and creates an interrogation room.

Milly breaks the fingers of a small-time drug deaer, one at a time, He screams rather loudly, so Milly squeezes a rubber ball into his mouth. After breaking enough fingers, the drug dealer decides to name his boss, so the Plough Girls put him into their "zoo", and they started to plan the raid on the boss's house.

The plan was simple. They filled an oil drum with 350 pounds of gasoline, and Olga threw it into a winddow; this was followed by a gasoline-soaked rag on fire.

The girls captured the six guys who ran out of the house, and took them back to the interrogation room. The Plough Girls used an combination of intimidation and sex, to turn the guys into puppets

The plough girls have been too successful in New York, and the bean counters have decide not to renew their contract. So Mike goes to Chicago with Olga as his bodyguard.

Which is just as well, because they get mugged by two guys, and Mike's laptop, with his presentation for the Chicago cops, is stolen. But Olga deals with it, and the thieves get caught and vigorously punished.

Alex, the Chicago police captain, is impressed by the presentation, and even more impressed when Olga stood up and showed her arms and her thighs.

Olga and Mike go to Kennedy to meet Blossom, the new plough girl from Kenya. Six foot six and very heavily muscled, with immense legs, like all plough girls.

But Blossom had truly colossal breasts, much bigger than even Olga, and she wouldn't fit through a standard 36 inch door if she tried going sideways.

The Plough Girl Squadron was so successful at suppressing street crime, that the bean counters decided to cancel the project, since street crime was now so low.

So Olga came up with plan B, which was to relocate from NYC to Chicago, a city in great need of plough girls to clean up the streets.

Mike is 4 feet eleven inches, and he goes out on patrol with Anastasia who is seven feet five.

Four toughs with baseball bats were following us, and six more in front. Anastasia ran at the four, kicked two in the head and incapacited the other two. Meanwhile I phoned for reinforcements to Olga, who set off at once.

But by the time Olga got to us, Anastasia had finished off the last of the ten. So when Olga arrived, all she did was put her arms round me to stop me trembling with fear.

The Plough Girl Squadron was each supposed to patrol alone, because we reckoned that one plough girl would be more than enough to deal with any situation she encountered. But to start with, I wanted to accompany them, to make sure that the exacting standards of the NYPD were being complied with.

The first of the PIGS to go out, was Ludmilla, aka Milly. We made an eye-opening pair. Milly was five feet ten, which is short for a plough girl, but she made up for that with her width. She has to go through a normal two feet eight inch door sideways, otherwise her shoulders wouldn't fit. I haven't tried this experiment, but I think I'd need at least a six foot tape measure to go around her upper body, even though her boobs don't add much to her circumference.

I'm a tosser. It's a fairly new sport, derived from the older game of dwarf tossing, but this is the grown-up version. Man tossing.

The man is 150 pounds, that's a standard. But it turns out that quite a few men are 150 or less (if they're less, then they can be made up with some weights) and it doesn't matter how tall they are. And it turns out that quite a few men volunteer to be tossed by a big strong amazon giantess. Like me.

I'm six foot nine, 290 pounds, and most of those pounds are muscle. I love man tossing, it's a great sport. Picking up a man with his crash helmet on, and launching him over the sand pit to get a longer toss than my fellow athletes - there's nothing better. I hear that next year it's going to be an Olympic sport.

We all have our preferred toss-pot. Mine is little Cecil. He's quite short, and struggles to make 150, so we often have to strap a few iron disks onto him to make up the weight. We practice regularly. I also practice with a dummy weighing a fair bit more, but that's not as satisfying as flinging a live man across the sand, so whenever I can get a volunteer, I'll practice with him instead. Cecil doesn't like that, but he doesn't get to say who I toss.

A lot of people don't really understand about pain. I do, because I'm a pain nurse.

Pain has two purposes. The obvious purpose is to alert you to the fact that something is wrong. If you pick up a too-hot plate, the pain is telling you to take rapid action before more damage is done. That's what everyone knows.

But pain has a second purpose. The sensation of pain is transmitted from the damage site to the brain via the nervous system, and the body responds by taking actions to fix the problem, so that healing starts immediately.

In part three of this series, I cover pain levels nine and ten.

A lot of people don't really understand about pain. I do, because I'm a pain nurse.

Pain has two purposes. The obvious purpose is to alert you to the fact that something is wrong. If you pick up a too-hot plate, the pain is telling you to take rapid action before more damage is done. That's what everyone knows.

But pain has a second purpose. The sensation of pain is transmitted from the damage site to the brain via the nervous system, and the body responds by taking actions to fix the problem, so that healing starts immediately.

In part two of this series, I cover pain levels six, seven and eight.

A lot of people don't really understand about pain. I do, because I'm a pain nurse.

Pain has two purposes. The obvious purpose is to alert you to the fact that something is wrong. If you pick up a too-hot plate, the pain is telling you to take rapid action before more damage is done. That's what everyone knows.

But pain has a second purpose. The sensation of pain is transmitted from the damage site to the brain via the nervous system, and the body responds by taking actions to fix the problem, so that healing starts immediately.

But sometimes, the pain sensation is inadequate, or is "referred". A referred pain is when you feel pain in the wrong place. For example, if you have a heart problem, you can't feel pain in your heart - the pain is felt in your left arm, elbow and shoulder.

That's when the pain nurse comes in. If the pain is insufficient or referred, my job is to boost the pain. I have a number of different techniques that I can use, but rather than give a textbook exposition, I'll describe some case studies (the patient's names are, of course, anonymised). If you want a textbook, I'd suggest Wall & Melzack's "Textbook of Pain", available from many online bookshops.

Following that first day, when Steph showed me her new, gym toned body, and demonstrated her superior physical power, things began to change in our marriage. It wasn't just the dynamic of our sex lives either, the whole nature of our relationship changed. I don't think it was the fact she could (and did) now take full control in bed - it was the fact I loved it. This was something quite different and fed into the dynamics of life together outside the bedroom.

It wasn't like I used to be undisputed head of the household and all that had suddenly changed. Steph had always made more money than me and we had always made out decision together. The important stuff, like about the kids or where to live. But I had always kind of had the final say. I guess it was just the natural pattern of things, one that we'd always followed without thinking or discussing things. But once she started regularly kicking my ass on the wrestling mats, usually before carrying me to bed and dominating me, other aspects of our lives started changing too.

I mean, I had always harboured secret domination fantasies, I watched videos online and things but I never thought it would be a reality of my life. But now Steph had taken full control of our love life, quite literally, I really began to lean into it and open myself up to those parts of me I'd never allowed before. Steph for her pert helped with her renewed sexual appetite. The reality was we had never had this much sex. Not even when we were young. We were discovering a whole new life that neither of us had even realised we wanted. And it was exciting. For both of us. She thought up new ways to user her body and mine and we both delighted in playing together and indulging this new part of ourselves.

It wasn't just the wrestling either. I had started to worship her. Both literally and figuratively. After one energetic bout of wrestling, Steph stood over me, then, with a curious look on her face, she put her foot on my face. I'd never had a thing for feet but within seconds, I was kissing and licking her foot and sucking on her toes, flat on my back, naked with my hard-on sticking straight up in the air. She looked down with me with a pleased look in her eyes, before she pulled her panties to the side and sat right on my face. She rocked herself to orgasm while I worked hungrily at her lips. When she came, she stood up, looked down at me and said,

"What do you say?"

I gazed up and her and responded,

"Thank you... Mistress"

Today I was attacked again - the guy wanted the money I was carrying. He was waving a knife around, but it was a dinner knife and he looked really stupid with it. "OK, OK," I said, "My life isn't worth the cash I'm carrying, it's on the bicycle, I'll just get it." But also on the bicycle was my hockey stick, and that's a yard long. I unclipped it, and swung at his head, as one does. He ducked, of course, but I caught him a good one on the shoulder. He yelled "Bitch" and came at me with the knife, but I got him on the left ear with the second swipe of my stick, and he staggered.

Why a hockey stick, you might be wondering. Because a baseball bat looks like a weapon, but a hockey stick looks like sports equipment. Which it is, and I've had plenty of practice with it.

So he was still coming at me with his cutlery, so after I'd bounced my hockey stick off his left ear, I did a follow through, spun round and smashed my weapon into his right ear. Now he was dazed, but he still had his knife, so I lined up carefully and whacked his right hand, cracking his knuckles and causing him to drop the blade.

Now he was disarmed, I suppose I could have just got on the pizza bike and rode off, but my blood was up and I wasn't going to stop now.

The standard strike with a hockey stick is, of course, to the shins, followed by an "Oops, sorry about that!". So I took careful aim, raised the stick and brought it down as hard as I could. There was a satisfying "Crack!" and I knew that my assailant was finished. So I put my hockey stick back on its bracket, got on the pizza bike and rode off into the sunset. Or I would have, but it was night time so I rode off into the moonlight.

Revenge is a dish best served brass monkeys, unlike pizza. So, the next time I see Eric, I use my Pizzagirl power to step on the pedals and catch up with him. I silently approach from behind, and blast him with my compressed air powered horn, sounding at 130 decibels just like a 56 ton 18 wheel truck mere inches behind him.

He was suitably startled, swerved, wobbled, wobbled some more and went down, making a very satisfactory scrunching sound as he hit the deck. "Good morning, Eric," I called out merrily as I sailed past.

Karma soon caught up with me - it started raining. Cats and dogs. So I reacted the way I always do - I got wet. But the pizza was safely tucked away in my insulated pannier, and I was able to deliver it, still hot. I stood there looking like a drowned kitten while the customer fetched some bread, which wetness I believe contributed to the handsome tip he gave me. Another contribution might have been the way that my wet shirt clung to my thrupenny bits. I'll take whatever I can get, except getting stiffed.

The Black Burqas have attracted the notice of the patriarchy. I know this because they sent a man dressed in a black burqa with the intention of signing up. So they found a short guy, got him to talk in a squeaky voice and to walk without stamping his feet. He lasted about five minutes. He wasn't even able to lift 100 kilograms, so we ripped off his burqa and checked his genitals. Busted!

Some of the sisters were all for punishing him severely and sending him on his way, a few wanted to kill him, but Sfiyah came up with a very clever idea. "We can keep him, and use him to feed misleading information back to his bosses."

"Never," he said, "I won't betray my brothers." "Then you're no use to us," said Sfiyah, "give him to Basma, she'll play with him for a while and then kill him." Basma lifted her face veil, showed her teeth in a chilling grin, and licked her lips. Then she pulled out her tiny, but very sharp, knife.

"What do you want me to do?" asked the terrified man. "Give him to me," I said, "I'll look after him, and if he resists, Basma, you can have him." Basma really hates men, and enjoys hurting them; long term. He'd probably lose his sanity after a few weeks. But I'd take care of him, and he'd be great as a double agent.

So I took him home. Raafid wanted to know who she was, and why she was in his home? "Your home?" I asked. "Your home," he amended. "And mind your own business, this is Black Burqa business." Raafid shut up. He knew his place, and definitely didn't want a couple of Black Burqas on his case. And for obvious reasons, he thought that the person in this particular black burqa was a woman.

"What's your name," I asked my fearful captive. "Abdullah," he replied. "So now you're also my slave," I told him. "And you will continue to wear your burqa and pose as a woman." Abdullah swallowed and nodded.

I interrogated him about his mission, and how he was to report back to his superiors. As we talked, I held his hand, squeezing very gently by with the implied threat that I could crush it like a toothpaste tube. And I reminded him about Basma, and her tiny, but very sharp, knife. So he told me everything, and he was too terror-stricken to make up any lies.

"Those high powered rifles can go straight through even Kevlar" he told me. "Yes," I agreed. Actually, I was surprised that no-one had guessed that we'd kitted out our women with steel plate armour - armour much heavier than an ordinary man could carry. And that steel armour, weighing about a hundred pounds would deflect an AR-15 round. We knew this, because we'd tested it.

"But what if the shooter had gone for a head shot?" That was certainly a possibility, but gun training was to aim for the centre mass, because a head is a much smaller target. "If he'd gone for a head shot, it would certainly have been "Goodnight Gracie", but we sent in three Black Burqas, and even if one was killed, it would be a good trade for the lives of the thirty children that he was holding hostage."

"That's incredibly brave," said the interviewer. "We're women," I replied. "And we're mothers. Children are the purpose of our existence. You'd need to be a mother yourself to understand, but here's a simple way to put it. The female of the species is more deadly than the male."

I continued. "Men talk. Men negotiate. Men compromise, and while that is appropriate for many purposes, when it comes to children, there is no doubt, no hesitation and no compromise. Our Black Burqas had one and only one purpose. If the police had tried to stop them, they would have been swept aside. If one had been shot then the other two would have continued to rescue those children."

"The shooter was in a real mess when the police went in, wasn't that excessive force?" he asked. I repeated, "There is no compromise. No negotiation. Anyone who threatens our children, gets the immediate white-hot fury of the female of the species. In this case, what happened exactly was, a punch to the belly to incapacitate him and double him up, a knee lifted to meet the face coming down and break the nose and teeth, and a double-fist rabbit punch to knock him out and lay him flat on the ground. And when a Black Burqa delivers that triple whammy, the recipient is knocked cold for the next several hours. And if it's delivered too hard and the guy dies, then we're not going to weep for him, he threatened our children with death."

"And if in the course of taking down an active shooter with a gun, he gets injured, then I'm not going to apologise to him. Even if he loses a few fingers when the gun is seized and is unable to fire a gun in future, then that's just a consequence of his decision to pick up a gun and kill our children."

Respect all, fear nun - part six

We use 100 pound weights, because if you only use 50s, you get a very crowded bar. Hilde had four on each side, so she was pushing 800 pounds steadily up and down. And then I realised. She had meant kilograms, I did a quick calculation in my head - double it and add ten per cent, and the 450 came to - oh my giddy aunt! "Nine ninety," I told Nora, "she's topping out at 990 pounds. Not even you can do that." "Eight twenty is my current best clean and jerk," she said, "she's pushing a thousand."

A thousand pounds, of course, is the hope and prayer of every St Hilda's nun. It's a nice round number - five disks on each side of the bar. Nora eyed her enviously. "I wonder what they use instead of Septadecaherbis", she mused, "and whether I can try it?" "Ask her," I grumped.

Nora grabbed my rosary after compline. "We need to talk," she said, and showed me a small bottle. "What is it?" I asked, curiously. "She calls it Siebzehnkraut," Nora said. I sniffed it cautiously, it didn't smell like Septadecaherbis. "I'm going to try it," Nora announced. "Nora! You shouldn't! You don't know how it will react with you." Nora shook her head, and said "990 pounds. I'm so there."

A week went by. Pray and lift, pray and lift. We were happy, the kids were happy and the dogs were ecstatic - it doesn't take much to make a dog happy. Nora was dosing on Siebzehnkraut, and I was measuring her biceps every day. By the end of the week, she'd put on half an inch to 26 1/2, and her bench press had gone from 670 to 710. It looked like Siebzehnkraut was the real McCoy.

I talked to Hilde. "Can we get more of your Siebzehnkraut?" I asked bluntly. "Ab naturlich," she smiled. "I will der mutterhaus schreiben." Well, that was easy. I thought I'd have to twist her arm a bit to get her agreement, and I was pretty sure that her arm was much too big for me to twist. And while we were waiting for the package from Germany to arrive, Hilde shared her own supplies with it.

The Black Burqas go worldwide

The problem was this. Even the most muscular Black Burqa, like Naamah, looked like any other woman in a burqa; that was the whole purpose of the garment. And no-one could tell who was wearing a black burqa as a fashion statement, and who was one of the muscle queens that could terrorise any man unlucky enough to find himself embraced by her thighs.

But then something unusual happened. The Black Burqas have a web site, so that people can contact us and apply to be an official Black Burqa. We won't take just anyone who applies. You have to be able to bench press 300 kilograms, which neatly eliminates all men, as well as all women who don't have the musculature that every Black Burqa should have. This is prominently stated on the blackburqas.com web site. Of course, that web site is banned in most countries.

I stood at the "incoming" area at the airport wearing my best black burqa. I noticed that men edged away from me nervously, but the women seemed to like being nearby. I didn't have to wait long before the flight from Chicago disgorged its passengers, and Phillida was obvious, because she was the only woman getting off that flight wearing a dark blue burqa.

I stepped forward. "Phillida Watkins, I presume?" and we both laughed. "Coffee first," I said, and we went to the ridiculously over-priced airport coffee shop. "Your husband allows you out without a guardian?" she asked. I snorted. "Raafid allows me to do whatever I tell him to allow, He's tasted the crushing grip of my thighs, and he doesn't want to ever feel that again. But," I continued, "tell me about you."

Respect all, fear nun - part five

It was the terce prayer hour. We were all three of us in the gym; the kids wee outside playing with their dogs. I was lying on my back, doing reps with 500, when I noticed a crack in the ceiling that looked like a jagged bolt of stylised lightning. When I finished my set, I showed it to Nora and Mandy. My eyes followed the crack, and the wall was also cracked.

"That looks bad," said Mandy. "Is the building falling down?" asked Nora. "I think we should treat the building a lot more gently until further notice," I suggested. "So no more dropping the weights to the floor; lower them gently."

"And we should pray," said Nora. "Of course," I said, "but we should also get a good surveyor, to tell us whether this is nothing, or very bad.

Roger stood, transfixed. He'd never seen a nun doing bench presses before, he's never seen a woman with 26 inch biceps before and he'd never seen a St Hilda's nun except me, and I was covered head to toe in my habit.

He just stood there, paralysed with a mixture of respect and fear. He was imagining what Nora could do to a man once he was helpless in those huge arms. And I thought, Gotcha! I prophesy a discount.

The patriarchy become afraid of the Black Burqa movement, which is spreading rapidly.

There's a media campaign, orchestrated by the Ministry of Truth. trying to discredit them.

So the Black Burdas raid the Ministry of Truth and help the Minister to understand the true meaning of the Quran.

Ayesha breaks one of his ribs, then squeezes him so hard that he can't breathe, and his bladder voids.

They crushed the gates of the compound into a tangle of useless steel piled in a heap, and they left a black burqa there to show what had happened.

Respect all, fear nun - part four

We learn about nuns and candles, and the part they play in the life of a nun.

Fiona dreams about Satan, and does a deal with the devil; the kids of the orphanage will all get Xboxes in return for Fiona's soul.

Fiona now thinks she's infested by Satan, so Sam does an exorcism for her, which involves some very heavy sex.

But the xboxes have already started to appear in the hands of the children. Where could they have come from?

Then Fiona realises. If it was all just a dream, then it didn't matter. And if it wasn't a dream, Satan was lying to her; it's what he does.

I was just burning some toast to go with the soggy beans for Raafid's supper, when Sfiyah turned up, and she had someone with her. Who? I don't know, she was dressed head to toe in a black burqa.

"Hey," Sfiyah said. "Hey hey," I replied, "what's the timing for toast again?" She looked at what was pretty much charcoal. "About ten minutes ago," she answered, "this is Asma. She wants to be a Black Burqa."

I blinked. A what?

Apparently, my appearance at the masjid had led to some confusion, mostly because Sfiyah also wore a black burqa when she went there to douse the lights. So people already thought there were two of us, and if two, why not three?

The great thing about a burqa, is that no-one could actually see me. It was like a disguise, only better. So no-one, except me and Sfiyah, knew the secret identity of the Black Burqa. I suppose Raafid might have guessed, but he was too intimidated by me to tell anyone. It must be terrible to live with someone who, at any time, might inflict painful violence on you. I know this, because that's how I had lived for years and years.

"Who was that mysterious woman?" people were asking each other, and the guesses were all over the place. Every woman around here was wearing a niqab with a face veil; a burqa was only a small step further. Who was that masked woman?

Asma spoke. "I've been through eight years of beatings. And each time he didn't kill me, he made me stronger. And now I want to be like you, a Black Burqa. I want to help all the women who are being trodden on and treated unjustly. We women are supposed to be treated like queens; too many of us get treated like serfs."

By Diana the Valkyrie

The Westingfield Baptist Church

I thought that things were going well. We'd avoided the possible defunding, we'd avoided being closed down on hygiene grounds, and the future looked rosy. Hah!

We'd even managed to get an increase in funding, on account of Oakfield Developments repenting of their sins, and the world looked golden. Hah!

The kids at the orphanage were happy, we three nuns were happy (they even named a brand of tobacco after us), and the dogs, as ever, were happy. Happiness bloomed all over. And, for the third time, hah!

Satan had not finished throwing his tribulations at us. The first sign that something was going wrong, was when I heard chanting coming from the road outside the orphanage. I listened hard. It sounded like "Stop the bestiality".

I had to google that, and what I found was totally shocking. I called a staff meeting; me, Mandy and Nora. And I explained to them what bestiality is, and they were as shocked as I was. "I have to ask," I said, "but are either of you ...?" "Certainly not!" and "No way!" were the answers, followed by "I'm surprised you even thought you needed to ask!"

"Well, I said. "Nuns have been known to ..." "To what," said Nora. I looked hard at Mandy. "What?" she said. "Candles," I said. She blushed.

Octavia

I'm six feet tall in my bare feet, and two hundred pounds of hard muscle; I can bench three times my weight. And I don't hide my light under a bushel. Everything is on display, and a lot of guys like that.

My impressive body drives men crazy, and crazy men do crazy things. And I encourage the crazy. My hobby is to find men who are nutty as fruitcake, or if they aren't, I push them that way. And when they're one squawk short of a cuckoo, I take a trophy and dump them.

Would you like to hear about some of the absurd things I've done; or rather, the crazy things that men do with a bit of encouragement from a woman with massive muscles?

Sfiyah visited just now, and she was quite excited. "Ayesha, I have a task for you." Uh-oh, I thought, she wants me to bake a cake, and I'm a really rotten cook.

But that wasn't it. "You know Jawaria?" "You mean the one married to Dawud?" "That's right," said Sfiyah. "Well I was with her yesterday, and she has a big bruise on her cheek." "How did that happen?" "She said she bent over and hit it on a tap, but I don't believe that's true." "Why would she lie?" "To avoid the shame of admitting that her husband beats her. You remember, you didn't tell anyone when Raafid was beating you."

"So why is it your problem?" I asked. "It's a problem for all of us," she replied. "We are all sisters, and so we must care for each other." "Maybe he had a good reason to beat her?" I wondered. Sfiyah gave me a withering look. "Like Raafid had a good reason to beat you?" "Good point," I admitted. "So what do you want me to do about it?"

"I think you should Raafid him. Do what you did to Raafid." "But that was different. He was going to marry off Maryam when she was only thirteen, and I just lost my cool at him."

Sfiyah shook her head. "That was the trigger. But the real reason was all the abuse you took over so many years. Well, now Jawaria needs your help." "Why me?"