By Sheila C.

Tori is a caring auntie, who guides her nephew Mark to the adult age. Mark is doubtful about how to choose his dates, so Tori is willing to show him what should be taken into consideration.

Taking him to the gym, dressed in a way that emphasizes her perfect shapely muscular sexy body, she uses a bunch of bullies to show her nephew the meaning of hot female strength.

Those thugs are going to experience the wildest arousal of their lives, due to Tori's amazing use of her body and their cocky machismo. The ridiculous illusion of being stronger than women, in any case, will be a good chance for those men to learn a good lesson, while Mark will never see his aunt Tori with the same eyes again.

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The Plough Girl squadron, part 2

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.

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The Plough Girl squadron, part 1 Olga decides to join the New York Police Department, with a special task to clean up the streets. Back in her village, Olga was the justice system; police, prosecution, judge and punisher. And that's her role now. Discover, stop and chastise the perpetrators. And "chastise" isn't just verbal. Punishments will be physical. "Protect snd serve" is the task of the Plough Girl, and Olga recruits three other plough girls for her squadron. Four huge and powerful plough girls should be enough to handle most of New York.

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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.

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Lysa Strata They brought my sister Joanna to my home. They couldn't leave her at hers, she wouldn't be able to cope. Because Joanna was missing a leg. Lysa Strata decided to instigate a strike. A strike of women. No sex until the Forever War was ended.

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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.

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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.

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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"

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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.

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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.

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"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."

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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.

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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."

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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.

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The Black Burqa part four

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.

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Respect all, fear nun - part three

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.

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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."

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Respect all, fear nun - part two

An inspector calls

The letter confirming that the defunding had been rescinded, duly arrived. No surprise - Justin Graham had sworn on a bible that this would be done, and that's binding. But our celebrations were short-lived. That letter was swiftly followed by another, telling us that we were going to be inspected.

If that sounded ominous, it's because it was. Not because we were doing anything wrong, but because today's America is a place where officials like the mayor make use of official systems to get what they personally want. Yes, that is corruption, but this is how it is now.

We were in his way. He wanted the orphans to be in his privately run, for-profit, orphan machine - and the sisters of St Hilda wanted the orphans to have the best experiences growing up, that we could give them.

I told Nancy, the Mother Superior. "Deal with it," she said, not unkindly. "I have great confidence in you, Fiona, and I'll pray for you." Prayer is good, of course, but I wanted more. "Could I borrow one of the novices?" I asked. "What for?" asked the Mother Superior. "When the inspectors call, I want to shadow them, to make sure they don't make up stuff about us. So I need the extra pair of hands. Could I borrow Daisy?" "You mean, Sister Vache?" "Yes." "OK, that's fine, you can have her for two weeks."

She was called Sister Vache for a reason. And her nickname was Daisy for the same reason - a cow's udders can hold six gallons of milk, and a cow's teats are about two inches long. Daisy wasn't anywhere near that big - but nicknames don't have to be accurate.

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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?"

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I run an orphanage, but it's very different from the usual orphanages.

I'm Fiona, a nun on loan from St Hilda. You'll remember St Hilda's, the convent with the motto "Nil bonum sine passione", which means "No pain, no gain" and denotes the way we use Septadecaherbis and heavy iron to build massive muscles. The ingredients for the seventeen herbs and spices of Septadecaherbis are, of course, a secret.

For a St Hilda's nun, I'm less than the average size - my arms are only 21 inches. My best friend Mandy is 24, Nora is 26. But 21 is usually enough. Mandy says that "biceps aren't everything", and proves it by showing her enormous thighs. I don't have huge thighs, but I do have a useful brain.

Anyway, back to the orphanage. Apart from the fact that it's run by nuns seconded from St Hilda, we're very focused towards the kids. It's bad enough that they're orphans, and don't know the love that only parents can give. We do our best for them, but there's a limit to how much love three nuns can give to 24 kids. It's not that we lack love. It's that there simply isn't enough time in each day to give them what they'd get from a family, from parents.

But here's my clever idea. Dogs. As well as 24 kids, we have 24 dogs. Dogs will give unlimited love, unconditional love, and will be constantly available playmates. Plus, each kid has to care for his or her dog, so they learn how to give as well as take.

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My name is Ayesha. I am a pious Muslima, married to Raafid, my four children are Maryam, Gamali, Nasif and baby Kaadiha. I wear the veil, because I am a modest woman. I'm not smart like my friend Sfiyah. She seems to know everything. I read my Quran, and I'm still rather ignorant, unskilled and often I don't understand what people are saying. But I'm happy. At least, I was happy, until Raafid decided that he didn't like my cooking. To be honest, I don't blame him - cooking is one of the many skills I've never mastered. My food comes in two varieties, soggy or burned. So for the last two years, we've been at loggerheads. First, he spoke to me and told me to improve my cooking. I asked "How?" but he didn't have an answer. Then he tried to punish me by not joining me in bed. That's supposed to be a punishment? And when neither of those worked, he started beating me. They say that what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. That seemed to be true for me - I noticed that I was thickening in the places where the blows landed. And it was hard muscle, protecting my body from Raafid's rod. He kept it hanging on a hook on the wall, and I knew that when he took it down, I was in for another beating.

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A UFC fighter identifies as a man despite having all the usual female equipment (boobs, uterus, vagina etc), because that's the only way he can fight in his weight class of 290 pounds. The pronouns used are "he, him".

Nigel doesn't care, and refers to him as a girl, so he gets challenged. Nigel thinks that just because his birth certificate says "female", that's a permanent marker.

The rest of the story is about how Nigel is destroyed, in detail. Not for the faint-hearted.

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Olga turns her attention to the Russian airfields. They are heavily defended against attack from the air - radar, missiles and ack-ack. But they had no defence against a plough girl.

She tore a hole in the chain link fence, sneaked in and stole a 300 pound barrel of gasoline. Then she kidnapped a pilot and tortured him until he told her where the nearby airfields were.

How do you throw a 300 pound barrel of gasoline, 1000 feet? Not even a plough girl can do that. So she built a trebuchet in the middle of the forest. Her first shot hit the fuel dump and started a huge fire. Her second shot hit the ammo storage, and there was a huge explosion which wrecked the airfield.

After doing this a few times, the Russians got wise and burned down any forest within a kilometer of an airfield.

So Olga changed tactics. Then an airplane takes off, it starts off pretty low - low enough for Olga to be able to hit it with a rock, thrown from her sling. This doesn't do much damage to the rock, but wrecks the airplane.

And when that stopped working, she used home-made separs and a spear thrower. One spear, one airfield.

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Olga turns her attention to the railway system, because that's the way that military supplies were moved.

She didn't have explosives, but she had something just as good - her legs. She used her powerful thighs to bend the rails a few inches, and the next train that came along derailed, the wagons behind also derailed, the fuel wagons burst and caught fire and the whole thing became a major disaster.

After she did the same thing again, the Russians started patrolling the tracks in squads of four. They were easy meat for Olga and her sling. All she needed was her head scarf and her ammo was a stone.

Then she started to bend the rails in tunnels, causing huge crashes that would take months to clear.

Her efforts made the railway system nearly useless, because trains could only move slowly, and the lines had to be patrolled frequently.

So Russian logistics had to go by road, and Olga used her sling to ambush truck convoys.

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Olga starts her gory work - killing Russian officers. The first one died in her leg scissors. He died when his ribs collapsed and penetrated his internal organs. He bled internally, copiously, and died silently.

After killing several more officers, she attacked a stores depot, using a truck. She hitched a lift in a truck, leaned towards the driver, took his head in her hands and gave it a sharp twist, wringing his neck like a chicken. He was dead before he knew what was happening.

The truck was doing fifty kph when it hit the oil drums, but she jumped off just before that happened.

There was a satisfying explosion when one of the oil drums went up, another when the the fuel in the truck caught, and then the fire spread to the other oil drums, a raging inferno, which quickly spread to the big storage tanks nearby.

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Olga is interviewed on TV, and as a result, she meets Trudi, another plough girl. Trudi tells Olga that she's going back to Ukraine, to fight the Russians.

"We're going back to Ukraine, and this time we're going to send the Russians back where they came from."

Olga explains "I have to do this. I can't just stand by, and let other people fight my fight."

Olga does her plough dance on the ship to Hamburg; the passengers love her.

The plough girls make a plan. They will return to Ukraine, and go behind Russian lines, where they plan to kill Russian officers, destroy supply depots and ruining their logistics, so that the front lines are starved of fuel, ammo and food.

The Russians would soon feel the wrath of a plough girl.

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Olga is promoted to head of security at the casino, and makes some long-needed changes.

She also suggests a routine where she crushes a coconut between her thighs, and this really impresses the customers.

Then she does the same with a skull ... which she then explains is just a plastic replica.

She then added a quarter-bending routine. with the offer of, you give me $50,and a quarter, and I give you back the quarter, bent in half.

But what really gets the customes excited, is her plough dance, using a real. 600 pound plough, where she lifts it, dances with it, raises it over her head and swings it down again. All very graceful, and when she's finished the dance, six men from the audience try to lift the plough between them, but they can only just manage to get it a few inches above the floor.

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Olga deals with a wife beater. But the outcome isn't what you might have expected.

Olga also gets another plough girl to deal with the mob guy who was harassing her. And she lets her borrow her plough, just for a little while.

Anastasia is taller, broader and deeper than Olga. Olga is big, but Anastasia is a lot bigger.

"I visited Robin again. This time, the baby Star was asleep, which suited me fine. I took Robin's hand, pulled him into his bedroom, took off my dress and raped him. Is it rape? If the victim keeps gasping "Yes, yes!" I'd guess, sort of."

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We stayed talking until dusk, and then I lifted him back into the wheelchair, and set off for his apartment.

"Olga," he said. "Mmh?" I answered. "Don't look back but we're being followed," he told me. I looked back. Sure enough, two guys were keeping station on us about fifty yards back.

"Olga," he said again. "What?" "It's an ambush. There's another two guys up front, trying to hide in doorways. Leave me and run for it."

"I'm not leaving you to get beaten up. That's my job," I joked. "Olga, this is serious. Four that I've spotted, and there could be others. And I don't think they're waiting to play patty-cake. Run for your life."

No way. Plough girls aren't cowards. Gary had suffered enough at my hands, it was clearly on me to look after him. I wasn't going to leave him to the mercy of these four toughs. But I could see a way to even the odds a bit.

I did a u-turn, and ran back the way we'd come. Clearly, the thugs weren't expecting me to run towards danger, so at first, they didn't know what to do. Ten seconds later I was in front of them. I kicked one of them in the head, which is a dangerous thing to do, because I could lead to a fatality, and the other one in the groin. He folded up nicely and I smashed my two fists into the back of his head as he went down. He hit the pavement, and lay still.

By then, the other two had arrived, and I could see two more running towards me. This was good; two at a time is better than four at once. I left Gary and the two thugs I'd already handled, and met the first two before they could realise their mistake.

I'm six foot three, and my legs are a lot longer than their arms. Which is just as well, because they were both armed with baseball bats, and looked like they were ready to use them. So I used the reach of my legs to kick one of them in the side, and there was a satisfying crack as his ribs broke. The other one swung his bat at me and connected. He hit my left shoulder, and my left arm went numb. But I grabbed his bat with my right hand and jerked it towards me.

He had two choices, hold on or let go. Both choices were bad. If he let go, I would be armed and he not. So he hung on to the bat, and was jerked forward enough so that my raised knee could crash into his genitals. Strike four.

The last two arrived, out of breath, and split up. One of them went for Gary, the other one pulled a knife and threatened me with it. So I picked up thug four and threw him at thug five, which I don't think he expected, and I followed up with a broken knife arm, so he dropped his weapon. A fist to the belly took him out of action, leaving thug six, who had wisely decided to make a run for it.

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Olga applies for a job as a porn model, but the pay is too low.

So she tries a casino, the 'Rain of Gold'. She's interviewed by the manager, who admires her huge bosom, 26 inch biceps and 37 inch thighs. but can she handle being a bouncer?

The manager tells one of his bouncers to chuck her out, but she breaks his leg, punched his belly and kneed him in the face as he collapsed.

She got the job. And she makes a dress for wearing on her job at the casino.

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Olga explains how to become a plough girl, and looks for a better-paying job.

Olga is a tall, strongly built, over-sexed blonde. Her lack of experience in Western ways, gets her into trouble, but her powerful muscles keep her safe. Her striking good looks and well-developed figure lead her into many sexual situations; her kind and gentle nature is the reason why so many men survive her lovemaking.

"The plough girl" is a series of stories by Diana the Valkyrie; each week you can follow Olga's adventures.

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Olga gets a new job at the KittyKat Klub, and deals with a gun man by crushing the gun with her powerful fingers.

Olga is a tall, strongly built, over-sexed blonde. Her lack of experience in Western ways, gets her into trouble, but her powerful muscles keep her safe. Her striking good looks and well-developed figure lead her into many sexual situations; her kind and gentle nature is the reason why so many men survive her lovemaking.

"The plough girl" is a series of stories; each week you can follow Olga's adventures.

Olga is a plough girl - she pulls the plough for her village. They are too poor to own a horse or ox, so a plough girl does the job.

Then war hits Ukraine. She joins the fight, but there are just too many well-armed Russians. The villagers are forced to flee; Olga goes to New York.

Olga is a tall, strongly built, over-sexed blonde. Her lack of experience in Western ways, gets her into trouble, but her powerful muscles keep her safe. Her striking good looks and well-developed figure lead her into many sexual situations; her kind and gentle nature is the reason why so many men survive her lovemaking.

"The plough girl" is a series of stories; each week you can follow Olga's adventures.

Olga is a plough girl - she pulls the plough for her village. They are too poor to own a horse or ox, so a plough girl does the job.

Then war hits Ukraine. She joins the fight, but there are just too many well-armed Russians. The villagers are forced to flee; Olga goes to New York.

Olga is a tall, strongly built, over-sexed blonde. Her lack of experience in Western ways, gets her into trouble, but her powerful muscles keep her safe. Her striking good looks and well-developed figure lead her into many sexual situations; her kind and gentle nature is the reason why so many men survive her lovemaking.

"The plough girl" is a series of stories; each week you can follow Olga's adventures.