Halting Sexual Predation of Women: 3 Stories from Joan E Thurman

reposted by Homer L Teabury

Joan E Thurman, Leader of World Association of Women's Supremacists

written by Joan E Thurman (now with less sex and violence, and more whisking!)

2015-3-1 To attract the interest of the opposite sex, all a woman need do is place a finger in her mouth. In the picture above, I am doing just that. Although I admit the photo was staged, in the real world I might have been licking the herbs, spice, and greasy remnants of the Colonel's secret recipe from my sticky fingers. 
Hot damn! She's giving us the come on, fellas!
I was observed from above, looking up with my finger in my mouth today--by several cat-calling men, as I walked the short distance to retrieve my classic XKE from a mechanic's garage. You see, as I walked, I was dislodging bits of the hors d'oeuvres served at our company's regular Wednesday afternoon Board Meeting. We always have wine, too, but my glass of iced Dom Perignon hurt like hell.

I had lost a tooth-filing at breakfast. As the day progressed, so did my dental pain. The gaggle of goons thought I was enacting a seductive pose for their benefit. I was picking my teeth. First thing in the morning my new dentist will correct it.

Once home and relieved by pain-killers, I let my mind wander through the many scenarios-past involving different kinds of wolf-whistles--different types of pick-up artists. One was pathetic, one easy to fool, but one, deadly serious. Under the right circumstance, murderous. When I let my violent side take charge, it cost me a job, but I survived

Men staring at a female with a finger between her lips, and eyes brimming with what?--love, lust, or hopeless sexual addiction?--knows she wants sex with him now. There exists no other reason in his one-track minds. If that finger in her mouth is sometimes yours, let Joan E show you how she's dealt with common stereotypes--and also with a rarer class, the truly dangerous sexual psychopath.


Get to work Pee Wee! The ladies' room is loaded with bacteria!
You probably have one of these--the easiest predator-wannabe to shoot down. Like my office janitor. When he enters with that come-hither look in his rheumy eyes, I get very business-like fast, and remind him of the filth breeding under rims of the ladies' room toilet-bowls; the gross bacteria hidden under the loose hinge-covers; and worst of all, the puce-shaded film coating those hard-to-reach areas behind the toilets. In so many words, has he cleaned those to a hospital level of clean?

His ongoing half-assed cleaning left the air ripe with a stink like pickled herring mixed with gunpowder! Even passers-by in the hall had been seen retching from the smell. And he had the nerve to call himself a sanitary specialist! He got my memo. 

Then, over my half-frame readers, I told him "get to it now, Pee Wee--immediately--or I'll have to recommend your discharge." This sent the toilet-keeper scurrying like a roach seeking shelter from a storm of Raid. Pee Wee don't want to get killed dead, he just want to flirt. Fat chance. 


Whadda you drinkin' Cupcake?
Harder to stop is the classic Don Juan type, the skilled-trade worker with a little jingle in his pocket. He's a grossly inflated ego, and since its unstoppable, you have to steer it in a different direction. Women enjoy his free drinks (until freely drunk) and appreciate the directness of his passion because he finishes in under two minutes, servicing the inebriated floozy in the nearest alley up against a wall, freeing her so fast she has plenty of time to stagger back to the pub and lite upon her next buyer-of-beverages lover. 

Tradesmen always score on paydays. Several times. His sway over alcoholic, poor, and women starved for kindness, even his,  make these Don Juans think that any human female--including you, me, or Scarlett Johansson--who looks at him with a finger between her lips is sending him silent female code, offering to perform fellatio on him in some remote area of his workshop, (naturally on her knees, ruining her stockings and scraping up her flesh). 

He can't understand the word "no," but even the sexiest woman alive can shut him down fast. Here's how: order the most expensive drink in the place, and then as you're sipping your free beverage, invite him to a wild sex party--tonight! Let him know in no uncertain terms that he must go: he is the kind of stud that will turn a wet and wild evening into a frenzy. Tell him what to expect. 

First partiers watch lots of very kinky porno and drink beer. Once the alcohol and the drugs kick in, the men take turns peeing in each others' mouths. Swallowing is considered the height of machismo. Of course, it's all male affair. 

In answer to Don Juan's stunned next question, you answer of course I'll be there too! I'm the official website photographer, but I'm lesbian! Insist that he write down the time and place, and tell him to be there or be square, Stud. Don Juan will never again mention anything even vaguely sexual to you, and probably never both you again about anything.


You do like money, don't you Ophelia?
However, the worst sexual predators are to be found among the wealthiest of a nation: investment bankers, directors of multiple corporations, exiled royalty, and political figures. They travel in private jets. Their tastes are expensive. 

My aching tooth reminds me of another tale of teeth. These belonged to a tycoon who made other sexual predators look like choir-boys. I once spent several hours with Mr. P all to myself on a private flight. I'd seen his face on magazine covers. 

My boss sat in the cabin's most distant seat, and waved me away when first I sat down next to my employer. In hushed, slightly furtive tones he informed me that I was to keep wealthy Mr. P occupied, so I moved to the other end of the cabin. Mr. P sat down practically in my lap. He leaned close and said in near-whispered tones that many young women less lovely and intelligent than me worked for him making far more money than me, working scarcely at all, and enjoying unlimited personal freedom to live how, where, and with whomever they wished. Most of the time.

I was curious about "most of the time," but all Mr. P wanted to talk about was how easily they earned their top-drawer lifestyles. I smiled politely and let him ramble. Eventually the cat escaped the bag: these women were performers at Mr. P's private club. I interpreted that for what it meant: freaky whores. Like most people of wealth, he interpreted my silence as approbation, and returned to bragging about the well-kept women of his club.

His girls earned $5,000.-10,000.00 per hour, working 3 to 5 hours a week. The wheels in my mind spun, but something didn't add up.

They were paid in cash, for reasons of confidentiality, and their only duties were to participate in whatever type of frolicsome sex play the club-member wanted. Members were very important people--a secret group whose names were too well-known even to mention.


Of course, the club had its critics. One prude who worked there for less than an hour called the place the world's most expensive den of demented depravity. Nationally known personalities got their kicks there from hardest-core sadistic sex, she declared, like penetration of women with baseball bats, acts of fellatio controlled with electrified choke collars, exhibitions of women whipped in extreme bondage, and college girls made to service trained dogs. These she had seen with her own eyes, but had heard of far worse. 

"Ahh," the tycoon said, "she was chock full of beans. Her so-called journalism was never published, and for all we know, it may never have existed. The truth would never be known, for the self-appointed investigator Nancy Usherwood had met with a lethal accident shortly after her announcement. 

Then Mr. P let his mood grow a little darker, and a lot more honest. Besides, he continued arrogantly, pretty college women rarely complained. Their reactions to pain are kept in check by drugs and tight restraints, and their sudden screams muffled with gags. Any dogs on the premise have had all their shots and been examined by a specialist.

One of the club's founders was a starlet who had made a science of sexual pain, humiliation and especially sadism. She trained recruits, and was the den mother who passed out pharmaceutical substances to college girls training for the baseball bat. She also did the enemas and decided which freakish submissions best suited their natural tendencies.
Brand new as I would be at his club--he already had me enrolled!--the starlet would show me some new tricks, at the very least. She had also developed a throat-training-technique to hold muscles open stimulant drugs, an electric prod, muscle relaxants, and large doses of opiates to prevent gagging.  The tycoon pervo's only concern was that his girls often began to abuse drugs.

Under his trainer's guidance, he said, I might learn to endure--even to enjoy--the whippings, chokings, shocking prods and extreme humiliations. In time, I might get good enough to administer these tortures to others.  Somebody must get hurt from time to time, I heard myself say, though still smiling politely. 

Before the club's "reforms," there had been a single tragedy, Mr. P admitted (now that he had found in me a sympathetic confidante). 

One thirteen-year-old tart had passed herself off as 20 and succeeded admirably for a while. She'd looked the part, endured the play, and was grateful for the big pay. She'd purchased an expensive motorcycle for her young man. Sadly, she got dead--exactly how, or why, or at whose hands, nobody knew, but it had cost the club millions.


Millions, I repeated, still smiling--although my blood was beginning to boil with the poison of vengeance. She'd succeeded admirably? At 13? Is that what he said? He was the worst predator upon women I had ever met. I hated him. And frankly, he was a fool to pick me, of all people, to tell about it.

A righteous notion was taking possession of my soul. I kept smiling, and inserted a finger between my lips with only one thing in mind. I finally spoke. 

"It sounds like some naughty fun," I said, a wicked grin on my face and a bit of gravel in my voice. "I can handle fucking a baseball bat. And some men I know, too. Sometimes we plug each other with bowling pins, just for the fun of it. It's different. If you like, I'll show you some of the things I can do now."

Mr. P was delirious about my self-announced insane corruption. "A bowling pin! Really?"

"Sure. You got one on ya?" I jested, smiling luridly. "Tell ya what. Come to the bathroom in a few minutes and I'll show what real degradation is all about. Real corruption of mind and body that'll knock your eyes out. Did you happen to bring along your training prod?" I asked.

He opened a case and withdrew a slender metal prod with a large battery pack and trigger on one end. The business end was a slender taper that expanded into a contoured plug. Looking over his shoulder, I noted that he traveled with quite a collection of torture implements.

"And bring those handcuffs too, you beast. And the clips. I'm going to give you an audition even the Marquis de Sade could never forget. There's something so . . . masterful about you.  You put me in just the perfect mood." 

I took his cuffs and prod and rose in front of him, undoing the top buttons of my prim-and-proper blouse, exposing a conservative expanse of cleavage. My real employer watched wide-eyed from his distant seat. 

"Give me two minutes to grease up the backstreet, and then come on down," I said, and sashayed down the aisle swaying my hips like street whores I had seen taking clients into allies. The jet's rest room was twice as big as a commercial jet's, but it had the same hand grips for unsteady passengers and blue solution in its commode as a Greyhound bus.


Soon came his genteel tap on the door. I had unbuttoned my blouse all the way, fully exposing my breasts. I was half-insane with hatred, but in full possession of my faculties. I bade him enter, and once he had, I sat on the vanity, wriggled out of my panties, and began languidly to toy with myself, staring zombie-eyed at the great man reduced to a far smaller, furtive animal. I sniffed and then slowly stuffed my own panties into my mouth, a real whore. 

Then with the same wide-eyed feverishness, I held out the wet silk right under his nose.  "Your turn now," I said, "--if you wanna get anything. Suck the crotch clean like a good boy and maybe I'll give you a long, filth-licking trip around the world in return. No wash-up required." 

He nodded in assent. I stood and began slowly stuffing the wet rag into his mouth. I was working hard to control my first impulse--to shove them down his throat and choke him good--when I noticed a little play in his teeth. They were dentures! Oh, what luck! In one yank, I pulled them out. 

"So this is what happens when a cannibal does too much biting," I giggled. What luck!

"Give those back, you dirty pepper" he protested--but half-heartedly, for he enjoyed the humiliation. "I said give them back! Now." 

"All right, all right. But you'll have to get them away from me first," I prattled in childish double-dare. When he had me cornered, I casually tossed the set of false teeth into the chome commode. 

"Ooops. Sorry! You'll just have to get them for yourself, and they may look a little blue, but after that . . . well, for being so naughty, I'll let you punish me anyway you like," I lied, holding up his electric prod.  

The temptation to defile and torture got the better of him. He had to make quite a stretch, bending over the steel commode, to fish out his dentures. As he did, I caught him off-balance and managed to upend him suddenly by grabbing one of his legs, and giving it a good upward push. I sent him tumbling head first into the toilet!

Before he had time to react, I had cuffed one of his ankles to the hand grip next to the commode. I had managed to trap this menace to women, face down in three inches of blue toilet fluid, with one ankle suspended high, and the other dangling uselessly. I don't think he'd ever been strung up quite like that before. He was trapped like a fly in Joan E's web.

"So is this how your little starlet trains girls like me?" I asked, as I ripped open the long seam of his expensive pant-seat. I tore open the back of his briefs, and beheld the parted buttocks of a mogul. Yuck! He tried to crane his neck to see me, but couldn't quite make it. The great artist of torture was uncertain--worried, even--about what was somebody was going to do to him for a change.

"Does your sexy starlet spank her bad girls like this when they cry out during batting practice?" I teased, smacking his bum with the mildness reserved for a small child. "Or might she do it it more like this?"

I looked at his face, half immersed in blue toilet fluid. He looked hateful now. Mad? Too bad! I hadn't hurt him a bit. "But you're not enjoying your self! I guess you need sterner training." 

I set the prod's voltage up all the way and gave his Mr. Turtle a taste of how sexy it feels to have your private parts electrified. Drips of blue splashed as his head thrashed in the bowl.  He'd stained my new blouse with a spot of that blue toilet flush!

"Look at what you've done now. It makes me very unhappy. Are you thirsty for the blue water?" I asked, while yanking his belt from the tatters that once were trousers. "Is that why you splashed me? Start drinking, little man.  If you don't, I may have to punish you."

"No, please! No more!" he wailed, fear in his voice. Hmm. He didn't like being shocked.  He was just barely able to turn his head far enough to show me his blue lips, and spit out a mouthful of blue toilet water to prove that he was drinking it. Just like an obedient tortured woman. 

I couldn't help but to think of what he and his friends had done to so many others--and realized I was not even close to being finished with him. 


"Okay, blue boy. I'm done with your free sample. Almost done, I should say. But I can't leave you with giving you something to remember me by--a good-fun sex technique for the next time you are driving a child to her death with this kind of hell." 

I pried open his sphincter with his prod, and poured a cupful of water directly into him, deep inside his quivering bottom. "I'm so sorry I forgot to bring my Joe Louis slugger.  You would have loved that. But this will have to do."

Then I rudely shoved his little torture device as far into him as I could push it. "Be a good boy and open wide," I sad, forcing it with both hands until its plug had disappeared, leaving the rod, its battery and trigger-grip swaying a bit, but free standing. He'd probably jammed the thing into a hundred of his well-paid victims, and left it swaying just like that. He wouldn't get any argument from a girl in that position, and I could only imagine what he and his pals made her do to avoid the pulled trigger.  Oh, hell. 

I reached over, and switched it on half power. He began screaming and jiggling, but I let it run a while. I freshened my make-up in the mirror, and combed out my hair. I was a mess, and it was his fault. What a noisy brat! I grabbed a handful of tissues, and wadded them into his mouth. Then I turned the power up all the way and really gave him something to scream about.

I pushed and pulled the horrible plug-sized end of his little torture prod in and out of his bottom like I was plunging a stopped-up toilet. He was screeching now, a miserable aria of pain--a tuneless plea for mercy very satisfying to me as I thought of what he'd done to others, and how one had actually died. I wished his tortured girls could've heard it too. He was the world's lousiest soprano until he passed out again. 


This time there was no thrashing--or breathing.

His heart had stopped, just like the 7th grader he and his sadistic cronies had killed. Still! My God, I had killed him! I was as bad as he was, and that was the worst. 

But no, the dead rat coughed out some blue toilet water, and began to breath again. I jerked his evil head out of the toilet, choking him with the noose of his own $700 belt. I reluctantly uncuffed his ankle, and with some effort, pulled him out of the toilet, and propped him upright on the commode. 

His face and hair were a smurf shade of blue, as was his mouth--toothless and gaping, also blue. Lines of seared flesh covered his face, shoulders, back, and places where his skin had pressed against the metal bowl--or where I had applied the prod a little too enthusiastically. Some sick green goop dribbled out of him and landed on my shoes. My new shoes.  

He was moaning but returning to the world. Too soon he would be back. Too bad. I took off my shoes one at a time and wiped his slime back where it belonged, around the mouth. I held his mouth open and flicked a chunk of feces from off one shoe. "Open wide," I said. "I think this belongs to you."

When I was sure he would live, I whispered low and flirtatiously. "I hope it was as good for you as it was for me." I freshened myself up as well as I could after causing such a blue-tinted maelstrom. I strolled out of that private-jet restroom spotted in smurf-blue. 

I returned to my seat and resumed reading The Ladies' Home Journal I had brought along, just as if nothing unusual had happened.

They put me off the plane in Yankton, South Dakota, where they took aboard a doctor. Needless to say, I lost that job. But the cruel Mr. P dared file no charges. I understand that not long after our affair, he gave up his little club. 

Even though all this happened over fifteen hears ago, I still get spontaneous applause when I run into one of his former slaves on the street, or at a party. 

What I did was horribly violent and therefore wrong, but he had hurt others without a bit of remorse--at least until he experienced what it was like for his victims. I am glad I had the guts to put such a diabolical mind back in its proper human dimension.  End of story. 

I am so tired. I am falling asleep. On my way down the dark ladder, I vow that once my tooth has been repaired in the morning, I am going into work and have Pee Wee sent up to my office. I will tell him, "that restroom better be spotless when I come to inspect it"--and indeed it will be.