From the Erotic Casebook of Betty Slade, PI: She- Muscle
Detective
The
Deltoid Directive
By "VJ"
-.As
Told To Forrest Curran
Tuesday, 12 PM: Buns and
Guns
The minute hand of my desktop clock lazed its way to twelve, merged with the hour hand already parked there, and I started breathing again.
Before the Westclox could commence its next loop, I was already on my feet, hastily straightening my attire and gathering a brown paper bag lunch. And my nerves-
I wanted, no, needed, to get to that afternoon session inside with Betty Slade.
From the sound of her stilettos heels devouring the floorboards, though, I knew that my BossLady was even faster. Through the pebbled glass that divided our offices, a translucent version of the Lady Detective was melting towards the cool darkness of her sacred sanctum, and I heard the inner door creaking-the door that led to a gym full of shining chrome and gleaming mirrors. She wasn't waiting for any slowpoke secretaries when her astounding muscles hungered for a workout! The Discipline of the Iron, as she referred to her bodybuilding lifestyle, was beckoning and she needed no claxon call to summon her presence in the gym. Scurrying to catch up, and my heart hammered at the sight of her pink jumpsuit already discarded, perfumed and puddling in the doorway. Because after all, this was Tuesday, and on Tuesdays, Betty let me watch-
Flesh and metal were engaging in battle before my myopic eyes, but already the barbell was surrendering. Even after ten reps, it was proving no real challenge to my muscular BossLady other than to provide a warm-up to a pair of twenty-two inch arms and the anxious libido of her assistant, who sat in the corner happily munching a homemade leftover sandwich claimed with a stop at his mother's house that morning. In the recessed spotlights, Betty Slade, She-Muscle Detective, looked every bit a movie star from some pumped-up pageantry. As sweat gleamed on her sun-browned skin, it was staining the skimpy black tanktop even as it highlighted the enormities that were her muscles. As she stood repping the gleaming challenges, making the muscles inflate in boiled braggadocio, I sighed with delight and watched a droplet course down the path of an angry bulging vein on her left arm, and I dreamily swallowed the last of my two-bite luncheon.
Bathed in the theatrical light, Betty Slade was putting on a show that only a very few women in the world could attempt, and only a fewer still perform with the luscious implosions of ladymuscle, sweat, and bulge.
This was her home, her haven, and in the time I had come to know her, the place that most defined the spectacular woman who wrote me a check every week. My bosslady took a special pride in her monster muscle physique and had even when judging standards had retreated to mini-scularity, as Betty liked to call it. There would be no guessing when she exited her gym after a workout. No theories were needed.
Without doubt I would always know what bodypart she had blasted. Furious explosions of sinew on her arms told me what she'd been doing. Quads that at once distorted and yet redefined natural standards for beauty let me know they'd just been hammered.
She would show herself no mercy in attacking a rack of iron, and today was no exception. Moans and grunts emitted those full, lightly painted lips as she punished her thick physique, enflaming my fantasy life to a near boil with hard cruel reps of impossible poundage she conquered with concentrated applications of a ferocity that bordered on the sexual. The results, those simmering overpumped declarations of independence, stopped time in their tracks and made my life a rollercoaster of short-range eroticism. For me, and those like me, who found in those sculpted hot mountains of iron-won sinew a thrill that knew no equal, there was no place else on the earth I would want to be, near to the miracle that was Betty Slade.
And in truth, Betty applied the same ferocious determination to life as she would her triceps. Lovers came and went, crimes presented and solved, even as she left in her wake an array of men falling in love and women wondering how they could put some muscle on their own frames, and so find so easy a command of men and their machinations.
A prophet of LadyMuscle, that was Betty Slade, working up a sweat in the early afternoon, punishing her overpumped boiled-big muscles in a way that transported small men to their own Nexxus, a paradise where the mockery of friends who could not comprehend the fetishes of others, could never be heard.
Still very buxom even when dieting, Betty's nipples were jutting out of her skintight muscle top like beacons warning of danger, romance, intrigue out of control. I swallowed hard, but this time there was no chicken salad in my mouth. Only a pool of desire turned saliva.
There was generally no talking during these Tuesday rituals. But some time earlier she had decided to let me sit quietly in her pump room as she worked her staggering arms, which was almost always on the second day of the normal work week during what would pass for a lunch hour for most people. I qualify these descriptions because, as the reader may know, there was never a "normal" when working for a woman like my BossLady.
When a woman six foot four and two hundred and eighty nine pounds, with a build like a Penthouse Pet cross-pollinated with a shotputter, is your boss, you learn to live with the unexpected. Late night phone calls. Dangerous liaisons. The occasional gunshot. And maybe a bit of teasing from the lovelorn Susie Haynesworth down the hall, who couldn't figure out what a pale, skinny, five foot five inch man saw in this wonderfully muscular and mercilessly beautiful private detective named Betty Slade. Or what he hoped she would ever, in his wildest, darkest dreams, might see in him.
Betty grunted hard as a strand of pinned-up ravenblack hair fell forwards across her face and a last silent rep was conquered, the weight dropped carefully to the mats. Standing, her muscles were once again transformed. More than large, or sculpted, or wonderful to behold; the hard reps turned them heartless, almost metallic. Veins crisscrossed the staggering sheaths of ladymuscle, urgently offering blood to the silent roaring demands of the sinews. The hunger of muscle for challenge, pain, and victory had been tempered only for the moment, leaving her physique a heart-hurting joy- the way her deltoids bulged into the emptiness of the gym, her biceps and triceps taking on the look of an architectural conference on perfection in size and shape- complimenting each other wonderfully, hugely. Glowing brown skin gave a good argument against staring solely at the strong beauty of her determined features, debating the pleasures of studying each at the expense of the other. Blue eyes gleamed as though in reflection of the chromed surroundings. In a room surrounded entirely with mirrors, I had a hundred little vantage points I'd otherwise be refused; the sculpted roundness of her glutes, the sweet vastness of her mountainous back-
The awesome result of the heavy set was a physique too big to measure and too gorgeous to do anything but say-
"-wow!" I gushed in a stage-whisper. The muscles were coaxed to enormity, the bubbling sinews angrily straining against the dark overwhelmed skin, raging veins running rampant.
But only now, and for the first time, Betty permitted herself to notice the raptures of the administrative assistant who'd been ogling and dreaming even as she made her thick muscle boil to near bursting. "Thank you, good sir," she huffed a bit breathlessly in a prim faux-British accent. "But don't you think you should get the door? We'll have to cut the workout short for now-"
The office bell rang again, but it was the first time I heard it. With a scurry and a brush of crumbs, I zipped back to my desk with a head full of Kodak moments I'd replay that evening. I was mildly disappointed but eager to please Betty.
MuscleBossLady-
"So how soon can I see her?"
The voice was strong but feminine, not quite deep but sultry, like Lauren Bacall's when she was young. Except that the woman standing before me in a denim jacket and spandex slacks tucked into knee-high black leather boots had a pair of legs that weighed more than Mrs. Bogart's entire body, and then some. The smell of Jasmines filled my little anteroom office and I admired that headful of blonde curls as they bounced like springs on her broad shoulders with each tiny move of her head.
"She is in, isn't she? I have a problem," came the second inquiry before I could even answer the first.
I nodded, listening for a second to the sounds within the office. For a moment I'd been concerned that the concierge has let in someone with a package again, rather than a paying customer. Betty had insisted that such visitors buzz my desk rather than ringing our doorbell direct. No, this was a customer, alright. And a paying customer superceded showering, I knew, and the bangs, slams and sloshings of a quick wash-off and towel-down were echoing off the nearby porcelain.
I looked back to the visitor. The mouth, tight and perturbed, ruined the country-girl prettiness, but the diamond eyes glimmered like prizes men had died for.
I knew who this woman was in an instant.
Whatever might have been disturbing her to render that cuddly beauty down to the ranks of mere mortals, it wasn't going to be enough to render commonplace the hard delights under that faded jacket. Under the fraying cloth, I knew, was a body almost the equal of the woman toweling off in the bathroom just within.
For this was Gillian McConnell, as awesome a specimen of female muscle under thirty as existed in the country at the time. The five foot nine inch, two hundred ten-pound winner of the Super Heavyweight class at this year's just completed Nationals and spanking new IFBB Pro. The web was starting to buzz with pictures of her and, as was my habit for both professional and personal reasons, I'd clicked-and-saved almost all of them.
My pulse started to run a relay race, passing off a quart of adrenaline into my bloodstream that made my hands shake. Any close inspection south of my belt buckle by this visitor was going to betray my current condition, borne of thirty minutes of watching a goddess get even bigger-
"Y-yes, Ms. McConnell, Betty is just returning to the office from her workout," I assured her, my voice still a wavering, lust-driven dream I had to forcibly clear.
"Good. I'll wait right here for her until she's ready to see me," was her curt but girlish reply, as though slightly offended that I wasn't rolling out a red carpet for her. She settled her lovely bulk into the plastic chair and tapped a high heel impatiently while I decided to sit down and pretend to be in the middle of something important. But scant moments had passed when she was standing up before my desk again.
"Hey!" she declared, as though offended at something. "How did you know my name?" came the breathy demand. "I'm not famous or anything, not yet, anyway-"
Instantly, I began fumbling for words-.
We're an office that works with bodybuilders, I
explained, and it's part of my job duties and responsibilities to recognize the
prominent and soon-to-be-prominent personalities in the
sport-
As I rattled off a chain of excuses why I knew every inch of this luscious lady's topography--at least as much as could be known from videos and photographs and sweet dreams--she began to smile knowingly. As I spoke-
-and occasionally such in-depth knowledge has proven
to be very very useful to my boss in her practice and so the time spent in
cataloguing our database is time very well spent and I even keep a
videography-
-she began removing her denim jacket. In my head I recall some dramatic music start to lurk, then swell---the sort that made hearts race and pulses climb.
Pulling it slowly off both her shoulders at once, Gillian's retreating cloth served as a curtain rising on a most spectacular show. Inch by delightful inch, the production began to unveil of a pair of she-guns every bit as big as BossLady's; as fair-skinned as Betty's were dark. Striated, slathered with layers of mature, molten muscle that almost seemed to pulse with power in the early afternoon sunlight, the gorgeous limbs had shanghaied my tongue. From bursting deltoids sporting angry veins to thick slabs of bicep and tricep, her guns were loaded and dangerous, and I was hungry again. This time I wanted only two slices of whole wheat bread to accompany the two slabs of fresh and delicious ladybeef that had crept into view- Maybe Tuesday was her arm day too, I remembered thinking-
-.s-so I try to be- um- ef-ficient.. and that way we can
remain on the cutting edge of the b-b-bodybuilding business and-
and-.
But by the time she had tossed the jacket over her shoulder, my mouth was working silently, words bailing out over teeth and gums, leaving just a saliva bubble in their wake. Ms. McConnell grinned naughtily. Without looking down, she started flexing that pair of stupendous arms at her side, imperceptibly at first, then harder and harder, bigger, until the heartless muscles bulged in a beautifully obscene instant-replay of my BossLady just moments ago. By then, my mouth hung open in silent prayer at teasing female sinew on display at the side of this noonday visitor to the office.
It was quite a tableau. The swollen deltoids were like sexy shoulder pads; the perfectly balanced triceps tweaked and pulsed as though living independent of their owner and hungry for worship and exercise, the coconut biceps like a harsh mountain range intercepted by a raging veiny river and begging for exploration; topped off with some golden jangling jewelry and a fresh rose-colored manicure-
Betty had competition out there, after all-
Perhaps I should've felt some guilt at my awestruck ogling. Just a minute ago, I'd been doing much the same with another woman, after all. But the lone benefit of my fixation--and the status assigned me as a result--was that I was not considered a serious entity in a sexual sense. Fidelity was meaningless when it was not welcome-
At least, not by women such as these. So my open-mouthed adoration was just that, nothing more-
"-send in the client, VJ," came Betty's briskly officious voice over the speakerphone.
I stood, feeling my face converted into a beefsteak tomato's red embarrassment. The lovely ladyflexer's stern countenance suddenly melted for moment and a knowing smile overtook her face; one just like her photo I'd seen of her on the middle-of-the-night sports shows-
Looking me up and down, she nodded as though she'd just seen me naked and had knowledge of my shortcomings. I'd been exposed again-
"I'll let myself in," said the blonde in the bright pink tube top, her glance going to my resurrected crotch as she sauntered into Betty's office.
My mouth still wasn't working. But an employee's sense of duty snapped me back into the day if not the moment. My head was still swimming but my awe-stricken legs wobbled after her-
"Bring us some mineral water," came the directive of Ms. Betty Slade, P.I., who was already seated at her desk, hair quickly but efficiently pinned and piled atop her head. Fashion sense had collided with convenience in the brisk selection of her wardrobe. My employer's huge upper body was adorned with a white blouse overstuffed with her supersized muscularity. Entirely devoid of sleeves and baring a matching set of freshly engorged she-guns, its seams threatened to surrender to her wide lats and thick traps at any moment. Mother of Pearl buttons looked eager to burst across the powerful chest and large breasts. But for now, the garment was holding its own, hemming in the weapon that was the upper body of this astounding woman. Buttoned to the neck, it occurred to me that the top would have been prim on most other women, like Susie Haynesworth down the hall. But Betty Slade instantly eroticized everything that came into contact with that heartlessly big, almost frightening, physique.
"Nice," Gillian McConnell allowed as I retreated to my little refrigerator.
"I like to flirt and tease, I admit it. I'm guilty. Big deal," said our newest customer as I set the bottled beverages down before the two ultra-big ladies. Our visitor was comfortably ensconced in the new black leather chair with polished chrome handles-
"It's always been a rush for me. But this time it's turned into a real pain in the ass-"
She had begun her story and Betty sat listening intently, fingertips pressed together, elbows resting on the desktop-
"Um, Betty?" I interrupted, my voice a respectful whisper as I stood at attention in the doorway, tray tucked under my arm like a butler at the Ms. Olympia. "Do you need anything else?"
At my inquiry, Gillian McConnell looked over at me and sighed, her generous cleavage heaving in the little tube top even as rungs of battle-hard abdominal flash-focused for an eyefilling moment.
"It's guys like him who have caused me so much trouble," she admitted, before looking back at my MuscleBossLady. "The cute, respectful, little guys with their secret stashes of female muscle videos. Guys who meet muscular women in hotel rooms and get all worshipful and stuff. You know, schmos?"
Capillaries in my face were filling, darkening my cheeks again. She wasn't about to permit me the dignity or pretense of a secret.
"If this case is as you say 'schmo-related' then perhaps VJ here should sit in on our Q and A session, Ms. McConnell. He's been quite helpful to me in the time that he's come to work for me. That is, unless you have an objection-"
Gillian looked at me again. "Really? You mean he does more than type and take dictation? I thought that with that cute butt of his, maybe you hired him just for decorative purposes,' she grinned, wolfishly x-raying my hips and shooting me a wink. "You know, sitting on your desk and getting all hot-and-bothered while you work out your calendar with him?"
Betty ran down the brief resume of my rather tame accomplishments as an operative, names and dates deleted. Gillian cocked an eyebrow.
"Okay, maybe he can help at that," she said finally; though it seemed that the idea was okay with her from the beginning. Betty patted a corner of her desktop, and Gillian chuckled quietly to herself at the accuracy of at least a part of her assessment.
Gillian crossed her legs and I remarked that her entire physique, not just her arms, seemed stone-hewn. Her traps were a work of architectural wonder, and those legs looked capable of launching me to the Mars Outpost with just one carefully placed kick. With two awesome-looking ladies to ogle with careful calculation, this would be a rather pleasant afternoon-
"Now I'm no 'schmo hag,'" she began deliberately, launching into her story in her own good time. When it was all done, it was to be but another in the erotic tales of Betty Slade, The Muscle Detective. But memorable not so much for it's machinations of crime, but of humanity and tender hearts-
"Y'know what that is?" she inquired of me.
I did and from my spot perched secretarially on my boss's desk I told her as much: A female bodybuilder who socializes and sleeps almost exclusively with fellows such as, well, me. Guys who can't get enough female muscle to quell the fires that stirred every time a powerfully built lady rolls up her sleeves and shows some muscle-filled skin.
Not quite so rare an occurrence when involving a woman with a limited understanding of English and an even more limited means of income, I said. The fellow offers stability, dedication, adoration. The lady has food and shelter, a gym membership, and sponsorship to any contest she can get into. When I was done, I averted my eyes to signal my tacit allowance that I knew I was one of that club, and would be a full-fledged Grand Master if I could just find the woman-.
"Yeah, well, just so we're clear. I'm a man's woman and I like real men. After all, there's men and then there's men," she grinned devilishly, and only the slightest tilt of her curls in my direction consigned me to the former affiliation. "I think you know what I mean, Ms. Slade-?"
Betty nodded. "Yes, sure," she replied hurriedly. "But what happened during the-"
"I mean, my boyfriend is Sig Ruman, Mr. Solar System, so when I want action I've got no complaints. Thing is, since he won the title he's gone half the year," she pouted, folding those muscled enormities she called arms in front of her, just below her cleavage. "Now don't misunderstand. I'm as monogamous as the next girl. But honest, Ms. P., at what point does flirting become cheating?"
Before Betty could reply, Gillian McConnell had an answer. "It's cheating when a lady's out getting something she could get at home with her significant other, that's when," she informed us with a slight edge coming to her voice, and she pointed a finger first at Betty and then me as though to fend off persecution by taking the offensive. It sounded as though she was repeating something she'd overheard, liked a lot, and had decided it was to be her amorous manifesto-
In a voice suddenly gone soft, the blonde bodybuilder shrugged and sipped from her container. "It's just that these guys-" she sighed, snapping a thumb again. "Like I said, these guys."
"These guys what?" Despite being anxious to proceed with the facts, Betty's curiosity was up.
Gillian leaned forward in girl-talk confidence. "I'm not saying all the time, but sometime, sometime, they can make you feel like such a fucking goddess, you know, Ms. P.?"
Betty smiled wisely and said nothing.
"You know, you place lower in a show than you should have. Or you have back-to-back bad workouts. Your break up with somebody-"
"Or he's out of town a lot?" Betty challenged.
Gillian paused for a moment and stared at my MuscleBossLady, and for a nanosecond I wasn't sure what was going to happen. But then she smiled and nodded.
"Yeah, that too. You're leaving the gym and maybe standing at the reception desk. But then you realize you're being watched, and its one of these little guys." Another thumb jerk in my direction. "So I know his pulse is running wild just looking at me. Sometimes I just look over at him like he's ruining my day by looking at me. I can be bitchy, I'll cop to that," she allowed.
"But sometimes I don't feel that way at all. And when I feel like making
friends, I do. That ability, that right to make a decision- geez, I feel so
powerful knowing I can run a stranger's life if I feel like it-" she confessed.
And her face went flushed for a moment, as though describing the sensation of
social power for the first time was too heady a sensation-
Betty and I were
silent at this declaration of the new power women were finding-
"So on some days, don't cross me," she warmed, flashing a playfully antagonistic grin at me. Rising, the blonde gladiatrix slowly vamped her way over to my side of the desk and paused. I gulped audibly, and a smile momentarily cracked the stern demeanor she'd adopted for her speech about the Power of The Muscular Woman-
"But not always. Sometimes I want to have a little company," came her saucy decree, putting a hand on her hip and thrusting a curvaceous hip out towards us slightly.
The curve called for attention and I paid it until her hand reached for my chin and raised it up towards her face. By now she was standing over me, and the Jasmine was still there, delightfully serving as icing on the sensory cake that was her visit to the office.
I grinned hopefully. She didn't smile back but stared deeply into my eyes. In her confident grip, I knew I couldn't turn my head to look away, and my smile faded. Some kind of connection was being sought. As moments went on, I began to feel that the gorgeous woman seemed to be breaking-and-entering my psyche, looking behind my myopic, albeit adoring, gaze to look for that glint of desire in my DNA. The Schmo Factor, maybe. I wasn't sure. Though her touch was light and gentle, it also forbade any attempts to find freedom. Those staggering she-guns made that absolutely clear.
Betty sat watching, motionless, letting the scene play out, watching every minute movement, I was sure, from just over my shoulder. Still, a droplet of fear ran down the inside of my shirt and-
"That sweet little nervous look," Ms. Gillian announced, her eyes widening in discovery of the expression for which she had been searching. Within her grasp, the pressure on my chin increased slightly, as though she wished to hold that expression on my face.
"That's the one that got me in trouble," she admitted, nodding sadly before releasing me.
When my chin was at last released, Ms. McConnell gave my cheek a pat and smiled, then straightened. With a respectful nod to my bosslady, as though acknowledging this uninvited familiarity with her employee, she made her way back to her seat. As we waited for her story to recommence, I remember feeling like some undersized possession of these two wonderfully overdeveloped females. But one look at either specimen, and I quickly admitted to myself it didn't bother me much at all.
"But sometimes," she continued "that sweet little nervous look will get you jes' nasty old me on the prowl for fun and amusement. I go over to him, take off my warmup jacket and ask him to go hang it up for me. Perfect twenty for twenty, Ms. P. Nobody's ever said no. Maybe I ask him over to the coffee bar, and tease him about maintaining eye contact with me while we talk and sip. Maybe I invited him to come watch me knock out some reps. That's what they usually wanna see. They figure they can always have coffee with their moms!"
I check to see if Betty was looking at me. She wasn't, and I was relieved. I'd just moved out a few months ago and was still moving into my little studio apartment just a few minutes walk from MuscleBossLady. I was also still trying to explain to her why I worked for a woman who "-had more muscles than you, your father, and your grandfather put together!"
Gillian McConnell was relishing her soapbox history of Schmo Romances, and went on for some time. Betty was just curious enough to sit and listen. Perhaps she was comparing them to her own, with me, or someone else?
"Once we're back in the weight room, I like to really attack the iron, and glance over at them while I'm just finishing a really tough set. I'm all sweaty, and I'm wearing something as skimpy as I can get. A thong and a muscle top, sneakers, maybe a touch of makeup to complete their little fantasy. They're practically foaming at the mouth when I decide to stop. Then, if I decide I want some company later, I invite them out for a drink that evening."
She leaned forward again conspiratorially. "I make sure I'm showing tons of big bulging bare muscle. Micro miniskirts, stilettos, halter tops. My best perfume. They can't wait for an excuse to pretend to accidentally touch me while they're making some point about the social relevance of Star Trek!" she recalled, laughing.
"So anyway, maybe I leave it there, shake hands, thank him for the cocktail, and drive him home. But maybe- once in a while, if Sig's away and I need a boost, or if I'm just plain horny enough, I'll take him home with me and put some meaning in his lonely little life."
"I'm quite sure you do," Betty stated with a bit of fun in her smooth tones. "Those guns of yours look rather lethal."
"Well, maybe not lethal, but a few of those fellas claim they fell in love with them. My delts, too. I tell guys I want "em worshipped. They comply. Hell, one guy even wrote a poem about 'em. Now, how'd it go again-.?" Gillian flexed the amazing she-blasters. Lightning fast synapses fired messages to the thick armature, and they started inflating obediently, hugely right before my eyes-
"Maybe some other time, Ms. McConnell. There's a susceptible gentlemen present, after all," Betty sang lightly.
My only objection came from deep within my throat. I coughed to clear it.
"Gotcha," she said, looking up from admiring her own arms. "Anyway, those are just little muscle-tease flings. I let 'em know it from the start. My Rules. I'm the one in demand. I'm the boss! Gillian wants this, Gillian wants that! You better believe I get it, too," the big badgirl blonde declared.
For a moment I stopped and appreciated the scene unreeling here. How many guys with a lust that bordered on, no, stormed past adoration of women with these powerful builds were ever privy to moments like these? Two enormously powerful looking women, their brawny arms bared, their beauty bold and uncompromising, sitting with a few feet of me?
As far as I was concerned, the awesome Ms. Gillian McConnell could talk forever-!
"I can be a flexing diva bitch, too, like I said. I made one guy promise to hang all over me and worship me in pubic down on the Statesway Amusement Park. Just knew it'd get some comments from a couple of hooligan. Called him a sissy. So it gave me an excuse to use my karate," she nodded. "Kicked some ass right under the boardwalk lights on a warm summer night and got some applause from the crowd for doing it, too. Of course, I used it as an excuse to break up with the guy the next day. You're just causing me too much trouble, darling, I said to him. We weren't mean to be. The world just isn't ready for love between a little guy and a big muscular Amazon goddess like me!"
She dramatically sighed and shook her head nostalgically. "Like a scene from an old movie-"
Betty and I were both looking at her in surprise. Gillian McConnell considered herself a "player" and the combination of her beauty and her body made it all too easy for her.
"-and I do love the look I get from them," she cooed. "Taking an old denim jacket off real sloooowly.." And her jacket, which she'd just tossed over a shoulder, began to slowly descend down her arm, revealing inch after heartstopping inch of huge hard ladymuscle carved from angry stone-
After a moment, I was aware of what she was doing, but only a roaring surf of lust began to roar in my head. Coming back to reality, I saw that Betty was looking my way, half-amused, half-chagrined- I straightened and the blonde laughed.
"Yeah, just like that," she chuckled. "When they get that first look at me, their worlds can get pretty frantic. Ah, the power we women have, eh, Ms. P?"
Betty nodded.
There was silence for a moment before the blonde went on about her relationships-
"Hey, I'm not heartless. I try to be nice," she said, as though mere effort from her ought to be sufficient. "Usually, when it's time, when I get bored and want to move on, or yeah, okay, if I just plain fucking feel like it, I call the whole thing off. I let 'em down easy when I can, and explain I've got somebody else. If they're good little boys and go away and never bother me again, we both have a sweet little memory of schmo romance, or schmo-mance, as I like to call it. If they don't-"
Her soft tones trailed off as her hand vanished within the back pocket of her pants, began fumbling-
Betty stiffened. "Ms. McConnell! Don't tell me you hit them-"
Gillian froze for a milli-moment and then broke out in a laugh that sounded as though from an angel. Light, mellifluous. I wished I had a recorder going, that was how heavenly it sounded. A tinkling of bells in a faraway cloister-
"Jeez no. I show 'em this," she said, offering a folder to Betty, who took it, made an impressed sound within her chest, and handed it back.
"Wanna get rid of second-fiddle schmos?" she informed us. "Carry a naked picture of your boyfriend in your charge card folder. They wither away when they see what I'm used to getting in bed. I'll say this: they stop wondering why I don't seem to feel anything when they're inside me and why-," was her final summation.
"We get the point, Ms. McConnell. Believe me," Betty said, giving her pinned-up hairdo a reassuring pat.
Gillian looked at the photo with a melted girlish pride. "That's my Stud King. Mr. Solar System three years in a row. Like I said, Ms. P. There's men and then there's meee-eeen." And as she said it, she inserted a kind of dramatic little midnight-moan into her voice to make her final point unmistakable.
"But still, the little guys serve a purpose alright. And most of them are sweet as they can be, poor little fellows."
As I sat there listening on my boss's desk, I thought there didn't seem to be much sympathy in her tones. More a kind of wistful pity at the futility of the mens' affections when directing them to someone as sexually powerful as she. This was not about people, these little erotic back-seat flings. This was about power-
Now Betty regained command of the control room. "Now that we've reached a mutual conclusion about an evolutionary split in the androgenic side of the human race--and that we both have the same preference for primary caregivers in matters of sex--can we please talk about the case, Ms. McConnell? You do have one, I presume?"
Gillian McConnell arranged her hair, crossed a pair of equally predatory legs, and started her story once more.
Chapter Two:
Tuesday, 2 PM: Muscles and Margaritas
"It was two nights ago. A Sunday," she began. "Kinda dead out there, except maybe for bars that cater to service industry types. I decided I was in the mood to dazzle an undersized fella or two," she said, affecting a confidential tone. "So I went to McNultys At The Statler. Good drinks, cheap prices. Right near a lady's gym too, so I figured it made sense from a geographic perspective."
Betty nodded. "Popular meeting place for the schmo contingent."
I'd been there and knew it was a bar located at the heart of a central atrium within one of the nicer business hotels in town. The rooms of the hotel ran along balconies that in turn ran along the perimeter of the hotel's inner wall. The intention was to grant as many rooms as possible with a view of the hotel's artificial garden, complete with pond and palm trees. The bar was a bamboo-themed mistake, but it was dark and concealed from the business traffic by rows of six-foot-high hedges that always smelled freshly cut even though they were artificial. It was four-sided and surrounded the bartender's area like the walls of a fort.
"I was decked out alright. And maybe I was looking for trouble," she admitted. I watched as she ran a thoughtful finger along the rim of her water bottle and briefly batted a set of flashing jade emeralds over at me behind her tough mascara. It started and ended quickly, like a light switch you'd turn on and off. It had the effect of a commercial rather than a come-on-
"My red leather vest-top always catches their attention, so I had it on. Cut down to here," she claimed, pointing to a patch of skin currently covered by her tube top, somewhere around mid-thorax. I unconsciously shifted my weight as the image momentarily flashed in my head.
"-and a pair of white stretchy short-shorts that barely covered my ass," she hummed, as though recalling a sentimental memory. A not-yet-shot Ray Martin photo portfolio starring IFBB Pro Ms. Gillian McConnell set started knocking on the door to my brain, complete with four outfit changes and gym workout series-
"Man, I swear I could seduce the Pope himself in that get-up! I was made up to the nines, had on my platform heels. The white ones with the red shiny straps and trim that matched my outfit. Can't say I blame the little prick for noticing me, at least-" A brief cloud swarmed over her brow-
"I was just finishing my second margarita and trying to look bored. Some weekend-stay businessmen staggered in and out, talking too loud. A couple of 'em had some washed-out hookers with 'em. Flabby, beaten-up old birds. Victims," she snapped.
A car horn mourned low and briefly outside our window. It faded as it melted into the concrete down the street. Gillian waited as though on cue before she resumed her narration for her small audience.
"The lady who ran the bar was a good-looking dame, middle-aged but well-preserved. She starts asking me if I lift, which is one of those questions we have to deal with, right, Ms. P.?"
A twitch on the corner of Betty's upper lip sufficed for a smile. Maybe she didn't want to let Gillian start to drift in her discourse by engaging her in conversation-
"So I tell her I do, and she rolls up her sleeve and shows me her arm. Not bad for a rookie, by the way," Gillian offered.
I guessed that female bodybuilders like to gossip just like other women. But their gossip was just themed differently-
"Told me she's been working on it for a while. But she's got that "turkey neck upper arm" thing going on. So I tell her how to fix that. I also tell her she needs to get out and get a little color now and then. She was pale as a loaf of bread that hasn't gone in the oven yet! Says she's always inside, occupational hazard. Like the fact that she also hadda wear gloves, since all the soapy water dried out her hands. Tough job, huh?" Gillian asked, holding up a hand that could have belonged to a princess, complete with hundred dollar manicure.
"So she bought me a drink to thank me. Then a few minutes later she comes back asking me questions about romance. Am I seeing anyone, she wants to know. I ask why and she says that there's a little guy around the other side behind the palms who wants to buy me a drink. I glimpsed him around the leaves. Cute in his kind of way," she allowed, and this time her head only twitched towards me without a glance. The commercial was over-
"So, I say I'm seeing somebody but I'm not wearing any stud's brand, not yet anyhow. She makes me another drink, but I sit there for fifteen minutes, and I'm still alone. So I give the bartender a wink and waddle my way over to the fella, ready for that look they always give me when they see one of their dirty little daydreams come to life and walk toward them," she pronounced haughtily. "Funny, but he looked as harmless as any one of them. But he wasn't."
"What do you mean, he wasn't harmless?" Betty interjected.
"Well, I go over and introduce myself. He's practically ready to faint. Stands up, smiles and blushes and I can barely hear him when he tells me his name. I'm not even sure I want this to go as far as names, so I don't ask again. Unfortunately-.," she added gruffly, as though angry with herself for getting a parking ticket. "Cause if I did know his name I'd find him and straighten the little pervert out once and for all-!"
"I take it this is the fellow that prompted you to come see us," MuscleBossLady asked as she sat back in her chair and cupped her chin in her hand. I straightened just a bit at her inclusion of me as part of the detective agency.
A nod from the blonde.
"Go on, Ms. McConnell. Tell us what he looked like," was all Betty said now. Prompted by her statement, I had started taking notes and scribbling highlights, part of a course of study Betty had set me on to improve my own investigative skills-
"Mousy. Glasses. Skinny. Coulda been his cousin," she said, without even a nod at me this time. "Brown hair, thinning a little in front. Anyway, I sat down next to him and asked him to buy me a fresh one, which of course he does. He's real respectful, knows my record and repeats it back to me down to the first amateur show I did years ago. It was flattering, but it was also kinda creepy, if you know what I mean. I mean, get a life, you know. Or at least a girlfriend. The world's full of librarians just right for bookworms, right, Ms. P.?"
"How did you know he was a bookworm? Was it just his demeanor?"
"Yeah. He had on a bowtie, so I figured him for a schoolteacher, which it turns out he was, or is. Anyway, he's got like three books with him, too-"
Gillian said that as though anybody who carried three books with him must have been smuggling something in them, or using them as travelling doorstops.
"I gave all the data we get asked. How long did it take to build this bod, was I a Tomboy growing up, did I plan to enter the Jan Tana this year, or the Women's Extravaganza. I told him yes and made him promise to cheer me on. He smiled and promised. Up to that point, it was like a dozen other hook-ups."
"But then it got different," Betty surmised over her fingertips.
"Not yet. He was practically speaking every other word to my deltoids, which I'll grant you can arrest any judge's eye," she announced.
She was right. Like two gloriously symmetrical coconuts perched at the crown of those wonderfully huge arms, they were showstoppers also equal to BossLady's, just slightly smaller in scale.
"He asked if he could feel my muscle. I said okay, he did. Put his hand on the delt and let it slide down to the bicep, which I had all ready for him when he got there--fully flexed and ready to fire! "
I sensed that the she-cat was getting ready to pounce.
Got the same heart attack look they always do. "I contracted it and his hand almost disappeared inside this arm!" she bragged. "Shoulda crushed it right then and there if I knew what he was all about- And oh!" she burst out suddenly, as though something had kicked her in the head. "I forgot! He stuttered!"
Betty sat up. "You mean he had trouble speaking?"
"Yeah. It really only started when I flexed the guns for him and let him feel them. Made it kinda cute, tell ya the truth. That's what suckered me in. Made me go all soft 'n big-girl-bossy, like a big sister. You know- 'y-you're so b-b-big and y-you're so b-b-beautiful!' That kind of stuff. Had to admit it, it was cute," she announced, running a hand though the curly gold field atop her head. "When a guy has to work that hard to pay you a compliment, well-!"
"We talked gossip about the business. Let him in on a harmless rumor or two about the woman who took the middleweight class and the wife of one of the judges," she winked. I'd heard them too, but didn't know if MuscleBoss had.
"So finally I asked him if he wanted to go for a drive. I got a Caddy coupe that Sig bought me. Big back seat. Guess I should feel guilty using it to go out hunting for muscle worship, but hey, I already explained how I felt about that. No way a guy like my honey is gonna get excited kissing my biceps or running his hands along my traps-"
BossLady attempted a course correction to keep the story progressing. "You left the bar? How did you leave? Where did you go?"
"We didn't leave just yet. The lady bartender says we look like such a nice couple, she suddenly buys back another round. Her ritual just before closing. One for Cupid, she called it. But I didn't want to drink and drive. My limit is usually two when I've got car keys on me, and I already had three. So she empties out an Evian bottle and puts 'em in there for us to drink later. While he was in the little boy's room, I even told her how I planned to give this guy the fuck-and-dump routine. She seemed to get a kick out of it-"
"Then what?"
Gillian wouldn't be rushed. "We take my car. I park down by Parker's Pond with him, near the woods? Privacy," she said, shaking her head as though upset with her own careful romantic calculations.
"By then, he was out of his mind, or acting like it anyway. And by the time we got in the back seat and I started giving him the Marilyn Monroe breathy-voice come-on about needing someone faithful and loyal who adored me and my body, and undoing his tie, he wasn't just shaking, he was vibrating!"
I knew the feeling, having been on the receiving end of those uncontrollable twitchings myself when Betty felt like teasing me a little on Friday nights-
"I suggested we have another Margarita to help him relax. But he said he didn't want his senses dulled when he was in the presence of an Asgaardian Queen, whatever that is. But I got the point, anyway. So just for saying something so cute, I took his glasses off and put 'em in my hair. Then I grabbed him and kissed him so hard I could feel him start to struggle for a second. Then he swooned. At least I think he did. While I waited for him to come to, I drank the cocktail myself. Another margarita. Wasn't frozen like the ones we had in the bar, but still," she shrugged. "Anyway, he wasn't getting off that easy, not in my back seat!" she boasted like some horny lotharia.
"You sound like you regret doing that," I said, anxious to finally contribute to the investigation.
Gillian stabbed me from eight feet away. "Regret it? Yes, I regret it. Playing around with you schmos. You wanna worship us, that's fine. Compose poetry, send us flowers, and play with yourselves while you watch our videos or magazine layouts, that's cool too. But now we gotta starting worrying about our safety? You guys are gonna start getting perverted and doing weird shit-" Her voice thundered low down in her throat, but did not explode. "That's all, f-folks," she announced. "No more. That's when you need the stuffings kicked out of you, and I'd do it too, like I said, if I could find the guy. Don't think I haven't tried-"
She looked me up and down with disgust pulling on the corners of her painted mouth. "Schmos-" she condemned me-
Suddenly, I was sorry I'd opened my mouth. Now I was being made the scapegoat of her scorn against the entire segment of the male population that harmlessly liked the spectacle of a woman who just happened to carry extraordinary levels of muscularity on their lovely frames-
But even in her wrath, I couldn't help but admire those astounding she-guns at her side. Ms. Gillian noticed and folded her arms in a chagrined pout while rolling her eyes. But she went on..
"So anyway, at this point, I'm figuring that I'll get him to drive me home, and he'll take a cab back to his car at the bar when we're through for the night. So there we were, in my car's back seat. My big bare muscle seated on the leather, the air rich with it's scent," she recalled as though it was a Kodak moment. "I was feeling like I had control of the universe at that point- Waiting for this guy to start worshipping my body, tell me how a woman like me made all those fashion models look like adolescent children, how I was the ultimate female. At least a bookworm is good with muscletalk, right?"
"MuscleTalk by moonlight. Sounds like a poem in itself, Ms. McConnell. So what went so wrong you had to come here today?" Betty asked. I knew her tones well enough to see that she had carefully reeled in the verbose bodybuilder, but the firmness in her voice meant it was time to finally get to the point. In her own sweet time, Glorious Gillian did not disappoint-
"By now, he's practically named every muscle group in my body. Kinda nice idea, anyway. Seemed like I was making his mundane life worthwhile, I tell you. I even opened my vest up and let him kiss my six-pack a little. It's still pretty prominent, since I just got through with winning the Nationals last month. It tickled," she admitted.
" So there I was, a blonde goddess in the lunar sun, as he said, sitting there content to be worshipped at two in the morning. Humph!"
We both leaned in just a bit for the grand finale of her rambling discourse.
"He was giving me the whole routine. How he wanted to be my servant. How I was his big BossLady-"
I didn't know if Betty was looking at me, but I knew what she was thinking-
"-my calves had gotten sweaty in the back seat. He was on his knees blowing on 'em real gently when I started feeling warm and sleepy. It felt sorta like real nice foreplay where you don't know how far you're gonna end up going. Like with my old boyfriends in high school before I started lifting and dating in the gym. More laid-back, you know? Nowadays, when Sig gets that look in his eye, I know that two hours later I'm gonna be laying drenched it sweat and naked in bed with my legs spread and an ice-pack on my-"
This time, Gillian stopped herself with any interjection from us. Maybe she sensed Betty's growing impatience. Another photo got saved in my brain for tonight. No sleep for me!
"Anyway," was all she said for a moment as though mustering her courage. "That's all I remember. I passed out."
She shook her head as though remembering a wager she'd been coaxed into making that she could never have won.
"You mean you had too much to drink?" Betty sought to clarify.
"Maybe. I don't know. Those drinks were strong and I don't drink too often, except for when I'm out scouting schmos. It was warm and I'd gone heavy on shoulders that day at the gym. I'll tell you one thing about what happened that night right up front. I'm never gonna let my guard down around schmos again," she vowed and turned to me once more.
"And I'm sure as hell never gonna let one touch me again! You want to worship, go to church, little man!"
The eruption of anger I'd sensed was amassing finally vented, and the glorious green eyes went almost yellow, matching her hair and giving her an unearthly look, like a Demon Queen from Hell as depicted by LH Art. As she gripped the arms of the leather chair, I watched as muscle groups rebelled and slumbering veins began rioting beneath the Scandinavian skin. It was as beautiful as it was scary, and I supposed that my glance over to Betty was for assurance as much as interest in her reaction.
But the Muscle Detective was already stepping around her desk. For the first time I was able to see that my boss had slipped on a short black business skirt, specially abbreviated to her taste so that the hemline fell only a few inches below her hips and slit on both sides to allow her to sit. I felt guilty at my reticence in noticing such a glorious display on the part of my Weekday heartthrob, notwithstanding both our visitor and the mahogany desk that had been concealing the bare skin from my enthusiastic gaze.
My BossLady Protector deposited her hubba-hubba hotbod down in the middle of her desk while offering reassuring pats to the air between the two ladies and gently shushing her.
"-Now now, Ms. McConnell, sip your water and collect yourself. Don't speak," Betty advised her in that same commanding tone she'd just used to coax our guest to talk a minute or two ago. Perhaps fueled by anger, Gillian's fragrant perfume seemed to intensify, and it overtook the detective's lighter post-workout cologne even from here-
Betty Slade reached over and slid an arm on my shoulder and effortlessly slid me over to her. I came to rest nudged firmly beside her with a blouse-covered D-cup breast just inches from my face. She smelled faintly of soap and its fresh scent momentarily defeated the heady jasmines and filled my head. I must admit that I, much like Ms. McConnell's mysterious pick-up paramour, began to shake just a bit with desire. Even after all this time working as her secretary, such close contact filled my brain with hydrogen just waiting for detonation. Her arm rested across my slender shoulders, but the well-practiced muscles were tensed and ready to defend a faithful assistant. My only regret is that Betty might mistake my trembling for fear rather than the old but still-electric desire she'd instilled in me with just a touch. Without moving my head, I looked down at the tiny skirt doing its intended job, riding entirely up her massive thighs, and exposing the exquisitely oversized sculpture that were her legs. I scolded myself in the middle of a wandering though about whether Gillian could see my MuscleBossLady's panties from her vantage point-
Her hand went to my head and tousled my hair playfully, unintentionally banishing the mental image as she asked..
"So what then, Ms. McConnell? What happened when you came to?"
A backwash of embarrassment watered Gillian McConnell's hardened features. With an exhalation that seemed to calm the titanically built young woman, she looked Betty in the eye-
"When I woke up, it was near dawn," she spoke, in a voice gone low and flat as though attempting to control a raging river. Each consonant sounded as though it might pierce a brick of resistance and erupt in a torrent of disdain, probably leveled at me again, Betty's brawny arm notwithstanding.
"I was alone. And I was naked except for my shoes," she spat. "My clothes were there, folded neatly as you please, on the front seat, except for my panties. Nice white satin g-string. Didn't show through my hot pants," she explained, fashion conscious even now. "Contents of my purse were all over the floor. I don't need to tell you that the forty bucks I had in there was gone. But that wasn't the w-worst of it," she stammered, a sudden vulnerability overtaking that powerful physique. For a moment, her enormity almost seemed to shrink as though the effort of recalling what had transpired was draining some internal battery that fueled her sinewy greatness.
Betty removed her arm and now took my hand. It was almost as though she was seeking strength from my grasp now, not offering support. She held onto my overwhelmed appendage as Gillian continued.
"Two terrible things had been done to me," she confessed. "First, I noticed that that little scumbag went after my pubes."
A bolt of heat passed through the Muscle Detective and her secretary, and I felt Betty straighten. I squeezed her hand hard.
Gillian nodded as though to reassure us to the truth of what we'd just heard.
"That's right, "she said in a choked voice. "Talk about your sick obsessions! Son of a bitch clipped a hunk of my pubic hair off and took it with him. Ruined it too, after I'd just had a wax and a nice little heart-shaped trim too. Sig's coming home next week and I wanted it to look pretty for him. Anway, I had to shave it all off when I got home. Now I look like I'm a centerfold in Muscle Elegance or something. I don't mind the look, don't get me wrong. But I would've preferred to decide to do it, you know?"
Betty clucked sympathetically. That was the first thing- what was the other?
"- other thing was worse," she said, and as though the ugliest section of her story required the greatest strength to relate, she straightened, much as Betty had. The two ladies sat facing each other, eyes locked in brutal concentration. Two extremely muscular, beautiful women marching to the beat of their own drums, which sounded in syncopation to the sound of clanging iron-
"There was a patch of crusty skin on my belly, right between my abs," she said. "I know dried cum when I see it. The little fuck shot his pathetic load on me while I was out cold and then dried to clean it up-"
Betty shook her head.
"They say victims tend to cover up and feel ashamed after their molested, don't they, Ms. P?"
MuscleBossLady nodded.
"Well, you know what I decided? I'm no victim, and I'm not ashamed. Embarrassed maybe, and pissed off as hell, but I'm-not-ashamed!" she declared. "If some sick little prick catches me with my guard down and gets his twisted rocks off- or in his case, pebbles, no doubt-."
I felt Betty's huge physique vibrate slightly in a chuckle and an encouraging nod.
"- I'm sure as shit not gonna fall apart over it. And I'm not gonna cover up, either. I worked too hard on this bod to lives in oversized sweats, lemme tell you-"
"You got that right, Ms. McConnell-" Betty murmured supportively.
The blonde's pretty face broke into a soft smile. "Please, Ms. P., call me Gillian-
"- and I'm Betty. My friends call me Betty, though.."
When I turned to look at my boss in surprise, I saw that she was smiling too. Up to that time, I was the only person she permitted to call her by her abbreviated name. Heck, it had taken me six months before she let me call her anything but 'Ms. Slade' or 'ma'am'-..! Though I had long suspected that was done to establish an atmosphere of loyalty and respect and indoctrinate me to her domain, her thick-muscled ways and means. Female muscle ruled this office, and she had demonstrated that fact most adeptly-
"Anyway, all's I could do was get dressed and go home, which I did. But you can bet your ass I went back to the bar last night."
"And?"
"The lady there, her name turns out is Ms. Dennison. Barbara Dennison. She was almost as pissed off as me. Said she'd never seen him before, though. Then she told me her brother was a cop and did I want to talk to him. Said he'd find out who it was without having to go to the precinct house and filling out paperwork. But I said I just wanted to get my hands on him- She said she tended to agree that a little frontier justice delivered firsthand might be best at that. So she promised to keep a close eye out. And I went outside, looked up and down the street, and asked myself where I would go if I was a schmo-"
"-.bodybuilding shows? Or maybe online in the chat rooms?" I replied quickly.
Both ladies managed amused chuckles at my eager contribution. Betty shook my hand affectionately and released it, placed it on my own thigh and patting it as though I were a child who'd been eager to help out. Clearly, I had given myself away wholeheartedly-
"Actually, those are good places to start. But let me take a few stabs in the dark first," Betty stated, standing up and straightening out the overwhelmed micromini. In her high heels, Betty filled the small office with her sheer size, standing nearly six foot seven.
She extended her hand to the rising Ms. McConnell.
"By the way, Betty, one thing," she added. "If you find him, what are you gonna do with him?"
"One thing at a time, Gillian."
"Hey, what the heck. Friends call me Jilly," she interjected. "But what I mean is, do you call the cops or what?"
Betty assured her that the final decision was up to her, unless the fellow had made this a habit. "But I can't just deliver him to your, Jilly, I'm sorry. I'm afraid you might-"
"Rip his jewels off?"
Betty replied as you, dear reader, would presume-
"Well, anyway, when you find him, don't hurt the little wussy, just scare the crap out of him. Tell him if I ever come across him, he's history. That'll do. Maybe the money, too. And oh, yeah, if he's got my panties, I wouldn't mind getting them back, either. Though I'd probably have to burn 'em. God knows what he's doing with them. Probably straining hot water through 'em to make some kind of love potion," she spits.
"Leave your information with my secretary here, Gillian. We'll give you a call tomorrow to let you know what's going on-"
"Tomorrow? Gee, that fast?" she retorted, her voice taking an edge of little-girl impressed-
"Sure. We work quickly here, Gillian. Very service oriented," she winked.
"Fast twitch, huh, Ms. P.?" our equally muscular customer inquired.
Both ladies laughed now.
They bade each other farewell at the door. At my desk, an apparently much more relaxed female bodybuilder left me her information. I was about to mention the customary retainer when Betty's door opened and the dark-haired detective's head peered around the doorway.
"By the way, VJ. No charge for this one."
The pubeless Goddess protested mildly, but my boss would not have it.
"When you win the Ms. O, you can put in a good word for us. Maybe do a commercial for us," BossLady suggested, before vanishing back within her inner office.
The demeanor of the woman who left my little waiting room was a quantum degree nicer that the one who'd chewed me out a little while ago.
"So long, Mr. Receptionist," she teased over her shoulder as her perpetually horny bulk withdrew from view.
I wasn't sure if there was any affection in her adieu, but at least my cheeks weren't burning-
********
"I have a well-developed instinct about these matters," Betty assured me as I steadied her, my hands on her showgirl shapely hips. My statuesque Latin LadyBoss was standing in a half-crouch imprisoned within the sturdy framework of one of her new squat machines. But her captivity was purely voluntary, and with a nod of a black shining veil I stepped back.
"I'll make an inquiry tomorrow, my lad. Then we'll see what's what," she said, with her mile-wide back turned to me, muscled machinations already rippling, overwhelming the fresh but equally tiny t-back top. Muscle groups twitched and stirred, both huge and thick and small and sculpted and it took effort to look away and up over to her reflection in the mirror she was facing.
Her countenance bore the intent look of knitted brow and steely determination that were evident when she was pumping iron or working on a case. Both held true today, and the look was magnified now, the strong jaw and high cheekbones even more prominent, the eyes ablaze, lips pursed defiantly- The barbell was loaded with something close to triple my body weight, but she was in no rush, letting it rest across a mountain range that passed for her shoulders. Business before bulkiness, she always said-
"Now let's finish the buns part of our Buns and Guns Day. Oh and in the meantime, you can check out the internet," she said, turning over her shoulder just for a moment, as though the weight was a mere inconvenience. "But don't make contact with anybody, just troll, got that, VJ?"
I acknowledged the command to her reflection and watched as the gigantic amazon began almost effortlessly squatting the equivalent of a Korean automobile for multiple reps.
Huge quads thickened, reddened, and veined. Sweat sprang out on the darkly tanned flesh, and my heart sang as I gazed at her thonged rear end meet each fresh challenge with a silent roar of gluteal defiance, straining big and determined to test the metal even as the metal tried to test her mighty flesh-