DONNA: An Introduction to Muscle 

 
 
	Donna Hill was not a happy camper. 
	Sitting alone at the kitchen table of her spacious 
apartment, the 28-year-old blonde looked down into her half-empty 
coffee mug and thought about the events of the previous half-
hour. 
	"Shit," she muttered to herself. "There's no way I could 
have missed out on that job if I'd had a fair chance from the 
get-go. That bitch must have finished her interview with the 
guy's cock in her mouth. He advertises for muscle and hires 
tits." 
	Although the job in question had only been part-time, it fit 
both Donna and her schedule perfectly. Four hours a day, 2-6 
p.m., working behind the counter at the new gym that was opening 
the following week. It couldn't have been any better. Enough 
money to supplement her just-making-it income, a free place to 
train on those occasions when she felt like working out around 
the spaghetti-arms and, most importantly, perfect exposure to 
meet the people who provided her main source of income -- guys 
who would pay big bucks to be shown that compared to a strong 
woman, they were nothing but weaklings. 
	"IT TAKES MUSCLE FOR THIS JOB," the ad had read. "NEW GYM 
NEEDS WOMAN TO WORK COUNTER PART-TIME. MUST BE ATTRACTIVE, 
KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT WEIGHT-TRAINING AND, ABOVE ALL, MUST HAVE THE 
MUSCLE TO LOOK THE PART." 
	As she fondled her mug in both hands at mouth-level, Donna 
glanced down, her eyes traveling from the mug, to her right hand 
and down her forearm, to the crook of her elbow. 
	"Have the muscle to look the part," she re-read the ad in 
her mind, as her gaze met the semi-solid mound of muscle that was 
formed by the mere bending of her untensed arm. Keeping the mug 
in her left hand, she turned her right wrist, still not tensing 
the arm, and watched as the muscle rolled part way up her arm, 
getting shorter and rounder, and all but disappearing under the 
her tee-shirt sleeve, a sleeve which was now filled with muscle." 
	"How much do you wanna bet that bitch's muscle isn't half 
this size pumped and fully flexed," she said to the empty room. 
Indeed, even in it's present state -- arm bent, wrist turned, but 
still untensed -- Donna's bicep was an imposing sight. She turned 
her wrist again, pointing her open hand away from her, then back 
toward her, and watched as the muscle elongated and then bunched 
up. A third turn of the wrist was accompanied by her tensing the 
arm. The muscle literally exploded with power, not only filling 
the sleeve, but stretching it to conform with it's shape. 
	As she set the mug down and reached with her left hand for 
the right sleeve, Donna smiled. She'd had a "thing" for her 
biceps for as long as she could remember, and the attention she 
was now paying the big muscle was far from an unusual occurrence. 
Indeed, were she pressed for the truth, she would have to admit 
that the sight and feel of her own muscle aroused something 
within her that was unquestionably sexual. In, fact, she had once 
described that feeling to a kindred spirit as "kinda like the way 
a girl with really big, nice tits must feel when she plays with 
them." 
	 
	Effortlessly keeping her bicep flexed, Donna felt the muscle 
through the cotton sleeve. It was, she noted, pretty much the 
same as usual -- a rock. She put four fingers atop the peaked 
material and her thumb as close to underneath, on the tricep, as 
possible. She squeezed, gently as first and then with increasing 
pressure until she was pitting her own strong hand against her 
own rock-like muscle in an effort to break it down. It was, as 
usual, no contest. The pressure of her fingertips created four 
distinct white marks on the taut, tanned skin, but the muscle 
stood tall despite her greatest efforts. So, she turned her 
energy toward exposing the big bicep. The sleeve ended right 
across the muscle peak, stretched to the limit by the mound of 
bicep. Using one fingernail to separate the material of the 
sleeve from the smooth skin of her bicep, Donna worked at the 
sleeve until she was able to wedge a finger in. She worked the 
material off the peak until there was finally some slack, rolled 
it past the bicep and once again stretched it so it would go over 
her capped shoulder. 
	Another smile, this time at the unobstructed view of what 
was the biggest bicep she had ever seen on a woman -- a 15 1/2-
inch, peaked ball of muscle. Using her thumb and middle finger, 
Donna measured the distance from the bicep-tricep separation to 
that place in the air which corresponded to the top of the peak. 
It was almost four inches and Donna knew full well that the 
muscle-peak was an easy four inches when she did enough curls to 
pump the muscle up to it's maximum 16-inch circumference. 
	"I wonder how many chicks out there can say they have a 16-
inch muscle and not be afraid someone's hanging around with a 
tape measure," she thought. 
	The answer, of course, would have been few -- very few. Even 
compared to the best competitive bodybuilding had to offer, the 
mound of steel-like muscle Donna had built was indeed rare. Yes, 
she thought, there were the few she'd seen in the magazines -- 
Astrid Falconi, Dawn Whitham and Christa Bauch among the maybe 
half-dozen --  who had biceps as big as her's without the 
advantage of 3-4 extra inches in height or 20 pounds of offseason 
bodyfat. But in general, Donna knew that the object of her 
current attention had a combination of size, definition and 
hardness that belonged more on a much larger female bodybuilder 
or small male bodybuilder.  
	Indeed, at 5-6, 145 pounds, Donna Hill had, over the last 14 
years, built a physique that was nothing short of spectacular. 
That was evidenced by the stares she drew, from men and women 
alike, practically every time she left the house. It was 
evidenced by the number of times in a week perfect strangers 
would approach her timidly and ask her to "make a muscle." 
	And, that she basked in the stares and requests was 
evidenced by the fact that unless there was a specific purpose 
for covering up, Donna always wore muscle-revealing clothing and 
could not remember the last time she didn't answer "make a 
muscle" with, at the very least, a brief, surreptitious balling-
up of her bicep. Oh, it wasn't so much that Donna was a 
particularly nice, or cooperative person. In fact, her physical 
superiority had made her pretty arrogant and condescending toward 
what she considered "the spaghetti armed world." No, it was just 
that Donna knew that the sight of her 16-inch ball of muscle on 
an attractive, normal-sized woman inspired either fear, awe or 
excitement in that world. And she loved every, single, last 
minute of it. 
	 
***          ***                ***         *** 
	 
	Donna shook herself from her muscle-reverie. As pissed as 
she was, she knew full well that this particular episode in her 
life was far from over. But before she could concentrate on 
righting the wrong which had been done her by the jerk gym-owner 
and the slut with the tits, she had an everyday life to lead. And 
on this particular Thursday afternoon, leading that life meant 
doing some laundry and getting ready for tonight's client.  Then 
-- when she'd taken care of that business -- then, she could 
relax and think about how she was going to teach a few lessons 
and get the job that was rightfully her's. 
	Rising from the table, Donna crossed her hands at the bottom 
of her tee-shirt and peeled it off. as she did, she felt the 
momentary flare of her lats, followed by the bunching of her back 
muscles. Using the shirt to wipe the small droplets of 
perspiration that had formed in her armpits, she strode across 
the living room and down the hallway, pausing only to toss the 
shirt through an open door into a basket in the bathroom as she 
passed by. She continued to her bedroom, a spacious room, 
dominated by the mirrored surface of a triple-closet. She 
gathered up a few more pieces of clothing from the floor and 
tossed them onto the bed, to be joined by the shorts and panties 
she was about to take off. 
 	There was, however, the small matter of that mirrored 
closet. It wasn't so much that Donna was unable to pass a mirror 
without studying her physique. No, that would have been a lack of 
self-discipline that she's never allow. It was more that she saw 
no reason to pass most mirrors without taking the chance to 
admire her handiwork. 
	And, this time was no different. Donna stood in front of the 
closet, clad in only the briefest of running shorts and flared 
her lats. The spread of those wing-like muscles, combined with 
the depth of her chest turned her relaxed, 41-inch chest 
measurement into a massive 48 inches. It never failed to amuse 
her that men couldn't understand that a woman with measurements 
of 41-25-35 did not have big tits. The 41 inches, she'd explain 
came from the width of her back and the depth of her chest and 
not from a pair of boobs. Indeed, if there was anything Donna's 
body lacked -- and she certainly did not see it as a shortcoming, 
but in reality as a proof that she'd succeeded in becoming a 
"muscle-woman" -- it was tits. Her's were small pads of firm 
flesh, sitting high atop a pair of spectacularly wide, thick 
pecs. She flipped those pecs a couple of times, making the 
muscles spring to life, and crossed her arms at the wrist in 
front of her, causing her chest to bulge outward, with fingers of 
definition appearing on the inside surface of each straining 
muscle. 
	Relaxing the chest-flex, Donna looked farther down, at the wall of 
muscle that constituted her abdomen. Three rows of thick, deep blocks of 
muscle, standing out in bas relief. She took one manicured finger and traced 
around the two muscles in each row. To call that stomach a "six-pack" was to 
do it a grave injustice, she thought. Little surfer boys had six-packs. She 
had plate armor. 
	Farther down, Donna's thighs, 24 inches of corded muscle, led to a pair 
of rock-like 15-inch calves. Sure, she thought, that "symmetrical" look 
demanded that her calves and arms measure the same. But, they can take 
symmetry and shove it where the sun don't shine. Calves, she mused, are nice, 
but those baseballs on her arms were what made people's jaws drop ... what 
stiffened the spaghetti-arms' pricks. 
	"Fuck it," she said. "You keep the symmetry. I'll take the extra inch of 
muscle-meat on top every time." 
	And, what muscle-meat it was. Saving her favorite for last, as usual, 
Donna raised both arms to shoulder level, curled her fingers into granite-like 
fists, and slowly began to bring them toward her shoulders. She watched as the 
muscles hardened immediately and began to ball up as they rolled up her arm 
into the split-peaked balls of steel she'd worked so long to achieve. Holding 
the pose for a full 30 seconds, Donna felt her nipples stiffen as her dark 
eyes regarded her muscles in the mirror, and her mind's eye saw an 
unidentified lover's hands rubbing the knotted peaks. 
	She also caught, in the corner of her eye, the reflection of a large 
dildo laying on the night stand. The dildo or the laundry? Donna abruptly 
lowered her arms, went to the bed -- and gathered up the pile of garments. 
	Donna was nothing, if not disciplined. 
	***    ***     *** 
	It used to be called "Suds and Duds," but the "suds" had long-since 
dried up, as the combination of meet-market bar and laundromat gave way to the 
deterioration of the neighborhood. Donna, though, went out of her way -- 
practically all the way across town -- to use this particular facility. The 
scary nature of the neighborhood was nothing for the tough girl. Her ability 
to fight -- something she'd never formally trained in, but seemed to have a 
natural talent for -- and her prodigious strength had seen her through every 
physical confrontation she'd ever encountered. And, starting from when she was 
13, that was no small number of confrontations. No, Donna felt perfectly safe 
anywhere she chose to go, including a laundromat on a street which averaged a 
couple of muggings a night. 
	Besides, the neighborhood's reputation kept most people away, including 
any workers. She especially liked the latter. Change machines and automated 
detergent dispensers didn't give you any shit when you punched out a 
recalcitrant dryer. And among customers, Donna found that the few people she 
encountered at the former "Suds and Duds" were more interesting than your 
garden-variety laundromat-goer in better areas. 
	On this night, Donna was not alone. As she entered the laundromat, she 
noticed a young man neatly folding towels. He looked up at her and smiled 
shyly before continuing his efforts. Donna, meanwhile, nodded in 
acknowledgement of his smile and quickly filled two washers with clothing. She 
started to remove the man's flannel shirt she wore as a light jacket over her 
black tank top, planning to make it a late addition to the wash, but changed 
her mind as she spotted the young man checking her out. "If I don't scare him 
off too soon," she thought, "he just might be a better way to pass the next 
hour than this stupid book." 
	It did not take Donna long to engage the man in conversation and she 
learned quickly that the 24-year-old Barry was a newcomer to the city and had 
moved into this neighborhood on the advice of an elderly aunt, who had moved 
away long before it had become the type of place it was. He was, he said, 
planning to move the day his six-month lease was up. 
	"Well, I can't say I blame you," said Donna, who, in her coverup and 
baggy jeans merely looked like a wide-shouldered, robust woman, a swimmer 
perhaps. "It takes a certain amount of muscle to survive a neighborhood like 
this and, quite frankly, it doesn't look like you have a whole helluva lot of 
that. 
	"What are you, about 5-10, 165?" she asked, pointedly staring at the 
pale arm that extended from the sleeve of his polo shirt. 
	"Yeah, give or take a couple of pounds," he answered. "But, hey, I may 
not be any Arnold Schwigenschwagger, or whatever his name is, but I'm not THAT 
big a wimp, either. I've got my share of muscle," he added defensively. 
	"Okay, make a muscle. I just LOVE big muscles." 
	Donna said it with an innocence that drew Barry into what would prove to 
be his ego-busting mistake of the year. He raised his arm and proudly showed 
off ... a semi-hard, semi-peaked bicep, one which surely impressed the 
seventh-grade girls of his youth, but one which had not developed very much 
since then. 
	Donna stifled a giggle as he reached out to feel Barry's arm. She gently 
squeezed, carefully, to avoid pushing Barry's pride back down into his arm. 
	"Hey, let's arm wrestle," she smiled. "You'll probably kill me, but 
it'll be a way to kill some time." 
	"Sure. Let's go over there. We can clear those magazines off that table 
and kneel on the floor." 
	Donna knelt across from Barry and put her elbow on the table. It was, 
she knew, way to late for the guy to back out now. So, she thought, let the 
game begin! 
	"Ya know, Barry, I've got a pretty big muscle myself," she said. "Here, 
feel it." 
	As Barry reached for the flannel-covered arm, Donna turned her wrist and 
bulged her bicep, so the first contact he had with it was with it fully 
flexed, peaked and hard as marble. She saw his mouth open and eyes widen in a 
combination of recognition that he'd been had and awe at the huge bulge of 
muscle he felt beneath his fingers. 
	"Oh my God! You didn't say ... That's ... Oh my God" 
	"That's 16 inches of solid muscle, Barry. Go ahead, squeeze it as hard 
as you can. See if you can break it down." 
	"Yeah, right," he said with a smile, as he applied all the pressure he 
could to the immoveable object that filled and distorted the sleeve. "Look, I 
know you're gonna kill me arm-wrestling, but would you do me one favor?" 
	"What's that, Barry?" 
	"Could you take off your shirt, so I can see it? God, it must look 
unbelievable. Please?" 
	Donna laughed. After a day of being pissed off because of the job 
incident, Barry's unabashed admiration was just what she needed. She felt no 
desire to put this guy through any more humiliation that he'd already 
suffered. While part of her was disappointed he wasn't the kind of jerk who 
deserved a muscle-lesson, another part said that his muscle-worship might be 
just what she needed to forget about the day's anger and chill a bits. 
	So, still laughing, Donna relaxed her arm and slipped out of the shirt, 
revealing her massive upper body in it's entirety. 
	"Sure. Here, why don't you put your hand on my muscle before I flex it, 
and I'll do it real slow, so you can feel it rise and ball up under your 
fingers. 
	"That's right ... now squeeze hard while I flex ..." 
	As Barry squeezed, Donna looked into his eyes and saw that combination 
of fear and arousal that marked every one of her muscle-clients. And, as he 
lingered over the ball of muscle, his firm rubbing turning into a caress, 
Donna glanced down at the only muscle on Barry which did indeed appear to be 
more than adequate. 
	Slowly, and somewhat cruelly, she allowed the bicep to soften a bit, her 
signal that this bit of play was finished. 
	"Hey, Barry, you got a dime I can borrow? I'll just be a minute. I've 
got a phone call to make." 
	Taking the coin from Barry's hand, she stood and crossed the room to the 
pay phone. 
	"Hi, Jerry,' she said into the receiver. "Hey, I'm afraid I'm gonna have 
to give you a raincheck on tonight. 
	"I'm at the laundromat,' she said, looking back at Barry and his 
enlarged pants-front, "And something just came up."  
 
***    ***    *** 
 
(Art Buchwald once said he couldn't write pornography because he turned 
himself on too much and always had to stop writing before he got much 
accomplished. With that disclaimer, I hope you found this effort to your 
liking and plan to continue chronicling the life and times of Donna in the 
future. Any feedback as to whether or not I would be wasting my time would be 
greatly appreciated.)