Ursula Parkheart, P.I.: The Flexing Detective In Case of The Lucky Loser Chapter One: Schmo's Holiday I watched the sun rise over the lovely mountain that was Ursula Parkheart's brawny shoulder. Sleep always came quickly to me during air travel, but just as quickly escaped; so tonight, I was left to study the dancing reflections through the double-paneled portals while my fellow passengers dozed.... The blazing moon seemed as though it was trailing us since we left the Americas, tossing a nosy spotlight of silverish glow upon the hushed jetliner. Visible through the smallish window, a carpet of dusky clouds floated beneath us, spread to the far horizon like a silver-gray sea. On it's once-dusty edges nearest our eastbound destiny, they were beginning to take on a golden hue. A signal, to be sure, that night would soon be conceding another battle to the growing daylight, it also marked the beginning of yet another remarkable adventure with the hubba-hubba-hearthrob of my life, Ursula Parkheart. Inside the muted fuselage, my stomach flipped a bit as the jet began it's first slight descent to earth, but hardly anyone else noticed. The cabin was still hushed in transatlantic sleep, and passenger activity, normally more sedate here in first class then in the bustling coaches behind, was all but nonexistent now. A tomblike quiet had gently descended upon the area a few hours ago, and now reigned, broken only by the occasional passing of a stewardess through the artificial shadow, or the rattle of a snack tray in the galley ahead. Sleeping passengers, trying to get a jump on the inevitable jet lag that awaited them, dozed contentedly. Soon enough would come the politeness of a polished voice on the intercom informing us of the time, the place, the date, the weather. And soon after, off we would go to customs, to a taxistand, a restaurant, a hotel. But for now we were left to our dreams, but I needed no further sleep to find them. For mine was sitting right next to me, right where I had left her, all seventy-five and a half inches, two hundred and fifty-seven and one-half pounds, half- tucked beneath a blanket and half-turned to the window, her raven's mane tucked under a baseball cap, sleeping gently. As she stirred in a dreamful reverie, the lady detective repositioned her sexy sinews in the overstuffed chair, as though by doing so she would retrieve the pleasant dream through which she was now wading. I smiled, turning back to the magazine she had bought me to read before we left town. I dog-eared a page and made a mental note to show her the picture of a now middle-aged Karla Nelsen, blonder and bigger and sweeter than ever, as she was named Ms. Flex-America of 2007. Her bikini was no more than a rumor of flimsy straps and laughable buckles snaking around an otherwise stupendously naked body whose curves carried the flash of a showgirl, but whose cuts bore the flex of a Woman Essential. Homemade battleplates of sheer will and womanly determination, her muscles were big and hard and no-nonsense. And while those breasts may have been artificial, they were swollen to sweet- mouthed splendor above her washboard abs. The knee high white leather boots concealed her killer calves perhaps, but the four- inch heels made the Minnesotan's hips go positively Penthouse; a come-hither-and-whisper promise of danger and domination. I wondered if Ursula had packed hers... But while reading about one show, another was about to unfold right before me, there, in the shadows of the 757, amidst snoozing passengers seemingly light years away... Gradually, and in time with her breathing, Ursula's bright blue blanket began to slide from its place just below her steep trapezius, and move, slowly but steadily, down her awesome torso like a slowly undrawn curtain. The accidental striptease let the nearly-naked flesh of those awesome shoulders slowly reveal itself, betraying the inadequacies of the skimpy tank-top sprayed upon her curves. Then, a small avalanche as the quilt toppled from it's perch atop the Himalayan bustline. Showcased beneath the illumination of my overhead reading light was a pair of maddeningly-muscular arms unveiled before me. There was for me something almost hurtful in its sheer eros-- all that swollen, massive ladymuscle instantly becoming iridescent, dazzling my eyes even as it dozed, bathing contentedly in the soft yellow-orange glow--- impossibility on display. When the cloth finally came to rest in her lap, the glorious terrain of bare female muscle-gone-mad that comprised her upper body had revealed itself entirely. Huge, vibrant, the sunbaked sinew made my throat gulp in nervous anticipation. How many reps had it taken, I wondered, to sculpt her supersized deltoids so superbly, so precisely; so incredibly large and in-your-face, yet so strangely and seductively female at the same instant? Biceps like veiny coconuts flexed in REM sleep, volcanic peaks tweaking. "Wow," I whispered reverently, unaware that my lips were moving at all, and wholly indifferent to the fact that I'd seen them a million times before. Eyes fixed to the sculpted monument to enormity that was her right arm, I repeated it again..."Wow...." How much poundage did it take to tear down the tissues, or protein to rebuild such a physique? How much rest was needed after subjecting her body to the task? That, certainly, was one thing about Ursula's decision to return to competition -- she dozed like a contented cat in the sun at every chance. But this time, she must have waited until I'd drifted off before she allowed herself the same luxury, removed her biker- chick jacket, size XXL, and started counting reps until Sandman Altitude was reached. A wicked smile began to roll gently across her generous unpainted mouth, as though she knew she was being watched, worshipfully and in wonder. Somewhere, on a desert island, or the back room of a gym, or a dark alley of the mind, my MuscleBossLady was having a good time. But there was a danger -- her skin-tight, all-but-see-through white tank top had made this splendid show possible, but at best could make only a token effort at trying to contain abundant cleavage for any length of time without the conscious determination of it's amply-endowed owner. Percolating with every inhalation, the sun-kissed pulchritude edged out from the canyoned neckline like a pair of big-nippled truants. With each breath, each time, her massive chest would expand, until it appeared that a braless basketball of a breast was ready to explode the sheer cloth and tumble free, only to recede like a mahogany tide as she exhaled contentedly. Not the stuff for a staid airline staffer's eyes, true; but if those slabs of hard-flexing ladymuscle were the hard candy of my heart, then those f-cup wonders were the soft cotton candy of my soul. Besides, when Ursula Parkheart decided to make an appearance, she made one... One Month Earlier Chapter Two: Down Her Arm, Deliciously "Four hundred thousand dollars? Tax free?" she chuckled. "For a fucking bodybuilding exhibition with only one judge?" Ursula threw down the fax upon the clutter of her desktop and laughed, the joyful noise bouncing off the sleekly chic and generally useless contents of her new glass-and-chrome office. The fax was timely, to be sure. My BossLady had qualified for, and planned to enter, the Nationals in Louisville this year, and had even promised me, not her self-centered son-of-a-bitch-of-a- fianc‚, the honor of being her assistant. Savoring the thought of applying her posedown oil had kept me up for nights. Lingering over the sight of a bikini try-on session made my hands shake. Hoping for some sweet sexual mercy from a champion made my heart soar. But it was not to be... Ursula got called away on a case, leaving without me to trail a forger to the Northern Territories of Canada, where she got involved with a touring Seattle rock band and a one-armed diamond merchant named Vanagon Willy Dunphy (see footnote #1). I sat at home, to wait for nothing more than the ESPN airing two weeks later of the show she didn't make, a show whose stage is by now long-darkened and forgotten by all but the winner's mothers and a few men like me. But there was an upside. My Amazon boss had trained like a woman possessed for the show. The recent fiscal avalanche that had come her way as a result of our success with the Raye-Anne Hollison case had changed her lifestyle. Gone was our shabby little office in a downbeat neighborhood on a nowhere street. Ursula Parkheart Investigations was now situated in the penthouse of a fashionable downtown office building, a low-rise affair perhaps, but one that nonetheless offered a considerable upswing in the fortunes and standing of her business. Best yet, we had our own private elevator that enable customers to enter and leave the buildings unawares; the head of building security was a fan, and was bought off with a steady supply of x-rated eight by tens autographed by my boss, and stuck full of sticky-lipstick kisses and sexy little slogans he probably memorized. I know I would have... But the best benefit of her career upswing was the extra room in her office complex that immediately became a gym. Full of shiny steel and big wall mirrors, the thing beckoned to my dreams every time I entered. Ursula would have me hold all calls three times a day while she repaired to the confines of her own personal workout salon, and blasted her bodyparts until they shone like volcanic diamonds with her sweet-smelling perspiration, and her muscles boiled, angry and volcanic, at sizes that, during their fresh-pumped moments of true engorgement, looked as though they had been plucked from the ink-stained pages of Elie Xyr himself. And after? A shower, a jacuzzi bath, and back to work until nine. After that? Why, home, of course, to a nude full-body massage at the hands of her hulksome fianc‚, usually followed by sex that she'd brag about to her girlfriends on the telephone while I collated her latest investigative success and filed them away, ears burning, in the cabinet behind her. "We're a cinch, JT. If it's on the line," she noted, sitting down to study the fax once again. Her elbows rested upon the freshly-polished mahogany of the desk; her sun-scorched skin baked every bit as dark in preparation for the show she didn't make. "Those things never attract women in contest shape. Usually, they only get a broad who's been on her back with her pairs partner for the last two weeks in Hawaii, and needs the money for the hotel bill," she chortled. "Not somebody in the kinda shape I'm in, right, JT?" I stood before her, my thin arms full of fresh mail and bulging folders. "No, way, 'sally," I answered eagerly. "Golly," I continued, trying to suppress only a trace of unashamed desire in my tones, knowing it'd be all but ignored anyway. Ursula went of re-reading the fax, sliding a pair of frameless spectacles down onto her nose, her liberated coiffure tumbling free over barn-door shoulders bared by a red-silk bustiere. "Why, you're so massive and hard now, they could cut diamonds on those biceps! And even after they did," I half- choked, unconsciously stepping a bit nearer to where she sat, still reading, oblivious to my every word, "no stone ever created could look half as good as those big, hot muscles of yours. I-it's just that..." I felt an erection spring to life on my loins, pointless but never failing, stealing impetus from my thickening tongue. Words went hazy, and my gaze lowered to the thick-pile white carpeting, as though weighted down by the rush of blood rapidly engorging my cheeks as I shyly gushed to my LadyLove. But when I found the courage to look up a moment later, she seemed not to have heard me at all. Instead, she was peering at the fine-print footer on the page, even as she began a meditative flexing of those self-same she-guns to which I had just paid homage. "JT, where's Taxebura?" Ursula looked up at me, gorgeous face screwed up in uncertainty. "Sure as shit, I've fucked somebody on every continent on the planet, and a couple dozen islands, too. But I never heard of Taxebura..." I admitted that I hadn't either. "Taxebura. Sounds like a vacation spot for an accountant, 'sally," I offered. Ursula looked up at me in surprise and smiled. "Well, if it is, my faithful little Guy Friday, I sure as shit wish I could move there. That'll be like gold from heaven. This move was expensive," she reminded me for the hundredth time. She didn't have to tell me. And I didn't remind her that I had advised against it, hoping instead that she would do something about benefits for her assistant. I still had this toothache now and then... "I've heard of this stuff before," she admitted, after pulling the huge atlas from the shelf and carrying it back to her desk with one hand, her behind wiggling under her spandex jeans. She beckoned me with a silent finger, and I came 'round to her side, kneeling in assistance as she rifled the pages. It took us a few minutes, working together, to find Taxebura. Minutes I spent in whispering distance from my MuscleBossLady, savoring the sights, the scents, fighting the most overpowering of urges to just start kissing the next thing on her body that flexed even the littlest bit. Success came after careful study with a magnifying glass. Sticking a pin in the tiny speck-sized country in the Middle Eastern deserts, Ursula stood up, leaving me kneeling beside her chair. "A thousand freakin' miles from nowhere, my dear boy," she yawned, stretching herself to a lazy full height. Standing there as she was, she looked nine feet tall. She looked down at me like some pumped-up goddess. "It's all because of guys like you, JT. Our loyal schmo audience, always ready to go to any length to watch a big 'n busy gal make a muscle, am I right?" I shrugged boyishly, looking up at her, enjoying the fantasy- view. But that wasn't what Ursula wanted to see or hear. Instead, she slowly stepped back just a bit, thrust a hip, and flexed... Muscle isn't supposed to make a noise, but it sure as hell caused one... "Jiminy," I breathed in approval, instantly red again. Kneeling still, I saw the glorious bicep swell with pride and something very like lust, pumping itself full of blood as though on command, Jurassic and impossible. The coconut-bigness was matched by triceps and deltoid that chimed in to the She-Flex Chorus roaring huge and loud in my head, a multimedia attack on the doors of restraint. The spectacle brewed dark and dirty nighttime wishes about peanut butter and ladymuscle. It did not soothe as music does; rather, it incited, enflamed. "That's right, JT. Jiminy fucking Christmas," she nodded intently, and she unflexed her arm as though it was a gun she was holstering. The angry hardness of the muscle faded, but a prominent vein still corded its way down her arm, deliciously. Ursula sat down on her chair next to me, her posing completed. A cold smile curled her lips and she regarded me out of the corner of her eyes through the no-nonsense glasses. Reminding me, every now and then, was a habit of hers. Although I am not sure, I'm led to believe that she does it as a favor to me, knowing full well that those flexful moments like that would fill my long lonely hours for weeks to come, as my fevered imagination built castles upon those cloudy hot ladymuscle moments. " Anyway, here's the deal, JT. Some guy with money to burn and a fetish -- not unlike those of certain cute male secretaries who shall be nameless-- wants to throw a female bodybuilding contest. Most of them run out of capital, and spend what's left apartment wrestling with amazons. Maybe that's something you should look into, by the way, JT," she added with a wicked wink. "Though I heard from some of my galpals about a show just like this one in LA last year, thrown by a big-time Hollywood star." Before I could question her as to the identity of the star, Ursula yanked open a drawer in her desk, liberated an issue of "Muscle Ma'am," and began flipping though the pages. My eyes hungered for the photos within, fantasy poses of most of the leading female flexers of the day. It has been confiscated when she caught me reading it in the bathroom on a too-long lunch hour, with a promise to give it back if I promised to be good... After she found what she was after, she turned the folded magazine to me. Instantly, I recognized a second-tier movie star who always showed up at contests, always sponsored the little theatrical outings the ladies tried to put on every now and again... She tossed the magazine into my lap. "Take it home, JT. What you do with it there is your business, of course," she huffed, letting an eyebrow arch pseudo-seductively. "Anyhow, he threw this contest right after the Ms. Olympia, inviting a very select group of ladies," she cited. "Four inch heels were standard issue. And guess what the posedown suits were made of, JT? Leather, and very little of it. A few sequins, a few g-strings. Bet that would set your dirty little mind to roaring, eh?" "Who won?" I urged her, trying to complete the image in my mind. "My sister," was all Ursula would say, her mouth a flatline of mystery. This sibling was a creature my MuscleBossLady would only allude to in the most oblique of references. Suffice it to say that she was a bodybuilder -- that I'd already been able to ascertain-- and that her taste for flashy clothes and high risk rivaled her sister's. But that was all she would tell me. I combed the magazines for some small reference to Vanessa Parkheart, but to no avail...(see footnote #2) "But if this guy's on the level, we're gonna clean up, Cuteness. Big time. And I owe you a rain check, don't I?" A look of blankness took control of my features. "You're gonna be my oil boy, JT. Among some other things," she promised with a half-blown kiss full of twenty-dollar lipstick. "I hope your heart holds out at the sight of your big, bad, MuscleBossLady flexing up a storm, stark naked on a massage table," she giggled, accelerating to a laugh when she saw the look of swoonish excitement that banished the blankness and made me start to blush one more time. Ursula Parkheart was about to make a comeback..... Even an unsympathetic reader will no doubt allow that I had been in particular torture the past few weeks. Being so near the woman of my dreams and allowed only a sigh, a bashful compliment responded to with amusement or a sweaty X-rated putdown in mid-pump was a hardship, even if no harm was meant by her words. But here, in the silent dignity of her first-class passage to adventure, what harm could it do? I glanced over my shoulder. The prying matrons across the aisle were comatose, heads thrown back, their prim mouths now inviting moths, not whispering about the oddish couple across the way, the woman with the arms like redwood trees and the smallish fellow in the regrettable trousers, who looked heartsick. "What was the world coming to?" they must have wondered. I had long since reconciled myself to this aimless tongue- wagging, to a world that, even now, in the fledgling years of the third millennium, did not like the sight of a woman in four- inch-heels who still looked capable of stopping a tank with her bare fists. Especially now, with the sights, still rare but no longer unheard of, and the small but growing number of me who, like myself, find themselves irresistibly drawn to them as they could be to no slender toothpick-of-a-woman. I looked back down at the raging sweet thickness of her brawny right arm, licked my lips twice, and gave in to temptation. As though I were trying to awaken a princess from her deepest magical sleep, my mouth softly descended until it came to rest atop the menacing crest of the same mountainous bicep she had displayed for me so many times. It was hard and unforgiving and I wanted no forgiveness, only wanted the sweet brief taste of Ursula Parkheart's hot muscle against my reverent lips. Worshipfully, I allowed my tongue to gently, gently, trace that same huge vein emerging from under that Himalayan bicep full of brag and bulge. I suckled a memory within that mouthful of muscle, savoring the harshness and beauty and ferocity. Finally, and with an almost palpable sadness, I pulled away, trying to memorize the taste of Ursula's sleepy muscularity within the same warm saliva that now left a lustful lacquer on the slumbering limb. That's when I realized that maybe there was something to the old fairly tales at that. Because, even as I straightened, I noticed the small stirrings of the gigantic woman seated next to me. Ursula Parkheart was awakening... A drunken smile of pleasure crossed her softened face, and it was wonderful to see. Even mild dieting had brought out a look of almost downright harshness to her features. Even as every muscle group grew, it's starkness and hugeness amplified by the deep cuts revealed by her curtailing of caloric fuel, her face took on the appearance of an angry dominatrix very easily. Now, her smile was as of old, and I returned it gladly, congratulating myself on my sleepy-time worship as a prescription to her pre-contest austerity. Catlike, she shifted her luscious bulk in her seat, left to right to left again, as though wading upwards through her airborne sleep. Ever slowly, she nudged closer to me, until her chin found a comfortable place upon my bony shoulder. 'Uuhmm," she thanked me, eyes closed. Her powerful hand, unaware of her surroundings, went to my crotch. Surely, she must have thought she was back home in bed with her lover... Expert fingers coaxed my already-flagrant erection ever larger. Nails regrown and painted a viscous red knew just where to scratch, and they lightly touched down, teasing and tantalizing. I replaced the blanket so as to conceal this mid- flight handjob, and sat back as to feign sleep myself. The zipper surrendered to a tug, and she delicately slid my desperate penis into her hand. "Hhmm," she dozed. Through the slit of my left eye I observed her brow knit just slightly. Engulfing my eager rod effortlessly, her hand began to pump the blanket up and down like an indecisive circus tent. Electricity overtook my limbs, stiffening them with delight. But whatever was nagging at her slumbering mind was not relenting. Her forehead creased in concern as though some REM sleep ghost was haunting her dreams, and a childlike pout overtook her. My penis was now released from it's spot of heaven under the sheet, and her grip went to my upper arm, where she squeezed the spindly bump of my own bicep. Disconcerted by the thinness of what met her search for reassurance, her eyes opened full, and the shock jolted her. "JT! Fuck!" she shouted, loudly enough to awaken a snoring neighbor. My own feint was up, and I opened my eyes as though just awakened myself, to find my erection dangling in the open air, the blanket tumbled to the floor in the violence of her start. "I thought you were..." A piqued terseness took her tones to ultrasonic levels. Fumbling for the blanket, instantly flame- cheeked, apologies jumped from my tongue. The light went on in her head, and a smile, ever-so-slightly amused, beamed down to me. "So that was you," she asserted, nodding down at her naked arm. Desperately, I covered myself with the blanket and reclaimed my privacy, zipping quickly. "Why, JT, you muscle-hungry li'l schmo, you..." "I-I m-must have been d-dreaming," I offered. "S-sorry, 'sally," I pleaded. Then, as though suddenly changing her mind, Ursula reached over and touched my cheek with the back of her hand. She shrugged a massive shoulder, causing a tectonic upheaval on her torso. "No harm done. Just an innocent kiss," was her forgiving summary. "Between us grownups, it was rather sweet at that. Nice to know I haven't lost it, m'lad." "No, ma'am," I whispered in reverence, my throat thick even as my ears boiled red. "You're awesome..." And she smiled like a goddess fresh from a temple full of prayer... Grinning, she reached for the blanket and reclaimed her half, until we were just two heads staring at each other. "Whadja do that for, JT?" she inquired sultrily when her hand found my rezipped genitals. Her fingers reclaimed them in the buzzing blink of an eye. "These flights can be so dull, huh, my little secretary?" I shivered as her sharp fingernail ran teasingly up my anxious shaft. A shiver of awed desire crept up my back and made my slender shoulders tremble. She extinguished the overhead light with just a flick of her free arm, and reached over with that oaken limb to push my head beneath the blanket. "You may recommence your muscleworship, good sir," she whispered haughtily, letting a hint of queenly amusement creep into her tones. Her limb began to flex, musculature expanding and hardening, driving me crazy. Ten gifted fingers suddenly began to caress my penis as I, in the shadows of the airline- issue makeshift tent, set my mouth one again upon the enlarged muscle. I bestowed soft kisses and wet promises upon it even as her palm slid up and down upon my erection. Truly, it was the start of the sweetest handjob I could wish for. Her free hand reached down under the blanket, to the spandex skin that was her pants, fingers busy until, with only a tiny tug, her tiny g-string underwear were produced as quickly as a rabbit from a hat. "Some trick huh? I pulled a dildo outta somebody like that once. Lemme know when you're ready, JT," she instructed over the tent that separated our faces, and I glanced in the shadows of our makeshift temple of muscleworship to see the wicked panties balled in her hand, ready to intercept the inevitability of our time together. It was a mid-atlantic lunch of ladymuscle undercover; and I must confess that my lips drooled as I explored her chiseled topography of her brawny arm. A slightish shiver of her own now, as my worship worked it's way into her pleasure centers. The skin was slick with my kissful saliva. Some might have merely called it so much drool, as I fussed with her body and left behind that slick damp trail where my mouth had caressed her musculature. But we knew better.... Ursula knew how to give a teasing, maddening handjob, and she was doing so now. I tried to make it last, but so sweet was the pleasure it nearly was torture. And like a prisoner, in a matter of moments later I started to talk -- confessing everything to her monstrous bicep, calling her a musclegoddess in terms of soft whispered worship while my testes prepared to spurt white, hot and desperate on her silent command. "So big," I gobble-gushed, and she ran an electrifying fingernail under the head of my penis. "So hungry," I confessed... Toothless bites upon her fantastical bicep met my taste buds, and resembled so much rum-laden sugar, intoxicating my mind. As I felt the impending release of my semen begin to boil, the contented Ursula's voice was a sweet birdsong lullaby overhead. Reaching for her hard huge left arm, I ardently squeezed that impossibility made muscle. Seconds later, I came in a long breathful gush, my sperm devoured by her perfumy panties... And "Uhhh," were my lyrics to her siren song, my only testimony to this airborne thrill, and when it watered down to a whimper, MuscleBossLady kissed me through the blanket. Pulling the cover from my head and letting it fall to our waists, Ursula balled her panties into her palm. We were head to head in the dimness, the quiet roar of the engines buzzing in our ears. MuscleBossLady's blue eyes were bright, savoring the naughtiness of her action, and just a touch triumphant at how quickly she had taken my breath away. "Here ya go, JT," she soothed, tucking the spoiled silk into my breast pocket. "A souvenir of your first airplane trip." I smiled weakly, nervous system shorted, converted to watery post- desire that passed for a sigh. "Yes, ma'am," I thanked her. "Fix your little pants, m'lad," she admonished, sitting back to enjoy the spectacle of her ravished secretary. Brought back to reality, I quickly made them proper again. "And don't go tellin' anybody that I'm not wearing any undies, or I'll have to turn your bare bottom over my knee when we get to the hotel. Get me?" A shift in the light caught our attention. Turning simultaneously, we were met by a stewardess, who appeared to have caught most it not all of our muscleworship and handjob show. Her pink cheeks were brushed with reddish embarrassment, and even her blonde hair appeared ruffled by what she had witnessed and heard under the blanket. I couldn't help but turn my gaze to her ultra-short dress and admire her naked thighs. "Blimey, wot you've done is against the rules, it is," she twittered, unsure of protocol. She could not have been more than nineteen or so... "Aw, come one now, missy," Ursula coaxed her. "A man's gotta follow his needs, even if they are a bit, shall we say, bizarre?" Ursula's chin jutted to the girl's bare thighs. "Now, I'll wager that your man must go for those hot legs of yours; that's why you wear your skirt so wickedly short, isn't that right?" The girl's hands tinkered with her abbreviated hemline, and blushed, self-consciously. "Have no fear. My man likes a lady with an armful of muscle, don't you, dear?" I coughed nervously. Ursula pecked my cheek affectionately. And waited for an answer... "Go on, tell her how I used to be a ninety-pound weakling, and you made me get so big and muscular 'cause it's what you need to cum. Go on, 'fess up, lover. Look her in the eye and tell her the truth, or this lady is gonna get us into trouble," Ursula faux-whispered as she took my hand affectionately... Turning to address the slightly shocked, apple-cheeked countenance, I admitted my fetish, full-blast. The young woman looked shocked as I admitted my sinful strange tastes. But Ursula took a demonic pleasure in interrogating me even as my tentative gaze wavered upon the young stewardess, and she kept prodding me to tell her about my enthusiasm for the Ms. Olympia, my perfect attendance at the Womens' Strength Extravaganza, my videotape collection from WPW. When at last I was done, she paused for only a moment to consider our situation, her hand on a curvy hip. I was hopeful when she covered her mouth and giggled. "So then, miss, you wouldn't deprive my husband of his fun on vacation, would you?" And Ursula pulled me close against her, those bowling ball breasts nudging my chest. The sight made the young woman giggle at the incongruity once again... "I reckon not," she winked, suddenly friendly and gregarious. "Only do be careful," she offered, bending close and whispering. "Stains like that are the dickens to get out of the upholstery," she giggled, and emboldened by her racy remarks, she trotted down the aisle. Without thinking, I turned to watch a slice of her white panties shimmy beneath her hemline as she headed for the ladies loo... Relief washed over me. I felt the redness that had swollen my own face begin to recede. "Seems like you left a trail behind you, sweetie," Ursula spoke, retrieving my attention to the task at hand. Her chin went to that enormity of an arm beside her; it was till shining with my kissful saliva. Pulling a kleenex from the overhead holder, she presented it to me. "Make it nice, my little secretary," she said with a wink, "and maybe I'll let you kiss it some more later after we land...." I needed no further orders...! (NEXT: CHAPTER THREE, PENDING AUDIENCE DEMAND) 1 (See Ursula Parkheart, PI: The Flexing Detective - The Law of the LadyMuscle; as yet unpublished.) 2 (See Ursula Parkheart, PI: The Sinewy Sisterhood; as yet unpublished.)