HEADHUNTERS 2
by Legion



Thunder accompanies the rhythm of rain on the roof this morning. I turn
restlessly in my half-sleep; something is here that I didn't expect and can't
immediately put a shape to in my semiconscious state.

There's so much space around me - is that it? Yes, that must be it; she's
already awake and up. Ah, vacation.

Honeymoon, actually. I'm not used to sleeping later than she does, that's
probably why the bed feels so odd this morning, so much open space. I'm
already getting used to her.

We're getting comfortable.

Lying here drowsing, the sweet perfume she wears lays throughout the room like
a comforting ghost, bringing images of her to my mind.

I can still feel her long, lazily curled brown hair on my face, chest and
shoulder, her lean and powerful limbs wrapped around me, squeezing lightly
while she dreams, can almost hear the warm sigh of her breath on my cheek...

Well, until the alarm clock goes off, anyway. So much for a lazy Sunday
morning. At least we don't have kids to deal with, something she's been
talking about since we got engaged. I've told her we should wait... of course,
in the end I don't really have much choice. What Becky wants, she gets... one
way or another.

My feet hit the hardwood floor before a yawn and stretch take over and blot
everything else for a moment. And naturally, that's when the phone rings. I
cast a look out our second-story kitchen window on the way -- man, it's really
coming down out there, the sky is a depressing shade of charcoal.

Two of my favorite smells waft into our smallish living room from our equally
cramped kitchen -- coffee and bacon -- as I reach the phone and press the
'Talk' key. "Toluca Bodycrafting."

"Good morning, David." It's her mother. "Put Rebecca on, please." In the
background, I can hear something that sounds vaguely like my friend Jimmy, but
I can't be entirely sure. Probably better to not ask.

"Who's on the phone, baby?" Becky glides out of the kitchen, and I'm stunned
for the millionth time by the sight of her. Usually, by the time she comes
downstairs for her morning workout, she's already fully dressed, hair done,
makeup on...

This morning, she's standing in front of me in a pair of my boxers and nothing
else, her hair wild and her eyes still half-lidded with drowsiness... and
she's still a goddess.

A sleepy goddess.

"Come on, who is it?" she demands impatiently.

Okay, a sleepy, cranky goddess.

"It's your mom." I hand her the phone. "For you. Coffee ready?"

"Mmh." she waves her hand dismissively -- I'm guessing that's probably a yes
-- "Hi, mom."

I leave them to their plotting; the coffee is in fact ready, and I'm after it
with a will. Hell, I'll even skip the cream and sugar this morning. Something
she says catches my attention as I'm pouring, and even though I didn't quite
catch all of it, I did catch the word, "late." And is she... is she crying? My
heart starts pounding, because... because she isn't crying.

She's laughing.

Suddenly, the lights in here seem way, way too bright. The sound of the rain
on our roof has grown to a steady roar. I have to put down my coffee mug or
risk dropping it - my hand is shaking that badly. I stare down at it, and the
faded blue of the ceramic is electric. Over the pounding of my pulse in my
ears, I can hear bits of whispered conversation - even half of it that's
electronically filtered by the telephone handset - but not well enough to
decipher what's being said.

You see, part of my job here at Toluca Bodycrafting, just as it is for she and
I personally, is to make sure we get paid by our customers on time... and that
we pay all our bills on time.

And everything is on time. There's only one thing in this house that can be
late... and that's her. And if she's late, that means... that means I need to
sit down. Carefully. I hear the soft clatter of the phone being set back in
its cradle, but it escapes my notice.

I feel her come into the kitchen before I see or hear her. My mind is drawn
back to last summer, when she and I first met - which was right here, as it
happens, when my friend Jimmy and I were here uninvited. When we planned out
our little caper here, Jimmy was sure we wouldn't get caught. When we were
caught, I was sure we'd end up doing time. When Rebecca's mom offered to hire
us instead, I was sure we were free men.

And now I'm sure -- I will be doing time. But instead of a number and a mug
shot, I'll be issued dirty diapers and the title of "Daddy."

Her hand on my shoulder is like a jolt of electricity, and I can't stop myself
before I jump - just a little, but just enough to make her giggle.

"I guess you heard all that?" she asks, then slowly and steadily spins my
chair - with me still sitting in it - until I'm facing her. She sits,
straddling my lap and leaning into me so that I have to crane my neck to meet
her eyes. She knows she turns my brain to jelly when she straddles me like
this - but this time it's not working, because this time it's a confirmation
of what I suspect. She's pregnant and trying to scramble my brain to keep me
from getting upset about it.

"Not all of it," I tease her right back by struggling to push her off me until
she pins my arms to the columns of the chair's back and bites her lip, grins
devilishly down at me. "But enough of it to have a pretty good guess about the
rest." I finish.

I feel her thighs shift on mine as she leans back, still maintaining her grip
on my wrists.

"What are you doing?" I ask - it's a stupid, imprecise question. Actually, I
already know what she's doing. What I don't know is why she's doing it. She's
lifting her feet off the floor, pointing her toes, and encircling me - chair
and all - within the prison of her muscular thighs.

"I feel good." she says in a husky voice. "I want to feel even better." I feel
the cinch of her inner thighs as her ankles lock behind me. She presses her
locked feet against the floor, then pulls herself in closer, the hard bulge of
her quadriceps pressing into my ribs just under my arms and her taut pubic
mound pressing insistently into my sternum. I can feel the heat of her soft
skin and the moistness of her excitement through the thin cotton of my
t-shirt.

She's done this several dozen times, of course, each time more frightening -
and exciting - than the last. But...

"I don't think you're gonna get too far with this chair here, sweetheart."
She's more than likely going to... oh, God. If she really bears down on it,
she'll snap the heavy oak columns of the chair's back into kindling. "Oh,
sweetheart, you might want to - "

She's not listening. Instead, she's begun a slow, rhythmic grind, her hips
bucking, her thighs tensing and relaxing, bringing the muscle in them into
big, lush definition.

" - not... do this..."

But it's too late. Her engine is running, and once Becky's engine is running,
there's no stopping it. And she's only nineteen. God help me when she hits 30.

She throws her head back, pulling her hair from her shoulders, exposing her
bare breasts, and now, finally, I'm all excited.

But this is still not a good idea - these chairs are expensive, for one thing,
and for another... for another, the oak this chair is made of can probably
take a lot more pressure than I can. I know she has pretty good muscle
control, but...

But it's still too late, and getting later by the second. The bucking of her
hips and the constrictions of her thighs are growing more insistent now, and
she looses the first cry of her onrushing ecstasy.

My arms are trapped at my sides; all of my five foot nine and one hundred
sixty five pound frame doesn't have anywhere near the leverage or power it
would take to budge her six foot one and one hundred eighty pounds. And I know
what will happen if I try. I know all too well what will happen.

So here I am, faced with either riding this out and praying I survive, or
trying to fight my way out and thereby possibly send her into a barrage of
bone-crushing multiple orgasms, one after another after another, a literal
orgy of destruction, virtually guaranteeing that I won't.

Her cries intensify in sync with her accelerating rhythm -- suddenly, there's
a flood of warmth against my chest, the sound of something snapping,
splintering -- "Oh... oh, God... yes! Ohhhhhh, yes!" The large,
clearly-defined muscles of her thighs seem huge, terrifying and immeasurably
arousing in their overwhelming contrast of femininity and raw, brutal power as
they demolish the supports of the chair. The heavy backrest clatters to the
tile floor as those thighs crush into me now with mind-searing, agonizing
pressure.

I've fallen backward, the majority of my body weight now hanging in the
crushing embrace of her slowly pulsing thighs as she stands on the balls of
her crossed feet. Her hands bracket my face, tilt my chin up savagely so that
I'm looking directly into her eyes again. Her breathing is still fast, still
heavy... I am more afraid of her at this very moment than I have ever been
afraid of anything in my entire life, because I can feel that if she applies
even one more pound of pressure, I am literally a dead man. And she's barely
holding back the next climax.

Her eyes are wild with lust and the thrill of conquest, her teeth bared, her
pouty, naturally ruby lips pulled back. "You're gonna be a father." she
informs me, then pulls my face to hers to kiss me roughly. Then she asks a
question I don't understand at first, my oxygen-starved brain failing to
connect it to the statement she just made: "Yes or no?"

Her bucking, grinding and crushing ease even further now, letting my ribs
return painfully to true. My eyes involuntarily clench from the pain of this,
and I can't get my wind back fast enough -- I know she wants an answer to that
question Right Now, and even though I still haven't put together what the hell
she's asking, there's only one right answer with Becky -- I nod my head
furiously: Yes! Yes! For God's sake, yes!

"Ahhh..." she sighs, and I can hear the satisfied smile in it. "Good answer.
You get to live."

Pulling my t-shirt off over my head, I drop it in the laundry basket as she
hauls me toward our small, utilitarian bathroom. With both of us barefoot, it
finally hits me that she's still growing. The first time we were both barefoot
together, she was only an inch or so taller than I am, a bit wider in the hips
-- it's only just now striking me that -

"You're still growing, aren't you!"

She turns and smiles down at me. "Well, you know how tall my mom is." she
peels out of my boxers with some difficulty - she used to be able to slip into
and out of them easier than I could. "She's the short one in my family. My
dad's six ten and my big sister's six eight. I'll put on my stilettos when we
go to Mom's this afternoon so you can see what that'll be like." On my look of
astonishment, she added, "She was only five ten when she was my age. Our
daughter's gonna be a big girl, too."

By this time, we've reached the bathroom. Standing toe to toe, fully nude, we
look at ourselves in the bathroom mirror. She drapes an arm across my
shoulders, rests her head on mine. "You'd look good in a little collar and a
leash." she announces, and kisses my cheek.

"Ohhh, I don't hardly think so." I laugh; then I notice what she's done to my
ribs. "Jesus Christ!" My entire torso looks like a topographical map where the
cartographer only had blue and purple to work with.

"Just be glad you came out better than the chair." she advises, and I have to
nod agreement to that as she turns on the water.

"I want three days." I know what she wants to talk about now; I can feel it.
She wants to talk about the pregnancy - the alleged pregnancy, I correct
myself - I'm not ready to admit it to myself, much less discuss it.

But she is.

"We're having a girl, and I can have you any time I want. Oh - and any place I
want, too, now that I think about it..." she says, grinning at me over her
shoulder as she tests the temperature of the water.

"I will not be outnumbered!" I declare in a faux superhero voice, eliciting a
burst of laughter. "And you just better remember -- you break it, you buy it."

"Buy it!" she laughs, pulling me into the shower and hoisting me over her head
to press my back and ass against the shower wall. "Baby, I already own it!"

Still, when the cleaning has turned to dirtying things up again, she manages
not to break anything. We both almost fall asleep again right here in the
shower...

But there's the phone again. A second rapid clean-up, and I've got a towel in
my hand, drying myself - carefully, around the ribs - and heading for the
phone.

"Toluca Bodycrafting." I answer for the second time this morning, casting a
glance at the small, ornate table clock on the bookshelf beside me. Eleven
thirteen A.M., and we still haven't had breakfast.

"Hey, Davey." It's my kid brother.

"Dammit, John, how many times do I have to tell you that..."

"...we're not kids anymore?" he finishes in a whiny imitation of my voice.
"Look, I just wanted to thank you ever so much for inviting me to your
wedding, you snivelling fuck."

Ugh. Here we go... "I did invite you, you fuckin' bum, you obviously never
check your mail." Becky's just coming down the hall from the bathroom now,
looking unbelievably hot with her long mane of curls pulled back into a
ponytail, and her dressed in a pair of seriously short jean shorts and a white
tank top that... huh. Those are growing, too. A smile tugs at my mouth, and a
matching one blossoms on hers, making her hazel eyes sparkle.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I didn't wanna go, anyhow. All them amazon women would'a
made me puke."

"Is that your deadbeat wannabe-writer brother?" she asks. "Tell him I'm gonna
kick his ass so hard he'll spend the next year spitting Fruit Of The Loom
labels."

"You tell the Amazon Queen next time I see her, I'm gonna...." I hold the
phone away from my ear so she can hear him -- I'd personally rather not.

She takes the phone, listening intently. After a moment, she replies sweetly,
"And then what, little Johnny?"

I can faintly hear, "Oh shit..." and an audible 'click.'

"He's so cute." I remark dryly.

"Yeah... can I kill him?"

"No."

She gives me a pout, then a smile. "Come on, breakfast. I made pancakes and
scrambled eggs with bacon, just like you like 'em." We're in our kitchen, now,
and looking down at the earthly remains of the chair.

"And would this by any chance by a bandaid for the impending arrival of our
firstborn son?" I tease.

"Daughter!" she shoots back, laughing, as I gather up the shattered hardwood
chair supports. "No." she continues. "Because it's Leg Day today."

I hold up a splintered oak fragment, shaking my head pleadingly. "Babe, it's
already been Leg Day today."

She looks at me over her shoulder, sticks her tongue out as she loads up a
plate for me, and another for herself. "Warm-up. Don't worry," she reassures
me, "I'll be gentle. I promise."

Well. Here we are, downstairs. Breakfast finished. We don't open the gym until
1 in the afternoon on Sundays, which leaves an hour window for Rebecca's
intense leg workouts.

She's been piling on the weight over the last six months, and it's showing
more and more - if she has a plateau, I hope she hits it soon. I pray she hits
it soon, because, as every bone in my chest is reminding me, her legs quickly
approaching the point where broken bones and worse may become likelihoods
rather than possibilities whether she intends to inflict them or not.

"First things first," she announces. "More warm-up. Come over here." she steps
over to a pair of horizontal bars, beckons me closer, then settles in her grip
on the rubberized handles. "Crunches."

"Haven't we already had quite enough 'crunching' action this morning?" I joke,
and earn a warning look. "Okay... okay." I step over the outer bar of the
pull-up machine's base, standing directly nose-to-collarbone with Rebecca.

"Turn around, baby. I think I've probably already stressed your ribs too much
from the front, so unless you want 'em cracked, I'd better pick you up from
behind this time."

Dutifully, I turn to face away from her. "Yeah, that's probably a good
ide-ugh!" Gee, a little warning would've been nice... Well, that's what I
would have said, if I'd still had air in my lungs. And if I were suicidal.

The pressure eases. "You okay, sweetie?" she asks. "You gonna hold up?"

"Ugh... yeah, I think so." Honestly, I'm not at all sure. But just being held
lightly in her thighs right now is more than a little uncomfortable, so best
to just let her get her workout over with so I can go back to bed and hurt in
peace.

"Okay." she seems to sense that I'm in pain, because she actually is being a
lot more careful than usual. Her calves are folded down and under my crotch,
her thighs gripping my sides just under my arms, forming a sort of harness.
Not that it helps much -- the muscle that isn't compressing my already-bruised
ribs is basically compressing my... well, even more sensitive areas -- but at
least it isn't all on one or the other, and it does help somewhat that she's
holding me from a different angle.

Slowly, her legs tighten even further, and now they rise to a forty-five
degree angle as her arms tense and lift us both upward. The floor recedes, and
my feet now dangle, useless, as the gap between my soles and the tile beneath
them gradually widens.

Eventually, the climb stops. She's humming to herself, seemingly lost in
thought, as I try to judge how far we are off the floor. The bars are set at
seven feet, I figure she's head and neck above that at least. So her legs -
and I, encased in them - probably a full two, maybe three feet between my
shoes and the floor. And she holds us there for a solid ten count.

Now we're descending again, slowly; she's strict with herself on maintaining
perfect form. After a count of thirty, my feet glide just across the floor's
surface. Another ten count and we ascend once more.

Suddenly, I don't feel so hot. It's not pain... I can't tell right away just
what it is, I just don't feel right. Her workouts always seem to take forever,
but...

My feet touch down, but there's no traction. "Sweetie?" someone's calling.
"David? David!"

"Ungh?" I ask. "Whassa four-letter word for hoozis?" That can't have just come
out of my mouth. She's either looking down out of the overhead lights at me,
or I'm looking down from the floor at her and the overhead lights. I'm not
sure which, because she and the lights won't stop moving around.

"Okay. It's okay, baby, we're done with the crunches. Take a minute and we'll
do something else."

"You did 'em all?" I try to sit up, but the room starts doing a pirouette -
clearly, it's having none of that.

She caresses my cheek tenderly. "Yeah, baby, I did 'em all. I am so sorry - I
didn't notice you were out until I put you down. You just slid onto the floor,
and I... I thought I..." her expression starts to crack, her voice starts to
hitch, and it's my turn to comfort her.

"Hey..." I don't know what to say to make her feel better - I never expected
to see the tough girl mask off, much less see her on the edge of tears. So I
do the only thing I can think of; I put my arms around her, reassure her that
I'm hers.

"Even if I break you someday?" she asks. The expression and tone of her voice
say she's joking, but there's still scared and shaken underneath.

"I wouldn't be here if being with you weren't worth that risk." I guess some
people would think that's a pretty twisted way to look at a relationship like
ours. But those are people who've never had a relationship like ours. It is
worth the risk. "So." I stand, this time more or less on my own two feet.
"Overhead press? Jogging?" Um... "No, not jogging." The rain is letting up,
but looking out at the street, it's shining. Jogging definitely equals bad
idea right now. "What else can we do?"

"We can take a breather for a minute." She notes my astonishment. "Well, you
can take a breather for a minute." She's really surprising me now, and she's
not done breaking precedent yet. "David... are you ready to be a father?"

I look into her eyes, this woman who captured me, who owns me, who holds my
very life, my entire world... and it suddenly occurs to me that she does all
these things completely. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally and
spiritually. The word is out of my mouth before my brain can catch it: "Yeah."
I see her eyes well with happy tears this time before she throws her arms
around my neck.

After a long moment, I take my feet. "Okay." I take her hand and pull her to
her feet - thank God she's helping out with that, I laugh to myself - "Back to
it."

"Hmm!" She turns away from me and crouches low. "All right. Climb on."

I have my doubts about this. "Still mighty slippery out there, don'tcha
think?"

"It sure is," she says, pushing us both up easily, and turning toward the
squat machines. "Which is why we're not going out there." she heads for the
most heavily loaded machine -- it's already got 450 pounds bearing it down.

"Uh, sweetheart..." I'm even less sure about this. "You put me on top of that,
it'll be over six hundred pounds. You don't... you can't..."

She doesn't slow down, doesn't stop, doesn't even argue, just continues
inexorably forward.

And now, with me sitting up here, it is over six hundred pounds of weight.
And, oh my God, she can move it. She is moving it. The stack descends with
perfect form, slowly and steadily.

"Babe, you gotta stop after this one." I urge her. She's only been using me as
extra weight, for the past few months, every couple weeks - I'm convinced it's
meant that she's been moving less weight. At the edges of my mind, though, a
suspicion creeps in: that she has, in fact, been increasing the stack, and
hiding it from me.

Her perfect form, under this staggering amount of weight - a frankly
superhuman amount of weight - seems to confirm this. We reach the top. "Okay,
that was great - " I shift my weight, indicating to her that it's time for me
to get off this thing -

"Don't... move." her voice is quiet, but stern.

Down we go again. I look over my shoulder, trying to see her legs from this
vantage point. I shouldn't be able to; even as well-muscled as they are, they
can't be that big. But they are. I can just make out the outer edge of her
right thigh beneath us, and very faintly visible striation as she begins to
power us back up for the second time.

We reach the top just as I feel the quake of her thighs and calves begin to
transfer into the stack. The weight is disengaged, and she stands stock still
for a moment, breathing heavily. Still human, after all, I think to myself,
relieved that she hasn't injured herself showing off.

She pulls me forward onto her shoulders, steps clear of the machine, and
kneels to let me jump off her shoulders, then sits cross-legged on the floor
and just smiles at me.

"Why in the name of God did you just do that, Becky?" I ask, making sure that
the tone comes across as concerned rather than scolding. Scolding a woman who
can squat three times your body weight is generally somewhat more than
inadvisable.

"A girl likes to know she can handle the machines in her own gym."

"Well, I - " I think this may be the one and only time I ever execute the
perfect double-take. "What?"

"My gym." she announces. "My mom's attorney will be here Monday morning with
the papers for me to sign."

"Attorney?" I parrot, dumbstruck.

"Mm hm." she nods. "He was supposed to be here yesterday morning, but he was
running late and rescheduled." Her... her mother's attorney was late. That's
what I had overheard her talking about this morning.

"You're mother's attorney was late? But - when I heard you talking to your
mom... and you said, 'late'... so you're not - ?"

"Oh, I am." she pats her abs fondly. She rises to her feet again, apparently
feeling recovered enough to scoop me up to cradle me in her arms. Her face
inches from mine, she smiles sweetly. My whole world lives in her smile as she
carries me upstairs back to our bedroom, lies me gently on the bed and drapes
a thigh possessively over me, pulling me into her warmth before resting a hand
on my cheek.

Just before slumber overcomes us both, she whispers, "We'll name her Kim."