Mickey Meets His Match
By Merz	
A regular guy manages four Amazons


"We gotta talk, Mickey." Verna walked into my office and around to my side of
the desk like she always did.

I looked up at her Ð way up, because in her heels she stands six foot five
inches to six foot six Ð in curiosity. "What's up, gorgeous, besides you and
now me?" I asked as she scooped me up and plopped me into her lap when she
took my place in the chair. I fit quite nicely in her lap, my head resting
against her chest.

"I got some bad news." She took a deep breath as I undid her top two buttons
and made myself more comfortable. "I met a guy and I'm leaving the act. We're
getting hitched. Larry wants me to stay home and maybe start raising a family
with him, become a domestic goddess and all that bullshit. Maybe you shouldn't
be licking my tits like that now. Larry might not like it." But she didn't
pull away or do any of the things a gal her size would be capable of doing to
a guy my size if she wanted me to stop.

I stopped anyway, out of shock. "Leaving the act? But you're our
lift-and-carry star! You're the only one who turns a reliable dollar. Half the
time Barta and Marta can't find anybody willing to wrestle either of them, and
when they just go at it themselves they don't always impress the marks with
their moves. Folks expect all that crazy flying kicking and fake blood like
they see on television, and the girls don't go in for that. And unless we can
convince Stella to actually let a guy touch even one of her muscles she'll
never earn a fraction of what she could be worth." I fidgeted on her lap
trying to come to grips with her news.

"Oh, I know it." She stood up and began pacing my office, cradling me in her
arms like a little kid. "I tried to convince Larry that the act is like
family, and that just because I carry some yokel around the stage on my back
or in my arms doesn't mean he has anything to be jealous of." She hefted me up
to her shoulder so she could gesture better with her free hand. "He won't
listen and he gets crazy jealous. He acts like I might two-time him or
something, or that I could ever fall for some guy I could carry around,
instead of for him. Nothing personal."

"Nothing personal," I assured her as I stole a squeeze of her arm muscle and
looked down her back at her fine, rounded ass churning away in her tight skirt
as she paced. "This Larry - you can't carry him around?"

"Not real easy. He goes about three hundred in his boxers. I picked him up
once but I don't think it was much of a turn-on for him. He thinks it's better
if he carries me."

"Can't imagine. Three hundred pounds? Jealous type? Maybe you ought to set me
down, just in case."

"Yeah, I suppose. Probably shouldn't even go for a last one for old times
sake." Velma reluctantly stood me on the corner of the desk while her lips
lingered around my zipper, but unlike usual she didn't tug it down. "I thought
about it as a sort of going away present, but I guess you talked me out of it.
Anyway, it's been great. You'll find someone else for the act in no time. Good
luck, and I'll invite you to the wedding." She turned and the best blow job of
my life walked out the door.

Well, that was a problem. It's not like the talent agencies have a regular
list of Amazon entertainers. My operation is set up for four girls to fill a
ninety minute show counting intermission. Verna opened and closed for me, with
my wrestlers and my body builder fitting in around the break. I had to find a
replacement pronto.

I hit the intercom button that connected to the gym downstairs and yelled for
the other three to get into my office for an emergency meeting. They filed in,
bringing their sweat smell with them. Another reason Verna was always my
favorite: she didn't sweat. Her talent was mostly being taller than most guys,
let alone women, and she didn't need to spend hours a day heaving around
barbells for that. She was tall and graceful and smart enough to lift with her
legs instead of her back when she got a mark who wanted to ride around the
stage piggy back or in her arms. Other times she just had to manage me riding
around on her shoulders or making a big deal about how high up on me her legs
came, how I didn't have to duck very far to walk between her legs and how much
fun I could make that look. Ah, Verna. I missed her a lot already.

Marta strode in first, wiping her face on a towel, and tipped back in a chair
against the wall. She scowled at me, her dark eyebrows almost meeting above
her nose. Her hair is dyed platinum blonde, but she never does anything about
her eyebrows so the dye job looks phony as hell. I started to mention it once
and she snarled at me so that I just changed the subject real quick and hoped
she wouldn't throw me through the wall. Barta came next. I bill them as the
wrestling sisters, but they aren't related. They just look kind of similar,
roughly five foot-six and about one-eighty, built like white haired Russian
shot putters with broad shoulders, enormous thighs and necks like bulls. On
the street they tend to wear shorts or capri pants that show they're a little
slack in the gut and wide in the ass. Barta tipped back in a chair next to
Marta and matched her scowl. The more they work together, the more they look
like real sisters.

Last came Stella. Five foot-two, a natural blonde, peaches and cream skin and
hooters out to here. Also biceps out to there. She pulled a chair around so
she was as far from Barta and Marta as she could get and made a show of wiping
it with her towel before placing her tight young ass on the naughahide. She
was my prima donna. The wrestlers were wearing cut-off sweats, knee pads and
baggy sweat socks, Stella wore a sleeveless Lycra top that barely contained
her tits, short shorts and pink training shoes. I'd never seen the wrestlers
wearing makeup and had never seen Stella without it. They tried to look like
they were about forty when they were really just pushing thirty, Stella wore
her hair in pigtails and made up her face to look like a wide-eyed sixteen
year old, but she was really twenty-two.

I laid out the situation, that we were short a performer now and that our
contract in Poughkeepsie called for a full slate of four. None of them knew
anyone they could suggest as a replacement for Verna or to do some other bit
of Amazon business. I started talking about how I might have to trim some
paychecks if we lost shows or got fewer marks in the door because of being a
gal short, but Marta clenched her fist so hard her knuckles sounded like
cracking walnuts, and I heard a growl rumbling somewhere deep inside Barta.

Stella, bless her heart and other muscles, chirped up, "Did you notice I've
been working my pecs extra hard this week? I don't remember anything in my
contract about me losing money just because you lose a performer. I don't
believe that would be fair." She flexed her chest to be sure I'd notice and
gave me the cutest little smile. "But you can negotiate with the other girls
if you want."

"My paycheck comes up one nickel short, boss," Marta offered up, looking
meaningfully from me to Stella, "and I'll shove you so far up a certain
asshole you'll be tasting her lipstick from the inside." Barta gave her a
playful punch in the shoulder that sounded like she was punching a tree trunk.

This little meeting wasn't going too hot. For about the hundredth time I
wondered if I ought to keep my gun in a top drawer in my desk instead of the
bottom. No way I could get to it in time if an unhappy client or employee came
across the desk at me, and an ordinary guy like me has to be able to defend
himself. "Hey, I'm just saying we might have to tighten our belts. No reason
to get worked up, I'm sure we'll come through fine."

So I spent the next few days calling everyone I could think of who might know
a woman with muscles, or who was tall enough to wear Verna's costumes, or knew
how to duke it out in a bar fight, or might turn on the audiences we get in
some other way. I got a few calls back and set up interviews starting Monday
afternoon. Being a good boss, I like to involve the other folks in personnel
decisions like this, also because Barta said if I picked some bimbo based on
my weakness for a blow job she'd dropkick us both out the window.

Interview day brought a little trickle to the office: a fat woman who couldn't
have made it onto a stage without stopping for breath, a tall skeleton woman
who couldn't manage to lift me as high as her shoulder, and for some reason a
woman who thought she and her parakeets were just what our audiences would
appreciate. It was looking pretty grim by the time the last appointment came
up that evening.

In walked an Asian guy not that much bigger than me, dressed up in a suit with
his neck tie knotted tight against his throat. He nodded as he entered and
then stood aside and ushered in a woman just a bit taller who was dressed in
black pajamas, her hands tucked into the opposite sleeves of her jacket. I
gave them my raised eyebrow of deep skepticism. This prospective Amazon was
little more than five feet tall, which isn't a huge obstacle if you have
shoulders like Stella does that practically require her to turn sideways to
get through doorways. China Doll here looked like a stick figure hid under the
pajamas, with the lined face and short, gray-streaked hair that suggested this
stick had floated on the stream under a lot of bridges.

The guy interpreted my look correctly and spoke up quickly to slide me past my
doubts. "You need a performer, a female performer, who will dazzle American
men with her power and ability. I present Po Mao Ping, the Chinese
Superwoman." He tried to look as confident as his words as he bowed her
forward. "She's an acrobat," he added with a little less bravado.

Hoping to avoid watching a senior citizen turn a couple somersaults I hopped
up and raised my hands to keep things from going any further. "We weren't
exactly after acrobatics. We try to appeal to, shall we say, other tastes of
the American man. Or some American men."

"You may go home," the China doll spoke for the first time, turning to address
the guy. "I will handle everything. I will call about my things." He started
to protest a couple of times but she cut him off with a different sort of look
each time until he walked out the door with his shoulders slumping more than
when he and his band-box suit had marched in. Then she faced toward me.

She walked stiffly to my desk and looked across it at me. From her right
pocket she pulled a wood block, a short piece of a two by four. From her left
pocket she pulled an inch and a half roofing nail. She put the wood block on
my desk, put the tip of the nail on it, and slammed the heel of her hand
against the nail four times until it was buried in the wood. "My son does not
represent me well. He does not appreciate the variety of ways strong Wu Shu
can impress American men."

I glanced over at my interview panel and figured the three mouths hanging open
were their way of suggesting the interview might continue.

"In this country I prefer to perform as an acrobat." Placing both hands on the
edge of my desk she slowly leaned her weight onto them, her feet swinging
clear of the floor, and then smoothly piked up into a handstand. Upside down,
she did the splits, then twisted her legs so she was doing a side splits. She
leaned over to one side and balanced on her left hand, the other held out to
her side. Then she placed her right index finger on the desk, leaned back the
other way and ended up balancing on one finger. She arched her body so she was
looking up at me, her face showing no sign of strain and no emotion.

She lowered herself back onto the floor and looked over at the three women
staring back at her, their mouths still hanging open. Gesturing to Marta and
Barta she said, "You are fighters. Come." She motioned them forward.

By the time they were standing in front of her she had unbuttoned her jacket.
Now she pulled it off and set it on the desk to show a pale upper body that
looked like a lean bundle of whip cords and wires. She pointed to her abdomen,
a stack of cables coiled beneath a demur black bra. I couldn't see that the
bra was concealing or supporting much, but that was her business. "Strike me.
Hard." She demonstrated by slamming her own gut with a loud smacking fist.
"Hard."

The wrestlers exchanged looks, then Marta stepped up and threw a punch at the
target. Whap. Clearly about half as hard as the old lady had smacked herself.
"Hard," she urged again and repeated her demonstration of what she had in
mind. Barta shrugged and unloaded with a nicely resounding thud that didn't
shake or back up its target. "Harder!" Marta tried again and I could see she
really threw herself into it. Smack! No effect on Po Mao Ping, but Marta was
left shaking her hand and looking amazed.

"You are fighters. Your Wu Shu is good. If you like, I can show you how to
strike." The old gal grabbed her block of wood off the desk, then reached into
the pocket of her jacket for a second nail. With her left hand she held the
block against Barta's chest, her fingers setting the point of the nail into
the wood. "Stand firm, need strong Wu Shu to protect you." Faster than I could
follow she reared back her right fist and threw it forward. Barta was knocked
on her can while Po Mao Ping caught the wood in mid air. She pointed to where
her blow had sunk the nail to its head, then showed there was nothing more
than a small pink spot on her knuckle as a consequence of driving it in with
single shot from her fist. Barta sat there rubbing her chest and staring,
trying to come up with some explanation other than what we had just seen.
Marta sank to the floor next to her, her mouth again hanging open.

"Acrobat. Yeah. Maybe we can make something work with that," I managed to
croak out. I'm the brains of the outfit, you see, so I had to work my mouth to
make the ladies think my head was doing something besides spinning like a top.

Po Mao Ping put her jacket on again and nodded her agreement to me. She said
to Stella. "You have great strength, big muscles. With strong Wu Shu you don't
need to show the big muscles. Your strength can be kept inside. I will show
you." She gestured and Stella came forward looking a little nervous after what
just happened to Barta.

They were about the same height, and the old gal placed Stella's arm on her
shoulder and described how she could bend it no matter how hard Stella tried
to keep it straight. Stella looked confused, so Po Mao Ping switched it
around. She let Stella try to bend her arm first.

"Go. Bend my elbow." It was worth the show just to watch Stella working so
hard. Her shoulders swelled up like balloons as she was really baring down on
Po Mao Ping's shoulder and forearm, trying to budge her elbow. She got red in
the face and her muscles started trembling from the effort. I wanted to duck
into the john and whack off just looking at all those gorgeous muscles working
harder even than Stella worked them in the show. But business comes first.

Po Mao Ping wiggled her fingers to show she wasn't straining at all keeping
her arm straight and resting on Stella's shoulder. "It is enough. You are very
strong in the muscles, but your Wu Shu is not so strong. Rest, then I will
show you."

Stella looked like she wanted to cry because she hadn't bent the old woman's
arm. Pumped up like they were it looked like her biceps were as big around as
the Chinese woman's waist. She clenched her fists and her arms tensed up like
boulders. "I don't need no rest," she hissed. "You pulled some trick. Try
this." And she laid her big right arm on the thin shoulder.

Po Mao Ping got a concerned, motherly look on her face. She stroked and felt
along that big bulging arm and looked at Stella. With one hand on Stella's
wrist and one on her bicep she nodded, took a breath and started pushing.
Nothing happened for a while as the old gal took a few more breaths and closed
her eyes in concentration. I just about wet my pants when Stella's elbow
started bending downward. Looking at her from behind I couldn't breathe I was
so turned on by seeing Stella work like that, all her muscles bulging in her
back and shoulders and legs. She wanted to use her left hand to help resist
the movement, but being a good girl she wouldn't cheat. She kept fighting
until her wrist had been folded back onto her shoulder. Finally she gave out
what sounded like something between a gasp for air and a sob. When the China
woman let go Stella stood staring for a moment, then turned and ran out of the
room.

Now my own mouth was hanging open as I stared at Po Mao Ping, along with Marta
and Barta. An ordinary guy like me can make it in business by being faster on
my feet than the next guy, spotting my opportunities and getting there to make
my sales pitch first. This time my pecker was telling me I had to go sell some
comfort to poor Stella. It sounded like the poor kid's heart was breaking, so
if I played it just right I could do some consoling and plant my flag on top
of that fabulous mountain of muscle. I adjusted the trouser snake and started
to follow her out the door, but Po Mao Ping stepped in front of her.

"Inside she is like a child. I will help her Wu Shu to grow straight and
strong like an oak tree, but now she is vulnerable to the wrong words." I saw
her shoot some kind of look at Marta and Barta, and they both nodded back.

"You know us, Boss," Marta started. "We'd never want to get caught saying
anything nice about the little snot," Barta continued "Yeah, she's a stuck-up
pain in the ass, always acting like her shit don't stink." "But those muscles
aren't just for show." "She really is as strong as she looks. Maybe more." "I
don't think she can handle it, getting shown up like that." "What we mean is,
we better go say something to her." "Welcome to the show, honey. It's going to
be an interesting ride." They lumbered out, leaving me alone, face to face
with this Chinese witch.

As soon as the duo were gone she walked around behind my desk and sat down in
my chair. She gestured for me to pull up another chair as she reached for my
phone and dialed.

"You say I got the job, right," she asked as she listened to the ringing.
"Moonblossom? It's Grandma Po. Listen, I need you to go to my room and pack a
few days worth of undies and a couple of my old fashioned pajama outfits in my
suitcase, the fancy ones. And pack up my toilet stuff. You can do that for me?
Is great. I must be gone from your pop's house for a few weeks. Certain things
must settle down between us. Have him drop it off here, I wait for him on
sidewalk. A million thanks, I will bring you something from the big city when
I return."

She was casually going through my desk drawers while she talked. In the bottom
drawer she found my little stash of Macanudos and fished one out, and then got
the lighter from the middle drawer. She hung up the phone, lit the cigar and
blew a long stream of smoke into the air. I realized my mouth was hanging open
again and pulled it shut with some effort.

"I start right away and move in here like the ad say? Standard scale, room and
board plus per diem and travel. Nothing special. We try for sixty days and
then see." She took another puff and sat back in my chair to watch smoke rings
drift toward the ceiling. "I know about screwed up kids like your muscle-girl.
Like I say, I help her past some of that. The other two seem good Ð solid
troupers, good Wu Shu."

She sat upright again and looked across my desk at me. I usually sit in my own
chair, not any of the others in the office, so she looked from where my feet
were dangling above the floor, up to my head, and then focused back on my
crotch. "So, Mr. Big, you got some pretty good Wu Shu working yourself there.
Can't be serious about nookie with the kid. That be taking unfair advantage of
the handicapped." She tossed me one of my own cigars and slid the lighter
across.

"You need to see the room we got available if you're going to flop here with
us? It's two doors down the hall. There's a bottle in the other bottom drawer
there, and a couple glasses if you want to toast to the deal." I was trying to
sound in control of myself again as I fired up the stogie. Travel means riding
in my van with the rest of us, and per diem means either sleeping on the drive
back home after a show or doubling up in rooms in some fleabag motel. Being
the boss and the only guy, of course, I'm not included in the doubling up.
Even with Verna in the act I never got that lucky. The money would work out as
soon as we started selling as many tickets as we were used to. That was mostly
my job.

Po or Ping or whatever I was supposed to call her bent down to get the bottle.
First she found my forty-five and pulled that out for a look before retrieving
the bottle and the two glasses. "Serious artillery. Little man likes big guns.
If the room has a bed, it's good. No need for the Boss Man to show me a bed, I
seen plenty." She poured out a couple of generous shots and picked the cleaner
glass for herself. We leaned across the desk top to clink glasses, and it
cracked her up to have us both sprawling on our bellies like that, stretching
out as far as we could each reach. A nice laugh, and it started me laughing. I
slid back to my chair before one of the girls came in and caught me like that.
I'm a serious businessman, after all - their boss - and couldn't afford any of
the hired help seeing me flopping around on my own desk.

Sliding on the hard desktop reminded me I still had a great boner that wanted
tending to, but there was work to be done first.. "The big drawer in the
middle has some contract forms, if you want to fill in your part. Might as
well make it all official. Sixty day trial, huh? That seems kind of long, if
things don't work out. Say, what am I supposed to call you when it's just us,
anyway? I'm Mickey."

"Maybe this is the only time it be just us, Boss Man." She sipped her hootch
as she scanned the one page contract. She had to hold the paper out at arm's
length to read. Her monkey face squinted as she read and brought out her
wrinkles more. That made me feel better. "Call me Lily. Hands on desk - if you
keep touching yourself there you go blinder than I am. Left glasses in my
purse, but I see what you are up to. You gotta discipline your artillery, Boss
Man. Can't waste your Wu Shu now if you want to have any when you get old.
Okey dokey, I sign and now I bring paper around to you. Don't want you
crawling around on the desk in your delicate condition. Maybe you should take
cold shower before signing paper. Hand not look steady holding little pen, and
you getting too big for your britches down there." Her lips gripped the fat
cigar and she sucked in smoke in a very suggestive manner, and then she winked
at me. Great: witchcraft, acrobatics and comedy all rolled together. And with
each sip she talked more like a coolie just off the sampan.

I signed and she shot down the last of her drink. I did the same, and then I
ushered her to the door as quick as I could so I could retreat to my little
bathroom, but damned if Barta didn't pass her in the doorway. It was shaping
up to be long evening.

--continued--