La Granita Part 2: Me and My Wife and the Body
By Merz
A man begins coming to terms with his wife's new muscles


I had never known my wife had been a competitive 
bodybuilder and wrestler several years before we met.  On a 
whim I had suggested we both "get into shape," and that had 
been all the incentive she had needed to throw herself into 
intense weightlifting and exercise to resurrect the 
muscular body that lay waiting beneath her skin.  A year of 
relentless work mornings and evenings left her transformed, 
strong and muscular beyond anything I might have imagined.  
She wasn't yet satisfied with her bodyfat percentage, and 
was determined to strip off the last concealing layer of 
soft tissue beneath her skin.  She had the muscle, now she 
wanted to make the fact obvious to anyone who saw her.  She 
went off somewhere alone for a month before she and I were 
scheduled to spend a week vacationing in Mexico.  She told 
me she had to make her final transformation alone and that 
she would meet me in our hotel.

On the scheduled day I was waiting in the lobby when the 
shuttle from the airport arrived.  That month was the 
longest we had spent apart in the six years we'd been 
married, so I was eager to be back together with my wife.  
I recognized Miranda immediately as she got out of the van.  
She wore sunglasses, like all tourists in the tropics, and 
a loose flowered jacket that billowed around her.  As she 
came in carrying her suitcase I saw her face was thinner, 
the cheekbones more prominent.  So she really had been 
dieting, I thought, to lose weight as I'd wanted all along.  

Her face lit up when she saw me, and she dropped her 
suitcase as I crossed the lobby to give her the huge hug 
I'd been dreaming of for a month, and especially for the 
twenty-four hours since I arrived at the hotel ahead of 
her.  We embraced, we kissed, and then she put a hand on my 
chest to stop me from going further like I wanted, right 
there in the hotel lobby.  I had to look at the sandals 
with three-inch heels to realize why she seemed taller as 
well as more lean.

"You see that I have lost the weight?  Only seven pounds, 
when I thought it would be ten.  But now it is time for you 
to see."  I had felt how large and firm her shoulders were 
when I hugged her, but now she stripped off the jacket.  
The transformation was incredible.  Underneath she wore a 
stretchy t-shirt with sleeves that stopped just below her 
deltoids.  Its snug hem emphasized the bulge of biceps, the 
thick roundness of the shoulders.  The tight fabric 
displayed a chest that tapered to a tighter waist than I 
remembered.  Below that she wore snug pants that showed off 
thighs that bulged with power, and flaring calf muscles.  
"Nothing left to hide the body, only the skin itself.  Now 
would you like to give your attention to it, would you like 
to really appreciate what I have made?"

Would I!  She had already captured the attention of 
everyone in the lobby.  The polite ones were trying not to 
stare in disbelief at the extreme female bodybuilder I 
found I was married to.  Most were too surprised to try 
concealing their amazement.  It was the first time since 
we'd been married that Miranda's body became the center of 
this sort of attention, but it became a part of our life I 
would have to get used to.  And now she was inviting me 
back to the room for a little exclusive appreciation.  I 
grabbed her bag, startled at how easily she had seemed to 
carry this much weight, and led the way.

Once inside I felt like a newly wed again, nervous and 
excited, wanting to make this reunion perfect.  Miranda 
looked approvingly around the room, a better one than we 
had stayed in the previous year, with a view of the beach.  
She looked at the ice bucket with the bottle of champagne 
chilling.  And she looked at me with love and desire.  "My 
love, you have made everything ready.  Now we may begin, as 
you wished.  It is just you and me and the body."

She pulled off her top, revealing a physique chiseled into 
muscular bricks and mounds, muscles unlike any I had seen 
on a woman, more than I had seen on most male body 
builders.  She stripped off her pants to display legs just 
as dramatic.  Every muscular strand stood out clearly 
defined, the veins along her forearms crawled in complex 
patterns.  I was too stunned to speak.

"You see?  As you asked, I have fasted and dieted away 
everything the body did not need.  I had forgotten the 
look, the feel.  Come, my darling, come and appreciate the 
body."  She began a slow posing routine, starting with a 
tensing of her shoulders, a twisting emphasis of incredible 
triceps, a side chest pose turning into an abdominal 
display.  Then she moved down to her legs, tensing first 
one massive thigh, turning slowly and flexing the other.  
She flowed smoothly into a complete turn so she faced and 
away and highlighted her diamond shaped calf muscles, 
stepping up on one leg and then the other to bounce them 
into huge, tight form.  She began rolling her shoulders to 
put into motion a back that rippled and pulsed in a dozen 
directions.  The rolling increased until she was sensuously 
rolling her arms in circles.  Finally when those arms 
reached the top of their arc she froze into a double biceps 
pose and I stared in astonishment at high, peaked mounds of 
steel.

"Here it is, my love.  Here is the body.  Isn't it 
beautiful?  Isn't it magnificent?  Just as we wanted it to 
be.  Hard, stripped of everything that doesn't give it 
strength and form.  Feel the body."

It was anything except the body I had expected.  Somehow 
without getting taller, without becoming noticeably wider, 
my wife had transformed herself into the most incredible 
muscle woman I could have imagined, a figure that seemed 
larger than life.  I did touch her body, as much to assure 
myself this figure standing naked in my hotel room was 
real, wasn't a figment of my imagination.  She was holding 
her pose as rigidly as a statue might, and when I touched 
her arm and then her back she even felt as solid as stone.  

She dropped her pose at last and turned to smile up at me.  
I could easily recognize my wife's face in the more 
sculpted face before me.  I ran a finger up the Caesarian 
scar on her abdomen partly to convince myself this 
unfamiliar mass of muscles had been lurking inside my wife 
all these years.  The scar was more prominent now, running 
across a midsection pulled tight as a drumhead.  Where the 
surgeon had cut through the muscles a dozen years before 
there seemed to be a misalignment, one asymmetrical detail 
that was thrust upward through her tight skin.

"It is a flaw', she remarked, looking at the scar.  "For my 
daughter, I let them cut the body.  In body building 
competitions it cannot be ignored, but I am proud of it, 
proud that my body could bring forth a daughter.  The body 
must be shown but the judging will go hard.  You don't 
mind, do you?  That I won't win contests where it would be 
judged against me?"

"I can't imagine what you're talking about," I said as I 
suddenly swept her into my arms.  She was heavier than last 
year, so solid, her body so transformed.  But I picked her 
up and carried into the bedroom where we could really have 
our reunion.

She dressed differently now as well.  The first few days 
she sunned herself just enough to get an all-over golden 
tan, then was careful to thickly apply sunscreen.  Her 
skin, she informed me, had to be kept young and elastic in 
order to show the body to its best effect.  The skin was 
protected from the sun, but she kept a lot of it visible at 
all times.  She rolled the sleeves of her shirts high to 
better accent her upper arms.  She rolled the legs of her 
shorts so they were tighter around her powerful thighs.  
She preferred halters to shirts, she preferred bikini 
bottoms to shorts wherever she could get away with it.

And she exercised at any opportunity.  Pushups by the pool 
while the tourists stared.  Pull-ups from the lifeguard 
tower at the beach.  By the end of the week she had become 
something of a celebrity and an attraction at the hotel.  
All the guests knew her by name and many would schedule 
their times by the pool or on the beach to correspond to 
hers.  I learned later that she was going to the hotel gym 
each morning and each evening before dinner to exercise 
more, and had an additional group of admirers at every one 
of those sessions as well.  

Despite her demonstration in our basement I didn't 
immediately recognize how strong she was.  That started to 
change one evening after dinner when she smilingly 
challenged me to arm wrestle, then dragged out her victory 
for minutes just so she and the onlookers in the restaurant 
could marvel at the size of her biceps as she held my arm 
until I simply collapsed.  She asked for rematches many 
times but I always refused.  

The next day, as we held hands while walking on the beach, 
she impetuously grabbed me around the waist and lifted me 
easily up onto her shoulder.  Laughing, she did an airplane 
spin a couple of times before dumping me unceremoniously on 
the sand.  We were in full view of several other 
vacationers so it was even more embarrassing when she 
pinned me to the ground beneath her foot and raised her 
arms in triumph.  That one time I tried to fight back.  I 
shoved her foot off me and rolled to my feet where I tried 
to tackle her.  She braced herself so I couldn't move her 
an inch.  She was laughing at my frustration and playing a 
bit to her audience.  I tried a few other moves, like 
grabbing her arm and trying to twist it behind her back.  I 
was getting angry at her mocking and at being made to look 
so powerless to the other tourists.  She easily kept me 
from moving her arm, even when I grabbed it in both hands.  
Then she suddenly stooped and picked me up once more, 
holding me chest high in her powerful arms before again 
dropping me hard to the sand.  

Now I was furious.  "Be careful, my husband," she laughed 
at me as I scrambled back up.  "You risk the fury of 
Granita."  That had been her wrestling identity over a 
dozen years before.  It was just beginning to dawn on me 
how outclassed I was, but I was too angry to realize she 
had wrestled stronger, better trained men than me in those 
days.  She let me tie up with her, shoulder to shoulder, 
head to head.  I had my hands on her rippling back and 
shoulders but I still couldn't grasp the reality of her 
strength.  For a few moments she pushed me this way and 
that at will, still laughing at my futile efforts.  She 
shoved me back three feet as easily as flicking a fly off 
her arm and my temper snapped.  She gave a little flicking 
motion to show me and our audience that it had been 
effortless, and that gesture was too much.  I charged back 
in and swung my fist into her washboard stomach.

I can't imagine now that I could ever have done such a 
thing to my own wife.  My only excuse was my temper tantrum 
and the fact that I was still getting used to the idea that 
this ripped Amazon could possibly be the woman I had 
married seven years before.  She could have blocked or 
avoided the blow, but she let it land on her oaken abdomen.  
Then her amused expression was replaced by a look of 
complete contempt.  For an instant after I realized I had 
actually struck my wife I stood paralyzed and in shock.  
The instant was all she needed to grab my wrist with 
crushing force, jerk me crashing against her solid body to 
knock the wind out of me, then seize me by one armpit and 
the leg of my swimsuit to lift me clear over her head.  A 
couple of the tourists snapped pictures as she posed like 
that, and some emailed copies to us.   In a few months I 
got beyond the fact my most shameful moment was 
immortalized, and focused more on what she looked like 
suspending me six feet up in with every muscle in her body 
seething and straining.  It hurt a lot when she dropped me 
that third time, this time with a good deal more force, but 
eventually I accepted facts and now have the picture as 
wallpaper on our computer at home.

I lay there beaten and hurting at her feet.  She stood over 
me, muscular arms crossed on her broad chest and looked off 
into the distance as if taking her victory for granted, as 
if listening to applause for what the body had done to me.  
After a minute of this she relaxed and offered me a hand 
up.  "Come, we must continue our walk.  Remember it is you 
and me and the body.  You are outnumbered now.  You must 
show your love of your wife and your respect of Granita."

When we returned from our trip I ran into more problems 
coming to terms with the changes in Miranda.  She had 
talked from the beginning as if she and her body were 
somehow distinct entities.  Learning how true that was took 
me until summer.  There really was the body and there was 
Miranda, with different needs and different temperaments.  

Miranda was a loving, joyful wife and mother.  The body was 
demanding, vain, and totally self-centered.  Miranda made 
love, the body had sex.  That first time in the Mexican 
hotel I had been amazed at what had been lying underneath 
the smooth curves and soft skin of my wife.  Exploring 
unfamiliar bulges, vascular arms and a drum-tight stomach 
was exciting and unsettling.  As she responded to my 
explorations she carried me off in an irresistible fury of 
sex.  At first I enjoyed discovering new positions and new 
conditions for making love to this new body.  She 
encouraged me to feel over her contours, begged me to make 
love to separate parts, such as an evening worshiping the 
shape and supple power of her arms that ended with my 
trying to force my prick into the hard crevice between her 
flexed biceps and forearm.  Her stone-hard glutes provided 
many nights of invention in their own right.  After our 
"wrestling match" the tone changed and she was in charge of 
our lovemaking.  It was always breathtaking, exhilarating, 
exhausting and sometimes painful.  But it was whatever and 
whenever she wished it to be from that night onward.