La Granita Part 3: Miranda and Her Man
By Merz
The body must be appreciated


When we returned home from Mexico the adjustments continued. Miranda was easy
going and accepting. The body was obsessive about symmetry and balance, and
insatiable for adding mass. Miranda read novels in three languages and
professional journals, the body devoured magazines about exercise and
bodybuilding. Miranda loved good food and enjoyed a drink in the evening. The
body was meticulous about calories and carbohydrates and considered it a huge
concession to have one glass of white wine in a week. Miranda had always had
an easy relationship with Isabel, talking freely with her daughter about
classes in school or activities with her friends. The body had to be the
center of attention, but Isabel seemed thrilled to see her mother building a
physique that far outstripped those of any men she knew, not to mention mine,
and she even joined her mother working out a few times. Miranda might have
been supportive of our efforts to improve our fitness as she had done, but the
body was dismissive of lesser human beings.

The times I went down to our basement when she was lifting weights and offered
to join in her workout she quickly grew impatient. Not just because I was
weaker at most of the exercises even at the start, but because I couldn't keep
up with her relentless pace. At each exercise and each set she drove herself
to failure, then chafed at having to stand by while I did my reps rather than
burning out another of her incredible body parts. I even tried joining her in
one of her sessions at our gym, but only once.

We'd both been members for a few years, but when we went together after our
Mexican trip I learned she had become a celebrity there. She had told me she'd
been working part time there and at another place as a personal trainer for
six months. She didn't mention that her workouts had become occasions for the
serious body builders and the wanna-bes to stop what they were doing to stare
or cheer her on to greater exertions. We hadn't made it through our first
station on the weights when she bluntly informed me that I could spot for her,
but that my efforts were an interference. "It isn't your strength, my husband.
It is your heart. You don't have the fire to drive yourself or to add to my
flame." She scrutinized her gleaming physique in the posing mirror, flaring
her lats to see if the pull-downs had had any immediate effect. "You see the
body, but you can't see the passion inside that drives it on and on, passion
like a furnace that must be fed by constant work."

She finished the session working with the new club manager, a guy in his
twenties named Warren who had competitive body building ambitions of his own.
After that they became regular partners with the weights. I started avoiding
being at the gym any time I thought Miranda would be there because Warren got
a little too free with his hands when he was checking out the results of each
of her exercises. She encouraged him and seemed to think it was natural
respect the body earned at every workout. When I protested she told me to mind
my own business, to quit acting like a jealous husband because I was the only
man she could love.

Miranda was in constant motion attending to the body and maintaining her day
job at the marketing company. She hit the gym for a couple hours in the
morning, visited her office, then was back at the gym after dinner most
evenings. She worked as a personal trainer with a list of male and female
clients divided between two gyms so it seemed I hardly saw her except for
weekends. When I did see her it was again like being reintroduced to two
women. Miranda asked about my day, inquired about Isabel if she wasn't around,
chatted about marketing projects and made pleasant small talk. After a few
minutes of that the body took over, demanding to know if I noticed any
difference in the size or definition of this muscle group or that, if I
thought her calves were getting out of proportion to her thighs, whether she
should ease up on back training or increase the protein in her diet. And then
she would lead me upstairs so the body could be worshipped to the point at
which I collapsed from exhaustion.

One evening I got concerned when Miranda hadn't returned home by eleven
o'clock. I tried her cell phone but got no answer. I got the answering machine
at the gym because it was past closing. Worried over which of two
possibilities accounted for her absence I left Isabel in bed and drove to the
gym. It stood dark and locked, but Miranda's car was parked in front. I found
the back door unlocked and went inside. The main room was dark and empty but I
saw a light under the door of the smaller studio at the back. Fearing the
worst I went in.

Inevitably I found them naked and extremely involved, shall we say. Warren was
on top of her, stroking her arms and rubbing his body against hers as she
arched up against him. "What the hell are you doing," I shouted. I don't know
what I expected from them - shame, embarrassment, apologetic regrets. Instead
I got amusement from him and no reaction at all from her.

"I'll take care of this, baby," he told her and got up from the mats to face
me. I knew he was a powerful man, since he spent all the time he wasn't
fucking my wife lifting weights or posing in front of mirrors. As he stood
there regarding me with a sneering smile I had the full view of his nude body,
a blonde Adonis with an incredible physique. "Best idea, buddy, is just go
back the way you came. We'll let you know when we're finished."

"You're finished now, you muscle bound moron. Get out of here while you still
have the chance."

He just smiled wider, then slugged me in the gut. "Muscle bound moron? Get out
while I have the chance? Tough words for a pipsqueak, pipsqueak." I was curled
on the floor, retching and gasping for breath. He grabbed me by the collar and
hauled me somewhat upright. "Time you learned the difference between muscle
bound and strong enough to pop you like a zit." He flexed an imposing bicep in
front of my face. "Guess which one this is, pipsqueak."

Over his shoulder I could see Miranda watching us with cool detachment,
leaning on one thick arm. "He is my husband. Don't hurt him," she told her
boyfriend.

"Don't worry doll, he won't be hurting for long." And he slugged me again. As
I slumped down he grabbed the back of my neck and pushed my face against his
bare foot. "Give it a kiss, pipsqueak. Show us some respect."

"Release him, let him go." Miranda had crossed the room and stood behind my
tormentor. "He is nothing to you, and he is my husband."

"I don't care who he is, he's a pipsqueak with a smart mouth and I'm going to
teach him a lesson."

"Last time I ask." Miranda's voice now had an edge to it. "He is my husband.
He is important to me. Let him go." She placed a hand on his arm that he
shrugged off in annoyance.

"Back off, bitch. I'm having a little fun here. I'll get back to you and you
can have all of me you want as soon as I'm finished."

I saw Miranda's arms circle his waist and lock in front. Then she ripped him
right off the floor in what's called a suplex in wrestling. She pulled him up
over her head as she arched backward and brought him crashing to the floor.
She got up quickly but he lay stunned, moving slowly for a moment, probably in
as much disbelief as I was. Miranda's impossible muscles were tensed as tight
as springs as she crouched over him in all her naked glory. "You are finished.
I want none of you and it is you who must learn."

Warren was starting to push himself off the floor. Miranda stepped in and
grabbed his right upper arm. With one hand she gripped his biceps, her strong
fingers crushing into the dense flesh. Her other hand was digging at his elbow
joint. I saw her exert for a moment, the muscles of her arms straining, and
then I heard a pop followed by his screams of pain.

"Your biceps is torn now. It can be sewn back together, and in a year you will
be able to bend the arm normally." She stepped back as he writhed on the floor
in agony. "There is me, there is my husband, and there is the body. You had
permission to honor and appreciate the body but you went too far. You
trespassed."

I couldn't believe what I had just seen. The man was openly crying in pain. He
straightened his arm and I saw the huge biceps continued to hold the same
round shape rather than stretching out. She had ripped the muscle loose from
its insertion at the joint, effectively crippling him. He needed to use his
other hand to bend his arm again and clutch it to his chest.

"Did you think your body was of significance? You are strong, you have been
good to exercise with. But there is only one Granita. This is the body." She
sounded like she was explaining things to a child, and illustrated her final
point by flexing her own arm like she was offering a visual aid of its
incredible strength and size.

"Come, husband. He was just beginning to honor the body so you must finish.
Feel it, feel my strength Here is the body for you to make love to." She led
me over to the pile of clothes and the bottle of oil where they had lain when
I interrupted them. She stroked my arm suggestively and began pulling me down
onto the mats.

"Are you out of your mind? I just found you with another man." She unbuttoned
my shirt, then started on my belt. With my chest bare she licked my nipples
and guided my hands up to her own powerful chest. I tried pulling my hands
away from where she moved them over the round muscular mounds of her breasts,
but she held them firmly in place. "How can you ask me to make love to you
now? With him still in the room?" My voice sounded panicky, even to myself.

"I wasn't asking," she breathed into my ear as she began caressing it with her
tongue, and as I felt her begin squeezing my hands much tighter where she held
them. It might have been the thrill of fear, of imagining what her incredible
body could do to me if I disobeyed or angered her, that drove me to some of
the most frantic lovemaking of my life to that point.

"Now dress and we can go." She pulled on her warm-ups and tossed me my clothes
before walking over to her former lover. "Will I call an ambulance, or will
you be able to reach the doctor?" she asked him. He wasn't capable of
answering and could only raise his tear-streaked face from his distorted arm
to look at her. "Very well. I will call." She pulled her cell phone from her
gym bag and punched 911, then helped me to my feet and steered us toward the
exit.