Country Living
By MERZ    mrmerz@yahoo.com
City woman Kathy explores the charms of the countryside.

Only six months after Renee Armstrong left town with Parker 
Ragland we got the wedding invitation.  Renee sent a note 
saying how much it would mean if some of us could attend, 
as she had no family she could invite.  The wedding was 
happening in a hurry because Parker was off to Africa for a 
few months and Renee wanted to go along as his wife.  Betty 
and Miko were tied down with work commitments so it was up 
to Carmen and me.  I got some temporary help to tend my 
clothes shop for a few days while Carmen made sure her 
family could survive without her that long.  I'm not sure I 
could, but fortunately I didn't have to face that 
possibility.  

We arrived at the airport with our necessities.  Carmen's 
were all in a largish carry-on while I checked two 
suitcases and a large box.  I had made sure Sylvia Ragland 
would collect us at the airport in a vehicle large enough 
to accommodate it all.  The flight was uneventful and all 
my valuables found their way through plane changes to 
arrive at the same destination we did.  Sylvia met us at 
the luggage carrousel and looked on as I gathered my 
belongings.  Sylvia is somewhere past fifty but thirty of 
those years have been spent in manual labor that left her 
with about the hardest body I've ever encountered, and I've 
done serious safari work to encounter as many as possible.   
We met last spring when she and her daughter Petra passed 
through my shop looking for city clothes. Usually when I 
find a body better than my own I am filled with a sense of 
challenge and admiration.  With Sylvia it's like I had 
stumbled into poison ivy. 

"You know that Parker and Renee are leaving the country for 
four months with less than you brought for four days?" 
Sylvia remarked by way of a warm greeting.  "What's in the 
box?"

"Lovely seeing you again, too, Sylvia.  It's my bicycle.  
My broomstick was in the shop.  I figured if I was going to 
be next to nature I could try my mountain bike a little 
farther from pavement that I usually get."

We loaded her pickup and started out.  Sylvia said it would 
take about an hour and a half to reach her house.  We 
managed to maintain a civil conversation along the way, 
with Carmen closely observing and offering terse comments 
on the increasingly rural countryside as we rode.

Home for Sylvia was in a crossroads village named for the 
family of her first husband.  I still couldn't get the 
image out of my mind of Sylvia, the queen of a valley named 
in her honor, even though I knew the place had the name 
long before she married into it.  The house was a two-story 
farm house, neat and plain.  Around the house were a 
garden, orchard, a barn and a few outbuildings.  A wooded 
hillside rose behind the house and I knew it was to tending 
the trees as others would tend families that Sylvia had 
devoted her life.  The house, her own children, and all 
other things were fitted in around that primary focus.

Carmen and I were settled into a single room on the first 
floor of the house.  We would share a bed, which didn't 
bother either of us, and were told to simply make ourselves 
at home.  I knew for this city girl that such a thing was 
impossible.  I had brought my bike knowing I would need to 
make my own entertainment and I figured it was my best hope 
during daylight hours.  Parker and Renee came downstairs 
shortly after we had settled our things.  Parker and Renee 
slept in a bedroom upstairs, as did Sylvia and her husband.  
Her daughter Petra lived in another house a half mile away 
that had originally belonged to Sylvia's husband, Charles 
Steward, and his family.  She had a studio in Sylvia's barn 
where she did her sculpting.  Petra would soon be hosting a 
gang of relatives from Sylvia and Charles' families as well 
as the family of Parker's father, Sylvia's first husband.  
Poor Renee really was badly outnumbered with only two of us 
to balance her half of the church.

Before Sylvia disappeared to cook dinner she told me Petra 
would like to show me her studio when I had a moment.  
Carmen immediately went to offer kitchen assistance and 
wasn't seen again until the meal was served.  Parker and 
Renee made excuses and went outside on some errand.  Left 
alone I went out the back to Petra's studio.

I don't know what I expected, but the inside of the barn 
was a cluttered combination of stone quarry, scrap heap and 
blacksmith shop.  Petra worked in a variety of media and 
was achieving substantial success despite being somewhere 
under thirty.  Her studio demonstrated that creation was a 
messy process where she was concerned.  I called and the 
artist stepped out of a small alcove. She lit up when she 
saw me and I admit I suddenly felt a heat wave myself.  
Petra wore an extra large work shirt with the sleeves cut 
off, a leather apron, and a pair of clogs.  Her powerful 
legs extended below the shirt hem and massive arms 
stretched to hug me.  With one hand confirming she was 
braless under the shirt I hopped over the bounds of good 
taste to feel her wide, solid rear and verify she was 
unfettered there as well.  From her widening smile I 
gathered she didn't begrudge me the liberty.

"Kathy, welcome.  This is where I really live.  I hope you 
see some things here you like." Petra is young enough to be 
my daughter but old enough to understand the concept of 
double entendre. I vowed to keep my eyes open. "I have 
something on the fire I need to take care of for just a 
moment."

She led me to the side area she had emerged from where a 
forge was set up.  She put on a facemask and pulled a red-
hot strip of iron from the fire.  It was curved and showed 
hammer marks, and now she laid it on an anvil and 
administered several more blows with a large hammer.  Her 
right arm swelled impressively as she raised the hammer and 
struck, her left showed rolls of muscle as she squeezed 
large tongs to hold the hot metal in place.  Then she 
plunged the metal into a bucket of water and inspected it 
closely after removing her mask.  Then without hesitation 
or blush she turned to a wardrobe mirror leaned against a 
wall nearby and slipped off the apron and shirt.  Standing 
naked she went through some poses and contortions, studying 
the movements and frowning.

"Kathy, I have a huge favor to ask.  You're more defined 
than I am.  Could you show me your ribs and back?  I'm 
trying for a certain muscular look and it's hard to see it 
on myself." 

Put me in a room with healthy naked muscle and you needn't 
ask me twice to join the fun.  I quickly undid my top and 
slipped off my sports bra.  "Did you want me take off the 
pants as well?" I asked hopefully.  

"No, I'm just working on the upper body now.  Wow.  I only 
had a quick glimpse of you before and I don't think I 
really appreciated your physique.  You must lift a lot of 
weights.  Would you flex for me?"  I happily complied, then 
worked my back and intercostals as she stared and ran her 
warm hands over my flesh.

"Am I going to get equal time, or are you just teasing me?" 
I asked after a few moments of this. 

She picked up the metal strip again and held it next to me, 
looking from one to the other, her dark brows furrowed.  
"You're just being polite.  I'm built like a man, a 
wrestler.  Even people who like strong women want the 
slender body builder types, more like you or Mother."  My 
kiss cut her short.

"When you came into my shop six months ago I told you my 
job was to help you find art in your body.  I thought I had 
made some progress.  Yes, you have a very powerful body, 
but that ought to be something to be proud of and to show 
to others."  I placed my hands on the muscles rising from 
her shoulders up into her neck and felt their thickness and 
density.  I ran my hands down to her great round deltoids 
and gripped the wide bellies of her triceps, squeezing hard 
to make some impression on their hawser-like strength. 
Petra is of average height, three or four inches shorter 
than me or Sylvia, but I would guess she weighed close to 
two hundred pounds, and none of it w`
as obvious fat.  She 
had the streamlined smoothness of some powerful animal that 
was calling loudly to me.  "You were married for a couple 
of years.  I'll bet your husband appreciated your body."

She looked away.  "No one has ever touched me like Virgil 
did, or made me feel beautiful before.  I had forgotten 
what that was like."  I was about to move along to her 
breasts but she took my wrists in her hands.  I felt as if 
she could crush them to powder without effort.  "It's going 
to be wonderful having you visit for a few days.  We have 
to find some time together.  But I just had a great idea.  
This is part of a sculpture I'm making based on Mother.  I 
want to show her body the way I see it, a combination of 
hammered metal strips as muscle and bones spaced over a 
core of polished wood.  Since our trip together when I saw 
her in that tiny swimsuit you sold her I've had the urge to 
represent strong women. Remember that picture I took of you 
and Mother?  The one that I had made into a poster and a 
mailing card?  Well, you know how popular the image is and 
it keeps growing on me.  I'd like to sculpt something like 
it, not the same pose but something of the two of you, nude 
this time.  I can just see the spirits of the two of you 
flowing together, like two rivers, and I want to capture 
that.  That image of two strong women connecting like you 
did needs to be captured.  I want to try.  Would you be 
willing to pose while you're here?  I could take some 
photos and make some sketches while you are here and do the 
actual sculpting from those."

I felt like rigor mortis had frozen a rigid smile on my 
face: I had died and gone to hell at last.  The picture 
Petra meant showed Sylvia and me gripping each other's arms 
and locking gazes.  It was the nearest of things that we 
hadn't gone for the throats.  The studio door opening 
snapped me out of my trance.  Petra instantly put her long 
shirt back on and stepped out into the main studio area 
while I frantically dressed and followed her.

The new arrival was a solidly built man with stubbley gray 
hair and a pleasant square face. Petra put her arm around 
his waist, smiling widely.  "Charles, this is the famous 
Kathy Davidson.  Kathy, my stepfather, Charles Steward."  
Petra made form-perfect introductions and I shook hands.  
Charles stood about an inch taller than I and gave an 
impression of quiet strength and durability.  I immediately 
liked him, which just gave me another reason to resent 
Sylvia.

Charles had come to let us know dinner would soon be ready.  
Petra stepped into a pair of loose trousers and the three 
of us walked back across the yard to the house.  Charles 
confirmed that her ran a hardware store in the little town 
and also farmed a few acres his family had owned adjoining 
the community.  He described the farming as more hobby or 
tradition than a livelihood, but something he could never 
quit doing.

Back in the house we inhaled wonderful aromas coming from 
the kitchen. Sylvia, with Carmen's help, had turned out a 
fine, simple meal for the seven of us gathered around the 
extended table.  Sylvia mentioned the various chores that 
would occupy her the next day.  Parker and Renee had their 
own busy schedules dictated by the approaching wedding.  
Carmen leaped at the chance to accompany Charles when he 
made an early morning visit to his farm.  She was 
particularly keen that he kept two farm horses there.  That 
left me with no particular activity to attend to unless I 
wanted to follow Sylvia around or resume seducing Petra in 
her studio.  While the latter activity had appeal I could 
see how it might be seen as inappropriate on the first day 
of our visit.  I had brought the mountain bike against just 
such a situation, and Renee had provided me with maps 
showing an extensive network of dirt and gravel roads 
around the neighborhood.  There were little villages 
similar to Ragland Corner scattered every few miles with a 
somewhat larger town twelve miles off.  I announced my plan 
to do some exploring on my own and get some exercise at the 
same time. 

Next morning I felt Carmen awaken and leave the bed before 
dawn, although I couldn't open my eyes to check the time.  
I hopped up a little later and found it was 7:00 a.m.  The 
house was deserted.  I got breakfast for myself, including 
coffee, and saw a note from Sylvia indicating what 
direction she had gone to find her morning's work.  I 
puttered around for a while assembling my bike.  I checked 
Petra's studio but found it vacant.  Finally about 9:30 the 
day had warmed enough for me to set out on my ride.  I 
stopped in the little village and looked in on Charles 
Steward, happily idle in his store.  I rolled past his 
house where Petra lived. I found Carmen dressed in bib 
overalls with rubber boots and seeming perfectly delighted 
to be shoveling horse stalls.

"I feel like a girl again.  In Chile we lived on a farm," 
she told me without pausing in her work.  I made a little 
chit chat, then headed off. I intended to reach the town 
twelve miles off by whatever combination of unpaved lanes I 
could put together.  Sylvia had told me there was a tavern 
there, unlike her home crossroads, as well as the high 
school serving this region.  That struck me as a sensible 
combination.  Anyway, a cold drink after riding a few hours 
makes a smashing reward.

The ride was everything I had hoped for, a vigorous 
combination of steep climbs and twisting descents, lanes 
that skirted small farms and burrowed through dense stands 
of trees. I had the impression that if the locals let their 
vigilance slacken for a moment the forest would pounce and 
reclaim this entire countryside.  At last I reached the 
town I was aiming for where a small storefront advertised 
itself as my tavern.  The single pickup truck in front 
seemed to guarantee no waiting to be seated.  

I carried my bike onto the porch of the tavern so I could 
see it through the window, then went inside.  I hadn't 
expected cocktails with little umbrellas but had hoped for 
a better selection than Budweiser or Budweiser Lite.  The 
place was occupied by three men who looked to be in their 
adolescent twenties sitting at a table drinking beer from 
long neck bottles, and an older man behind the bar.  I 
smiled and nodded a greeting as I went back to the only 
other table, next to a pool table.  I asked for a Bud and a 
glass of water as I took off my helmet.  The three amigos 
had barely looked up but reacted to my entrance by an 
intense exchange of mumbling.

"Lovely countryside here.  A nice place for a ride," I 
offered up cheerily.

"Nice folks, too, mostly.  It's the ones come from outside 
that spoil the place," muttered the largest, widest one who 
sat with his back to me.  His voice sounded like gravel 
swirling in a steel bucket.

"That may be so.  Of course, I'm merely visiting and won't 
be around long enough to spoil anything."  My water and 
beer arrived in glasses that looked surprisingly clean.  

"Remember that time we went sneaking through the Ragland 
woods cause you heard the old woman sometimes worked naked 
in the summertime?" a hard, rangy man-boy at the table 
remarked to his big companion.  "That's the sort come in 
and ruined the place."

"You went looking for something to object to and managed to 
find it?  Is that what they call hunter's luck here in the 
country?" I offered, trying to keep up the conversation 
with my new friends.

"I never saw anything like it.  Wished we had been armed 
for hunting.  We could have done the state a real favor," 
graveled the oafish one.  "Maybe found out if she really is 
female while we were at it."

"Maybe we can find another one like her and check that out.  
Somebody from the city.  Somebody else who got no place 
mixing with decent folks," continued the smarter, nastier 
one.  The third man at the table so far had not said a word 
and hadn't changed his expression of utter vacancy.

"Well, I believe I'll be going along.  It's been such a 
pleasure chatting.  Sorry I won't have time here to find 
out whatever in the world you're nattering about.  I might 
have be`
en able to translate it into English."  I began 
pulling on my gloves and my helmet.

"Remember how we came creeping along to that wood pile and 
there she was, stacking up logs from a windfall she had cut 
up.  Naked as the day she was born.  Shame we didn't put an 
end to matters right there," came the gravely mumble as if 
I hadn't spoken.

His mentor responded, "I liked to have puked my guts when I 
saw that old woman heaving and lifting those logs.  She had 
all these big muscles on her just like a man.  I think she 
is a man really, and I just don't understand how a good old 
boy like Charles Steward could get caught up with anything 
like that.  And that daughter of hers, Petra.  I was in 
school with her and there wasn't a one of us boys as strong 
as she was till some like Roger here got their growth in 
senior year.  Always hammering on rocks and swinging 
sledges and building walls around here.  I tell you it's 
not natural.  In high school she went out with Gordy Cox 
for a while.   He sure was no man, just one of these 
Brainiacs always reading books.  Well, as soon as high 
school let out he left to go to college and hasn't been 
seen around here since.  I think she run him off.  Course I 
recognize you.  You're that other dyke in the picture a-
pawing Sylvia Raglan.  I do believe the only thing your 
type needs is a good fuck to straighten them out, show them 
what a real man has to offer. It would be a kindness to put 
it to you right here on the table."

"My word.  Where I come from saying something like would 
have been the start of a fight in a tavern."  I had 
finished putting my helmet on during his last speech and 
now had it fastened.

"Around here, too, if folks are man enough," offered the 
silent one, finally turning toward me and smiling with such 
teeth as remained to him.

"Well, we seem to totally lacking in that department.  I 
had heard they castrate oxen to make them bigger and 
stronger out here in the farmlands but hadn't seen proof 
before. Still I suppose we have to make do.  I was 
wondering.  Do they have rules for fighting in bars out 
here, or do we just make these things up as we go along?"

"Rules?  Nobody cares about rules," the big man said, and I 
saw his wide back tense, his big fists clench

"Oh goodie.  This place suddenly feels like home."  Once in 
Birmingham I had seen a man do this trick, but hadn't tried 
it myself before. I was out of my chair in an instant and 
grabbed a pool cue off the table. In the single long step 
it took me to reach their table the cue was reversed in my 
hand and I swung it with all my might.  The blow glanced 
off the top of the big man's round head as intended, 
sending the stick ricocheting in a high arc.  The ox was 
braced for trouble so at the glancing blow he was ready to 
leap up.  I followed the momentum of the stick as it 
orbited around and did a little pirouette so I was facing 
his way again by the time he was on his feet and turned 
toward me.  The first swing had been all about winding up.  
When I delivered the real smash along his jaw his little 
eyes had just that moment of discovery to tell his dim 
brain a bad thing was about to happen, but not enough time 
to do anything about it.

He folded up as I had hoped, but I was really counting on 
having the stick to help me communicate with his friends.  
It snapped a few inches above my hands and wasn't going to 
be much use, so I improvised.  The silent fellow to my left 
was coming out of his chair, using his arms to push himself 
up.  That way he had no defense as I stamped my heel into 
his balls and sent him over backwards.  The last one was 
quicker so when I upended the table hoping to trap him in 
his chair he was already out of the way. He swung a fist at 
me and I put my head down for my helmet to absorb the blow.  
I was knocked backwards and modern bicycle helmets are 
designed to crush in a bit on impact so my head was 
ringing, but I was conscious.  I got set up and we 
exchanged a few punches but I was clearly going to get the 
worst of the exchange in a stand-up fight.  I was keeping 
my head down, offering the helmet for him to hit while I 
hammered his midsection. An uppercut landed on my cheek and 
I knew a few more like it would end me.  Finally I got an 
opening to grab his wrist and pull him off balance, 
tripping him over my leg.  I jumped clear, made sure the 
other two were not yet in shape to join the action and 
looked for another weapon.  All I could find was a beer 
bottle on the floor, so I got ready to wade in with that.  
I felt the barman grab my wrist, firmly but not tight, and 
take the bottle out of my hand.  Please, God, I thought I 
hope they don't damage my teeth too badly.

"Clarence, I don't think I want you in my place for a 
spell.  And I don't think you'll want to hear the stories 
I'm going to be telling for the next week about how this 
lady mopped the floor with you three.  Stay out of here for 
a while and then I might let you back in if I think you've 
learned how to treat strangers. I'm going to tell all three 
of you this just one time.  I knew what the Ragland place 
looked like before Sylvia came along and I know what it 
looks like now.  She done all that by herself because every 
day she did more work than the three of you could between 
you.  You want to show you're good enough to talk about 
her, go home and put your own places right instead of 
sitting in my tavern drinking and belly aching."

The big ox was starting to rouse and gather his wits, 
spitting blood on the floor.  The barman helped him to his 
feet and steadied him.  "Roger, I'd say you ought to head 
on into Stover and see the dentist.  Maybe some of those 
teeth can get set back straight.  You learn anything about 
keeping a watch on your mouth today?  If not, I could let 
this lady go at you again and see if she leaves anything of 
you but hair and teeth.  All three of you, just clear out.  
If I hear this lady had any trouble heading back home I'm 
going to put the sheriff on all of you."  The silent one 
was also managing to pull himself to his feet although 
standing upright was still beyond him.

They left and piled into the pickup, the silent one with my 
heel print on his nuts sat with his head between his knees 
and the tall one got behind the wheel.  Big Roger squeezed 
in last.  After several attempts the truck started and they 
drove off down the road.

"Thank you for finally putting an end to that.  May I pay 
for anything those fellows didn't, as well as for any 
damage?" I said to the barman when we were alone.

"I'd say that was about fair.  There's something to be said 
for minding your own business around strangers. A twenty 
dollar bill will do just fine.  I'll have to get by for a 
week without my steadiest three customers on account of 
this.  Still, it was worth the price of a pool stick to see 
that fat ass Roger get laid low like that."    

I started to negotiate, but for once in my life thought 
better of it.  "Thank you again."

Sylvia met me at her front door.  "Nice black eye.  It 
should be one of your less unusual contributions to the 
wedding."

"I fell off my bike," I muttered.

"Warren Lomax called from the tavern and told me about how 
you fell.  He wanted me to be sure you got home safe.  
Kathy, did you consider that I have to live here before you 
started a fight in a bar? You just act on whatever lust or 
whim hits you. I've built my woodlot along a plan I laid 
out thirty years ago, working every day toward what I have 
now. I just can't understand your kind of life."

"I didn't think I started the fight.  And there are some 
times when words shouldn't just be ignored.  This was one."

"Warren said it involved me.  He said the boys from Dry 
Hollow talked about me and you.  For what it's worth, I 
can't blame you for getting mad.  I've put up with that 
sort of talk and those sorts of looks for so long, I've 
just gotten numb to it.  Maybe I shouldn't have."  Sylvia 
suddenly looked sad and perhaps lonely.  She massaged her 
hard right bicep and looked at the floor.

"I'm as far from numb as you can imagine" I told her. "I've 
worn `
my hair red for a few years as fair warning to the 
world that I have passions close to the surface.  The first 
time my friend Betty came into my shop after she got off 
work I saw she had one brown shoe and one blue.  You met 
Betty.  She's blind.  She had the same style shoe in two 
colors because she had liked how they felt and got mixed up 
dressing that morning.  I wanted to take an ax and murder 
everyone in her office, I truly did.  They had let a smart, 
capable person go all day talking to clients and looking 
like she couldn't dress herself, rather than simply let her 
know her shoes didn't match so she could sort it out.  When 
she left I sat down and cried about it.  That weekend I 
went to her apartment and we marked every item of clothes 
so she couldn't make that mistake again.  I can't think of 
another time I didn't act on my anger right in the moment. 
Sylvia, Betty calls me superficial sometimes.  I leave 
issues of law to Betty, and if I have a question on justice 
or morality I talk with Carmen.  My life has been in retail 
since I was turned out on the streets at a tender age. I 
understand paying the price and settling accounts, not 
looking at the long term.  In the tavern it seemed some 
accounts needed to be settled." I reached for her and said, 
"Living here as you have would have broken me.  I can't say 
how much I admire everything you've built here and 
everything you've put up with." 

Dinner that night was a quiet affair.  Evidently some 
version of my adventure had reached everyone in the 
household because I didn't have to answer a single question 
about my eye.  Carmen and I retreated to our room early 
that evening.  I didn't wait for her to request a massage 
to ease the aches from her day's labor on the farm.  I just 
directed her to strip and I went to work rubbing some of 
the pain from her square, solid shoulders and back.  
"Amiga, you aren't a girl in Chile anymore," I told her as 
I worked.

"No, but that girl and that country still live inside me," 
she replied.  "You are not the Marines.  You should not 
fight the world."  She sat up and we held each other close 
for a long time.

Next morning Carmen again was away with the sunrise while I 
loitered in bed.  This time I did follow Sylvia's 
directions to her worksite after my breakfast.  I passed 
Carmen working in the garden on her knees.  She explained 
she was preparing the beds for the coming of winter as she 
poked and scraped in the dirt with her bare hands.

The area of mixed trees I passed on the way up the hill 
looked as well tended as a city park.  I found Sylvia 
shifting great heaps of fallen leaves about.  She said she 
liked to layer them where they would do the most good as 
they decomposed, rather than lie randomly about.  I took a 
rake and stabbed away in a manner I thought resembled hers 
for a while.  We worked in t-shirts and I kept stealing 
glances at her arms pulsing like constricting snakes as she 
worked.  I once caught her looking at mine the same way.  
My rake encountered a rock under the leaves, so I stooped 
to pick it up and move it to where similar stones were 
stacked as a wall nearby.  Sylvia mentioned that was how 
Petra got started, stacking rocks from the fields, adding 
on to existing walls and later building new ones.  She had 
started cutting and shaping stones in high school and her 
art career took off from there.  

Now Sylvia watched my arms flex as I picked up the rock, 
which weighed about twenty pounds.  "Petra says she'd like 
us both to pose for her, for a statue.  You're the first 
person I ever met who thought women should be proud to have 
muscles.  It's still a notion I have a little trouble with.  
I always just accepted it as a cost of doing the work here 
that I love doing.  Until you sold me that little bathing 
suit and we sat by the pool back in your city I would have 
been embarrassed to let people know how I look.  Would you 
be willing to pose with me?  Nude?  Do you think we have 
something worth showing others the way Petra believes?"

"I've never minded showing off.  And after the reaction I 
heard in the tavern to that silly picture where you and I 
had our clothes on it really seems like the least we can 
do.  Shall we head down now?"

"No, this afternoon will be better.  I'll let Petra know to 
expect us and we can finish up here first."  Sylvia had her 
jaw set like was facing a trip to the dentist without 
anaesthetic, while I was beginning to look forward to the 
event.

We undressed in our own rooms, then walked together to 
Petra's studio in our bathrobes.  Petra met us inside 
wearing bid overalls cut off halfway to her knees, her 
shoulders bare.  She seemed the most nervous of us all, 
wringing her hands and shifting her weight from foot to 
foot.  She had a large sketchpad and a camera sitting on a 
bench.  The temperature in the studio must have been eighty 
degrees because of a fire she had going in a woodstove.  
"Are you sure you're really willing to go through with 
this?" she asked us.  Sylvia and I exchanged looks and 
removed our robes, presenting her with our two versions of 
naked muscular reality.  With her ripped leanness Sylvia 
looked like she had cannonballs for deltoids, and her 
biceps inflated like balloons whenever she bent her arms.  
I outweighed her by a few pounds, but none of the 
difference was muscle.

"What would you like us to do?" Sylvia asked.

"I really don't know.  I don't have a particular pose in 
mind.  I just need to see you move together and maybe 
something will jump out at me," Petra replied, still 
clearly uncomfortable in front of us.

"Let's get to work," I told Sylvia, and picked up a stone 
about two feet on a side from the floor. It weighed 
seventy-five or eighty pounds.   We passed it back and 
forth between us a few times, then took turns lifting it to 
our shoulders.  Next we worked together to get a larger 
black stone off the floor, then moved on to some of the 
metal Petra had stacked and scattered around.  We lifted, 
we bent, we played with some of Petra's hammers and other 
tools individually and together. Petra was dashing about 
clicking photos and madly scribbling on her sketchpad as 
Sylvia and I powered our way around the studio. After half 
an hour we were slick with sweat.  I seized Sylvia's arm 
and traced the thick veins that pulsed up its length from 
her wrist across her biceps.  She flexed the arm in my 
hands as I squeezed trying futilely to contain her brawn.  
She flexed both arms and I lifted her over my head, my 
hands under her elbows as she held the pose.  My face was 
level with her stomach, her bush tickling my neck.  I put 
her down and we began wrestling for a while, not trying to 
defeat the other but matching strength against strength.  
Petra suddenly gave a cry and stripped off her coveralls, 
her camera and sketches forgotten.  She joined in our mad 
dance, first siding with whichever of us was being driven 
backward, then showing her true power by lifting us both, a 
big arm around each of our waists.  She set us down and 
grabbed the black stone that Sylvia and I had struggled 
together to lift, and heaved it upward to hug against her 
naked chest.  Sylvia and I converged to run our hands over 
her massively muscled arms and back, to stroke the powerful 
legs.  We took the stone on our shoulders and were able to 
hold it ourselves only by working together.  We tried 
easing the great weight down but it landed with a loud 
crash as it dropped the last foot to the floor.

After fifteen minutes of this we heard a horn honk outside.  
Sylvia stopped and said, "That will be Charles.  I called 
and told him to come rescue me in an hour.  We're going to 
have a sort of date before dinner, to be sure I remember 
who I'm married to.  God I'm lucky I met him before I met 
you!  Petra, you keep Kathy busy until dinner time."  She 
and I hugged like bears, our sweat mingling in little 
streams as it ran down our bodies to the floor, then she 
put her robe on and left.

"What did she mean, keep you busy?" Petra asked when the 
door had closed behind a hurrying Sylvia.

"She suspects our nipp`
les didn't stand up like this from 
the cold," I told her.  I needed to handle this carefully 
or I would be heading for a cold shower alone.  "Do you 
have a towel?  I need to dry off or I will get cold. Let me 
guess. You've only been with men, and probably only your 
late husband?" 

She nodded shyly.  "Before Virgil I had gone as far as 
petting, but they or I always pulled back.  He was the 
first man who really wanted me.  From our first date on he 
could just sweep me off my feet, even though he was so 
small and gentle and couldn't use his legs."  She produced 
a towel from a side room and held it out to me.

"Why don't you dry me, or are you about to pull back?" I 
put my hands on my hips and tensed my body, looking 
directly into her eyes.  She began rubbing at my shoulders 
and down my sides.  At first I held myself hard as stone, 
then relaxed bit by bit under her hands.  I tensed my abs 
again, my best-developed body part, and her rubbing slowed 
noticeably as she stroked my stomach.  When she moved to my 
thighs I again tensed and she carefully passed the towel up 
and down over each, her attention to drying seeming to 
wander as she became preoccupied with other thoughts.  She 
moved back up my torso, feeling along my back then moving 
to my breasts.  By then she had left the towel draped over 
my shoulders and forgotten any pretenses about drying.  "I 
promise I won't be gentle, so the memory of your husband is 
safe," I breathed to her.  "Is there somewhere clean and 
flat we can go?"  She was suddenly hungry for me and 
crushed me against her, her breath hot on my breasts as she 
buried her face against my chest.  Petra lifted me with her 
hands on my hips and carried me into her side room where a 
camp cot and other minimal furnishings indicated she 
sometimes spent the night in her studio.  She laid me on 
the small rug in the middle of the room and loomed over me, 
her eyes dancing fiercely, and pressed me hard against the 
floor by the hips.  I could see she couldn't decide what to 
do next, didn't know how to take the lead but held me 
pinned at her mercy.  I gripped her iron forearms and 
squeezed as hard as I could, barely making an impression.  
One touch in the right spot and I knew I would explode.  
One wrong touch or even the wrong word and still she would 
bolt away and leave me there alone.

One last time I tensed my body, making every muscle as hard 
as I could.  "If I were stone you would know how to make me 
into whatever you wanted.  Show me how you do that."  Her 
hands came off my hips and began exploring my entire body, 
lifting me, shifting me, stroking and caressing and then 
bearing down hard.  Her power was incredible.  I tried to 
sense when she wanted softness and when she wanted to feel 
hard resistance.  She worked me to climax in ways I had 
never experienced until we came together with moans and 
cries.  

When I could breathe normally again and my pulse was back 
down below heart attack territory I shifted position so I 
was astride her and began my own work.  She was so solid 
and strong I was able to abandon myself to a private 
version of the anvil chorus with no fear of playing too 
rough.  When she came I had to hold on as tight as I could 
to keep from being bucked off unceremoniously into a corner 
of her little room.  Again we lay gasping together, my head 
sunk onto her shoulder.  After a few moments I felt her 
stir, then she lifted my head by using a handful of my 
hair, gave me a long hard kiss and laid my head back down 
again.  I didn't have the strength left to resist, 
cooperate or make another suggestion, and I certainly 
didn't mind.  We lay tangled in each other's arms for 
several minutes before we were able to stir and begin to 
rise.  

Finally we struggled to our feet, still leaning heavily on 
each other, unwilling to take the first step apart.  "Did 
you need that towel now?" I asked at last, and she laughed 
and hugged me close one more time.  

"It may take me a while to get started on that sculpture of 
you and Mother," she said as we staggered into the main 
room to find our clothing.  "I suddenly have some other 
themes I want to explore in my art. I guess they're what 
people mean by adult themes.  Suddenly I feel a lot more 
grown up."  

"So long as you don't limit yourself to exploring them 
alone in your studio it should be time well spent."  I 
smiled to myself thinking that a powerful roll in the hay 
always makes me feel quite the kid again.  Take ten years 
off me and add ten years to her and we come out about the 
same age. With one last embrace I wrapped myself in my 
bathrobe and headed back to the house to try and recover 
before dinner.

Carmen had prepared dinner alone this evening.  Sylvia and 
Charles were already seated at the table when I came out of 
my room after dressing.  He wore a look like a mariner who 
was pleased to have survived a hurricane and was determined 
to sail the same sea again.  Sylvia looked very pleased 
with herself.  She wore a Lycra muscle shirt that showed 
off her amazing arm and shoulder definition in a very 
arousing manner, and Lycra capris that did the same for her 
legs.  She hadn't bought them from me, but I knew they 
reflected my influence on her clothes choice.  Before she 
came to my shop she had tended to camouflage her strength 
in unflattering loose clothes.  Petra arrived shortly 
wearing her own self-satisfied grin and gave me an 
ostentatious wink across the table.  When Renee and Parker 
joined us they seemed puzzled by the happy conspiracy that 
boiled around them.  Carmen served dinner and sat, 
accepting the aftermath of unchained libidos as impassively 
as she accepted everything in her life.  

"I was wondering," Sylvia began as soon as we had loaded 
our plates.  "Renee and Petra, what would you think about 
visiting Warren Lomax's tavern for lunch in about a week?  
It might be nice to mix with some of our neighbors for a 
change."  She clenched her fists and biceps like ripe 
apples stood out on her arms.  Petra and Renee grinned 
their agreement.  I wondered if the mother and daughter 
were aware that Renee Armstrong was as powerful as the 
two of them combined.

Wedding guests began arriving that evening and Petra 
hurried away to her house to get them set up for the night.  
Carmen and I retreated to our room as sleeping bags appeared 
on the living room floor for some of the younger out-of-town 
visitors.

"Now you spread love instead of fighting.  I don't know 
which is safer," Carmen told me as we sat in our big bed 
with our shoulders touching.  

"I know what you mean.  I'm not sure which might kill me 
first.  How was your day?"

"Bonito.  I rode the horses in the fields and into the 
town.  I love the horses."

Next day we all pitched in doing constructive things for 
the wedding.  Carmen was cooking alongside some Oxbridge 
types and had them clearly under her command.  I biked to 
the little community church where the ceremony was to be 
held.  It took me longer to establish to the crew there 
who knew best about the decorations and flower arrangements, 
but in the end the place looked grand.  Dressing was 
another problem.  My cheek was still bruised and the eye a 
little puffy.  I could have gone with dark glasses as a 
disguise, but as usual chose to flaunt my situation.  I 
wore a scarf around my head and chose my largest hoop 
earrings.  I had brought enough clothes that I could put 
together a blend that suggested an exotic female pirate.  
Next year the black eye could become the hottest fashion 
accessory, if I can judge by the reaction the guests from 
the city had to the outfit.

We packed to leave the following day.  Petra told us 
goodbye in the yard.  She hugged us and even squeezed out a 
tear as we parted.  "I may need more research before I can 
start any new art projects.  Maybe I'll research something 
about masculine themes someday as well," she called to me 
as I climbed into the pickup truck.  Sylvia shot steely 
looks at both of us.

At the airport her own emotions tumbled out.  "Carmen, it 
was such a delight to have you here with us.  Will you 
promise`
 to come visit again soon?  And stay longer?  You 
seem to become such a part of our land in just these few 
days.   And Kathy, maybe I'll come to your town again 
someday."  Apparently she forgot to ask me back soon.

As soon as I got home I called Betty and asked if she would 
go rowing with me on Sunday.  She was willing to put 
Michael off and spend the day with me.  I borrowed a car 
and drove us to Horseshoe Lake, leaving at a reasonable 
hour and having brunch on the way.  This was late in the 
season and the boat rental would soon close.  We rented our 
little rowboat and set out.  Gray skies and cool 
temperatures hung over us as I pushed off.  I settled in 
the bow as Betty took us away from the dock.  She pushed 
the oars, backing the rowboat, then turned it and began 
pulling us into deeper water.  On a day like this there was 
no attraction to landing anywhere for snacks or idle sun 
worshipping.  We both seemed a bit preoccupied and Betty 
rowed for a couple of minutes in silence.  We had no worry 
about collisions with other boats.  Any that were out were 
anchored or moving slowly while the occupants went through 
the motions of fishing.  

"It's not warm enough to take off our shirts, is it?" I 
finally asked.  

"I'm not going to.  I'm keeping my back covered," she said 
over her shoulder.

That was invitation enough to hop over her seat and begin 
unbuttoning the work shirt she was wearing, then roll up 
her sleeves so I could enjoy the front view, watching her 
arms, chest and stomach work.  The peaceful rocking of the 
water and even rhythm of her strokes carried away all my 
cares and thoughts.  Aside from a couple suggestions for 
changing our course we floated in easy silence for fifteen 
minutes.  Then she joked, "Okay, I'm exhausted.  Time for 
you to take over."

She slid back on her bench and spread her legs so I could 
sit between them at the oars.  As soon as I sat she grabbed 
the hems of my windbreaker and shirt and lifted them both 
over my head.  "I'll keep you warm," she said and hugged me 
close.  I rowed with Betty's warm bare front against my 
back, her big arms wrapped around me below my arms, her 
head on my shoulder. 

"This reminds me of riding that motorcycle, except quieter 
and more peaceful," she murmured in my ear.

"We ought to do that again.  They make helmets with two-way 
radios in them.  I could give you directions without having 
to shout when it came your turn to drive.  Last time I was 
hoarse for three days from shouting."

"I wonder if having a blind woman drive was such a good 
idea."  

I rowed in silence for a few strokes.  "Another one we got 
away with.  Maybe there is a better standard to measure 
these things against.  On the flight back I started whining 
to Carmen about Sylvia and what an objectionable person she 
is.  Carmen told me Sylvia is a force of nature, like the 
weather or the tides.  It doesn't matter to anything if we 
like them or dislike them.  We only have to respect them 
and learn from them.  What do you think about that?"

"I'll bet you any outfit you have in your shop Carmen told 
Sylvia exactly the same thing about you.  Carmen is a very 
wise woman.  There are people who care as much about Sylvia 
as I do about you.  Religions have been built around forces 
of nature."