Erin
By Waddling
She's a tall musclegirl who works with Jake. What will happen on their date?
Update: 27/09/1997 to misc2

I had a pretty good gig at an upscale restaurant downtown. Terrazzo
floors, potted plants and tiny portions made it a high-dollar
establishment. I'm really a writer, but until I get a break I'm stuck as a
two-hour manservant to every geek who walks through the door. One
afternoon I came in as usual and the manager, a nice enough guy, comes
over and tells me I'll be training a new waitress. I don't mind because
it's an extra set of hands. He tells me her name's Erin and she'll be in
at five.

Five o'clock rolls around and I'm filling the pepper mill when I hear my
name. I turn around and there's this girl who's maybe six-four and really
good looking. She's got jet-black hair pulled back in a health-code
ponytail, a tan face and bright, bright blue eyes. I mean, they look like
they're electric. "You must be Erin?" I say, trying to play it cool. "I
must be," she says, and flashes the whitest, straightest smile I ever saw.
She even has a dimple on her left cheek. I extend my hand. "Name's Jake. I
guess you're with me tonight."

Her hand is real warm and so big that mine feels like I stuck it in a mitt.
This girl has got some shoulders on her, too...the fabric of her tux shirt
looks like it may give way at any second. "You should ask Albert about
getting a vest. It's part of the look here," I tell her. "Yeah, I asked
him already. The one he has are way too small. I'm a pretty big girl." She
laughs, and the sound is good: deep, but not manly, and clear like a bell.
"I think we'll try to get along without it, Erin," She flashes me another
ten-thousand-watt smile.

The night goes smooth. Erin is smart and learns really quick. We get
several big tables and she helps out without me noticing, a sign of a good
server. I'm pretty distracted watching her big behind stretch out her
black pants, but I don't screw up any orders.  Later, as we clean up, she
loads up a large tray with plates, glasses, wine bottles and water
pitchers. "Don't load up what you can't carry," I caution. She thinks this
is real funny and keeps piling more on. Finally, she circles and the lifts
the tray with one arm, steady as a rock, then holds it up on her
fingertips like it was empty. I've hefted heavy trays before, but this one
must weigh close to sixty pounds and she holds it up like it was a
magazine. I look again at her arm, and see that the upper sleeve of her
shirt is stretched out tight, like a sack of rice. Suddenly, I got to
excuse myself to the men's room because I got a big wood.

Erin and I are friends now. We work the same nights and talk when it's
slow, which is getting to be more often since we're at the end of the
season. She towers over me and I got a big crush on her. Once, she rubs my
back and her big hands feel like she could crush my shoulders if she felt
like it. I learn that she's in school studying exercise physiology, she's
got no boyfriend and she works out every single day. I ask if she's a
bodybuilder and she snorts. "They're mirror athletes. Big muscles and no
skill at all, unless you count dieting. I think it's a stupid sport,
personally." She gets asked that a lot, I guess, and I can see why. One
night I ask what she weighs, just to needle her a bit.  She turns it back
on me. "Guess. And don't try to lie and be nice. What do you think I
weigh?" I guess about one-sixty. She laughs and says, "You haven't been
looking too closely, Jake. Remember, I'm a six-four jock girl. Two-twenty
yesterday at the gym." I gape in disbelief. She says, "Remember, muscle is
heavier than fat. Feel." And she flexes her bicep. I tell you, it's huge.
So big that I can't get my hand even close to around it, and hard as a
river rock. I hear a pop-pop-pop. "Shit. I'm ripping my shirt,": and she
extends her arm. "Jesus," I say. "You want to arm-wrestle?" I'm kidding,
but she says, "Sure. Let me check on a table,": and she's gone out on the
floor. Once again I have a raging hard, a frequent occurrence when we work
together.

She comes back and puts up her right. "I'm a lefty, Jake, so I'll go easy
on you." I have to go through with this, so I put up my arm. Her huge hand
again completely covers mine.  "Go," she says, and I try. I may as well
arm wrestle the wall. She smiles at me, then easily pushes my arm down.
"Jesus, Erin. You're like a hydraulic jack." She laughs. "Don't feel bad,
Jake. I always beat all my brothers, and they make me look small. I'm just
a freak, I guess." She smiles, but looks sad. "Hey, Erin, " I say. "Let's
go out tomorrow. It's supposed to be nice. Let's have a picnic."

"Jake, you don't have to go out with me. I'll be alright." She looks even
sadder. "No, Erin. I want to. I mean it. I like you a lot. You're great."
I reach over and rub her back. A very solid back.

Ten o'clock the next day and I'm trying to find Erin's apartment. Finally
I see her Toyota truck. It's a beautiful day, seventy with sunshine. As I
pull up behind, the apartment door opens and out steps Erin. I almost run
into her truck. For one, she's got her hair down, the first time I've ever
seen it that way, and it's glossy black and hangs down to her butt.
That's not all, though. She's wearing a tank-top half shirt and running
shorts. I've never seen her body before: a long, muscular neck tapering
into broad, brown shoulders. Her arms are huge, but still look soft and
feminine until she moves them. Then, the muscles and veins stand out like
a medical drawing. Her waist is very small, and her flat stomach is girded
by powerful-looking muscles. I can count them from where I sit: six. Her
long legs thrill me most, from the powerful flare of her massive thigh the
her large, shapely calves. She's wearing thongs and is carrying a small
cooler. She smiles and waves. I can see the large chest muscles moving her
small breasts beneath her shirt.

I get out, hastily untucking my shirt to cover up my hard-on. "Hey, baby!
Man, you look great! I mean it! Jesus! I had no idea!"

She smiles. "You really think so? Lots of guys won't go near me. Usually I
feel so good I don't care, but sometimes I get insecure."

"Fuck 'em!" I laugh, and she joins me. "Thanks, Jake." She gives me swat
which leaves my ass numb.

We get into my car, a classic '60 Valiant convertible, and I put the seat
all the way back.  Her knees still touch the dash even though I can barely
touch the pedals. "Don't worry about it," she smiles. "I'm used to
cramming myself into small seats. You should see me on an airplane." I
reach over and squeeze her hand. Her forearm is next to mine and I'm
amazed at how small mine looks in comparison. When she taps her fingers,
long muscles jump and flex beneath her tan hide. Her mammoth thigh is
thick with muscle as well, and her position in the car forces her foot to
point, flexing her huge calf. The muscle splits cleanly into shelf-like
ridges. Tiny veins jut out, but it's undeniably a woman's leg. The sun
warms us as we drive, and the coconut/cinnamon/soap smell of Erin fills
the cab. We chat about work, sports and working out. Erin is worried that
this is a pity date, but I assure her it's nothing of the sort. "Shit,
you're the best looking woman I've ever met. Ever. And as to your size,
well, that's the biggest turn-on of all."

"Really, Jake? You don't feel threatened? You're not just saying that?"

"No. I always had a thing for amazons." She smiles at this. "That's what I
am, Jake.  That's me."

She flexes her arm. The bicep leaps out like a cantaloupe and I almost
wreck the car.

to be continued