The Man Who Loved Karla Nelsen, part 1
By Forrest Curran
A man can love, can't he?
Update: 15/10/1997 to misc2


The other musclegirls were jealous.  That much was obvious !
And why shouldn't they be?  Karla had them outclassed this year.
Defeated by a massively built blonde woman whose size and shape
had put her in a class by herself; she towered over them, made
them seen small and foolish.  Some of the girls had even covered
up.  Self-conscious of their shortcomings around her, they had
kept their distance, too.
Karla Nelsen sat by herself, her thickly-muscled arms folded
across her generous chest.  She was alone, off from the din and
glare of photographer's flash bulbs.  She was concentrating on
the next test; preparing her mighty sinews to meet the strain and
challenge that was coming.  But why should she worry ?  She had
aced all the others, leaving disgruntled and shocked competitors
in her muscular wake.
Karla always made a strong showing at the Women's Extravaganza,
held every year in New Jersey, a short hop across the blue-gray
waters of the Hudson River from Manhattan.  And well she should !
At nearly six feet in height, she usually weighed in at just
under 200 pounds.
But not this year.

This year she had trained with an abandon never seen before.  Her
deltoids were round and thick and full of the audacious promise
of strength unmatched in her sex; her stomach, washboard hard and
runged with a lattice of carved abdominal muscle; thighs powerful
and carved from oak.
Her breasts, as always, proud and defiant of gravity.
And topping it all, a mass of honey-blonde ringlets falling
freely and wildly down her back, framing a sweet, mid-
westernishly pretty face; a farmer's daughter, as it were,
crossed with a steel-limbed, muscle-packed Amazon.
We weighed her before leaving the hotel, right after leaving the
bliss of our queen-size bed.  This morning, after months of
blasting intensity, heaving iron and pouring sweat, she weighed
in at an amazing 215 pounds.
And she knew that, on either side of that freshwater tributary
that divided New Jersey from New York, there wasn't a single
woman would could match her.
Not today.

Before dressing, we showered; my hands ran across the sculpted,
rough-hewn physique, and I watched the stream of torrid water as
it crashed like a waterfall as it hit her massive shoulders, and
down her chiseled chest, to run off perfect breasts.
I washed the huge musclegirl's body, careful to massage the thick
muscle, dense and massive and broad on her mesomorph's ideal of a
body.
She had admonished me to behave; only my hands obeyed.
"Easy, honey. We have a long day ahead of us, don't we...?"
Yes, I knew. And a night, too. Hopefully, like the last one...

There had been friendly looks from the other girls when she
walked in; she was always popular.  But no one was ready for the
shock of seeing her like this...
"...Shoot, Karla's packin' some pair of shoulders", came a stage-
whisper from the crowd as she signed in.  She had slipped off her
leather jacket, and handed it to me to safeguard; she was wearing
only a tank top, cut low on her wide, powerful back.
Big breasts strained the white cloth, and held me spellbound.
When she was done, she turned to me and smiled.  And flexed; a
cannonball of a bicep crackling under her skin.  I smiled at the
thick arm in heartstopping display, and I wanted to feel it on my
mouth..

"...Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine", the judge continued
the count; Karla wasn't getting tired or slowing down even a bit
as she curled the barbell.  Angry veins fought their way to
prominence on her thick and chiseled arms.  They seemed ready to
explode, straining to feed nourishing blood to hungry muscles.
There were more murmurs from the other girls.  Mary threw down
her towel. Tazi groaned in dismay.  Liz glowered.  Michelle, who
thought she'd walk away with it again, looked grim and looked
down to flex and inspect her own rather-respectable biceps; they
were dwarfed by the arms that now held the heavy bar in their
grasp, pumping...

The audience was roaring with delight.  Karla would not stop !
Her face was a knot of straining concentration, a grimace that
was slowly overtaking her pretty features, half-concealed through
falling tresses.  But it didn't matter.
"...Sixty-two, sixty-three..."
How many reps was she going to knock out?
Her biceps were pounding, almost pulsing.  Applause was breaking
out, growing louder, stronger, even as her deltoids expanded with
each rep.  At the peak of each rep, she'd issue a small grunt,
audible only to those who stood near.  Flashbulbs lit the stage
like lightning; freeze-framing the stunningly muscular woman who
was simply blowing her fellow lady bodybuilders off the stage,
leaving the pretty ironpumpers to stand in awe and run self-
conscious hands over arms that had been overwhelmed by the size
of Karla's own commanding guns.  And make no mistake; guns are
what they were---hadn't they mowed down the competition?
Her nipples had begun poking through the tank top, aroused by the
excitement that had made the air electric.  Raye and her sister
conferred in the corner.  They both wore looks of amazement.
It came as no surprise when, after running the gamut of tests,
the newly-pumped, massively muscled Karla Nelsen walked away with
the contest.
And the prize money.

Some of the more sportsman-like (or was it ladylike?) women
congratulated the towering Amazonian, and grilled her politely to
see what it was she had done to put her body "over the top".  But
they knew they had just plain been outclassed, outworked, and
outgunned this time, and the towering blonde Amazon smiled.
"What did I do that got me over the top?", she asked
rhetorically, her voice surprisingly light and gentle for a woman
who stood nearly six feet tall and towered over the other ladies.
" Simple.  I fell for that great guy over here...", she said,
putting a massive limb around across my shoulders and hugging me
close to her.  And so what if she towered over me by a good four
inches?
Okay, five...

Later, we were alone.  At last. I had been holding my breath in
anticipation of returning to the hotel again, and mating my
oversize lover girl again as we sat in the oversize Jacuzzi that
bubbled in our suite.  When I entered the bathroom, she was
already seated majestically, an amazon goddess flexing for
herself amidst the hot bubbles, immersed to her shoulders and
full of the contented look of a winner who had proved something
today.  Not just to the her fellow lady bodybuilders and
strongwomen, but to herself.  Her trophy stood, shining and
golden, in front of the mirror, as though to announce to any that
might behold her here that she was a winner...
Her hair was piled high over her head.  She sipped a glass of
wine, and gave me a long and lingering look over it's rim. She
sat in the suds daintily, with a feminine grace that somehow
dovetailed neatly with her chiseled awesome bulk; there was
nothing contradictory in this heart-stopping, throbbingly
beautiful vision to me!
I joined her in the warmth of the tub.
I was thirsty, but not for the wine.  Seated across from her
shapely bulk, I felt her eyes gaze at me affectionately.  She
handed me my glass, and I took it.  We sipped Chablis, engaged in
a silent conversation of lover's shorthand; arched eyebrows and
smoldering looks.
Being with Karla had been the greatest two weeks of my life.  She
dressed to impress; skintight micro-miniskirts and the highest of
spike-heeled decadence dared your eyes to wander when she walked
into the room, and mine had yet to even think of such an act.
There had been no other women on earth since she walked into the
ad agency where I worked, to discuss a product endorsement we had
been hot to get her to sign onto; I had the lucky job of buying
her lunch.
I hadn't needed food that afternoon.  My hungry eyes were eating
her up, imagining how good all that stacked female muscle would
taste as I sucked on the massive ball of bicep, bared on a
sleeveless blouse as she rested an astounding arm on the table.
I never thought she'd give me the time of day, but after putting
my best foot forward as we nibbled on a health salad for two, I
swallowed hard and asked for her home phone number.  And to my
delight and relief, this perfect specimen of Amazon woman, with a
voice that was soft and a body that was hard, said yes...

"C'mere", she said finally, extending a thickly muscled arm to
her lover...
I needed no prompting. I shot up, wanting her now, here.  The
footing was slippery as I scrambled to her, and I had to be
careful or...

I disappeared under the water.  Suddenly it was much deeper than
it should have been, and nowhere near as warm.  I fought my way
to the surface unaided, wondering why she hadn't reached over to
me and with a one-arm hoist, pulled me to the safety of her
powerful thick arms.
The sun was out. I was treading water in my backyard pool.
Coughing and spluttering, I barely managed to paddle to the edge
and climbed out; and sprawled on the hot wet cement as I tried to
find my breath...
"Having fun?", Andrea asked, voice dripping with contempt.
I rolled over on my side, spitting up several ounces of
chlorinated H2O.

My wife stood over me, at the head of the half dozen steps that
led to our wooden deck.  She was standing very still, a long-
fingernailed hand on either side of the narrow stairway railing.
She held the long pool-cleaner's pole in her hand; she had used
it to stir me from my slumber as I dreamed my private dreams on
the inflatable raft.  She wore a look of exasperated disgust;
skin newly taut on her cheekbones recently grown prominent and
striking on her still-youthful face.  She was made up for a ball;
glassy-red lipstick, Maybelline artfully etched onto her
highlights; her newly hennaed dark hair shining in the early
afternoon sun.
She wore a sleeveless v-necked yellow blouse and a very short and
sharply-pleated white tennis skirt, that bared a broad expanse of
her very shapely, tan thighs.  In fact, it was barely a skirt at
all; it's bold brevity made it almost a tunic, and a flash of
tiny white panty was visible as the lightweight skirt fluttered
in the afternoon summer breeze.
"Havin' another wet dream, honey?", she chuckled and sneered.  "I
saw the lump in your shorts and I almost fainted from shock.
Christ, I haven't seen that sight since I don't know when !", she
added.
That wasn't true; it was she who had declared a moratorium on
sexual couplings; for two weeks she'd been stalling me now.
"I know", she added as she put a palm dramatically to her rouged
cheek as though she'd figured out quantum theories of relativity.
"You were having a dirty little daydream about that big Amazon
she-hunk's picture you've got up on the wall in the basement.
Was that it?", she cooed in mock sympathy.
"You getting all hot for a cute farmgirl with big muscles, huh?
You wanna fuck her? Or do you wanna be the one getting' fucked,
little hubby?  Maybe I've been playing my hand all wrong lettin'
you lead in bed.  I thought your little ego would wither up if
you knew I could kick your ass!", she hooted.
I was afraid the neighbors would hear...
She kicked a long bare thigh high in the air, playfully, and the
brevity of her panties became all too clear.  What she was
wearing beneath that tiny girlish pleated micro-miniskirt was not
a panty at all.  No, it was more like a stripper's tiny g-string.

It was backless, and from the way she kicked her leg high in the
air, she didn't care very much who saw, either.  In any event,
when she kicked up her heels, the mystery was over...
"I just had to wake you, my tiny husband.  Pool needs cleaning",
she said, counting on her fingers.  "Lawn needs mowing.  Shutters
need painting...."
When she had finished my afternoon's litany of jobs, she sighed
deeply.
"Well, you're gonna be plenty busy. Toodle-oo, lil' hubby..."
I had to say something; that skirt was indecent!
"Uh, Andrea?", I asked, wiping a bit of pool water from my eyes.
She had already turned for the storm door, to re-enter the house
before leaving.
I got a clear flash of girlcheek as it peaked under the micro-
skirt. It was newly-taut and had returned to it's pert
perfection, the way it had looked before we were married.
"What?", she asked with a pout over her shoulder, annoyed at this
interference in her busy itinerary.
I had to say something; after all, she was my wife.  Even the way
things were between us, I couldn't let her leave the house like
that, could I?
"Uh, that skirt, uh...It's just that it's so short for going
out'; isn't it a tennis outfit ?", I asked hopefully.
She shook her head sadly.
"Of course it is, idiot.  That's cause I'm gonna go play tennis".
And with a shrug of her bared shoulder she marched into the
house.  I watched her go, hips aerobically slim and wiggling in
long, bold strides.
I asked myself one question...
Whoever heard of going to play tennis in high white spiked heels,
I wondered, as the click-clack of the hot-to-trot lady's shoes
faded into the interior of the house ?
She was right to be angry, I guess.  And she had been right on
target about my early-afternoon dream, right?
Moments later, I heard the roar of her engine as she raced off to
a scarlet encounter of afternoon sex.  She would lie about it
perhaps, and accuse me of having a dirty mind before going
downstairs to hit the iron in my basement gym.
But I knew where she was going...


Okay, so I had a thing for Karla Nelsen.  What was so bad about
that?  I mean, besides the fact that my wife didn't much like it.
It wasn't like I had ever met her or anything.  And I probably
never would.  But I always had a secret fascination for lady
bodybuilders, and I had seen Karla on Musclesport USA once; and
the sight of her had knocked me out.  There was something so
elemental about her; so hard and lean, but there was an
approachability in her soft features, a friendliness of sorts, as
though she could be the woman next to you on the subway.
Provided that she had years of hard-won muscle concealed under
her business suit...
I had several of her videotapes.  I would always wait until
Andrea left the house, and I would unlock them from the cabinet
in the basement.  And I would lust after her from a thousand
miles away.

She was alot of woman to handle; the unfortunate men who crossed

her on the tapes found that out quickly.  She would manhandle
them easily, making them understand who was in charge, alright...
Ripe muscle flexed all over her vast body; buttocks bared, tight,
taut, clad only in the most outrageous of bikinis, squeezing all
opposition from her inferior opponents.  She was a woman fully
comfortable with the quality that made her so special, so perfect
a woman in my eyes.
She was packed with muscle and she like it just fine.

But I couldn't stop and enjoy the tapes today.
No, Andrea had been quite clear on that.  I had to go to the bank
and cover a check.  One of the checks I had signed lately that
had alot of zeros on it.  For Andrea's newest, uh, developments.
She had been going on and on about it for months.  She was
convinced that the only thing that prevented her from being the
most fulfilled, giving, and kind superwife who ever lived was a
simple pair of breast implants.  It had taken a little more
convincing to sway me to the opinion as well, but she had.  With
pouting lip and batting eyelashes (and a rare but wild weekend
where Andrea had strutted about dressed as Barbara Eden's Jeannie
and calling me "master"), she had brought me around.  And a few
days later, she had two rather large and prominent and perfect
double-d-cup breasts perched provocatively on her chest.  They
stood at an almost unnatural attention, too---even when she went
braless, which was a state she strutted about in more and more
these days.
Problem was, I was stuck paying the bill for the surgery.  It
occurred to me, as I waited on the long Saturday afternoon line
at the First National Trust, that the money that had gone to her
mammarian enhancement was the same money I had been squirreling
away for a new car...
But instead of a car, all I had gotten was a pair of headlights !
And I wasn't even getting a chance to use them, I thought as I
sighed at the full, uniform-blouse-breaking bust of the female
bank guard as she disappeared downstairs with a customer to the
safety-deposit box department in the basement.
I could hear the metal gate slam as she threw it open; the sound
echoed in the high ceiling of the old bank; designed in the
twenties, before everything had fallen through.  It had been
redecorated; all-modern stuff that didn't fit.  It had a
dramatically high ceiling that made every sound bounce for a good
two or three seconds before finally fading.

Boy, these banks were getting sloppy.  I could remember when
nobody ever raised their voices in the bank.  Everything was done
with a hush, in a whisper, sort of like a funeral parlor.  And
they weren't nearly so sterile, either.  This place was all
smoked glass and brass and ferns.
And..
I was getting jostled; something was going on behind me...

"Everybody get down!", came the shout.  I couldn't see who said
it, but the gruff voice meant business, that much I knew.  I
followed the dozen-plus other people and sprawled on the thin
orange carpet.  Strange, but at the time, that color seemed so
odd for a bank...
"...and nobody will get hurt...", the voice continued.

"Keep your eyes down", said the voice as it moved around the bank
floor.  From what I could hear, he had an accomplice who was busy
clearing out the teller's registers; female whimpering came from
behind the counter.
Keep calm, I told myself.
He was coming around to me; he was clearing the customers of
anything valuable that they might have.  And I had nine hundred
dollars in cash that was earmarked for Andrea's new breasts!...
I was seized with the thought that I had only paid for one of the
breasts; what if I didn't come up with the money? Would they take
one of them back ?
The cash was in my inside jacket pocket with a deposit slip;
maybe I'd get away with just giving them my wallet.  How much did

I have on me?
I heard a hard slap; somebody didn't have much money on them, and
the guy with the gun (I assumed he had a gun...) had hit him.
I felt a pool of sweat gathering under my shirt.  The guy was
coming to me.  I heard a lady teller whimpering again,
sniffling...
"Shut up", came a voice that matched his partner's, and a slap
across flesh that brought even more tears.  I couldn't raise my
head, even as I heard the other guy leave the teller area now,
and head for his partner...
I heard a metallic click over by the stairs; as if on instinct I
disobeyed the orders of the crooks and looked over out of the
corner of my eye.  Something tall and dressed in blue was
standing firm.
"Party's over, fellas. Put your guns down", came a strong and
unwavering female voice.
Sometimes you don't have to see things to know what's happening.
There are sounds people make, certain sounds, special sounds,
that can be identified clearly and simply even if it's something
you don't ordinarily hear.  It fits in a little mental jigsaw in
your mind as belonging to only one thing. And in this case, I was
right.  The two bank thieves were clicking back the hammers of
their revolvers, preparing to fire.
Instinctively, I curled into a ball on the weird orange carpet.
My hands were covering my face to protect my nearsighted but
operative eyes from a stray bullet.  I didn't think the guard was
gonna make it...
I wasn't sure how many shots I was hearing, but they echoed
loudly in the high ceiling. I heard glass breaking as a stray
shot rendered a glass table to so much rubble.

Within seconds, two sharp, high male screams filled the muted,
fearstruck environs of the bank. I heard two metallic thuds,
followed by a series of small bounces, as the guns of the two
robbers fell from their hands and skittered away.  I looked up to
see the blonde bank guard, her long curls falling freely now, her
hat off and fallen to the floor.  From beneath the short sleeves
of her white blouse, there extended two large, powerfully muscled
arms that spoke of a woman who knew how to handle situations just
like this one...
Her short and tight uniform skirt bared her powerful legs; legs
that were moving fast now...
She dove for the guns and she had them, as the two men, dressed
in black and wearing stockings over their heads, writhed on their
knees and held their bleeding wrists.  A small grey bank officer,
his courage found now, hustled to her side and took the cheap
handguns before skittering off to his small grey desk and calling
the cops.

The big blonde woman looked down now, to a small streak of red on
her white, stiffly-starched and creased blouse.  It was growing
in a long vertical pool on the side of her rib-cage, and down to
dark skirt.  It did not seem to disturb her, and so she simply
began to unbutton the blouse, calmly, hands not shaking, as
though she was merely trying to remove a stain of ketchup or
something.
She stripped the blouse off her body, and a rush, a sigh of awe
went up from the people as they gathered themselves to their
feet. The short skirt fell next; it was a dark blue and matched,
or had matched, her white blouse.
I still couldn't get a clear look at the officer; the wide "V" of
her back was turned to me as I looked up now, scrambling to find
my feet.
Thick powerful calves bulged over her high spiked heels.
Her body was hugely muscled.  Thick deltoids dared you to look
away. Trapezius trapped your eyes, making you want to ride their
long hard, steep slope with both hands.  And huge biceps beckoned
your attention; and my heart as it thumped in my chest.
She turned; her stomach was so hard and chiseled it seemed hard
to believe that this woman wasn't bulletproof, but she wasn't.
One of the errant shots had ricocheted, and grazed her side.
Her opponents weren't going anywhere, but all the same she was
going to make sure...

The eyes of the miscreants were wide with fear; fear at the sight
of this huge blonde woman dressed in white bra, flowered trim
panties, and high heels.
She was a large woman, alright; solid, living muscle was about to
loose it's wrath on the punks and deliver their punishment.  And
her punches, one to the face of each of the robbers, ended any
danger, any argument.  I heard her fist crunch against their
trembling jaws, each issuing little grunts of pain and fear; and
I saw them drop like frightened, lifeless sacks.  They were
unconscious in heaps on the orange carpet.  Or was it burned
ochre ?
At any rate, they had been tamed, all fight gone from them now,
as the blonde lady bodybuilder flexed over them, thick muscle
silently making it's statement.
Presently, she pulled the stockings from their heads and tossed
the silky things on the floor.
One of the men writhed and groaned, semi-conscious, but in pain.
Karla was not sympathetic.
She grabbed the man as he lay prostrate on the floor.  Holding
him by only his collar, she hoisted him high in the air with one
hand.  Every thick muscle in her seventy-inch-tall-body flexed
and strained.
"You say something, mister?", Karla growled at the man; he was
small and dangled like a puppet in her grasp.
He shook his head and made a choking sound; Karla dropped him to
the floor, where he lay at her feet, demolished by this most-
muscular mademoiselle.

The golden-tressed sharpshooter turned around.  She was breathing
only slightly heavily, her big bust rising and falling on her
sculpted chest.
It was Karla Nelsen!
And she was looking right at me...
"You okay, sir?", she asked, after she had walked with calm
authority to me. "You look a bit shaken..."
Me?
I grabbed a shred of the blouse rendered a rag by a quick tug of
the blond gladiatrix.  I got on my knees in front of her and
tried to stem the small bloodflow; and saw after a moment it was
nothing more than a scratch.  I looked up at the muscle-chiseled
blonde, her bra fighting a losing battle with breasts that wanted
to burst free, fall naked and full on her chest...
She smiled down at me, and bending low, kissed me hard; her
tongue took over the kiss and I let it.  I wanted it to.
She reached for me; I did the same to her.  As I rose, my hands
felt the iron in her thick and massive arms, as though something
of the metal she hoisted had become a part of her own flesh.
It was getting hard to breath, but I didn't care.  I didn't want
the kiss to stop. I didn't...

"Sir? Sir?"
I shook my head as if to clear it and I opened my eyes.
The young teller was chewing gum and looking at me as if I had
come to the bank for the expressed purpose of screwing up her
day...
"Oh, sorry", I stumbled.  "I was distracted..."
I handed the cash over to her.  She looked at it but said
nothing.  The expression on her face was sort of like the one I
saw on my wife's puss when I handed her the envelope every other
Friday night...
I wasn't sure how long I had been lost in that little daydream.
But it had been fun, hadn't it?
I went home to watch my tapes, and see Karla Nelsen tame a world,
and teach it to respect her powerful body, one man at a time...