The Man Who Loved Karla Nelsen, part 2
By Forrest Curran
A man can love more, can't he?
Update: 18/10/1997 to misc2

She was big, her bikini was black, and she had made her point.
The young wiseguy had been brought to heel, and now he was being
put in his place.
"Family Reunion II" was unfolding again on my computer screen as
it was fed from my VCR.

Karla Nelsen, two hundred pounds of hard-muscled blonde
discipline, was standing in the gym, the early morning sunshine
visible out the back door.
Her hair was blonde and curled and flowed down her thick,
sculpted back.  Her hands were on her hips.  Her shoulders were
spread wide; the deltoids, broad and bodacious; muscularity and
femininity colliding to form the perfect larger-than-life woman.
She was annoyed...
And she was to die for...

And the wiseguy, his ego put in cold storage by this statuesque,
powerfully-built Amazon, was kneeling at her feet.  He was oiling
her hard but shapely body, and the harsh contours of her lady-
muscle were beginning to glow, and take on the rich scent of the
coconut lotion.  The guy kept his eyes downcast from the blonde
goddess as she surveyed his efforts with a stern and critical
eye.
Her vast musculature flowed and overwhelmed the eye, straining
the narrow confines of her tiny bikini that holstered her
relentlessly large breasts--breasts that seemed to long for
nothing less than total exposure.
She smiled now, but just a bit, down at him; enjoying the
dominant position that was rightly hers, in victory; he had been
no match for her, from the start.
But he did not see the pretty face soften it's stern countenance.
He was too busy nervously oiling her massive calves.


There weren't really too many women around like Karla Nelsen, I
nodded to myself.  I looked over at the picture of her that I
kept tacked to the wall just inside the next room, where I had
installed a small gym, rarely used---Andrea had more or less
taken the room over, and the picture had become my only reason
for entering the place.
The tape finished and flickered to silver and static.

But the picture on the wall was something...
Through the open door I saw her as she stood with her hands
behind her head, flexing the battle-plates of abdominal muscle
even as her ample breasts looked ready to burst the tiny bikini
top off her torso.  My mouth watered.
She smiled back at my daydreams with an ever-fixed grin.

So I sat in my basement and watched The Blonde Tornado demolish
anyone foolish enough to fail to show her the proper adoration
and respect.
I wondered what it would be like to be wrapped up in those
massive limbs, dense with her audacious ladymuscle; to look up
into those gentle eyes and know that their owner could crush me
or kiss me as she pleased.  What would she smell like?  Would she
be perfumed? Or would she have the healthy, sun-kissed honey
scent of a Minnesota girl who had forsaken the dusty offices of
accounting for life as a Muscular Princess? I could see the deep
chiseled cuts of her physique, the muscle packed thickly,
wickedly, on her body.  Maybe she really was bulletproof, I
chuckled as I rewound the tape, to watch her flex on my computer
screen, one more time.

How that big blonde bodacious body bulged! Baseballs came to life
under her flesh, fed life by the prominent veins that angrily,
proudly stood out on her pale skin.
My breath was coming short.
And I sat down to write her another fan letter.

It was late, very late, when my hardbodied wife came home from
her "tennis lesson".  I was awakened in my bed by the sound of
the car as it growled it's way into the garage.  I heard the high
heels hit the floor with little stabbing echoes as she ambled up
through the house.
I wasn't going to make a scene tonight; I was too tired to care,
having been kept busy all day with the hundred and one errands
she had given me to do.

She crept into the darkened bedroom. The half-open door let in a
shaft of light from the hall, and with it I could see her
clearly.  Her dark hair was out of place, messed; layers hanging
in every direction possible. Her face had the naughty hope-I-
don't-get-caught-but-so-what-if-I-do look of proud defiance mixed
with embarrassment.
She was still wearing the tiny skirt, and, backlit by the hallway
light, it was all but transparent as it fluttered with every
small movement, the hemline falling mere inches below her crotch.

As she held the high heels in hand, I could clearly see that tiny
white g-string-slash-panty wedged loosely into one of the shoes;
a bit of it hung out and over the side, like a tongue anxious to
wag and tell a dirty tale of what it's mistress had been up to.
I pretended to be asleep as I lay cloaked in darkness, beneath
the blankets.  What would she do now, I wondered?

Our bedroom had once been the source of intimacy and pleasure for
us both.
But not anymore...
She looked right at me, her eyes unable to adjust to the cloak of
dark night and realize that I was looking right back at her.
But something--guilt or fatigue or sheer self-indulgence--made
her re-consider where she would sleep tonight.
Now I listened to her creep her way out of the room, close the
door, and slink off to sleep in the guest room. She would dream
her evil dreams of afternoon sex while her husband had tended to
their home, like a houseboy.

And I went back to sleep.

Next morning, as Andrea gabbed and gossiped on the telephone with
her girlfriends from the gym, I would check the skimpy
underthings, still crammed into the toe of her high-heeled shoe
that she had kicked under the fold-out bed. It confirmed my
suspicions.
After her scarlet little interlude, she had been unable to put
the hot-to-trot panties back on for a simple reason.
They were damp, and smelled of her faint muskiness that filled
the room whenever she was sexually excited.
As if that had not been enough of a signal, it was clear that
they were heavily stained.
With what?  That was easy to guess...

Andrea had been busy.

That afternoon, after skillfully avoiding her most of the
morning, I had decided to tackle the paint job on the shutters.
The fact that she had told me to do it was almost reason enough
not to; but they needed doing all the same, and I knew she
wouldn't take paintbrush in hand!
I listened to the sound of weights being lifted in the basement.
She gave out little ladylike grunts of exertion.  I wondered if,
in her mind, she was replaying her dark and wicked little
interlude of the previous night all the while...
But one thing was sure.
I knew my marriage was dying.

Andrea was a very attractive woman; in her mid-thirties but
looking much younger.  She had put on a bit of a spread since we
had gotten married, but in the last few months she had seemed
distinctly unhappy with her body and her life.  To that end, she
had embarked on a program of exercise and dieting, and I had had
more than my fill of dinners comprised of health food salads, and
bean sprouts, and protein shakes for dessert...

It had been fun to find her old Playboy Bunny body return, firm
and taut and girlish; and the sexy little outfits she began to
wear to show off all that newly-returned desirability were a
treat for my near-sighted eyes.  She sashayed about in little
fuck-me-mister pumps like a Hollywood Ingenue, full of raging
female hormones and dainty wiggle in her step.
Problem was, she showed little interest in responding to my
ardent overtures.  There was always a dance class, or an aerobics
session that she was late for.
There wasn't much too much lovemaking taking place around here.
At least, not for me, that is...

Soon she had started wandering off in those little outfits during
hot afternoons with vague excuses and lame explanations.  I
wasn't all that bright, but I wasn't stupid, either...

My head was full of paint fumes as I finished up the job,
touching up the occasional missed spot, and getting things just
so.  There was no reason not to do a good job just because I
didn't think I'd be living here in six months.
I washed everything out in the basement sink, and headed back
upstairs for a contemplative nap. I deserved it, I said to
myself, as I paused for a moment to check out the sparkling coat
of new white paint on the shutters.  They shone in the sun.
And so did Andrea.

"So? How do I look?," she said, as she spun around in a graceful
little pirouette.  She looked great, that's how she looked!

"Holy cow, Andrea..."
She was wearing a bikini; a new one I hadn't seen before.  It was
blue and it was bright and it was brief.  Brief as in meager
strings of cloth that wrapped around her hips in little snakelike
lines; it had no back to speak of.  It merely vanished and hid
between her two taut buttocks.  The top was made of two small
patches that perched on her enhanced breasts.  She looked firm
and fit and ten years younger than her age.  Was all this for me?
It couldn't be, could it?

Her bare, newly-firm flesh was everywhere; hard and lean and
athletic.  Her olive complexion took well to the sun, and she
already had a good tan even in now, in the early weeks of June.
She was apparently very comfortable in this practically-naked
state; she felt no inhibitions as she stood all-but-bare in the
hot sun.
"Ta-da," she announced in sing-song voice, her arms raised over
her head in a showgirl pose.  Her enlarged bosom stood at
permanent salute, high on her chest; there was no sag at all.
There had better not be, I added to myself, as she turned and
bent low, offering me a first-hand, up-close view of her sculpted
hind-quarters.
The high spiked heels accentuated her new body, and she posed in
them, this way and that, like a centerfold girl.

"W-what's the occasion?," I sputtered. I had already taken a step
or two towards her.  My arms were outstretched and couldn't wait
to hold that sexy package of femmeflesh that was my wife.  I
suppose I was being rewarded for taking care of those tasks, and
for paying the tab (halfway) for those new hooters!
Which, by the way, had yet to be felt first-hand by their owner,
I thought, with just a bit of sexism creeping in...

But Andrea's expression changed quickly as I approached.
"Hey, be careful," she admonished me as she stepped back to the
railing that overlooked the pool, and so avoid my grasp.
"You'll mess me..."
What?

"...Lunch is gonna be canceled," she stated as she needlessly
fixed her makeup in a small compact mirror.
"You'll have to go out..."

She blew herself a kiss in her hand-held looking glass with red-
painted lips and touched the back of her head as though to
reassure her perfectly cut and styled coiffure.
Geez. You'd think I'd be able to get fed, at least.  Who was
bringing home the bacon while she honed her bod and worked part-
time at the health club?
Now, I had to go out to get it cooked!

"My trainer's coming over.  I have a chance to enter the Miss
Hotbody Fitness Contest, and I intend to be in the best shape of
my friggin' life," she stated with a firm nod.
"And," she added emphatically, as she wagged a sharp fingernail
at me, "you better not fuck it up on me!"

"...Why the bikini?," she repeated my question to me.  "Asshole,
it's so he can see what's workin' on my bod while I'm exercising,
that's why!," she exclaimed, adjusting the tiny strap of her g-
string that did not even pretend to cover her flesh---it merely
decorated it, and called hot-blooded attention to her casually-
bared flesh.
"We decided it'd be more fun to exercise outside," she exclaimed,
"instead of at the gym!"
Maybe, I thought.  But fun for who?

She continued to primp and fuss with her appearance.  This was
not the behavior of a woman preparing for a workout.
These were the actions of a woman gussying herself up for a date.

There was little I could do...

I always had a light step, and I never thought much of it.  But
it had paid off when she banished me to the local diner for
lunch, and she told me to catch the double-feature in the
multiplex.  And I had gone along with the idea, to a point.
I started the little sputtering jalopy I had been banished to
driving (while she tooled around in the classic mustang!) and I
drove around the block.  My cross-yard neighbor hadn't asked too
many questions when I told him I needed to cut across the yard.
I hopped the fence and made a beeline for the cellar door.
And the sanctuary of my basement.  I stepped down the stairs two
at a time, unseen by my wife, who was no doubt busy trying on her
collection of skimpy bikinis, the better to entice her "trainer."
I descended into the darkness of my sanctuary.

I was a gadget freak. I had a state-of-the-art computer that I
had tried to interest Andrea in, to no avail. I had patched in my
VCR---the better to enjoy Karla on my SVGA monitor, in living
color.
And I had installed a security system that gave me the run of the
house without ever leaving my seat; tiny lenses that scoped each
room, hallway, and entryway were set unobtrusively but ever-alert
and vigilant; there'd be no unwanted entrances here!

I sat at the terminal and brought up the program, and after a
milli-second, the interior of my home was up on the monitor
screen. I noticed at the moment that Andrea's decorating tastes
had really gotten garish; it was only as I surveyed the whole
house en masse that it became obvious to me. Wild colors in one
room, oddly muted tones in another.  I hadn't minded the tiger-
stripes in the bedroom, but unfortunately it hadn't transferred
over to our sex life...
I knew where she would be; and the camera that was mounted over
the outside door didn't lie.

Andrea was laying poolside in her tiny bikini.  She was on her
stomach, and was untying the tiny top's string to lay barebacked
on the thick cushion of the lounge. Her shapely behind was oiled
and bare and browning quickly in the sun; it shone and glistened.
Her high heels lay side by side on the ground, and her little
pink feet hung daintily over the edge.
I was right.  She had changed her bikini.
This one was even skimpier, if that was possible...

Suddenly, I heard someone walking through the house.  It was a
steady and sure footstep, and I figured that it would be her
instructor.  The tread went right overhead; it had to be him,
alright...
But it wasn't.  Cameras didn't lie; I punched up every camera in
the house, and it answered with nothing but empty rooms and
solitary hallways soaked alternately in shadows and sunshine.
I checked again; nobody was in the house.


But Andrea was undisturbed, and swatted her pert buttock
indolently as a fly hovered, attracted to the coconut-based oil
she always used.
The door that led to the basement opened.  I heard the footfall
of descent, in a slow, measured step.
Before I could rise and get halfway across the room, the figure
had reached the bottom of the stairs. I couldn't see who it was;
the stairs were separated from the basement proper by a
cinderblock wall.
The intruder turned the corner and stood there, smiling, in dark
sunglasses.

"Hiya," said Karla Nelsen.

I must have blinked three or four times, sure that I had finally
gone "over the wall."  I looked away, shook my head, and looked
quickly back, positive now that the Gorgeous Amazon Dreamgirl
would be gone, a figment of an imagination turned wild and a love
life gone stagnant; and I'd be returned to reality, unpleasant as
it was.

But six-feet-plus of blonde paradise was still standing in front
of me. Her hair was long and glowed, tumbling across staggering
shoulders; thick and powerful and lush.  Her arms were flexed as
she stood, fists on her hips, and I watched the impossibly-big
muscles of her arms and torso move with each turn of her wrists.
She wore skintight faded jeans and a small red tube top that
contained her big breasts only with effort; it was stretched to
it's furthest point possible, and it caused the little "Everlast"
seal on the small tag in front to look almost illegible.
She wore white, spike-heeled ankle boots that shone even in the
dim light.
Words came awkwardly to me, as though the dictionary in my brain
had been erased...

"Y-you're Karla N-Nelsen," I stammered, stating the obvious.
She smiled; an open pretty smile that warmed me as I beheld it.

"Tell me something I don't know, mister," she joked, in a light,
sweet voice that belied her astounding size.  She whipped off the
sunglasses.  And as though she knew what would convince me
completely, she raised her arm to a ninety-degree angle and
flexed a hot and huge bicep of stone that rose from her skin like
a smoking volcano.
It jumped into an angry-lovely bulge on her thick arm.
"Wow," I said, reverently, as though I was in church.
Karla Nelsen grinned.

"You betcha," she said.

"I don't get it," I admitted, as we sat on two folding chairs I
had resurrected from storage. I was struck by how gracefully she
folded her beautiful bulk into the lightweight seat, as though
she were a slip of a girl half her size.
"How did you g..."
Karla tilted her head and swept back a long, curled tress off her
barn-door shoulder dramatically.

"How'd I get here? Heck, all those fan letters you've been
writing me have a return address, you know. I was in the
neighborhood and figured I'd knock you off your feet if I stopped
by to say "hi," and to thank you for your support."
I could not get over how soft and gentle her voice was; not what
one would expect from a woman of such heaping muscularity.
But delightful to ears that had become so accustomed to the
whining intonations of my unpleasant wife.


She leaned forward towards me, and I watched the thick muscle
maneuver sensuously on her frame as she did.
She cupped her chin in her hand and scrutinized me for just a
moment.

"I mean," she said, in a low and conspiratorial voice, "you
ordered all my hot videotapes, dincha? I figured I owed you
something for all your loyalty."

"That's not all," I said, proud of my fanship now and anxious to
let her know of the depth of my loyalty. "I go to the
Extravaganza every year in Jersey to cheer you on..."
She arched an eyebrow.

"My!," she cooed, girlishly, impressed.
"Such a good little fan..."
Her eyes looked me up and down as I sat in the chair.  I felt
self-conscious.
"You're married, aren't' you?," she asked, a bit sadly.
I nodded.
She shrugged a pair of wide shoulders. Her muscle heaved.

"That your wife out back?," she asked, nodding towards the
computer screen in the corner.  Andrea was on-screen, and was
getting up hurriedly from her lounge, re-tying her bikini top and
slipping on her wicked heels hurriedly.  I hadn't heard the
doorbell yet, but at that moment I heard the rumble of a car's
engine in the front yard.
Her Trainer....
"She looks familiar," Karla said, her brow knitting in
concentration.  I looked back to the screen, and saw Andrea hurry
out of camera range with little-girl babysteps as she tried to
run in the towering spikes.
Out of the protective high fences of the backyard, the neighbors
would see her prancing about in her almost-altogether
...and with another guy...!
And hadn't she seemed a bit too eager to see him....?

"The beach gym," Karla said, as though revelation had come to
her.  She sat bolt upright in her chair, the hard battle-ready
abs flexing with the motion. I shook my head, trying to deny what
I suspected.
"What? You must be mistaken, Karla, she wouldn't..."

"Oh, yeah," she said, "that was her alright.  She hangs out there
in sleazy little outfits, tiny tennis skirts and such, real short
and showing alot of leg.  She flirts like crazy with the guys.
Rubs a little oil on the men, like a little harem girl.  Then she
giggles and smiles. Gets her hands wet.."
I was sure that wasn't the only thing on her body that would be
wet...

I heard Andrea's voice outside, barely audible but giggly,
alright, light and girlish--the way it used to be with me.
And I heard a man's laughter returning her high spirits.

"I don't want to upset you, slim, but your wife is quite smitten
with a certain guy. There he is, that's him!," she said, pointing
at the screen with her arm, powerful and thick.

My bikini-clad wife had skipped back into the yard, followed by a
large and powerfully built man.  They stood face to face near the
pool, and he pulled her close to him.  She jumped into his arms
eagerly, and they stood in the sun and started a long deep kiss
full of tongue and saliva and sweat; and hands that roamed the
body of the other with rough and frantic familiarity.
His grasp went to her all-but-bare buttocks and he squeezed them
hard, as if he owned them...
She broke the kiss only long enough to pull his shirt off.
Gulp.
If that was the kind of guy who stirred my wife's loins, I was
going to have trouble competing.  I felt Karla's eyes roam over
my thin frame...

"Yep," Karla nodded, impressed. "That's him alright."
The basement was silent except for the steady light whir of the
computer's fan.
We watched the dark-haired little vixen begin humping the man's
large thigh.  He appeared to back off, amused at her passion; but
only adding to her ardent attempts to achieve a frictionful
orgasm standing up, in broad daylight...

Strange as it may be, he actually broke his embrace now, and left
the camera's eye.  Andrea stood there in her microscopic
swimsuit, following him with a sex-hungry gaze, stroking her
bosom all the while.
He marched back into view a minute later, with a set of weights
that he had carried easily back into the yard.
He threw them to the ground, and Andrea pretended to be
frustrated with desire as she grabbed his swollen arm and rubbed
it, looking up to him with fervent eyes.
He smiled and kissed her forehead, and pointed to the weights.
As Andrea turned to address the barbells, he gave her a hard but
friendly smack on her rear end.
She jumped just a bit with the shock, losing her balance in the
skyscraper heels on the soft footing of the grass.  He caught her
and she regained her footing, and melted into his eyes like a
smiling lovesick schoolgirl.

Karla got up and shut off the monitor.
I looked lustfully at the taut rear of the Amazon Woman, contours
clearly shown by the skintight faded jeans.
"No offense, pal," she said, turning around, "but watchin'
somebody else work out is boring for me. I came to give you a
little treat.  Not much you can do about those two; besides, not
to break your heart or anything, but they're not gonna do
anything this afternoon that they haven't been doing for quite
some time, if the rumors are true..."

I was going to ask her what the rumors were, but at that moment,
she turned to the small stereo I kept on my desk.  She put on a
hot dance number and smiled.  She turned to me and locked both
hands behind her head, and flexed those chiseled rungs of
abdominal.
Bulletproof, I thought, smiling to myself.
She made the abs dance and tremble in time with the music; and
mesmerized my eyes as she twitched and manipulated them.  They
rose and fell like waves hitting a beach.
...wow...

She posed and flexed for a full minute, hitting pose after pose.

Years of moving heavy iron had made this Big Blonde Minnesotan a
creature of wonder and desire.  She writhed and shimmied and made
mature muscle pound and flex with the beat of the music...
Her back was a wide thick `V' that she loved to display, and she
used it to reinvent the dance as a whole new art form.
Finally, when she had had enough fun delighting the eyes of her
biggest fan with a posing show worthy of a Ms. Olympia, she
stopped just long enough to announce:

"Gotta get some iron in my hands". I wanna give you a big treat
watchin' me pump up these great big girlguns," she said, raising
two awesome arms over her head like prizes.
"Have any weights?"
Boy, did I!

"Nice picture," Karla said, nodding at my afore-mentioned full-
length picture of a bikini-clad Karla flexing her killer bod in
living color. It hung on my wall as an inspiration, I guess.
Andrea didn't care for it much, but hey...

"You've got good taste in pin-ups," she said, before turning her
attention to the shining silver plates.

Karla loved the whole ceremony of pumping iron.
She inspected the stack of metal; it was heavily-loaded; with far
more weight than I usually used...
She ran a hand, as though to inspect it, along the shining
barbell sleeve.
"Little light for me, but what the heck...," she said shrugging,
before hoisting a full complement of iron and repping non-stop.
She was doing curls with the heavily-weighted barbell,
concentrating on form rather than speed; the weight really was
light for her.  She knocked off rep after rep, and I licked my
lips as I watched her muscles swell.  Hard cuts became like
etched rock; veins made threats of angry explosion as she lifted,
and lifted, and...

She grimaced only a little, and once, for just a moment, she shot
me a glance as though to see what sort of effect the display was
having on me.
She saw the hungry look on my face and winked wickedly.

Suddenly, I didn't really care what Andrea was doing.