Dain Bramage 
by Paul Schilling (halfahubinc@aol.com)
Mind blocks forever or A wife's muscles can be very annoying


Prologue

     For most of my adult life, I've spent my time in front of a computer... more time than I
actually should have. My job is fairly self-explanatory; I am a desktop publisher. In my spare
time, or when I get bored, I surf the web. Out of the countless web sites, I visit a lot of the
female amazon muscle sites, and my wife of about 20 years thinks I'm weird for writing
fan-fiction for a site or two. 
     My wife Wynne and I are approaching the time in our lives where sex becomes
pedestrian and a body starts going to pot, so she signed us up at the local fitness center, on
the advice of our two daughters, as an anniversary gift. I've managed to drop about 15 pounds
(both our daughters think I look pretty good; flatterers), and Wynne, being on the chunky side
(after having two girls) had dropped over 40 pounds and put about 20 pounds back on as
muscle. Wynnie's look is extremely good, not bulky, but layered just right. When she flexes,
there is definitely a show when her smooth arms exhibit their strength. For this reason, I took
the time to build a small gym in our basement, which she uses more than me, and, because of
her muscle growth, I use her as the model for all my stories.
     As I said, I spend hours at the keyboard creating and correcting documents for others.
But whenever I start writing stories for myself, my mind goes blank. I've got a whole folder to
myself... let's call it "the Cutting Room Floor"... filled with unfinished stories and ideas. Wynne
calls it 'brain blockage.' Privately, I call it something else. But Wynne has determined to
"muscle" her way into my slumps to bring me out of them.

The Lap Dance

     It was one of those dog days of summer, too hot to go anywhere, a nice day to stay
inside enjoying the A/C. Wynne pulled up one of my dead stories from the "Floor" and sat me
down. "There," she said, "why not work on this one?" I sat down in front of the screen and
noticed that it was over a year old and about a muscular go-go dancer involved in a private lap
dance.
     "Wynnie, why this one?" I asked.
     She said nothing. Instead, she gave me a peck on the cheek. "I'm going to the gym,"
and with that, she started out. Then she stopped. "Sweetheart," she said, "make 'em big," and
she curled one of her full arms. As her biceps rose, it pushed her leotard sleeve up. She flexed
it a couple of times, then held it. Then she did something out of the ordinary: she reached over
and seductively began to lick the vein that appeared on the top of her muscle, then threw me a
kiss and left the room, heading for the basement. I just sat there and scratched my head, then
went to work.  
     After about an hour, she came back upstairs, her body definitely pumped up more than
normal. She walked over to me and whispered in my ear, "Anything yet?" I just sat there,
slumped back in the chair, hands forming a cathedral roof, staring at a semi-blank screen. She
began cooing and playing with my ear. "Well then," she breathed, "let me help you," and spun
my chair around.
     "Wynne?" I inquired, "Uhh, sweetie, what's wrong?" She didn't answer. I found her
actions scary, but strangely erotic. She had me trapped in my chair. She put her arms around
me and then began to squat, running her hands down my chest to my thighs. I didn't dare
move.
     She pushed herself up, and I noticed how her triceps stood out, almost ripping her
sleeves. "Oh, nothing," she said, "'cept..."
     "Except what?" I asked uncomfortably.
     "...'cept, I'm hot," she said in a sultry voice.
     "Well, uhh, then," I stuttered. "Let me turn up the air," and stood up.
     "Not that type of hot," she said with bated breath and kissed my crotch.
     "Oh, boy," I nervously said and sat back down in the chair. So much for thinking.
     "You know what, Ethan?" she asked, to which I just sat there and shook my head. "I'm
all yours, but now, you're all mine," and she lifted herself up on my lap, facing me, and started
rotating her hips. She then raised her arms straight up and, making two fists, began to slowly
lower them until she hit a double biceps pose. "All these bulging, straining muscles are for your
pleasure." She was good, not missing one sultry beat of her hips, and she kept flexing her
arms until they peaked, high and mighty. "Go ahead and touch them," she said. When we first
met, Wynne felt that muscles on a woman were ugly, but that ended when she started
developing them herself. I felt obliged to touch them as I watched her hold her pose. I ran my
finger up and down the vein that rose, and then tried to push those rock hard arms down, but
to no avail. She gave me a sexy half-smile and said, "What do you think, stud?"
     'What do I think?' I thought, 'What do I think...? OH HELL YEAH!' My wife had become
the lap dancer in my story. She started doing a slow ride just as a tease. I just sat there and
watched every muscle move slowly and sensuously above my now-aching member. I was
hypnotized. Then out of the blue, I said, "Sweetheart, you know what?" She shook her head
no, as she put her arms on my shoulders and locked her hands behind my neck, still not
missing a beat. "This is nice, but..."
     "But, what?" she stopped for a minute.
     "...this isn't getting anything written," I said.
     "Screw it," she said, then she kissed me long and hard until I succumbed to it. "I'm the
story now," and she began rubbing herself harder against me. As she took deeper breaths,
she began to gain more mass until her bodysuit looked like it could not contain her anymore.
"I've become larger, Ethan," she said, as her gyrations became more potent. "Bigger, more
sexy." She released the posing she was doing, then said, "And I've become more gentle." With
that, she began rubbing my swollen member. I didn't know how much more I could have taken.
     "You know what we need, Sweetie?" I asked. 
     "No," she replied, throwing her head back in an almost orgasmic state, showing off her
tensing neck muscles."
     "Music," I said, gulping.
     "Good. Allow me," she said, as she reached for the remote on the desk, putting her
cleavage right in my face. "Go ahead," she said, reaching. "Lick 'em, but no biting." She sat
straight up and flexed her swollen arm as she clicked on the CD player.
     "What's in there?" I moaned with pleasure, grabbing her hips as I began to get more
involved.
     "I don't know," she muttered, "but it's classical music..." she said breathlessly, as she
started once more where she left off, "...for classical muscle."
     It was about that time she began to rub my swollen member one more time and, as she
did, I noticed a wet spot between her thighs. That was when she moved her hands over it and
began to press. I thought for sure something was going to happen. It did. 
     Wynne just sat there very quietly for what seemed to be an eternity. Then, if for no
apparent reason (or so I thought), she began to tear her leotard leggings around her thighs
with the gathering crescendo of music. I sat and watched as her thighs bulged and pressed
ever harder on mine. As the music softened, she ran a finger across my lips as if to say, "Don't
say a word, just watch," so I did. It was if she was teasing me as she ran her hands over her
exposed muscular thighs. The music began to swell again and as it did, Wynne grabbed the
material just above the crotch seam and began to violently shred her leotard. I was getting
excited watching her abdominal six pack come alive as she rubbed them with her sweat,
making them glisten as she moved. She took her hands up to her breasts where her nipples,
like bullets, were standing up, and began to rip the material open, exposing her tits. Her
breathing came in short pants as the music ended. She got up on one knee and placed her
thigh in my crotch, rubbing it up against my boner, then kissed me long and hard, ripping my
shirt open. As the last couple of notes played, she leapt up and did a double biceps pose,
flexing all exposed muscles as hard as she could. "Well, does that give you any ideas?" she
asked.
     I just sat there, wide-eyed, with immense pleasure written all over my face. "It sure
does," I said, quickly standing up proudly displaying my erection under my shorts for both God
and man to see.
     "Well?" she asked in a lustful sort of voice.
     "I need to go..." I started to point in the general direction of the bathroom, "...and, umm,
take a cold shower," and off I ran.
     "A shower, huh," she said, peeling off what was left of her leotard. "Buddy, that cold
shower is going to get awfully hot real quick." With that, she burst into the bathroom, muscles
bulging with power, and closed the door none too gently.