Dain Bramage 2 by Paul Schilling (pschill39@aol.com) For headache relief, have a beer, a can of spinach, and two aspirin Prologue Once my wife, Wynne, gets an idea into her head, it's hard to get her to stop. A few years back, our daughters bought us a membership to one of the local health clubs. Wynne uses it more than me. This year, I bought her the top of the line laptop computer so she didn't have to keep using mine. I am a desktop publisher by trade and a fan of Amazon bodybuilder fiction by choice. I have a whole file called the Cutting Room Floor, a file of uncompleted femuscle stories. I told you all this just to say that, unbeknownst to me, my wife copied and downloaded that whole file to her own computer and has it under a password. Now, even if she's at work or working out, she can send me an unfinished story at her leisure. It's her way of telling me I have to finish that particular story. Wynne calls it 'brain blockage.' Privately, I call it something else. Still Wynne is determined to muscle her way into my slumps to bring me out of them. A Beer, A Can of Spinach, and Two Aspirin Thursday: E-mail. May Dave and Max Have Mercy On My Soul. It's been very quiet around the house this week since Wynnie decided to to go see her mother. This meant I had time to relax and get caught up on some of my work and workouts. Instead of calling me, since I'm on the computer most of the time, she's been e-mailing me at least once a day saying how much she misses me and all that lovey-dovey stuff. About Thursday, I received another letter: "Ethan: I can't wait till I get home. Mom's been on a health kick ever since Dad died and insists that everything is done aerobically. I think I gained two inches on my arms and every other place it counts. I swear Mama's out to get me." I had to laugh. Wynne's mom started to exercise strenuously when my father-in-law passed away almost two years ago. I don't dare take on this sexagenarian powerhouse in arm wrestling. I don't really blame her as she does manage the farm by herself. Now it sounds like Wynnie's getting a dose of her medicine. I read on (this was a fairly detailed letter). It was canning season, so Mom insisted that Wynne bring home at least a case of freshly canned vegetables, including her own pairing of spinach with some other vegetable, a combination that doesn't taste bad at all. I may just start regretting not listening to the advice of Popeye the Sailor when he said, "Eats yer spinach, and youse'll grow big and strong!" Wynne ended her letter by asking me to pick her up at the airport about 9:30am Saturday morning, but it was the "P.S." that disturbed me. "P.S. I took the liberty of downloading your dead story cache to my hard drive before I left for Mom's. I found this one; it looks interesting. See if you can do something with it." I crossed out the first two questions that came to mind. All that was left was 'why?' I calmed down quickly, downloaded the file, and started to read it. May Dave and Max Fleischer have mercy on my soul. It was one of my first attempts at writing, and one of the first I had forgotten about. Again, I crossed out the first questions that came to mind. I am married to her, and I love her, but I decided that she's gonna get a long talking to when I get her home Saturday. Friday: Fresh Air, A Few Beers, and Muscles By "Popeye?" Friday, my final day of being single once again. I woke up and looked around a messy house. I should clean this place up, but instead, I checked my e-mail first. Here was the normal goofy type of spam mail and several detailed publishings from clients that were needed by Tuesday at the latest. "Well, Wynnie, I've got to put you on hold," I said, looking at the screen as I prepared to download the important stuff. "Let's see while I'm downloading these, I can clean the house," and proceeded to do so. With the house cleaned by noon, I sat down to do some work. I was done with that by at least five. I rubbed my eyes and stretched, then went to eat supper. Being unseasonably warm for a mid-November evening, I decided to go for a walk and enjoy the weather. My ramblings took me to the 'Bent Arms,' a local bar that caters to the bodybuilding crowd. A good friend from college, Bernie, bought the place from the previous owners, kept the name, and turned it into the place it is now. Since its reopening, he's been trying to get me to come down, saying things like, "Don't let these kids intimidate you." So when I walked into the place, I was greeted with a big burly bear hug and was told that, because the crowd hasn't come in yet, anything (within reason) was on the house and he sat me down at the front of the bar. He kept two or three bartenders on staff at all time; the tallest and most muscular one always doubled as the bouncer. He sat and made small talk, then called one of the bartenders over. "Anything my buddy Ethan wants to drink is on the house." He shook my hand, hard, then said, "I'll be back in a while. I got some stuff to take care of, but when I get back, we can jaw some more." I told him thanks, ordered a beer (which he poured), and started writing on a napkin. I had finished the beer Bernie had poured for me and continued writing. That's when "Uh, hello, Ethan," a low sweet voice interrupted, then I looked up. "Hi, my name's Deena, and Bernie told me to wait on you as long as it was slow." Deena is a raven-haired beauty, with a beautifully full-sculpted body. She had twenty pounds stuffed into a ten pound bra. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asked. "Yeah, another beer," I answered. I couldn't keep my eyes off of her arms and she knew it. She walked back over and put it down, and smiled. "Is there something else you want?" she asked. While I was thinking, she flexed an arm for me and I watched with delight as a small steel ball rose quickly and vibrantly on her thick but smooth looking arm. She put her arm down and asked again if I had wanted anything. I said not now, and she excused herself. I finished that one and what I could of my scribbling. I ordered a third beer, and that's when "I'm off work now, mind if I join you?" Deena was on this side of the bar holding my beer. "Go ahead," I answered back, and she sat down next to me and ordered a soda. "Forgive me," she said, "if I don't imbibe, but I'm in training." She looked down for a minute and saw my scribbles on the napkin. "May I?" she asked politely. I nodded, and watched as she reached over and pulled the napkin over to her. It became evident to her that I was watching the muscles in her arm dance as she began to read it. We made small talk about bodybuilding, publishing, and the internet while she read. "I'm impressed, Ethan," she said, "but if the heroine of your story is modeled after me, there are a few things wrong. But I'll tell you after we get to know each other a little better. I felt a hand reaching for my inner thigh, stroking it. "Look, uh, um" I uttered nervously. "Deena," she said in a low voice. "Look at the name tag." Deena sat straight up, arched her back, took in a breath of air and expanded her chest to well beyond button-popping proportion. She pointed at her name tag as several buttons shifted. "Yeah, Deena, look," I said. "I've got a little over twenty years on you and, besides, I'm happily married." Open mouth, insert foot. "Don't worry," she said. "I like older men, especially those who are in shape, and your wife doesn't have to know." Fine. I'm in great shape, but Wynnie would find out in her own way. No. "I'm sorry, Deena, I can't." "Okay," she pouted. "Well then, could you walk me out to my car?" she asked. I paused and began looking her up and down. Here's this voluptuous- looking muscular twenty-something coed, who could probably handle herself in a fight, asking me to walk her to her car, so I answered, "Okay, sure." She got up and said, "Let me grab my jacket." We left out the back door and nothing was said until I noticed something. "Deena, forgive me for asking, but what happened to the buttons on your cuffs?" We stopped by her car and she answered. "It was a combination of lifting, powershakes, and Popeye the Sailor." The three things didn't quite add up. "Popeye?" I raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't make any sense, but maybe I can explain," she said. "Please do, I'm all ears," I replied. "Well, I was a female version of Charles Atlas. You know skinny. I started reading my brother's bodybuilding magazines, and I saw all these women with big muscles, so I thought, if they could do it, I could." A female Charles Atlas I didn't think there was such a thing. "So, when I first started into heavy lifting," she continued, "I would down anything that was semi-tasty and would put on muscle fast. I was doing good as far as other parts of my body but nothing much in the arm department." I looked at her and couldn't argue that point. "Anyway, I went home dejected and started to watch this tape I bought at a flea market. It was a collection of really old black and white Popeye cartoons. I always got a thrill out of him reaching for this outrageously large can of spinach, downing it, and growing those monstrously large muscles, so I thought, if he could do it, so could I." This girl was making no sense whatsoever. Her hair may be dark, but I think her roots are blonde. I listened more. "I went to the store and bought several 22 ounce family-size cans, got home, opened one, and began choking it down." "So, did your muscles grow to an outrageous size fast?" I asked. "Ha, Ha," she mocked. "Not at first. I held out my left arm, made a fist, and waited. I started squeezing and unsqueezing my fist. As I did, I watched this welt form and begin to grow. It popped the button on this cuff and on the other side when I did the same thing. I then brought my arms up and I watched that growth go from here," she pointed at her wrist, "to here," and pointed at her biceps. "They grew large and strong, like I wanted them to do. So" "Let me guess: everytime you go to the gym, you eat a can of spinach," I finished her statement. "I'm not addicted to it. I don't even like the stuff, but the results are still quite spectacular." "Spectacular?" I asked. "Yes," she answered sternly, "very. Remember when we were sitting in the bar, I said that if your character was me, there were several problems?" she asked. "Well, my arms are no longer 14 inches. They're almost 18+ inches; watch." With that, she began to curl both arms slowly, and I watched those sleeves go from cloth to paint in a matter of seconds. Her arms exploded through the material and seams. "See?" Her voice became very sultry as her breathing became shallow; she was enjoying herself. "Come on over and touch 'em," she said. I couldn't resist. "Those python's are bigger than my wife's." Oh, what I just said! That snapped me back to reality. "Um, Deena, I got to be going," I said nervously. "What was the other thing." She took off her ruined waistcoat, putting her hands on her waist. "You see, I haven't been a 34B for a couple of years now. I now a 42D." She arched her back one more time and took a deep breath, sending buttons everywhere and ripping material at the seams. She tore off the ill-fated blouse and walked over to me and began rubbing her magnificent torso against me. She took one of my hands and started it rubbing one of her breasts. I gulped as I felt her nipple harden against the palm of my hand. I gulped harder when one of her hands slid down and began massaging my own hard-on. "Look, Deena," I said, pushing her away, "I don't think so, not today," and smiled. She pouted and didn't say a word. She just reached into her car and grabbed a windbreaker, then got into her car. "Um, Ethan," she said with a blush, "before you submit this story to the web, could you send me a copy?" I said I would and she handed me the napkin back along with a card with her e-mail address on it. I walked back in after she left and had one more beer. Bernie came over and sat down. "I thought maybe you left with her." I frowned. "Bernie, you know me better than that." Then I smiled. "Don't think it didn't cross my mind." We laughed. I finished my beer and went home. I wrote "Dee Dee's Story" in record time, did the editing, and sent it out. Now, to start on Wynne's choice. Oh, the hell with it, I went to bed. Saturday: Home and the Headache I got up early Saturday morning, ate breakfast, and made sure that the house was extra clean. That's when it hit: the Headache From Hell. I took a couple of Wynne's aspirins; you know, the kind that can be used for those woman-type problems. That seemed to ease it a bit. I left for the airport and made it there in record time despite my problem. I met Wynne at the gate and we made our way to the baggage return. She grabbed her bags including a carpetbag, and I grabbed several crates that her mother sent packed full canned vegetables. "You and Ma were busy, I see," I observed. "Yeah," Wynne laughed, "we were." I got my balance and that's when the headache hit with force. "Ethan," she said with a troubled voice, "are you all right?" "Yeah," I said with a furrowed brow, "it's just a headache." Wynne sat down her bags and said, "Here, I'll take those. You take the bags." So we traded. She put one crate on her left shoulder and I sat the other on her right. "Will you be okay sweetheart?" she asked. "It's just a short walk to the car." I nodded, "I'll be okay." I couldn't help notice that as we walked through the terminal, heads were turning, and for good reason. Wynne's muscles bunched and rolled smoothly as she walked in front of me. Even with a headache, I couldn't stop fantasizing about what would happen if Wynne put those crates down and began to flex. Heads would turn, and eyes would bug out as her clothing would rip like tissue paper as she'd show off her magnificent body to the whole airport. I sighed. "Are you okay honey?" she asked, hearing me sigh. "Yeah I'm fine, there's the car," I said. "Lets go home." She asked me if she could drive, because I showed the signs of the tension in my head. I told her no, that was fine, I would be okay. I sat there, on the way home listening, and nodding in agreement to her droning on about the fun she had at her mothers and how good her mother was feeling and looking. Thank God she didn't ask about the story. We finally got home (that three mile trip felt like an eternity) and unloaded the trunk. I went to sit down in my captain's chair by the computer as Wynne put things away and inspected the house. "I'm very impressed. I think I'll keep you after all. Now it's my turn." Oh oh, that had ominous overtones. She took off her jacket and showed me what she had on. "Well, what do you think?" She had on a yellow-shorts sailing outfit, and she strutted around the room showing it off. "I picked up several outfits like this when I was down seeing Mom." She came over and nestled her butt on my lap and lifted her top just a bit. "See, it even has a small bikini with it." She kissed me, and then turned and began fingering the keyboard. My headache and day just took a turn for the worse. She kissed me again, and said, "I like my laptop, thank you." I looked at her and said adamantly, "I'm glad you do, but you can't be playing Big Brother, especially with MY personal things." "All I did was take your stupid limbo story cache and read some of your dumb stories that YOU hardly had time for," she pointed out. "Furthermore, they do have an erotic feeling to them," and she brought up the unfinished tale. Seeing that it was still not ended, she stood up and turned quickly around. "Wynnie!" This time I spoke up first. "Before you say anything, I can explain." She stood there just waiting for my explanation. "I had some work come in, and that, as you've known for the past twenty-some-odd years, comes first," and I showed her the e-mail receipts. "Hey," she said, "What's this 'DeeDee.TXT'?" Oh, shit, she found it. When I sent Deena her copy of the story, I must have made an extra copy for myself. My headache just got worse. As she read it, I snuck into the bathroom and downed at least four aspirin, then headed for the bedroom. Unfortunately, I had a bit of trouble getting there since Wynne was standing in the way an extremely cross Wynne. "Going somewhere?" she asked, in a tone none too pleasant. "I was going to lay down." I answered. "Oh really?" she said sarcastically. "I read 'Dee Dee,' and I want to know who she is." She pushed me back into my chair. "It certainly ain't me, Bub." I could tell by the tone of her voice and by the small veins popping out of her neck, Wynne was mad and possibly jealous. "Are you jealous?" I snorted and I went into the story of my meeting with Deena and how she inspired me to write one quick story. "So what you're saying is, because this bartender sat down next to you, and her muscles are somewhat larger than mine, you wrote a story about her?" "Wynnie?" I paused, snickering "You ARE jealous!" I busted out in laughter. That didn't do my headache any good. "I'll let you stew a while." I stood up. "I'm going to lay down." She stopped me and pushed me back into the chair. "You're not going anywhere," she said. "You like women with big muscles?" She began flexing hers. "My body ain't big enough for you?" She showed her size and density, almost destroying the outfit she had on, and then relaxed her pose. "You want muscles, mister? Stay right there." I've never seen her this mad before. She walked in the kitchen, then came out with a carpetbag and pulled out a large two-pound jar of green stuff, opened it, and ate the whole thing, choking it down as she swallowed. Her belly looked distended and popped the top button on her shorts and she sat down. "You want muscle, watch this." I watched, and nothing appeared to be happening. I closed my eyes and began massaging my aching temple, when... "BELCH!" I looked up. Wynne began to blush. "'Scuse me," she said with a satisfied smile. The swelling in Wynne's belly began to subside as her breathing got shallow. It not only subsided but seemed to flow into other parts of her body. Her muscles began to inflate like balloons, their density increasing. She was almost seemingly satisfied. She began to tighten and flex them. As her muscles enlarged from her head to her toes, the tight outfit seemed to get tighter, until she was too large for it. Seams let go and buttons flew as the outfit tore in two and gently fell gently to the ground. The only thing left was this seemingly small (yellow) bikini she was wearing, and even that was creaking. She paraded herself in front of me and went into several poses, each accentuating her overly-muscled body. "There," she said, pumping one arm in front of my face, "200+ pounds of muscle and what you like, arms over 20+ inches." Each pump slowed down until it looked as if Wynne was struggling with a heavy weight. The skin covering this huge ball of muscle became as thin as onion skin and showed off striations and veins. "Well," she grunted, "I'm not holding this forever go ahead, touch it. You know you want to." In all my years of muscle worship, I've never seen or felt an arm like this. As she began alternating between her biceps and triceps, showing their increased size, I thought my eyes would bug out of my head. As she relaxed her pose, she crouched down in front of me. Even with a headache the size of Alaska, I couldn't help but feel myself get hard as I watched her newly developed thighs bunch and roll, literally hiding her bikini briefs. "You know what, Ethan?" she asked (I answered, "No."). She leaned over me and as I stared into that vast chasm of cleavage, she whispered in my ear. "NO WAY!" I shouted, massaging my temples afterwards. She leaned back and nodded. "Now watch," she said, as she reared back on her haunches. "I've always wanted to try this," she said as she took a deep breath and held it. Her chest expanded and, as it did, she began pumping her pecs with muscle control far beyond what any bodybuilder could do. Eventually, all this action popped her top. I just sat there mesmerized. She reached over and gave me a peck on the cheek and said, "I'll meet you in there," pointing to the bedroom, and she sauntered off. 'Women,' I thought. 'You can't live with them, and I'm not goin' to try to understand them.' I got up out of my chair, thinking that little morphing show of muscular sensuality cleared my headache. It didn't. My head started pounding harder then a hammer on an anvil. I felt dizzy and nauseous, but I finally got my wish: I went and laid down. A few minutes later, Wynne emerged wearing an extremely low-cut and form-fitting teddie. 'Oh boy,' I thought, 'I think I created a monster, all over a story.' "Well, do you like it?" she asked. I was feeling so ill that I couldn't answer. "Well?" she asked again, getting on top of me, flexing her arms. I watched as her muscles danced, but even though my groin was in for it, my head definitely wasn't. "Wynnie, sweetie," I said, "not tonight; I have a headache," and threw her off of me. I took her by surprise in two different ways: 1) by telling her 'no,' and, 2) by tossing her on the floor. "How dare you!" she screamed. "DON'T YELL!" I shouted back. Not saying a word, she got up and stormed out of the bedroom, only to return with an open jar of that green stuff. "I'm hot, I'm horny, and I get what I want," and she lifted the jar to her lips and swallowed the whole thing. "Now we'll see." Almost immediately her muscles began to expand and develop more muscles, tearing the teddie in two. She reached a large hand back and began stroking my member and nothing. "Oh, you poor baby," she said, "you ARE sick." Dismounting me, she put on a bathrobe which, with her size now, seemed compact on her large frame. "You stay there. I'll be right back." Where does she think I was going? I've been trying to lay down since we got home. She returned, knelt on the bed next to me, and said, "Here, take these." She handed me two aspirin. "Can I get a glass of water?" I asked, trying to choke down the aspirin. "No, but I got something even better," and she produced a pitcher full of green liquid. "What is that?" I demanded. "A home remedy," she smiled. I covered my mouth. "I'd rather have water." She got mad again. "You'll drink it and you'll like it, or else!" She sat the pitcher down, took a deep breath, and began curling her arms. Her bathrobe flew open, showing her supersized beachball breasts and her biceps skyrocketing out of her sleeves. "Need I say more? Now DRINK!" I drank, and as I did, she tore off the bathrobe and straddled me once more, this time pinning me. "Feeling better?" I didn't say a word, but I felt a surge of power creeping into my muscles. As my body began to grow, so did my strength. I slowly raised my arms and rolled her over, this time sitting on top of her. "Well, are you doing better?" she asked again, nervously smiling. "Better?" I said in a quizzical voice. "Nah!" As I straddled her, I began to curl my arms and throw out my chest. "I feel SUPER!" As I shouted with joy, my entire body expanded, bursting seams and buttons, until I flexed muscles as big or bigger then hers. Without saying a word, I mounted my wife. A few hours later, I woke up. My headache was gone. I sat up and noticed that Wynne had shrunk back down to normal size and the same thing was happening to me. "What was in that concoction?" I quietly said to myself as not to wake Wynne. I saw the open jar on the floor, grabbed it, and looked at it. "Spinach and PARSLEY?" I said rather loud. I had heard that parsley was some sort of aphrodisiac, but I thought that was some old wives' tale. Wynne finally stirred. "Hi," she said, and kissed me. "Headache gone?" she asked. "Yep," I said, "and, boy howdy, am I hungry!" "Well, unfortunately," she said, "we downed at least a six months' supply of spinach, the kind that you really like. So much for quiche Lorraine." "Don't worry," I said. "I owe you an apology and I'll make you this promise: I'll only use you and your magnificent muscles from now on in my stories unless you say otherwise." Wynne laughed and gave me a peck on the cheek. "And I promise you I'll try not to meddle with any of your storylines again. ("Yeah, right!") But that still doesn't settle the supper issue," she said. "Let's call for Chinese," I said. "That sounds good." She smiled and picked up the phone. I grabbed the receiver and put it back down. "Ethan!" she said. "We will, Wynne," I answered. "Right after the first course." And I pulled the sheets back over us.