Muscle Girl


Since my wife died, I’ve become something of a creature of habit. I get up in the morning, drink coffee, eat toast and take the dog for a walk. I come home, have another cup of coffee and set off into town. My first stop is always the library. I read the newspapers first, carry out any research necessary for my latest project, check a few journals which I find useful, then head for home. After that it’s lunch and down to work.

My latest project is book four in my detective series. They’ve become quite popular with a small, rather niche market who find serial killers to their taste. If I’m honest, I’d rather kill off my detective and start something new, but I feel duty bound to keep going. My latest serial killer used to be a heavy for a gang till someone killed his partner. Now he’s gone rogue and is wiping out anyone who’s ever crossed him.

Problem is, I don’t really understand him. How did he become this muscular martial arts expert who overpowers every opponent with sheer strength? Obviously, he trained — but how? What was his initial motivation? Why would anyone go to a gym and just train? I was starting to feel I was getting nowhere and the whole story was dead in the water.

I was reading the latest psychological journal, seeking insight into my killer cum super-villain when I spotted the new girl at the counter. She was pretty. Too young to be interested in me — and anyway, I hadn’t really bothered too much since my wife passed away — but I still appreciate a pretty woman.

She blonde hair, tied back, and a ready smile. Her blue eyes sparkled every time her face lit up, and I found it appealing. As I watched, her eye caught mine. I looked away, embarrassed, aware that I’d probably been looking for too long. Then I looked up again. She was still looking at me, and as our eyes met, she smiled. It was a friendly, confident gesture, unlike so many of the rather mousy librarians, and I appreciated it.

I returned to my reading, dismissing the pleasant interlude from my mind and focused on the possibility that my killer had become depressed and started training to alleviate his mental health problems. It really seemed very unlikely.

“Hello. Is everything alright, sir?”

I glanced up, and saw that this pleasant young lady was talking to me. Initially, I was rather flustered. I barely spoke to anyone these days, other than my mother and friends from the football club. There were not many of those, if I’m honest. I had retired two seasons ago, following my knee injury, at the grand old age of forty two, and found my generation were rapidly dying out. The young lads weren’t interested and the wave of sympathy had steadily ebbed. I wasn’t exactly lonely, but I was becoming increasingly isolated. It was a relief to have dog-walking and gardening to keep me fit.

“Er … yes. Thanks. Well … no. I’m trying to research why someone would train obsessively. Get to the level of the Marines but not in the army. I don’t understand. Could you point me in the direction of any books or … anything?”

“I don’t know about books. And ‘obsessively’ is a bit of a strong word, really. Makes it sound like a problem. Is it a problem if someone wants to be healthy and improve themselves?”

“Well … no. I guess not. I like that. It’s a good spin.”

She looked down at me, her oversized sweatshirt falling below her thighs on her rather short body. It was an odd angle for me. Being almost six feet tall, I usually look down on people, and seeing this woman who was no more than five and a half feet towering over me seemed very strange. Stranger still was the clothing she wore. Everything loose and shapeless. So unlike many of her generation.

I had expected her to move on. Instead, she spoke again.

“I don’t know any books, but I train every day. Perhaps I could help.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. This might be exactly what I was looking for.

“That’d be … great. Thanks. Shall we get coffee when you finish?”

“Sorry. I don’t finish till late tonight. It’s the library staff meeting. Then I want to get to the gym for an hour. Everywhere’s going to be shut by the time I finish.”

I was deflated. I needed to make progress with my book, and wanted to move forward quickly.

“Look,” she continued, “Do you live close? I’ve seen you here every day since I started, so I guess you do. I could pop to your house after, if you like.”

I thought for a minute, amazed that a young woman would take the risk of going to a total stranger’s house at night. It seemed almost reckless — but if doing this would help move my work forward …

“Are you sure? I mean, you don’t know me. I could be a secret psychopath.”

She smiled. “You could, but I don’t think you are. Anyway, I think you’d come off second best.”

We both laughed, and agreed that she could pop by at nine thirty — I’d have coffee ready, unless she fancied a glass of wine.

She left to go about her work, and shortly after I departed too, feeling that I should almanbahis yeni giriş have a quick tidy up and consider the relevant questions to make the most of the interview.

My mind wandered a little, wondering why this attractive girl, who was probably fifteen years younger than me, had chosen to approach me in the first place. People have said I’m a good looking man — tall, slim and toned from years of sport and now walking and gardening, but she could hardly be physically attracted to me. Perhaps it was pity. Perhaps she was a fan of my work. Whatever, it was irrelevant. She would be here later, and I might, finally make progress.

Ten minutes before she was due to arrive, there was a firm knock at the door. She was early. Always a good sign — I had half expected her not to turn up. I showed her in to my small living room, where she sat on the sofa, relaxed and smiling radiantly.

“Coffee? Or a cold drink?” I asked.

“Have you got any wine? I love a glass of red after a work out.”

I quickly poured two glasses of red wine and sat opposite her. I took out my list of questions, ready to move forward.

“So, you train every day? How long have you been doing that?”

She thought. “About six years. I started when I was twenty one. I don’t train every day. Just every day I possibly can.”

“And why did you start?”

She paused and took a deep breath. Pain, or sadness flitted fleetingly across her face.

“Before I started, I was fat. Obese. I … lost my father was I was ten. He was my world. My mother used to laugh at me. She used to say no man’d ever want me if I was this fat. She said I needed a flat stomach and a slim legs, like her. I was pretty much a ball of flab. By the time I was fifteen, I still hadn’t changed. The kids bullied me. The girls kept saying I was a lard ass. The boys just laughed at me. I ate constantly, which made it worse. I’d been through puberty and had a couple of extra lumps of lard, some hair between my legs which I’d never seen, and bled every so often.

“I went to University, thinking I’d got away from it. I hadn’t. They asked how anyone intelligent enough to do a degree could become so disgusting. They weren’t as vicious as the schoolkids, but they isolated me. Then my mother died and I inherited everything from her. I moved into our family home, and found myself wealthy. I’m still very well off, by the way.

“Then I met my ‘perfect’ man. He took my virginity, said he loved me and my life changed. I started eating more sensibly, he moved into my house and I was happy. Then I found him in bed with another woman. I stood and cried while they laughed at me. He asked what the fuck I thought he saw in me. He said I had flabby tits, an arse like an elephant and he thought he’d missed my cunt and was fucking fat every time we had sex. He said the money had been nice, but there wasn’t enough money in the world to make him keep bouncing about on my fat, ugly cunt when there were real women out there.

“Then he pulled back the bedclothes and showed me his partner’s body. He compared every part of her to me, and fondled her as he did. He got hard, and she started sucking him. I had to leave the room. When they finished, he said he was going to stay in our bed and I could have the spare room. There was nothing I could do about it.

“Next day, someone at work saw me crying. She was kind, and suggested I go to the gym with her. I didn’t want to, but … well … I couldn’t say no to anyone back then. I was amazed. I loved it — not just the actual activity, but the companionship, people not looking at me with pity, but talking about how I could improve myself, how I could ‘tone up’. There was acceptance.

“They came to my house and kicked my ex-boyfriend out. They left him naked on the driveway, along with his new girlfriend. I started going to the gym, eating healthy food, specially designed to make me lose weight where I wanted to while the exercise made sure I didn’t lose too much weight where I didn’t want to. My boobs didn’t became smaller, firmer, but I finally had some, rather than balls of fat. And I had hips. They said if I’d been eight inches taller I’d look like a model.”

I was impressed. I had expected it to be depression which drove her to training, but that wasn’t the case. What had taken her to the gym was friendship, inclusivity. It was a new slant for my writing. It added depth. My killer had been used because of his physique, but his sensitivity was ignored. There was more though, and by now, my thoughts had moved away from my writing, and was focused on this alluring woman opposite me. I just wanted to continue listening to her.

“That’s wonderful. Your face has a lovely shape, and your eyes are beautiful. It’s amazing how your skin looks so soft and smooth. Tell me though. You have this lovely body, yet you wear such shapeless clothes. Aren’t you tempted to wear more … I don’t know … tighter fitting clothes? Things that show the people who knew you how almanbahis giriş much you’ve changed?”

A smile lit her face once more, as she took another sip of wine.

“I haven’t finished yet. The thing is, while I was at the gym, I found myself looking at some of the other people there and admiring them. I wondered if I was a lesbian, but then I realised there was nothing sexual in the way I admired them, it was just that I liked their look. So I decided to ignore those who said I looked ‘perfect’, and do what I wanted for a change. Some people weren’t too keen, but as they said, it’s my body and as long as I’m healthy, it’s up to me. So I changed my training regime, changed my diet and became what I am now.”

I was rather confused. I understood that she had wanted something beyond the ‘perfect’ body which the media promoted, but how did that change what she chose to wear? The confusion must have been evident on my face, because once again her smile warmed my heart.

“Tell you what,” she said, “let’s arm wrestle. If you beat me, I’ll take off my hoodie and show you what I mean. If you lose, you take off your sweat shirt and let me see what sort of shape you’re in.”

I had to smile. I was almost six feet tall, perhaps not as strong as I had been in the halcyon days of my youth, but my muscles were sinewy, and I was powerful as a result of several hours of gardening each day and a generally active lifestyle. She was several inches shorter than me, and while I had no idea what lay beneath the hoodie, I was very confident I could beat her.

I have to admit, my interest in what lay under her clothing went rather beyond the purely academic. I was not far off double her age, and could hardly expect her to have any interest in me, but the sight of her young flesh was guaranteed to stimulate me.

She placed her elbow on the table and opened her hand, ready for me. Her confidence radiated, and I could not help but feel it was sadly misplaced.

I took her hand, loving the warm, soft feeling of her skin, and applied gentle pressure.

“3 — 2 — 1 — go” she counted.

I applied gentle pressure, knowing that my forearm was longer than hers, giving me an immediate advantage. I had decided to be gentle with her, and steadily pressed. She resisted, holding me comfortably as I increased my force. She smiled at me, seemingly comfortable.

I continued to push, still not moving her — it is a lot easier to resist than press back, however, and I knew she would have built some strength from her training, so I continued to push, expecting to feel her arm give at some point. I was casually reflecting, wondering if she would want a rematch afterwards for another piece of clothing. I had played strip poker before as a student, and later with my wife and some friends when we experimented with swinging, but strip arm-wrestling would be a novelty, especially as the game was so weighted in my favour.

Suddenly, she pushed back. I had been distracted and she took advantage. How careless of me! By the time my mind was back on the game, the angle was too great for me to force her back, and my knuckles hit the table.

Her laugh tinkled around the room, making me smile. I’m a competitive person, but losing to her didn’t bother me. It had been a result of drifting into an absurd erotic fantasy.

“You lose your top,” she crowed, “wanna try again?”

I removed the item as agreed. I’m not muscular, but I’m certainly toned and carry no excess weight, so I felt no embarrassment as I revealed my old ‘Pink Floyd’ t-shirt.

She looked at me, appraising. I felt very aware of her eyes on my arms, my chest, and noticed her tongue -tip between her lips, slowly, sensuously leaving a shining trail of saliva as she moistened them.

“What do I lose if you win again?” I teased.

She raised an eyebrow, eyes twinkling.

“Up to you. Trousers or t-shirt.”

I was taken aback. Was she actually suggesting some kind of bizarre stripping game? I was old enough to be her father, yet couldn’t resist the impression that she wanted to seduce me. Since losing my wife, I hadn’t had sex with anyone — had not even been interested, yet here I was, with a lovely young girl who seemed to want me. I was momentarily reluctant, when, suddenly, logic took over. Why not? Why not play this to its logical conclusion? Maybe she was just a tease and would laugh it off after I beat her next time.

“OK. If you’re happy to be in a house with a half naked man who you hardly know, let’s do it.”

This time, I decided that I was not going to make any mistake. I pushed immediately, expecting her arm to collapse. It didn’t. Not only did she hold my push, she pushed back, defeating me with ease.

I looked up in amazement, directly into her smiling eyes, mocking me this time, telling me that this had been comfortable for her. I offered a resigned shrug.

“Well? Which do you want me to take off?”

“T-shirt.” She didn’t even hesitate, and as I stripped almanbahis güvenilirmi off the garment, she gazed once more, taking in my firm stomach and adequate chest. I felt a sense of pride that I had managed to retain an acceptable appearance, despite the ravages of age and my lack of recent sport. Once again, the tongue protruded, and I felt a desire to let her taste me, to feel that tongue on my body. Absurd though it seemed to me, it felt as if she was guiding me towards having sex with her.

“I’m not going to suggest another round,” she informed me, “I’ll just beat you again and again till you’re stark naked. If you like that sort of thing, of course, we could go for it. Personally, I prefer something a little more … balanced.”

I smiled at her. I’ve nothing against the whole CFNM idea — it’s always been a bit of a fantasy of mine — but I’d rather it was a bit more mutual. I was also very keen to gain sight of her body. I was wondering if losing weight had left her with loose skin on her arms and stomach and that was what she was hiding. I decided to push further.

“It’s not really very fair. I’m supposed to be researching you, but I’m the one sitting here with no shirt. You don’t have to show me, just tell me. What are you hiding under there?”

She reached down and in one smooth, graceful movement stripped off her hoodie. Initially, nothing registered beyond her broad shoulders and the glow of her skin, then I noticed her arms. They were massive. Not fat, but bulging with muscle, overlaid with veins. She wore a t-shirt, which stretched over shoulders, and swept to her breasts, which were very evident from the sharp points of her nipples. She twisted, bringing an arm across her body, and flexed a bicep.

“You’re a body-builder,” I breathed. She nodded slowly, clearly amused at my breathless response.

I had never been excited by muscular women before — although I’d never actually met one, yet my response was unmistakeable. I was transfixed by the smooth flow of her biceps and the triceps beneath. From her shoulders into her neck, her trapezius flowed in a smooth curve. It was no surprise she had beaten me so easily at arm-wrestling.

I stared until her giggle broke the spell, at which point I regained my senses. I also became aware that I was experiencing other responses. My penis was, without question, becoming hard, and although she couldn’t possibly see, I crossed my legs.

“Well,” she asked, “What d’you think?”

I should have chosen my word carefully, but instead, my mouth controlled my brain. I suppose Freud might have seen it differently — my id dominating my superego — but whatever internal struggles were going on, I spoke without thinking.

“You look incredible. It’s so beautiful. Are you like this all over?”

She grinned broadly and leaned across the table, close to my face.

“Would you like to find out?” She whispered, seductively.

I nodded, mutely, as she grabbed the hem of her t-shirt and lifted it over her head. Underneath, she wore a sports bra which, if anything, made her nipples even more prominent, but this was not what I saw first.

I gazed at her wide chest, and her ridged stomach. There was no question now that I was sexually excited, and my mind was racing. Where, exactly, was this heading? Was she just teasing, or was this part of her seduction? Had losing her father really led to a preference for older men? Above all, why him? Surely she wanted the muscular men from the gym, not his scrawny little bulges.

“Can I touch?”

She smiled and leaned forward, offering her arm and shoulder. Her skin was like silk, smooth, slightly moist and slippery, as if she had applied cream, or oil. I stroked from arm to shoulder, feeling the ridges of muscle beneath and pushing gently to find how much resistance there would be. Finally, I moved up her neck, to her face and gently brushed her cheek, knowing that this could be nothing other than a romantic gesture.

Still she smiled, maybe breathing a little more heavily, and whispered:

“Would you like to see more?”

I nodded, dumbly.

She leaned right across, putting her cheek against mine.

“I will if you will.”

She sat back, slightly flushed and raised an eyebrow.

I was suddenly aware that stripping off my trousers would make my semi-erection very evident, but at that point, I simply didn’t care. I nodded dumbly as she took control.

“Let’s move over here, away from the table. No point showing our legs if the table’s in the way.”

We moved to the centre of the room, in front of the sofa, and stood facing each other.

“Tell you what,” she said, “let’s take each other’s off. It’ll be more fun that way.”

The power of speech seemed to have left me, so once again, I simply nodded.

She moved close and undid the button on my trousers, before sliding down the zip. She brushed my erection as her hand moved down and raised her head, meeting my eyes and making a sound like a small purr. I decided that meant she was satisfied with at least one of my muscles.

I grabbed the elastic of her jogging trousers, and together, we moved downwards, exposing one another’s underwear as we went. As we stepped out of our clothing, we also stepped back, gazing at one another.

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