[JimmyDimples]

Hey, guys, writing the sequel to Power Play was going a little slow here, too. But I wanted to share something so badly, I figured if Marknew can do it, so could I. It’s by no means complete, since I haven’t come up with a clever game show title name for the chapter, and there’s more in it than this. But here’s a taste of the opener. Enjoy! 😀

Oh, and since I tend towards more world affairs/social upheaval than actual female bodily growth, I decided to post it here. 😉

Child’s Play

Chapter 1

“Crazy men drivers,” muttered Martissa.

“I think your bulk popped the thing,” I mildly snapped back.

I know, that was catty. Especially since Martissa was using her day off to coach me in driving a stick shift. Since my new boss Gracie Terrance-Cristofan wanted me ready to drive heavy vehicles for my new job, I needed to ace the commercial driving permit test. Until I first met her, I was enslaved to the automatic transmission.

Anyway, I pulled the ute off the trail and stopped thirty yards past a lonely church, and we exited into the Australian Outback to check. Yep. The tire was flat as my dad’s jokes. I quietly headed to the ute’s back to fetch the spare, jack, and tire iron. “What are you doing?” Martissa asked.

“Brushing my teeth,” I said. “Are you kidding? I’m gonna fix it.”

“Hey, I can get that.”

“Well, I’ve got it now, thanks.” I rolled the spare around.

“Look, you don’t have to do this.”

“It’s my fault, my flat, my job.”

“And it’s my truck.”

With only a grunt, I sat down, pried off the hubcap and put it aside as I loosened the lug nuts. She stooped down behind me and took my shoulders. “Baby, it could’ve been me. Maybe I am getting a bit big for this old beater anyway. Maybe I should trade it in for an SUV. Or maybe I’ll just give this heap to you.”

I shook my head. “Please don’t do this.”

“What?”

“Please stop being so… so… look, you’ve been providing the lion’s share of the last few dates, all right?”

She whipped her head back incredulously. “What? This is a problem?!”

“For me, it is.”

“Come on, you’ve been pulling your share, too. I mean, remember when we went to the park for a Frisbee throw? That was a great idea of yours. I hadn’t done that in years!”

Yeah, I picked that date for two reasons: one, Dad had advised me to keep my first dates cheap and simple so I wouldn’t lose much if I found out my sweetie wasn’t a keeper. And two, I was dead broke, and my pay from my Crimson Cow trainee job hadn’t come in yet.

“And then you took me to the Women’s Rugby Championships,” I replied, “and bought my Cokes, hot dogs, fries, and program. Autographed by the Brisbane Banshee’s captain, too.”

“Well, then you took me to the art museums and we got great pictures. And that coffee shop/bookstore for a poetry reading the week after.”

“And you bought me a bunch of books and a supply of coffee that I still haven’t finished.”

“Well, then you went ahead and paid for my pinball, air hockey, and video games at the fun arcade the next weekend.”

“And THEN the next week you took me to the laser tag and paintball range, paid for MY games, AND bought me my own paintball gun, ammo, uniform, face plate, and membership. To own.”

She sighed testily. “Well, what about two weeks ago, when we went to the mall and you got me those DVDs? Y’know, X-Men 4, the remakes of Ben Hur and Lawrence of Arabia, and Ernest Meets Mr. Bean?”

None of which would’ve been possible would’ve been possible without CG animation of the guys. “And last week, you took me to the Weird Al concert. Orchestra pit seating. Souvenir sweat shirt, T-shirt, hat, knapsack, and a Shirley Temple, and after THAT, you had us wait backstage and got Al to autograph that copy of “Peter and the Wolf” with Wendy Carlos you got on eBay.”

“Yeah,” she said with a grin. “I had to do some serious hunting for that one.”

“Well, giving it to me with a boom box as its ‘case’ was overdoing it.”

She stared at me as I cranked the jack open. “Sweetie –“

“And now you’ve beaten me to the punch by taking me out driving, and offering me a truck. Forget who pays how much, I can’t even keep up with whose turn it is!”

Silence. Then she said icily, “Do you know how many guys out there would love to have your problem, Monty?” I said nothing, just kept cranking. It then got stuck. “Monty, this isn’t a competitive sport. This isn’t one-upmanship or me putting you in your place. This is…” Then she saw me pushing repeatedly trying to force it open. “Monty, don’t do that.” She took my thin upper arms. “Monty—“

“Don’t! I’ve got it!” I barked, shaking her off.

“Monty, if you keep jerking hard like that, you might—“

Screeeaunch! Thud! The thing bent, and I flipped it and myself over on my right side, sucking red dirt. The vehicle landed roughly back on its flat.

Martissa sighed. “…break it.”

I swung upright, tried to salvage what dignity I could, and looked at the jack. I’d stripped the thread on the bolt inside, too. She shook her head as she put her hands on her bulging muscular tree trunk thighs.

“Terrific. We have a flat, no jack, we’re smack dab in the middle of Outtdawazoo, and I don’t think our cell phones can reach the auto club, even if we belonged to one.” She stood to her full 7 foot, 5 inch height and put her hands on her hips, bending her arms just enough to flex her basketball sized biceps. “What are we gonna do? Oh, what are we gonna dooooooo?” She reached behind her head and relaxingly pushed her shoulders back, tightening that Banana Republic blouse over her massive bodice atop a goblet-shaped torso. She had been gaining weight, and all in the right places. “Well, I’m not gonna sweat it. I’ve got a smart, strong, able, capable man’s man among men to take care of helpless, li’l ol’ me.” She twirled a lock of hair. “I’ll be in the cab if you wanna chat. ‘Kay?” And with a finger tap to my nose, she opened the passenger side door, squeezed in, closed it behind her, grabbed an emery board from the glove box, and did her nails.

I wasn’t done here. Not by a long shot.

Oh, sure, she probably could’ve been the jack if she simply lay on her back under the chassis and inhaled. But don’t let my puny-looking buggy whip body fool you. Men nowadays may be the Yugos of the world… but my new boss has done a little not-so-street-legal tinkering under my hood.

I searched around and found a boulder the size of a hassock. Perfect. I rolled the thing over and kept it near the tire. Then after several deep breaths, I put my hands under the ute’s frame, locked my legs, and pushed up as hard as I could.

I could feel the veins popping all over. I closed my eyes as sweat beaded on my forehead. And yes, Martissa’s now pushing 400 pounds herself wasn’t helping at all. But very slowly, the side of the thing inched its way up. Just when I felt it get high enough, my boot pushed the rock under the vehicle, and I set it down. Then with a satisfied smile, I took the flat off, rolled it and the useless jack to the back, stowed them, dashed around, put on the spare, and threaded on the lug nuts. Then I reached over, and with more deep breaths and a grunt, I hefted it up again and pushed the boulder away with my toe. And though I probably lowered the ute harder than I should have, it wasn’t like I dropped it. I then tightened the nuts with the tire iron, slapped the hubcap back on, sprang up, slid across the ute’s hood to the other side, and slid in the open driver-side window a la Bo Duke.

With a flip of the iron and a catch, I grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Auto club, shmotto club. Shall we go back to town and find a parts store, or is this thing still under the dealer’s warranty?”

Martissa didn’t say a word. She just stared into the rear-view mirror blankly.

“Marti-pie?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

She pointed at the mirror. “Look in the church window.” I did.

Urk! A ten year old boy was staring right at us!

To be completed…

[alex]

Thanks a lot! This was a great start.

I’m really looking forward to reading the next Monty story!

[alex]

On another word, I think you should post this under muscle growth. Even though the growing happened previously, it is still muscle related. As to this forum, it’s usually related to other types of growth, that a lot of muscle lovers tend to avoid.

[JimmyDimples]

I was going for the "there’s so much going on that it’s hard to categorize it as just FMG or GTS" reason myself.

I’ll be delving in all sorts of things, since it’s not just the ladies who get the growth. Things like bioethics, religion, the politics of starvation… and the occasional buxom muscle babe. 😉

Just one question… when does FMG bleed over into GTS territory? I personally draw the arbitrary line at 7 feet 6 inches tall myself.

[alex]

I was going for the "there’s so much going on that it’s hard to categorize it as just FMG or GTS" reason myself.

I’ll be delving in all sorts of things, since it’s not just the ladies who get the growth. Things like bioethics, religion, the politics of starvation… and the occasional buxom muscle babe. 😉

Just one question… when does FMG bleed over into GTS territory? I personally draw the arbitrary line at 7 feet 6 inches tall myself.

All those sociological changes you’re refering to, are related to the fact that women have become huge and powerful mucles babes, while men became weak as children. In the end it’s still a FMG oriented story. It’s not about women growing penises, giant feet or hugely disproportionate boobs. Some people (like me) tend to avoid comming here, because some of the weirder fetishes makes us (me) unconfortable. The only reason I stopped by, was because I saw your name as the author of the last post.

About the amazon/gts boundaries, it’s pretty subjective. If I ever saw a 7’6" woman personally, I would think of her as a giantess. But in stories, I figure my amazon-limit, would be up to 9′ tall. Just my opinion.

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