New Story — Costume Party

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    Mark Newman

    Well, a week late, but better now than on time for Halloween 2006.


    "Costume Party" or "Where are the Marshmallows?"
    by Marknew
    One of those Halloween stories

    Gillian and Brent are at a Costume Party. Gillian is normally 5'3" but tonight she is wearing 10" platform shoes, like the ones that used to be a craze in Japan.  She so likes "looking down" at 5'10" Brent for a change. She is also wearing Brent's football shoulder pads which are so big on her they slide over her shoulders and over her upper arms like padded biceps. Beneath the pads she slipped in metal cans and on top of the pads she has fit large round papier mache balls coated with aluminum foil to round out her "muscles of steel." She's also taped a metal plate over her stomach and under her dress and some foil over her delightful round butt, for her "abs and buns of steel".  Brent meanwhile is shorter than usual.  Gillian has somehow persuaded him to walk around in thin sandals, his legs forced apart by a brace that also makes his torso slightly hunched over, thus reducing his height to just over 5'4".  Around each of his impressive biceps Gillian wrapped a bag of marshmallows.  She taped another bag over his chiseled abs. 

    "You look ridiculous," Brent grunts.

    "I look bigger than you," she giggles, tottering on her shoes and nearly falling. "Whoops!"

    "Caught you," he says, sighing. "You'll twist your ankle or, worse, break a leg. I really think you shouldn't be wearing those."

    "You just don't like being smaller, you little 'Marshmallow Muscle' Man" she teases. "And I'm glad you'll finally see what it's like being short like me, with people walking over you like you're not really there. Whoopsie!"

    He catches her again.  "Jeez. You'd have just killed yourself if I weren't as strong as I am.  Good thing these marshmallows are just for show!"

    "Yeah, well … you're exaggerating. Hey!  I got it now." She walks a few steps. "There!  I'm balanced."  Walks up and down fairly steadily. "See?  It just takes a little practice to be tall."

    He looks at her skeptically.  "It takes more than that to be tall AND strong, I reckon."

    "All it took for you is having the right genes!" she sniffs.

    "And a whole lot of working out," he reminds her.

    "I work out too!"

    "It's not the same!" he counters.

    "Exactly!" she says in triumph. "Hmmmph!"

    He looks at her quizzically. Does she actually think she WON that argument?  Girls! 

    She walks over and puts her arm over his shoulder. He tries to do the same to her, reasserting his male position, but can't quite reach because of her height and the thickness of her pads.

    "You're too little!" she giggles.

    "Just tonight! Better enjoy it while you can."

    "Yeah!" she says, regretfully. "But I will. I really will. It's fun being bigger than you. And stronger." She pats her huge foil-wrapped muscles. 

    "Except you're not," he reminds her.

    She looks down at him, disapprovingly, for breaking the spell. Again.  Killjoy! 

    They walk around the party looking at the costumes, Brent particularly enjoying a harem suit worn by a very busty girl. He lingers, gawking, until Gillian steers him away. "Enough of that," she says. "Party's over.  You're MY date!"

    She pulls Brent and walks away with him as quickly as she can, nearly bumping into an older woman wearing a fairy godmother costume.  "Oh!  Excuse me!"

    The woman smiles benevolently at the two. "That's all right.  You look very nice, dearies!"

    "Yeah," Gillian says, looking wistfully at her 'big' muscles. She squeezes Brent to her chest possessively, gently, careful not to crush his marshmallows.  "You too.  Um, we, uh, got to go."

    "Oh, of course you do." She slides past Brent and Gillian, her cardboard tube wand grazing them, and moves on, disappearing into the crowd.

    "Who invited HER?" Brent says.

    "Yeah, I know!  But she was sweet!" Gillian replies, her mood improved. "Let's go.  My place?  For a little … pick-me-up?"

    He nods.  She must be thinking the same thing he is. That will be more fun than this party, for sure. And he can get out of this brace. At least his back has stopped hurting.

    She moves to the door, more quickly now. "And I was really getting the hang of it!"

    "Wait up!" Brent says, slipping around in his sandals.

    Brent and Gillian are on the street. "You're being so slow!" she says. "Come on!"  She waits for Brent to catch up and puts her arm around his, squeezing it affectionately, impatiently, not caring about the marshmallows now.  "I'm feeling really hot!"

    Brent likes when Gillian gets passionate but he's huffing and puffing and says nothing for now. He walks stiffly, a bit painfully, with his erotic anticipation. Well, it's one of the very few downsides of being a man, a well-endowed man, he thinks in consolation.  He wishes they were there already, undressed and going at it.  It won't be long.

    Now they are in her apartment, still more than a little drunk. Annoyingly, to Brent, they're also still dressed. Gillian is being playful, standing against the wall, still in her platform shoes, first making him reach up to kiss her, then pulling his face down against her large breasts.

    "But I don't WANT to take off my muscles or my shoes!  I want to be STRONG.  Me BIG!  Me STRONG," she says, giggling.

    "Yeah, yeah," he says, trying hard to be agreeable, lifting his cheek off the promising expanse of her still fully clothed boobs. Anything, ANYTHING to get her enough in the mood so that they can get on to it.  So she'll have had her fun and then he can get her clothes off.  And his too.  And that damned brace.  He'd almost forgotten about it.

    "Stronger than YOU!  Bigger than YOU!" she goes on, not tiring of the game nearly as quickly as he has.  "SUPER muscles!" she says, slapping her hand against their bulging solidity.  He reaches for the top button of her dress, deciding it's time to take these matters into his own hands.  She pushes his hand away and then pushes against his chest, holding him off.  "Uh, uh. Not so fast.  Be a gentlemen.  Wait 'til the lady is ready," she teases.

    He's annoyed but knows her well enough not to press the issue, at least not physically.  "Come ON, Gillian," he says impatiently.  He wants so badly to push his erection into her crotch, but he can't because she's up too high.  He raises himself on his toes, but can't get the leverage because of his damned costume and the position is making his legs tire quickly.  This is so awkward.

    She sees him struggling and reaches back to cup his ass, helping to support him.  That helps.  Quickly they're grinding away.  She moans slightly.  "Oh, baby!" she says, sounding sexier, hornier, already.  "You really know how to turn me on!"

    At last!  She gives his ass one last very hard squeeze and pulls back to let him unbutton her dress.  He does so, as quickly as he can, before she changes her mind and starts that funny business again with her phony big muscles.  When he reaches her waist he waits, looking to catch the metal plate so it doesn't fall out and smash onto his open-toed feet.  It's not there.  It must have fallen out at the party, or maybe she took it off in the bathroom.  But he doesn't remember her leaving him.  Haven't they been together the whole evening?  Well, who cares?  Maybe when he was looking at that harem girl.  He wasn't paying attention to anything then except those spectacular….  No! Mustn't think of her!  He'll come in a second if he starts thinking about her now!  That would sure slow things down.

    How many buttons does this damn dress have?  He's finished with the body. But it won't come off. He tugs at it. It's the damn sleeves, and all the crap she's put on her arms to make up her silly muscles. 

    "Careful!  You'll rip it," Gillian says.  "I love this dress!  You have to unbutton the sleeves.  'Cause my 'big muscles' are in the way!" She giggles again.

    Brent looks mournfully at the long row of little buttons running from her wrist up to the foil wrapped around her upper arm. With his luck tonight, the buttons probably go underneath the foil all the way up to her shoulder! "You do it," Brent says, frustrated.

    "I want YOU to do it," she says playfully. "You undress me, and then I'll undress YOU!  I know just how to do it too!" she adds, wriggling her fingers and bumping her hip sensuously into his crotch.

    Well, at least he's gotten her on the right track.  He sighs and gets to work, his fingers struggling with the tiny, slippery buttons to ease them through the tiny buttonhole slits while she watches and makes cute, sexy, happy, approving little Betty Boop squeals each time he undoes another one. Each squeal arouses him more. Each increase in his level of arousal makes him more impatient. Each extra bit of impatience makes the next button balkier. And as he nears the bulge of metal and padding she had, just to annoy him, stuffed into upper part of her sleeve, each tiny button is, even more annoyingly, even more tightly embedded in its equally tiny buttonhole.

    "Oooooh, be careful!" she says, her breath hot with anticipation, her excited fingers pressing hard into his flesh. "Don't PULL the buttons off!  I'll NEVER find thread to match this color."

    "Hold still!" Brent grumbles.  "You keep moving!  It's hard enough already."

    "What's hard?" she asks coquettishly, teasing once again, pushing once again against his very erect, very hard member. "Ooooooh, I know what! Or did you mean my muscles?  My big, strong steely —

    "Enough with that!" he blasts.  "I've had it up to HERE with these silly 'muscles'!  Geez!  I can't BELIEVE how much you got stuffed in here. LOOK how tight it is." Gillian tries to keep still as Brent gets the last three buttons before the foil, then unwraps the foil and papier mache and strips it off. "I can't even SEE my pads. What's UNDER here!?"

    "Just a t-shirt. To smooth it all out," she says in a small voice, feeling more than a little bit abashed. "I'm sorry I made it so hard for you," she adds, apologetically. "If you want me to help —

    "No! I can do it!" he maintains grumpily.  There's so much under the sleeve pulling the buttons so tight that the spaces between the buttonholes are pulled apart, like when a busty girl wears a blouse that's too small for her.  He tries to pull the fabric together, gently, as she asked, so he doesn't tear it, when she starts laughing.

    "I'm sorry.  You're tickling me!" she says, giggling again.

    "I don't see how you can even feel anything under all this crap.  You're like that princess and the pea."

    "That'll be me!" she says, laughing.  "A delicate little princess, once you take away my muscles."

    "Hold still!"

    "Ok ok.  Wait.  I'm trying.  I have to get ALL the giggles out."  She takes a deep breath, steeling herself to be calm, to control herself, and then tensing her muscles to get rid of all the laughter before relaxing them. But as she tenses them there's a loud ripping sound, the sound of threads snapping, buttons flying, fabric tearing and Brent swearing. 

    "What the FUCK!"

    "What is it?  Oh no!  My dress!"

    "What did you just do?"

    "What did I do?  What did YOU do?"

    "I didn't do ANYTHING!  What did YOU do?"

    "I was trying to relax, to stop laughing, like you asked me.  Why didn't you just WAIT?!  Now my dress is RUINED!"

    Brent speaks slowly, trying desperately to keep his temper under control.  "I … wasn't … touching … your dress when … it … ripped," he says, face red, barely controlling himself.

    She is quiet for a couple of seconds.  "You weren't?"


    "Oh."  She looks at him meekly.  She thinks a minute and speaks slowly, trying to work it all out.  "I don't get it.  I just did what they taught us in my relaxation class.  At the beginning.  It's nothing big — as long as you don't do something dumb and hurt yourself. The teacher said it was a mystical thing, using opposites. Like black and white, hot and cold, you know?"

    Brent nods curtly, waiting for her no doubt interminable and irrelevant explanation to end. Is a night in bed with Gillian REALLY worth all this?  He is beginning to wonder.  No.  Well past beginning.  "Uh hum. What in the world does that have to do with your dress?"

    "Let me explain!  I'm trying to tell you.  Where was I?  Oh yeah, it's about what I did when you told me to relax.  So, what she tells us to do to get ready to relax is to first do the opposite, to push yourself as hard as you can.  And then when you build up the tension as far as it possible can go and get all the nervous energy out, you let it go.  All of it.  It's like this."  She takes a deep breath and again tenses her muscles.  Brent and Gillian look at her arm with astonishment as the pale off-white cotton cloth of her t-shirt pushes through the line in the sleeve of her dress where the buttons used to be, growing higher, bulkier, harder with each moment that she pushes herself.  Then she stops and relaxes, suddenly, and it immediately disappears.

    They are both staring at her arm, not moving a muscle.

    Thirty seconds pass.


    "What was THAT?" she asks, incredulous.  "I've never seen THAT before."

    "That," he says in equal disbelief, staring at her upper arm, the t-shirt clearly showing now through the broad tear in her sleeve, "is a biceps muscle."

    "But I don't have one," she protests. 

    Brent looks at her.  He knows that's true, just as well as she does.  He also knows what he just saw.  What he could NOT have just seen.

    "Really, Brent, I swear! I just put a metal can in there. And your shoulder pad on top of it. From your football uniform, you know, when you play. You saw me."

    "Yeah," he says. "Uh huh."

    "And my t-shirt. THAT t-shirt.  That same one's still there, right?"  He nods, not reacting in any other way.  She waits and then decides Brent isn't going to say anything.  Typical.  She decides she better keep talking to deflect him, and hopefully stop his brain from going off half-cocked in some unpleasant way that she won't be able to stop.  Guys often do that, she has noticed, and it almost never ends well.  "What was IN the can, I wonder," she says slowly. "Maybe it was spinach, you know, like when –"

    "That has NOTHING to do with it!" he explodes.

    "I was just thinking," she continues quickly. "No, I remember.  It wasn't spinach.  It was peaches, the kind in that sticky sweet sauce. My Mom got it for me when I moved in here so I'd have some fruit to snack on and it's been sitting there in the cupboard for like five years. I hate canned peaches.  Too sweet."  She pauses, trying to think of something to say.  "I wonder what happened to them."

    "Who CARES about the peaches?  What the fuck happened to YOU?!"

    She looks down at Brent. "You don't have to shout at me!" She stares at him a moment, pouting, although she feels relieved that she has stopped him from thinking too much about what happened. "I don't know what happened," she says, resentful of his tone.  Brent's anger, his harsh language, leaves her feeling a bit hurt and disengaged from him and for a few moments she thinks she's about to cry.  It was going to be such a perfect evening and now Brent is yelling at her.  She hates being yelled at.  But then something changes in her mood. His indifference frees her for a moment, allows her own curiosity and excitement to assert themselves over the emotional string between them. She looks at her arm and wonders.  She cautiously tenses her muscle again. It bounds upward, pushing through the tear in her sleeve just like before. This time she holds it there, staring with amazement at the broad bulge of pale off-white cotton cloth poking through the silky chartreuse fabric of her sleeve. (Is that really mine, she asks herself.  It's really big.  Really, really big.)  She touches it, gently, with her finger, to convince itself it's real, that it's actually part of her body.  It is.  It's hers … all hers.  Wow.

    She turns to Brent.  "Do you think my muscle could be bigger than yours?"

    "No," he says quickly, pretending not even to bother looking while quickly glancing at it sideways out of the corner of his eye.  "It couldn't be."

    HE may not be interested, but SHE is.  She probes it a little more with one finger.  It sure feels solid.  "Oh! OH!!!" Gillian says excitedly to Brent. "What's that thing you do, that guys do, when they're, uh, flexing — yeah, FLEXing — their muscles, like they bend their arms and make a fist. You know? Does that make them get even bigger and harder?  'Cause my arm's just a little bent.  What if I –"  She bends her arm up to 90 degrees and tenses more, harder.  The rest of the sleeve fabric tears so that the space between the buttons now extends all the way to her shoulder.  Gillian is far beyond caring about her dress.  "Yeah, like that.  Wow!  LOOK at it!  It's huge! Don't you think so?"

    It IS huge.  In fact, it's SO large that despite himself Brent can't do anything but stare at the enormous bulge of muscle that is straining her the pale off-white cotton cloth of her t-shirt to near transparency as it sits, quietly waiting, on his girlfriend's arm.  Waiting.  Waiting for what?  What, exactly, is it doing there?  How, exactly, did it get there?  How, exactly, can this little girl have a muscle, a bicep muscle, as big and as round as all that?  While he watches it, it starts to pulse, as though it's waking up.  She's pumping it now, seeing what it can do.  And maybe, it occurs to him, she's thinking about what she can do with it.

    "It IS bigger than yours," she remarks casually, breaking him out of his reverie.  (Can't let him think too much!)  "I'm sure of it!"  She lowers her arm so that it's right in front of his face.  "You gotta admit it."  He doesn't say anything and she doesn't wait long before continuing.  "Well, this dress is ruined anyway."  She pulls it off her shoulders and lets it drop to her feet.  Her t-shirt only reaches halfway between her bra and her navel and she looks down in surprise.  "Hey, I got muscles ALL over.  My shoulders and my abs — I got a six pack!  No! A one-two-three-four … eight pack!  And my legs too!"  He is staring at her body in complete disbelief.  "Yeah! I must be strong too with all these muscles. Really strong." She cups her bicep. "Hey, 'muscles of steel', remember?  Feel them!" Brent shakes his head. "Come on!"

    She grabs his hand and puts it on top of her bicep. He can feel its solidity beneath his palm and presses down on it slightly, then harder. He didn't want to do this. But she's made it impossible for him not to.  Now he'll have to do it for real. He'll have to prick her little bubble. He pushes harder now, bearing down on that inflated ball of flesh she's suddenly so proud of. He'll have to crush it — a little — just to show her.  It may hurt, yeah, a little, for a minute, but she asked for it. He has to show her what's what and who's who. Who's the man. Who's the one who has the real muscle and who's still living out her little Halloween costume party fantasy.

    "You're not really trying," Gillian complains. "Can't you at least humor me?  I'm not asking you to suck on it!" she jokes. "I know you're a breast man, not a muscle man."

    He looks up. "What do you mean by that?" he says sharply.

    It hits her what she's just said. "Oh!  No!  That's not what I meant to — Oh, honey! I KNOW you have muscles. Real muscles, not marshmallows."

    He grumbles but allows himself to be mollified.

    "But Brent honey, I still really want you to feel how hard they are. You're treating me like a fragile little thing. I'm not! Not anymore. So stop messing around. I think they're hard but I want YOU feel them and tell me. Please."

    Well, all right.  She's really asked for it now.  He pushes again — hard — but can't make a dent in it. He squeezes with his fingers, then with his whole hand.  Nothing.  His fingers are cramping.  He puts his weight into it, pressing down hard enough on her arm to pull her over.  She doesn't move, not even a little bit. And his back is hurting again. "It's this position," he grumps. "Take those silly shoes off. I can't get any leverage with you standing up so high."

    What does leverage have to do with it?  Gillian shrugs. Brent's just pretending.  He's not even trying!  Why is he being so difficult?  Maybe he's worried about hurting her.  Well, that's nice, at least, even if she did tell him not to go easy on her.  It shows real consideration — something most guys don't have.  So if he says he's feeling uncomfortable then why not help him out?  Not that the shoes are bothering her anymore. She is totally used to them now but she isn't going to wear them to bed anyway.  She had intended to take them off before but seeing her abs and legs looking so muscular made her forget.  She steps out of her dress and leans over to unstrap her shoes, slides her feet out and steps down. There!

    "Okay?" She turns to Brent.  He is staring at her, frowning. "All right, what's wrong now?" she says, putting her hands on her hips.  Is he doing that thinking thing again?

    "Y-y-you're not any shorter!" he says, still looking up at her. "You're exactly as tall as before. When you had your shoes on. B-but that's impossible!"

    She looks down at him and then down at her legs, her long, seemingly endlessly long, muscular legs.

    "Oh my god!!" she says.  "Oh my GOD!!  Those are NOT my legs!". She bends down and runs her hand down her long, firmly, muscled thigh, over her powerful, bulging calf, all the way to her toes and then up her other leg. "Oh my god!!" she repeats. "Those are MY legs!  They're beautiful!  Don't you think they're beautiful?"

    "I er I –"

    "I've always HATED my legs but, oh, I DO love them now!!"

    "But Gillian … Gillian … how did you GET them?"

    "I don't know. And I don't care!" She looks down at them, reaches down with both hands and caresses her thighs. "I just know that I love them," she says dreamily and looks over at Brent. "Don't you?"

    Brent looks up and down her legs. They ARE long. And beautiful. And sexy. He could look at them all day. "Yes, but –"

    "Then don't WORRY about it!  There are so MANY things to worry about. Why worry about how your darling girlfriend has developed the longest, most spectacular legs you've ever seen in your whole life when you can just ENJOY them?  Hmmmmmm?" She lifts her leg high in the air so that her foot is nearly above her head, letting Brent see her new, magnificent legginess in its full glory. Her leg is now, in fact, above Brent's head, and she lowers it slightly to rub his cheek gently with the bottoms of her toes.

    Although Gillian is being very solicitous and is looking at Brent with "bed me now" eyes, something about the scene, her posture, their positions, the looming curve of her exquisitely toned — no, powerfully BULGING and PEAKED — calf muscle so close to his face, bothers Brent, and he brusquely turns his head and pushes Gillian's foot away. She is startled. It's not that he's pushed her hard but that he's rejected her.  He never has before, not when she's really wanted him.  "Come on, baby, I'm really in the mood now," she says, almost pleading.

    Gillian really wants it. She's no fool.  She knows what works, what always works with Brent.  She lowers her leg gracefully and arches her body so that her already fully stretched t-shirt is molded over her nipple studded breasts, the two bulging mounds on her chest echoing the half-revealed globes of muscles in her upper arms, creating stretch marks where they push out her sleeves, until she flexes them and turns the stretch marks into deep valleys cutting across the top of her chest where they flatten against her breasts even more tightly than before.  She puts her hands on her hips and slowly rotates them, rocking them back and forth.  "Honey?" she says in the sexiest tone she can muster.  "I've got something really hot, waiting for you. Won't you come and get it?"

    Brent stares at her, his lust rising, asserting its inherent primacy, laying waste to the efforts of his conscious mind.  Yes, the universe may have unfathomable mysteries, but something more important has just come up.  Gillian can see it in his eyes, the way they've lost focus … for anything but the curves of her body. Her hands drift to the bottom of her t-shirt, taunting him with the imminent unveiling of her bare, liberated bosom, but instead pulling her tee down tighter to snugly reveal what it conceals even more than before. 

    Gillian waits, lets Brent's eyes dance over her.  His eyes bulge, his blood pounds, his member pulses as his body unconsciously, tropistically, leans toward hers.  She can sense his desire. It washes over her like a drug.  His sexual heat adds fuel to her own, as though she is absorbing his through each pore.  Her lips tingle with anticipation and redden as her arousal grows.  She bites them slightly, then her teeth press down harder, dragging across her lip to give herself a foretaste of what she desires, Brent's hard, strong body pushing rhythmically, hungrily into hers with all its masculine power and need.

    Yes, she has him now.  When and how doesn't matter.  Well … so long as it's now. 

    She digs her hand into the space between the buttons of his shirt and yanks it open with her delightful new strength, tearing it open, nearly ripping it right off his back.  He flies into her, almost too quickly, his body smacking first against her cushiony breasts and an instant later against her rock-hard abs. She quickly enfolds him in her arms and presses him firmly into her chest, his lips mashed against the lower part of her neck.  He feels the heat of her passion, her desire for him. He feels it, and it hurts. Her arms bend his spine, twist his back, compress his organs, leave him breathless. He can't speak, can't inhale, can't move, can't stop her. She pulls him to her and he rises off his feet to his toes as she lifts him to her lips.

    "Hold me!" she moans. "Take me. Love me!  Like only you can, darling!"

    His arms are trapped inside hers. Her strength is monstrous. Inhuman. She'll crush me. Break me!

    "What IS it darling?  Don't you feel how much I want you. I can hardly feel you holding me!" She pauses. He can feel her trembling, stiffening.  "D-d-don't you want me anymore, now that I have muscle too, like you?  Nothing ELSE has changed!  Don't you know that?" She's sounding more and more anxious. "It's like I can't even feel you. Like you're not even there, not even holding me. What's wrong?"

    They break apart.  He looks up at her. He's breathing (at last!), gasping hard for air, his heart pounds while she looks down at him. He doesn't feel right. Not to himself. Not to her.  "Let's get that brace off you," she says finally, impatiently, and pulls down his pants.

    There is no brace, there are just his legs. 

    HIS legs?  He looks down at them and up, up at her and down at his legs and over at hers and how muscled they are and then back at his, so thin and smooth and round and undefined, so unlike hers, which are overstuffed with muscles that bulge and peak and ripple and flex with every tiny shift in her balance and position.  And then his eyes focus higher, on his stomach, the tight washboard product of thousands of crunches and presses and turns, none of which he sees any trace of. Could it all be concealed, suddenly hidden behind a soft, smooth, pouchy belly he's never looked down at before.  He presses it searching, digging deeper and deeper for his sculpted abs, his hard six-pack.  But no, what's there is soft.  MARSHMALLOW soft! No!  The muscle he's built up, honed, trained and won isn't hidden. It's not there!  It's just not there!! 

    "Where are the marshmallows?" Gillian is saying but her voice is a distant sound that passes through him like light through glass. It is a passing siren, a warning signal for another's peril, while warning bells of another peril sound inside him. His arms. His arms? His arms!! No!  He can't look, can't bear to look, but already he has. How short they are. How NOT lean, NOT wiry, NOT jagged. His upper arms are thick but not the right kind of thick. He can't help glancing up at hers. Also thick, but thick and then thicker, round and then bulging, twitching with life and power, the motions of the muscle within ready to act and react upon the will of the moment. HER will. And then back to his, the lifeless roundness of his upper arms, the heaviness felt within. Even his arms feel heavy. But what is heavy?  What is within? He dreads knowing and knows already. While his mind tells him to stop, to let it remain unknown for please just a little bit longer he is already trying, flexing, pushing and seeing … nothing. No ball of muscle within. No bulging out. No strength.  The heaviness not of substance but of weariness. Of weakness.  His arms are heavy because he is weak. 

    "Where are the marshmallows?" Gillian is repeating louder this time, not getting any response, the siren upon him.  WARNING!  WARNING!  What's WRONG with him?  She is looking around at Brent's feet.  Her eyes range down the floor to the door to the apartment.  When exactly did the package of marshmallows drop off?  She know she saw them when they came inside?  Where are they?  And why won't he listen?  She takes Brent's upper arms to get his attention, her large, powerful hands squeezing with shocking ease the fatty tissue softly, gently filling out his skin. Amazed, unbelieving, she squeezes them again and again, not able to trust what her senses told her before and repeat again and again. "Brent.  Brent!  Your muscles!" She squeezes harder, searching for them.  "Your arms!  They're so soft!  Where are they?!" she cries, no longer talking about the marshmallows.

    He gasps in pain. "My arms!"

    "You're all soft. All soft!" she cries and looks down at him and his dumpy legs. "And so short!" she exclaims. "So little … and soft," she says in a different, quieter voice.  She stares at him and then takes him in her arms, lifting him off the ground so that his lips are level with hers and kisses him passionately, hugging him to her body.  "So soft, like a girl," she says with barely surpressed wonder.  His weight is nothing to her.  She is starting to realize just how strong she is.  Why, she can hold him with one arm, freeing the other to explore more of his changed body.  She lets her free hand range around his hairy but thin chest, his bony back, her strong fingers probing his squishy buns and his soft thighs, then they drift over to his pulsing erection.  Oh!  It's just as long, just as thick, just as hard as before!  "But not a girl, not a girl at all!"  She says greedily.  She fingers it lightly, just the way he likes it, just the way he can't stand it … not for too long. 

    "Hey! Gillian!  What are you doing?"  Brent says, trembling, as Gillian parts her legs, lifting Brent into her.  "Hey!  You can't –"

    "Can't I?" she moans sexily.  "Why don't you try to stop me, big boy. I don't think you can.  I'm so strong now, with my muscles of steel, my great big powerful muscles of steel.  See how easily I can hold you?  See how hard and strong they are?"  She flexes her muscles against him and his body caves in to her hardness.  "Ooooh, did I hurt you?  Let me make it all better."  She tenses her vaginal muscles and Brent shudders in pleasure.  "Oooooh, and see what they can do!  Take that, you soft little man!  You soft little man with a cock of steel"  She repeats it, squeezing his cock from the tip to the base and then back up again, feeling his body become completely limp in her arms, like putty, except for one very, very important part.  "And that!  And that! Aaaaaaannnnnnnnddddddd thhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!"

    "UUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!" he moans as the pleasure slices through him.  Her body is so hard, her pulsing muscles seem impervious to his touch.  He clutches at her harder, expressing his passion with all the remnants of his strength, pushing further inside, but he needs to be closer still, needs more of what she is giving him, while she so easily takes all he has.

    She feels him holding her, grasping at her, not uncomfortably.  Part of her is thinking it feels kind of funny, the contrast between his strained expression, the heat of his need, his desperation, his passion, and the ultimate effect, the MILD effect.  So THIS is the feel of his strength?  From his face, it looks like all his strength.  Funny.  But after all it's the thought that counts, his feelings are more important.  That and his delicious hard cock, filling her up.  She moves him against her, putting him just where she wants him.  Yes, like that!  More!  She never liked being crushed by him anyway, never liked having to answer to his needs.  And now he clings to her, with a passion so desperate it's as though there is no room for him for anything else.  That's good.  That's very good.

    "You like it honey?  When I do THIS?"  She does it again, squeezing his cock with a little tremolo this time.  He moans louder.  He's so easily satisfied.  But not yet, babe!  Me first.  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  YES!!  And more.  More.  More.

    Mark Newman

    Part 2

    An hour has passed.  Gillian and Brent are in Gillian's bed.  She is on her back, her arm around Brent.  His head rests on her chest.

    "I feel SOOOOOOO good," she says.  "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm."  She shifts her hips slightly side to side and giggles.  "Yeah!  Hey, Brent?"

    He is asleep.

    Gillian smiles.  She runs her fingers through his hair and then down his neck to his shoulder and then his arm, feeling yet again how soft it is.  She squeezes it, a little, and he stirs, frowning slightly.  Did she hurt him?  He's still asleep, so he must be ok.  Poor Brent  It's been a trying evening for him, but he HAS gotten something special from HER too!  She can let him sleep … for a bit.  She scoots back a little and reaches beside her to the side of the bed to push herself up with one arm while gently moving Brent off her and onto the pillow. 

    She feels so alive!  So light!  Even though she knows she's a lot heavier now. She walks to the bathroom, the floor creaking under her. She steps tentatively onto the scale. The dial spins.  No way!  She steps off. No one has to know about THAT!

    She stands in front of the mirror, admiring her nude physique. Is she TOO muscular?  Her biceps ARE big, and so are her shoulders.  Her smooth back is history. And her legs are very thick. But they're long too. So beautifully long. That REALLY helps. And with her narrow waist and big boobs — 100% natural — she still looks and feels ALL girl. No question about that.

    Reassured, she wonders what it means.  What ALL this muscle really means.  Just how strong is she?  Strong enough to lift Brent easily, but he's pretty small now. He can't weigh much more than she used to — maybe 120 pounds. She looks longingly at her brass bed. That's heavy, but she can't go trying to lift it now. Not with Brent asleep on it. She walks into the living room and looks around. She picks up her old hand dumbbells, which she keeps near the sofa for the few times she would work out along with the ESPN show. Well, that's silly. Five pounds feels, like, nothing. She spies GrandMom's old cast iron lamp, buried in the corner of the room! She never uses it. It's not even plugged in.  But she's never been able to bring herself to throw it out. It's not as heavy as Brent, but a whole lot denser — a solid piece of metal. She holds it like a dumbbell. Even one-handed it's pretty easy, even though it's kind of unbalanced. She holds it out in front of her. Wow!  She can do it!  Ha!  Is there anything she can't do?!  Jokingly she takes it in both hands to bend it like Superman. The metal resists — for a moment — and then the lamp takes on a strange "L" shape. Gillian jumps in surprise and comes down hard, shaking the floor.

    "What are you doing in there?" Brent says groggily from the bed. "Jumping Jacks?"

    Gillian puts the lamp back in the corner quickly and throws a blanket over it.

    "I just tripped over something," she says, looking around. "Your sandals."

    Brent stumbles in. He glances at Gillian and pretends not to notice her nude muscular physique. "I need a drink." He ducks into her small kitchen and emerges a moment later with a bottle of Sam Adams. "It's the last one," he announces before twisting the cap. Trying to twist the cap, that is. He stands gritting his teeth, his hand curled around the top of the bottle while he struggles with the screw top. Gillian goes to help him and then stops, unsure whether it would be better to do it for him or just wait until he asks.  She can see that even with all the effort he's expending there's barely any movement in his upper arm, except some flesh jiggling around. Poor Brent.

    He takes it back to the kitchen, roots around for a bottle opener and then re-emerges swigging the bottle. "Sometimes they get stuck," he says.

    Yeah, stuck in denial, Gillian thinks. 

    He tips the bottle and takes another long drink. "You were really into it. This costume thing turns you on."

    "Yeah. You seemed just a bit into it too.  I mean, well, after the costumes came off."

    Brent nods.  Gillian points to his member, hanging down. "At least IT'S not any smaller."

    "At least," he replies. "But just because I LOOK like this doesn't mean I, you know, am any less of, you know —

    "A man?  Oh, definitely not!  I can vouch for that!" she agrees quickly.

    "And I'm NOT a weakling!"

    "Of course not.  I never said anything like that."

    "You said I was soft."

    "Not ALL of you, honey.  Just … certain parts.  I have some soft parts too.  Remember?"  She holds up her breasts and swings them slightly, side to side.

    He stares at them.  It's not at all what he was getting at and she knows it.  He takes another gulp.  "You think I'm weak!"

    "Well … it's, uh, not like it really matters what I think, does it?  I just, uh, said it, you know, in the heat of passion.  And I AM very passionate for you, Brent.  Really."  She sidles up closer to him.  He is really is such a little cutie.  And his defiant attitude is cute too, since she knows now she can handle him so easily.  Out of the corner of her eye she can see the faint stirrings of life again in Brent below and she gets a little tingle inside to answer it.  She wants to hold his soft body again, but it's not a good time … not just yet.  "And, uh, anyway, it doesn't have to be a permanent thing.  You can still exercise.  I'm sure with your dedication and … genes and all the working out you always do, you'll be strong again in no time at all," she says cheerfully.  She bends over and retrieves the two dumbbells she had taken before and holds them out to him.  "You can even start right now if you want." 

    He looks up at her.  Is she challenging him?  Making fun of him?  Or daring him?  "Those little things?" he says dismissively.

    "I know they're light, but it's all I have here.  Just to get your blood going.  It'll make you feel better.  You can do more at your gym later." 

    To make his reluctance and disdain plainly obvious he makes her wait, holding them for a few more seconds.  They look so small.  And they're pink!  Grrrr.  Having made his point that he's far above working out with her "girlie" weights he reaches out to take them from her, opening his fingers as far he can stretch them to fit the two in his smaller hand.  As soon as Gillian transfers them to him their "awesome" weight wrenches his shoulder downward and the searing pain of overstraining his arm almost makes him cry out in pain.  He bends downward, nearly to the floor.

    "Brent!  Are you all right?"  Gillian hovers above him, concerned, while Brent struggles to right himself, using all of the strength in his back and abdominal muscles to straighten his body.  But even as he barely succeeds, his arm is on fire from the weight of the dumbbells, he has no feeling in his fingers, and the possibility of lifting them even one inch to exercise is as far from reality as that of throwing the two of them at supersonic speed at Gillian, which he desperately wants to do.  Necessity defeats valor and honor and he drops them onto the floor, narrowly missing his feet.  His muscles tell him they weighed 50, maybe 100 pounds each, even as the "5 LBS" etched into the fat part of the dumbbells stares him in the face, shouts at him and sticks its tongue out at him, firmly, fully and cruelly.

    "Maybe … maybe you'll just have to start lighter," Gillian suggests quietly.

    "I can't believe this!  I can't believe this!" Brent says, agitatedly, not looking at her, walking around the room.

    "I know, honey.  I know.  It's really weird," Gillian replies.  She watches Brent pacing manically.  Finally she sets herself down so she's half-sitting on her sofa, waiting for him to calm down.  Her arm is draped over her naked chest, her fingers resting lightly on her upper arm.  Impatient, she flexes it, again and again, touching it, each time experiencing anew its hardness as she continues to familiarize herself, unconsciously, with its new shape.

    "Stop doing that!" he says crossly.


    "Your muscle.  Stop flexing it!"

    "I wasn't … oh, yeah, I was.  Sorry."  It's not a heartfelt apology.  "I keep forgetting.  I'm sorry it bothers you.  It's hard … not to do it.  It's all so new."

    "Yeah.  It's just that —

    "I know."  It's just that he's so jealous, she thinks, finishing his sentence for him.  They'd both just had the most mind-numbing orgasms in history — well, he had one and she had seven, but that's beside the point — and he wants to go back to their old, boring bodies?  She frowns conscientiously but reluctantly takes her fingers off her muscle and rests her hand on the armrest, the cool smoothness of the polished metal tube soothing her.  She pushes back against it slightly, stretching her muscles, and feels the metal bending to her touch, like it was putty.  She quickly pulls it back into place, not wanting Brent to see.  Happily, he's too busy with his argument to notice.

    "We have to DO something.  It HAS to have been HER!"

    "Who?  The older woman at the party?" Gillian asks. Brent nods. "Maybe. I suppose it could have been."

    "She was a witch and it was some kind of Halloween magic," he says definitively.  "That's the only explanation. We just have to find her and get her to reverse the spell."

    Now she can be the rational one.  "Right.  So, uh, you believe in magic now?" she asks.  "How about the spinach?  Do you believe in that too?  You want some spinach?  Or maybe a can of peaches?"  He doesn't rise to the bait.  "Anyway, it's not Halloween anymore," Gillian observes. "What if the magic doesn't work after Halloween?"

    "We just have to hope it does!" Brent says emphatically.

    Do I really have to?  Gillian says to herself.  She looks over at him, at the way his soft belly folds above the waistband of his shorts. He's going to have to go on a diet. She doesn't mind that he's weak or soft, but the flabbiness is just plain ugly.  It will HAVE to go.

    "I don't know," she says, slowly. "I … LIKE being strong.  I like having muscles.  THESE muscles.  And didn't you like it before, the way I could, you know, squeeze you inside me?"  She grinned.  "Up and down and all over?  Want to try it again?"  She stands up, enjoying the way she looms over him.

    He clenches his fists defiantly (cutely, Gillian thinks) and declares, "Well, I'M going to get out of here and go back to the party to look for her, whether you want to or not."  He pulls on his jockeys and is about to get his pants when there's a flash of light.

    "You won't find me there," says a familiar voice.  The old woman shimmers into view and looks at Gillian.  "I'm glad you like it, dearie.  I think it suits you."  She smiles and her eyes twinkle.  "Wishes don't always turn out the way you expect them to."

    "Oh!  Well … THANK you." Gillian replies.

    "Hey!  There are TWO of us here," Brent says.  "And I'm NOT happy!"

    The old woman turns to him.  "Oh my yes, I can see that.  I didn't think you would be.  But I'm not YOUR fairy godmother," she says, smiling benevolently.  "I did this for Gillian.  I'm afraid your happiness is not my responsibility."

    He looks horrified.  "But … but … why does Gillian get — hey, don't I get one too?"

    "Oh you do!  You certainly do."  She opens her purse and takes out a small device that resembles a Blackberry.  "Let's see.  Your fairy godmother is … Esmeralda.  Such a dear.  I must really have tea with her!"

    "Can't SHE do something for me, then?  Call her, summon her or something so I can wish myself back to normal.  Or do I have to say some magic words?  Tell me what they are!"

    "Oh dear me, I really don't think she would come.  It's up to her, but I can see here that you've already had a wish and, like all of us, she's very busy.  We only VERY rarely grant two wishes, I'm afraid.  There is far too much for us to do as it is."

    "I … have … NEVER … HAD a wish!" Brent exclaims angrily, barely suppressing twin desires to pummel the old woman and to fall onto the floor and beat it with his hands and feet, like a two year old having a tantrum.

    The old woman looks at him disapprovingly. "Oh yes you have, young man."  She examines her device.  "April 17, 1985.  Outside Morell's Candy Store on Centre Street, Nutley, New Jersey.  Brent Carlson desperately wants a package of M&Ms.  Wish granted!  Finds 'his' dollar bill on the sidewalk and buys three packages.  Eats all three, even though dinner in just an hour.  VERY satisfied; no regard for what his Mother will say."  She looks up and smiles.  "There it is!  Did your snack spoil your appetite?  Did your Mother find out?  I bet she did! What DID your Mother say?  I'm sure Esmeralda would like to know — I could tell her when I see her for tea!"

    Brent rolls his eyes in frustration — he WASTED his ONE LIFETIME WISH when he was SEVEN?!!! — and turns his attention back to Gillian.  "You mean, YOU wished for ME to be like THIS?"

    Gillian feels a bit abashed.  "Um, well, no.  Not exactly.  I was just thinking … what if we were always like we were, the way we dressed up.  It wasn't EXACTLY a wish," she says hesitantly.  "More like a —

    "Oh, don't fuss, child!  You have nothing to apologize for.  We ARE the experts.  Longings, desires, 'what ifs'.  We know a wish even when you don't.  'Muscles of steel.'  Imagine!"  She looks down at her device.  "And now I must leave you!  There's work to be done.  Ta-TA-ah!" 

    "Wait!" Brent calls as she fades into the mists.  "Come back!  No-o-o-o-o!"  He stares forlornly at the empty space where Gillian's fairy godmother has just been standing and then looks down at his shrunken body, his mushy arms, his flabby belly, and then up at Gillian's magnificent physique.  She stands erectly, looking down at him, licking her lips.  Her muscles pulse, dancing with power.  He blinks twice, smelling her arousal, trying not to let it spark his so easily, so effortlessly.  This CAN'T have happened.  It CAN'T have happened to him and CAN'T have happened to HER.  He tries to slow his breath, to calm his panicking heart and then, half-remembering what he just heard, asks Gillian.  "Did she say, 'muscles of steel'?"

    Gillian gives a cautious half-smile, picks up one of the dumbbells and casually crushes it in her hand into a ball.  "Ummmm, ya-huh."



    Very nice! Very well written and entertaining! I kind of feel sorry for the guy, though.

    Mark Newman

    So do I.  Being a male character in my stories is a tough way to make a living.


    Oh well. The job may suck, but look at the pay! 😉


    Damn, I have a long way to go in my own story-writing. That was just amazing. Thanks for putting it up! 😀

    Deadly Pixxxie

    First rate story!


    This was a fantastic tale Mark. I love to see that the Brent and Gina still remains together in good terms at the end. He realized that she didn't do it on purpose and besides she was sorry. I think that with a little time, they will be as good, if not better, as they were before Halloween.

    Also the final part when she revealed that she has 'steel muscles' was WOW  😮

    Again, great story Mark.



    I like the humor iin this one – She's decent, He's decent, the universe is just weirder than they expected.



    Muscles of steel?  That almost sounds like a burden: setting off metal detectors,  flying toward magnetic fields.  lol

    great story.

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