The Secret Obsession

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    Jayne Greye

    I found myself facing writers block yesterday when working on my next novel, DnD so I just did some free writing. I suppose that’s okay and give myself a break since I just finished a novel, Submission Training. but I absolutely hate writer’s block. Anyway, let me know if this strikes your fantasy and I should get back to it at some point.
    For decades I buried the secret. You’re a pervert… weird… a deviant… As much as I tried to convince myself that it was just a different taste in women, from the back of my mind a voice always arose to the surface to tell me it wasn’t natural. How can you like muscular women? You’re the man, not the helpless maiden. And you want her to be stronger than you – God you’re screwed up.

    Sure, in the animal kingdom, it was survival of the fittest.  The strongest male lion would get his brood and favor the most powerful and muscular female lioness to feed him and create stronger offspring. But with humans, it isn’t that way.  You’re different, you’re strange, you’re a deviant.

    Periodically, I’d refuse my inclination and date skinny girls, with big boobs to fit in with how ‘all the guys felt about women.’ Something would always bring it roaring back – and each time with more fervor. A flexing calf on a biker, a fit runner, or a solitary woman in the weight room were an instant reminder of something I’d deprived. One hit from them was like the rekindling or a long lost drug — and I was hooked.

    Binging on buying Women’s Physique Worlds, old ESPN videotapes, and a few “hard women” Playboy issues, I’d wear myself out admiring these women. On and on the cycle went until I decided to ‘grow up’ and put that part of my life behind me once and for all.

    Eventually, I married a wonderful woman named Mary. She was fit but hardly muscular. With her, I continued to bury the secret of my fetish. Occasionally, I’m sure she had suspicions. Once we watched a Cirque du Soliel and I was entranced by the chiseled six-pack abs and muscular thighs of a muscular trapeze artist as they clamped onto the ribbon hanging from above.

    Afterward, she asked, “you were really amazed by that woman weren’t you?”

    “It was just cool how she could cling to that ribbon and then drop and stop on the dime.”

    She laughed, “I would think you had a crush on her if it weren’t for all of her muscles. I like the fit look, but I mean really. It was too much wasn’t it.”

    My cheeks flushed crimson so fast I could feel the heat cascading off of them. “Maybe a little,” I confessed, feeling nothing of the sort. I watched her double-take and preyed the conversation would end. Thankfully it did, but I knew she was suspicious. She joined the gym and firmed up the next weekend so in the end, maybe it was a good thing.

    For years the status quo held. We had kids and work was exhausting and I figured the urge was gone. Sure, I squeezed her tight ass imagining they were as big as pumpkins, and kneaded her chest feeling for the muscle when we made love – but doesn’t every guy have his favorites? Slowly, she became more muscular too, but she hardly approached anything more than bikini class. Still, she was a beautiful woman and we got along great so I had no complaints — even if she never met my fantasy.

    We had kids who after endless recitals, sporting events, and graduations grew up and left the house. Suddenly, I had some time on my hands. Idle hands make for the devil’s work and the need returned. What made it far worse was Felicity.

    Interviewing for secretaries, I’d found the one I wanted to hire. Her credentials were impeccable and she came with perfect references. Unfortunately, there was one more woman who showed up so I felt obligated to interview her. As my outgoing secretary, Jean left to bring her in I fished for her paperwork.

    “Miss, Felicity Jones to see you, Sir,” Jean announced. My head was buried in the candidate’s resume, giving it only a cursory review since I’d all but decided to hire the previous candidate.

    “Go ahead and sit down,” I murmured as I noted on her resume she was twenty-five but hadn’t any real experience as a legal secretary. I almost told her no before we started but as she drew into my field of vision I froze. Taut, tanned calves that more resembled works of art, than a body part, graced her form and were encircled by a fashionable brown leather shoe strap. Her calves were far bigger than those of a biker and had clearly been carved out by endless repetitions in the gym. They popped and flexed as she headed toward the chair. As my eyes scanned upward to her it was almost uncomfortable to look at hamstrings and thighs because they were ‘in your face huge.’  Pushing out beneath her almost Victorian tiny waist at taupe tan skirt at severe angles her thighs looked as big as oak trees. Striations popping across the thick cords of muscle chased away any idea that it might be fat or she was big-boned.

    “Hi, I’m Felicity,” she chimed in a deep but lyrical baritone voice. As she held out her hand my eyes nearly popped at seeing her thick forearms streaked with blue veins from her muscularity. Hesitantly, my hand reached out and we shook and instantly pain laced through me at the firmness of her grip. Immediately, my cock, as if echoing the shake, began to bulge in need.

    Vaguely, I noticed she had piercing green eyes beneath the whisps of autumn-colored bangs which hung down low caressing her cheeks, but I couldn’t focus on them. There was just so much girth to take in that I felt like a kid taken to a candy shop for the first time.

    “I’m uh…uh…uh.”

    “Jim?” She finished with a smile.

    “Yeah, Jim,” I said. “You have a strong grip there.”

    “Thanks, they say a firm handshake is a must and I’ve worked enough in the gym to get one,” she laughed.

    “I can see that,” my cheeks heated as I drank her in. I… I… I see your new…new…um…to the…um…”

    “New to the industry?” I nodded and wiped my mouth before any drool began to form. “Yes, I’ve been powerlifting since I finished college, actually even during college, but being a trainer simply isn’t paying the bills. Since I’ve switched over to bodybuilding, even though I’m now pro, there really aren’t adequate financial rewards for the women. I think there’s a bit of sexism at work there. Anyway, I’m talking too much, but the point is I’ll work hard if you give me the job, and your generous offer of 60k a year would fill my needs.”

    “Yes,” I whispered, my mind in a haze staring at how the push of impossibly high swelling pecs tented her white blouse, pressing the sting of her nipple against the material. Everything about her was as if she were the embodiment of my wettest of dreams. With a simple twitch, cords of throbbing pumped flesh expanded and danced. Each of her slightest movements demonstrated her power and size. Even through the blouse, I could see that her pecs were better developed them most male bodybuilders.

    She smiled, knowingly, catching the direction of my stare. As if on command, striations shot out from the center of her thick chest and her nipples pressed harder against the flimsy material. “If I could get 100k, I could get even bigger and maybe win the Olympia.”

    “Okay, 100k” I heard myself whisper, entranced by the movement of her chest and her skin-splitting peaks on her biceps.

    It didn’t take a genius to realize that I was at her mercy and Felicity was clearly quite bright. She rolled her sleeves back over her shoulders to show me more skin. She unveiled cannonball-like capped shoulders and gave me a wink.

     “Is it just me, or is it hot in here?” she asked.

    “Hot…” I breathed my brain hazing over as she flexed her biceps back and forth. I watched as the muscle inflated like a balloon.  Veins danced atop her shaking biceps while glistening beads sweat of sweat slid down the mighty ripples producing an almost shimmering effect.

    “If, I get the job could I wear tank tops until the heat thing is fixed?”

    “Yes,” I declared as if it were a new office policy.

    “Okay, so one hundred thousand, lunch breaks to workout, and I can come back after lunch in my gym clothes?” she smiled. I nodded. “Where do I sign?”

    “I’ll draw up the documents and bring them by your place. Leave your address with my secretary. I’m a bad man.* * *

    Jayne Greye

    “Okay…fine.” This is probably his lifetime dream, but I don’t think he’s going to like it.. I released a deep sigh and began. “Tiffany has a guy she really likes and she’s been dating him off and on, but recently it’s been getting more serious.”

    “That’s great to hear. I’m happy for her.”

    “Yeah, and while she hasn’t been exactly exclusive with him, she thinks he might be ‘The One.’”

    “Well, if she thinks he might be ‘The One,’ then why isn’t she exclusive? And what does this have to do with us or with you being nervous to ask me something?”

    “Well, she’s taking it slow…”

    “And?” His patience with my hesitation and diversions was clearly wearing thin.

    “Well, that’s why I’m uncomfortable.”

    His eyebrows notched together in confusion. “Huh?”

    “I mean, she’s always really dominant in bed.”

    “I don’t doubt that,” he snorted. “She is about as forward as they get in regular life. In bed, I can only imagine.” His eyes bugged out as he realized what he’d said. “Not that I have or will ever think about that,” he explained.

    I turned and delivered a tender, unthreatening smile to soothe him. The hard part was still coming. “You’d better not,” I winked. “Anyway, she wants to date him exclusively, but she thinks he won’t like her domme instincts. The guy has kind of hinted that he likes to be the Type A in bed and well, you know, we’ve talked…”

    “About you being the domme in our relationship?” He frowned. “I don’t get it.”

    My couched words tried to express both regret and an apology. “Actually no, but we kind of talked about when I used to be the sub. I promise I didn’t say anything about your muscle love, only that for a long time I’d appreciated being a sub and now sometimes play the domme.”

    Telling someone else about his muscle fetish or his desire for submission was a bright red line I would never cross. It was just too personal for him, but I reasoned that it wouldn’t break Jack’s trust to talk to Tiffany about my own sexual proclivities. Though I was now the domme, pure and simple, I recalled fondly my time as a submissive.

    “Oh,” he snorted. “That’s fine. If you tell her it’s sometimes when it’s really always I guess that’s not too bad,” he chortled. “But what does this have to do with you? Do you need advice for her?”

    “No, she wanted to practice.” The words hung in the car as if bandied back and forth by the hot air pouring out of the vents.

    Finally, he responded. “With you?”

    “With us,” I corrected.

    “Can you be a little more specific?” He crossed his arms. Our playful banter while I danced around the topic had come to an abrupt end.

    “Okay, you don’t have to do this if you want,” I said, “but, she was hoping to come up here this weekend and practice being the sub with us.”

    “Wait, what? Like in a sexual fashion?”

    “Yes. The idea is for her to get the complete experience. We would be her bosses the entire weekend.”

    “I don’t get it. You’re okay with her having sex with us?” he asked. “What do you mean by us?”

    Jayne Greye

    Sigh – I pasted the wrong addition here – sorry if you were trying to follow it and it didn’t make sense,,, here is the correct section 2

    I couldn’t get Felicity out of my head. Long suppressed feelings surged through me clouding my judgment and giving me a single-minded focus. My internet searches in my off-hours were strictly for muscular women. I cleared half of the floor of all other personnel and moved her desk right outside my glass office window and treated myself to an almost voyeuristic fantasy display as I watched her work. Sometimes, I have to admit, my hand would find its way beneath my pants while I watched her. When she reached up and fiddled with her hair while she was thinking, her bicep peaks bulged, radiating a sense of power that delivered electric shocks throughout my frame. Everything about her was near perfect. Tanned to perfection, she almost seemed photoshopped, to a level of beauty no human could attain. I was literally consumed by her muscles and over the months she continued to grow.

    Each day after lunch she’d return drenched in sweat, causing the Lycra of her sports bra to cling to her mighty chest, pecs full D-cups of solid unyielding muscles pulse, and her back swell outward. Her dress code was entirely unacceptable for the workplace but for me with Felicity, less was more. Her workout clothes covered her muscular arms like a second skin, allowing me nearly unfettered viewing of the exquisite, jagged lines of her muscularity. Fewer clothes provided better viewing of her deeply tanned skin and the way her tendons moved under her skin, the way veins pumped blood into the thick muscle.

    My long hiatus from muscular women had ended with a bang and I was hooked and sucked into the rabbit hole of arousal. When I could muster the confidence, I’d go outside and ask her a question about a client or something. Anything to be near the work of art that was her body. Everything about her from her aroma to her beefy mounds of muscle oozed sex. Raw, brutal sex. Even though I was her boss, I shook in her presence like a naughty schoolboy confronting a strict professor. My pep talks before I saw her were washed away in the aura of her power and beauty. I chalked my behavior up to the years of denial of my secret, but even as I got to know her better my paralysis in her presence seemed to grow worse. Perhaps it was because she was growing too. She announced each major accomplishment with pride, unaware of the visceral way in which it affected my body.

    “My biceps have gained two inches in the past six months!” Explosions went off in my brain and I found myself wobbling on my feet.

    “Really?” I gulped.

    “Yeah, from sixteen to eighteen inches. I’m up with the big girls now. They’d better watch out at the Olympia this year, Felicity be a comin’ to win and she’s not going to take any prisoners,” she laughed in a throaty way. Could you take me as a prisoner? I’d go willingly.

    “It certainly looks like it.” I nodded. She kneaded her bicep lovingly in a fashion that set me off. Casually, I crossed my legs to hide my growing erection. Her words alone inflamed me now, but her vibrant, powerful muscles and the way she caressed them was just too much.

    Everything about her looked bigger, stronger, and even the way she moved seemed more lithe. It was as if she were becoming a superior species altogether. She’s going to smash the competition. Unfortunately, even as I was cheering her head and congratulating her in my head, somehow my thoughts would always stray. Around her I was a complete voyeur, hornier than ever, imagining what she’d be like in bed. Pushing me down, gloating over her superiority, having her way with me, and deciding on how I could best pleasure her. Riding me until she was satisfied. I’d heard stories about how female bodybuilders were VERY horny women because they had such high testosterone levels. Would she do me twice or would that be just an hors d’oeuvres for her amazing body?

    One day, I touched her. I swear it was innocent, a move of practiced empathy with men and women I’d performed umpteen times over the years. In fact, it was because she was so hot that I’d avoided it up until that point. That day though, it was electric.

    Steve Reubens

    When it comes to stockpiling copies of WPW magazine, Hardbody Playboy and yes even Muscle Elegance Magazine,, been there done that…had quite a stockpile of them until I lost them in Hurricane Ike in 2008.

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