[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.

"What?"

"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."

THE END

[Mark Newman]

It has always been a favorite area of mine — not nearly enough art or stories of this kind, so I have to write them.  But I can't draw or Poser to save my life.

Pete's Muscle pictures have a number of sequences along these lines.

[Mark Newman]

A terrific beginning.  I like the way you've set up the two characters.  Very sympathetic.  I want to see how big she's getting and what his reaction is.

And there are so many wishes left!

[Mark Newman]

Brilliant story, beautifully drawn, clean, direct and lovely!

[Mark Newman]

I started posting in late 1994-95, when the monthly Compuserv magazine mentioned the existence of alt.amazon-women.admirers as one of the stranger groups that USENET had spawned.  Coincidentally I had started working on my first "New Women" story in the summer of 1994 and was shocked that there could ever be an outlet for my "creative" output.  I posted there via anon.penet.fi for awhile until that gateway ended, and then on Diana the Valykrie beginning in 1997, which is still a terrific resource for stories although not as dominant as he/she/it was.

I've resisted the Yahoo and Geocities groups, which are pretty erratic but are great when they work.  Some have posted my stories anyway, normally without attribution.  Tsk. Tsk.

I arrived too late for the Amazon BBS and Jim Woodard, but I thank him for his early encouragement that there were many people out there who would appreciate my stories.

Does anyone else remember "Jimp" and "Beegboy"?

I suppose someday I should write down a history of this genre.  I can do pretty well from 1995-date, but it goes back much further, I'm sure, and I don't know it.

[Mark Newman]

Although real life must always take priority over these pursuits, don't lose touch with the spring of eroticism your fantasies bring you.  They are a part of you too.

Mark

[Mark Newman]

That must have made her day!

Mine too.  Thanks FFF

[Mark Newman]

Yes, well, it has to end somewhere.  I don't mind leaving you wanting more. 😉

Between us, Superman wouldn't have a chance against Lacey, even before she takes his powers.

[Mark Newman]

Very nice, but make the growth scenes longer.

[Mark Newman]

Good story.  Don't stop there.

But of the two of them, I like the rock better.

[Author]

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