Beauty is Overrated

Stephanie Marie definitely isn’t overrated.

“Beauty,” as it is traditionally defined, makes no mention of emotions, feelings, or involuntary intuitive reactions. Yet, the concept of beauty – especially the way we use it in everyday conversation – goes way beyond aesthetics.

For example:

Merriam-Webster’s definition of beauty is “the quality or aggregate of qualities in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses or pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit.”

“Gives pleasure to the senses” is a great way of phrasing it. There are, after all, five senses – with sight being just one of them. One can appreciate a rose bush by admiring its beauty, then leaning over and smelling its scent. But you probably wouldn’t want to eat it. And roses don’t make any noise, so there’s nothing to hear. And be careful before you touch it! Those thorns can be prickly.

So one can admire a beautiful thing with more than just one sense. Two or three, perhaps. But there’s another sense that is almost never acknowledged. A sense that is, if you think about it, arguably more important:

The emotional sense.

The sight of a beautiful person can make you feel many things. Lust, longing, exasperation, infatuation, nervousness, giddiness, curiosity, etc. Perhaps the reason why a beautiful person has such power over us isn’t just because of how they look – it’s how they make us feel.

Coco Crush is so damn beautiful.

And this has less to do with who they are and more to do with who we are. Or what we’ve gone through, or what we’ve experienced, or what we’re currently dealing with in our personal lives. For example, you could be minding your own business at the grocery store. You just need to pick up a few items – green peppers, celery, a red onion, and a few quarts of beef stock – for tonight’s dinner. You should be in and out in a hot minute. Suddenly, out of nowhere you see a gorgeous young lady perusing through the salad greens section looking for fresh spinach that isn’t too soggy. She’s beautiful. The most beautiful person you’ve seen in a while. The way she walks, moves, and behaves is like poetry in motion. But you’re not just captivated by her immense beauty. You’re reminded of your high school crush, the one who “got away.” You’re reminded of your own loneliness and your burning need for someone to cuddle with tonight when you’re watching late night TV. You’re reminded of how special this planet can be at times, when a flawless work of art can literally appear out of nowhere unexpectedly and make your heart stop beating.

You know she’s physically beautiful, yet she’s more than that. She makes you feel things. Strong things. Things you wish you could forget. Things you wish you could capture in a bottle and uncork whenever you want to. Things you cannot explain, but you know in your heart is as real as a rainstorm. In other words, “beauty” isn’t just an aesthetic. It’s an experience.

This helps explain why many of us love female bodybuilders so much. We aren’t just attracted to their muscles, curves, strength, confidence, and inspiring stories. We love them because they make us react in ways that are both predictable and inexplicable. We love them because we cannot stop loving them. They’re an unquenchable thirst. A hunger that never ceases.

We can look at a picture of Cindy Landolt and notice many things. Her face is pretty and her muscles are poetic, but her appeal goes way beyond those things. We sense raw energy radiating out of every pore of her immaculate body. It’s almost visible. It’s nearly tangible. To look upon her is to feel like you’re in the presence of a Divine Being. She’s often labeled a “Goddess” by her fans (myself included) and for good reason. She looks too good to be true. The fact she actually is a real-life human being adds to her mystique. How can someone be that beautiful? It’s difficult to wrap our minds around this reality. Yet it’s true. Cindy makes our minds rattle in a million different directions. And it’s not just because of her obvious beauty.

It’s because of her – and many other female bodybuilders – effect on our psyches.

Amanda Ferre looking absolutely gorgeous.

Female bodybuilders are alluring for reasons that go beyond what you can see on the outside. It’s not just their unusually large muscles that capture our attention. When we regard upon a beautiful female bodybuilder, our daydreaming activities go into overdrive. We want her to pick us up and toss us to the ground like a ragdoll. We desire to touch her muscles. We want to ask her to flex her biceps while we measure them with a sewing tape measure. How big is she? When she flexes at maximum capacity, how large can she grow? 16 inches? 18 inches?

Uh, 20 inches?

Is that even possible? Has any woman in the history of the world ever developed biceps that exceeded 20 inches? Maybe, but I’m yet to have seen it. That doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened before, of course. Renné Toney supposedly holds the record at 21 inches. I highly doubt too many other women have been able to match that, let alone exceed it.

God damn. The very thought of a woman having 21-inch biceps is mind boggling. It’s inconceivable. It’s beyond belief. Yet, she did at one point in her life attain such a measurement. Guys who are insecure or full of self-loathing will immediately scream at the top of their lungs “Steroids, steroids, steroids!” But those of us who respect female bodybuilders and don’t hate ourselves will instead react with “You go girl!”

See the difference?

The same could be said for Tina Lockwood’s thighs. Or Becca Swanson’s career achievements. Or Nataliya Kuznetsova’s entire existence. Or what Shannon Courtney was able to do at such an early age. These ladies defy our expectations of what the female human body is capable of doing. In their own way, they’ve set the bar higher and higher than any of us (or most of us) thought was even possible. To react with derision is unfortunate. It probably says more about the person choosing to think that way more than anything else. But thankfully, for every troll who types mean comments like “She’s probably got a dick” or “She’s actually a man” on a random YouTube video, there are thousands of other people who treat these women with the respect they deserve.

Isabelle Turell makes me react quite irrationally.

How funny it is that female bodybuilders can make us react in such two completely opposite ways. We react with either scorn or praise. Disgust or lust. Hatred or eternal adoration. Dismissiveness or uncontrollable fandom. There’s basically no middle ground. At all. It’s truly a fascinating phenomenon to witness.

This is why “beauty is overrated.” We value beauty because it’s obvious. It’s plain to see. It’s simple to explain. It doesn’t require any thinking. It’s all around us all the time. You don’t need to travel far to see a billboard, television commercial, print advertisement, or pop-up window that features a beautiful person – male or female. It’s deeply engrained into our multimedia landscape. Sex sells, as the adage goes. Heck, it’s so pervasive it’s easy to not notice it.

Yet, beauty unto itself is fairly limited. A pretty face can be forgettable. A shapely body you see in a magazine may draw your attention momentarily, but it’ll fade off into the distance once something else replaces it. The smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies? The sound of your favorite song playing over the PA system? The feeling of cool air cascading off your face on a sweltering hot summer day? All of those things can replace the memory of a beautiful magazine cover model because she’s a dime a dozen (no offense to her). Her beauty is considerable, but it’s not enough. We want to feel something. A connection. A memory. An involuntary reaction.

A nameless Victoria’s Secret underwear model cannot compete with Isabelle Turell or Lindsay Mulinazzi. The nameless model looks nice but doesn’t elicit any emotional reaction out of us. We notice their beauty and move on with our lives. Isabelle and Lindsay, on the other hand, make us want to beg for their attention. Get down on our knees and worship them. Shell out hundreds of dollars in cash to purchase their merchandise. Praise them as queens or goddesses. Use hyperbolic language when describing them. Travel to the furthest ends of the earth just to meet them for a single hour. Stay up late watching videos of them when we have to go to work the next day. Do things we normally wouldn’t do like set up a muscle worship appointment or fantasy wrestling session – all in secret, naturally.

Beauty in complete isolation is neat. But it does not give us a complete picture of the situation. Some people – and this includes non-bodybuilders – have a pull on us that almost seems magical. Remember your grade school crush? I sure do. I still think about her. I recently stalked her on Facebook and saw that she’s happily married with a newborn child. She’s kind of pretty, but not nearly as drop dead gorgeous as I thought of her at the time. In this case, distance and time did not make the heart grow fonder. Quite the opposite. But I clearly remember being 12 years old and not being able to keep my eyes off her. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was sweet, smart, nice, and good looking. I was enchanted with her.

We all have similar stories we can tell. Many of us have current stories in similar vein that we can tell. Crushes are exactly that: they crush us. They shatter our ability to think rationally. They stomp all over our sense of self-preservation and force us to act foolishly. We are enthralled by them, taken in by them, infatuated with them. It’s strong. It’s focused. It’s nearly unbreakable.

And when it does break, it tears our hearts in half.

Do you know what this ultimately means? It means beauty is not just overrated, but somewhat misunderstood. We give pure physical beauty more credit than it deserves. It can initially capture our attention, but it’s not enough to keep us tuned in. We need more if we want to continue to be playing the game. We need an emotional bond. A cathartic connection. A spiritual awakening. We need our heartstrings tugged at in addition to blood flowing to our private parts. This isn’t just explained by love or lust. It’s something else. Something…less tangible.

Now, comparing your schoolyard crush to your adult fascination with female bodybuilders is not completely analogous. They are two different things. Yet, the general idea remains the same. They both have us in the palm of their hands. They control the situation, not us. They have the power. All the power. It’s not even close. It’s more than a magic spell. It’s more mysterious than a love potion because this is completely organic. It’s natural. No special sauce is needed.

What kind of beauty is unforgettable to you?

Go back to the beginning of this article and reread Merriam-Webster’s definition of “beauty.” Notice the word “spirit” at the very end. That’s significant. Do not trivialize this. To “pleasurably exalt the spirit” is quite a turn of phrase. It seems to connotate a religious awakening; a divine experience that transcends the mortal body. This is why we tend to use ethereal language when describing female bodybuilders. It’s just like a religious experience. A conversion. A death and resurrection all happening at once.

Beauty is overrated because it places too much emphasis on the person who is being described as beautiful. This isn’t a knock against them, but rather an observation that what really matters is the person experiencing the beauty. What are they thinking? Hoping? Dreaming about? Fearful of? Wishing would happen with all their might?

The fact I’ve been writing about female bodybuilders and female muscle fetishism for seven years now – yes, it’s been that long – is proof that FBBs have a profound grip on me. It’s everlasting. Sure, sometimes it wanes for a bit, but it never goes away. I don’t think that’s even possible.

FBBs are important to me and will continue to be a massive part of my life. The same is probably true for many of you too. And the reason this is true isn’t just because FBBs are physically beautiful creatures. It’s because they have the keen ability to draw out wild thoughts and fantasies from us. They make us act irrationally. They cannot leave our imaginations. They’re living rent free in our heads – and we are grateful landlords who refuse to ask for back payments.

Because it’s not just about how beautiful they are. It’s how beautiful we make them out to be.

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A Most Magnificent Body of Work – Part Three of Five

An armed and dangerous Ludmila Kolesnikova.

Continued from part two

Damn. That was delicious.

Placing her fork on the plate, Deborah has finished the complimentary breakfast placed in front of her by the stewardess who hasn’t shown her face in the cabin in the past twenty-six minutes. There doesn’t appear to be a “call” button anywhere, so she has no choice but to put the tray off to the side on the table next to her seat. She quietly burps.

Well, I guess that means I’m not going to eat the food I brought with me. Unless, of course, our trip is much longer than I’m expecting…

Which begs the important question plaguing her mind: How long is this flight going to be?

Many moments pass. Still no one willing to communicate with her. The cabin is, as expected, quite cozy. There’s about a dozen seats spread across the room with a table and stack of magazines adjacent to each one. Next to the door leading to the cockpit is the restroom. Deborah has yet to need to use the lavatory, but that time will come sooner or later.

It then occurs to her that her suitcase has been stashed away somewhere she doesn’t know. A mysterious crew member took it. So she couldn’t access her Tupperware even if she wanted to…

Fuck. Why the hell am I worried about that shit? I’m about to go off to God-knows-where and meet some enigmatic mega-millionaire (or is it billionaire?) who singled me out for this “date.” I could get murdered. Or horribly violated. Or I could come back home with a bag full of $1 million without a single hair on my head being harmed. Or the eventual outcome could be somewhere in between.

Fuck. Which will it be?

“All I can do is sit back and wait,” she says to herself.

Indeed, that is correct.

The plane eventually crosses a large body of water. Deborah guesses this is the Pacific Ocean. She’s never had a keen sense of direction, but it appears as though they’re heading west, maybe southwest. Hawaii, perhaps? Or Australia? Maybe Japan or China or the Philippines. Regardless, it’s going to be a long ass flight no matter where they’re going. It doesn’t seem like they’re landing anytime soon. So there’s no need to endlessly speculate or mentally attempt to map out where they’re going.

Thus, this calls for a nap.

Deborah gives in to her tiredness (she’s struggled to sleep for the past couple of days for obvious reasons) and closes her eyes. A few minutes later she’s fast asleep, dreaming about her old college days, ex-boyfriends, ex-girlfriends, and her childhood Labrador Retriever named Billy. She loved that old dog. She reckons she hasn’t seen him in almost twelve years. Holy shit. Time sure passes…

***

“Good afternoon, Miss Frost. We’re about to land in forty minutes,” a voice beckons, interrupting her peaceful slumber. Groggy and wishing she were still asleep, Deborah struggles to open her eyes but does so anyway. The voice belongs to that of Thin Fedora Man.

“Thank you,” Deborah responds.

Thin Fedora Man winks and returns back to the cockpit. What the fuck was that all about? He doesn’t seem like the type of chap who would wink at you. Whatever.

Deborah looks around and notices during her nap, someone – probably the elusive stewardess – closed all the shades, covering the windows completely. Just as she unbuckles her belt so that she can stand up and open one of them, the stewardess enters the cabin carrying a long piece of black cloth.

Amanda Ferre looking splendid.

“Hello, Miss Frost. Please, remain seated,” she says. Behind her a second crew member, who looks to be just as tall as Deborah and probably nearly as muscular, stands at attention. He’s probably there to ensure Deborah complies with the directions given to her. She is, however, in no mood to be disobedient and discover what the consequences would be for such insubordinate behavior.

“You’re going to have to wear this for the duration of our flight.”

Deborah passively nods her head in agreement, not that she has any choice in the matter.

“Splendid!”

The stewardess wraps the black cloth around Deborah’s head and ties it in the back. She is unable to see anything.

“Can you see anything?”

“No.”

“Good. That’s the idea!” She follows that up with a hearty laugh to lighten up the mood. Deborah doesn’t return the favor. She can’t tell if the stewardess is offended or indifferent to this.

“We’ll only be in the air for about thirty-five more minutes. Hang tight.” And just like that, she – and, presumably, the Hired Goon – exits the cabin. Deborah hears the door close. Well, that’s that. Now she has to “enjoy” the rest of her trip in complete darkness…

***

Eventually, the Silver Hawk lands on some kind of airstrip. Is it a private airport or a public one? Deborah has no fucking clue. All she knows is that this very long flight has come to a merciful end (she estimates it was between five and six hours long). Once the jet comes to a complete stop, Thin Fedora Man returns to the cabin and escorts her out of the plane.

“Follow me, Miss Frost. Take my hand for your safety.”

It burns Deborah’s feminist sensibilities to have to rely on a man to do the simple task of walking around, but with the black cloth covering her eyes she has no choice but to rely on his gracious assistance. He takes her to a car sitting on the runway. Deborah doesn’t hear any other airplanes landing or taking off, so she gathers they’ve landed on a private runway of some sort. She gets in the car and manages to buckle her own seatbelt. She has no idea if Thin Fedora Man gets in the car with her. The driver starts the ignition and rides off away from the airstrip.

The car ride is bumpier than she was expecting. There are lots of swerving, turning, and climbing uphill. Holy fuck. Where does this motherfucker live? On top of the Himalayas?

The driver doesn’t speak a word. But then again, what pleasant conversation was she going to have with him?

At last, the car stops and the driver kills the ignition. The door opens, most likely by Thin Fedora Man. Deborah gets out and stretches her long legs.

“We’re finally here. Are you feeling jetlagged, Miss Frost?” Thin Fedora Man unties the blindfold, liberating Deborah’s sensitive skin from the raggedly cloth.

“A little bit. I need a stiff drink. Does your client have any whiskey?” Adjusting her eyes to her new surroundings, Deborah blinks several times so that she can grow accustomed to the sunlight, which has evaded her for the past hour or so.

“Quite a few. His collection is impressive, if I may say so myself. Shall I tell him that you’d like to sample some of what he’s been able to obtain over the years?” Thin Fedora Man offers.

Before she can cordially respond, Deborah’s jaw drops at the sight of her new environment.

“Holy shit!”

She finds herself standing in front of a gorgeous marble colored mansion overlooking an exotic tropical beach. The mansion is complete with a swimming pool off to the side, a miniature golf course in the backyard, a shiny red Lamborghini sitting in the driveway, and a beautiful lighthouse majestically arranged on top of the orange clay tile roof on the far side of the building. Palm trees and impeccably trimmed hedges line the driveway. It appears as though they’re on top of a hill, situated right above the water. A cool breeze greets her. Deborah has only dreamed of visiting a home like this, never mind actually being able to spend a single night in it. Holy shit, this guy definitely has a lot of money lying around…

“It’s a lovely house, isn’t it?” Thin Fedora Man boasts with a grin. Deborah can only wordlessly shake her head up and down. The car that took her here begins to drive away. She sees her black suitcase sitting right next to her. She picks it up and follows Thin Fedora Man indoors.

Once inside, the interior of the mansion is just as stylish as one would expect from a place like this. Greek nude statues stand at attention in almost every room. The furniture looks specially made for the owner. Rich and colorful tapestries hang from the ceiling. A Turkish rug meets them at the doorway. A small army of butlers, cooks, housemaids, and personal assistants furiously scamper around like ants in a colony trying to please the Queen Ant. Or is it the King Ant?

This is what the mansion most likely looks like.

“You will meet him shortly. For dinner. Which is in one hour. Before then, everyone here, including myself, will vacate the premises and leave the two of you alone for the entire night,” Thin Fedora Man warns. “It’s how he wants it. It’s all part of his plan.”

It is at this moment that Deborah notices hundreds – it may not actually be hundreds, but is sure seems like it – of paintings of muscular women hanging on the walls. The tapestries are only in the first room she walked through. The paintings look personalized. They feature everything from female Trojan warriors to hypermuscular female Samurais to, of course, stereotypical Amazon warrior princesses. Why not? That’s to be expected.

“In the meantime, what should I do?” she innocently asks Thin Fedora Man.

“I will take you to your bedroom. You probably won’t sleep there tonight, but you can put your suitcase there for now. And, I hear he has a special outfit he wants you to wear for supper tonight.” Thin Fedora Man snaps his fingers and a short Hispanic woman with gray hair stops what she’s doing and obediently approaches them. “Take Miss Frost to her bedroom, please.”

The Hispanic woman nods her head silently. Deborah intuitively senses sadness in her eyes. She immediately feels sorry for her – and everyone who works here, for that matter. They might be getting paid generously, but she gets a creepy vibe from everyone. Is this a palace or a prison?

Deborah is led upstairs to the top floor. The Hispanic woman opens the door to a bedroom (it seems like there are at least three dozen bedrooms in this place) and motions for her to enter. Deborah does. Just as she’s about to thank her for being so helpful, she suddenly closes the door and locks it. Deborah tries to twist the knob open, but to no avail. She’s locked in. Until they let her out. For dinner. Which is in one hour.

Fuck me.

Deborah then looks at an elaborate costume hanging in front of a full-length mirror. It’s a detailed and very accurate replica of Lucy Lawless’s signature costume from Xena: Warrior Princess, a 1990s TV show she will not hesitate to admit she loved watching growing up. Apparently her host did too. Wait, does he actually expect her to wear this? For dinner?

Apparently he does.

Double fuck me.

***

After putting on the outfit – which, as remarkable as this sounds, fits perfectly as if someone had measured her body beforehand – all Deborah could do was sit on the bed and watch the clock tick toward 5:00 p.m. It’s now a few minutes before. That means dinner should commence any moment.

Before, Deborah felt insulted that she would be asked to wear such an outfit to dinner. However, she can now admit she looks fucking sexy in the Xena costume. It’s skimpy (of course) and generously shows off her large muscles.

A knock on the door startles her.

“Um, yes?”

“You are invited to join the host for dinner, Miss Frost,” Thin Fedora Man says.

Deborah gathers her composure, looks at herself once more in the mirror (she’s still damn impressed, despite her nervousness, at how she’s slaying in this outfit), and takes a deep breath.

A seaside bedroom.

“Thank you. I’m ready.” With that, Thin Fedora Man unlocks the door and opens it. Deborah gallantly exits the bedroom and looks at Thin Fedora Man in the eye. He rarely shows any emotion, but even he’s a red blooded male who cannot help but look upon her curvaceous muscles with lust.

“You look…absolutely stunning,” he remarks in a near trance-like state.

“I do my best,” Deborah quips.

Also trying to keep his composure, Thin Fedora Man leads Deborah downstairs to the dining room. For what feels like several miles – it is a big fucking mansion, after all – Deborah is once again in awe of the size and opulence of her surroundings. Wow, the rich sure do know how to live, don’t they?

They pass by the kitchen, which looks more like a restaurant-quality kitchen than one you’d typically find at someone’s house. The chef stops what he’s doing and takes a look at Deborah wearing the sexy Xena outfit. He almost drops a sharp knife on his foot, but thankfully does not and manages to keep a handle on it. Whew.

Finally, they reach the dining room. Thin Fedora Man motions for her to enter the room. She does. A larger-than-life twenty-five foot long dining table greets her. A lily white cloth covers the entire surface, with an ice sculpture of the Greek goddess Athena sitting in the middle. An impressive Japanese flower arrangement surrounds the sculpture. But before Deborah can fully process the finely chiseled piece of frozen water immodestly presented in front of her, she glances at the far end of the table and sees him.

You know. Him.

“Good evening, Miss Frost. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. My god, you look absolutely stunning,” he says. The man stands up and confidently approaches her. Deborah almost faints when she realizes who it is.

“You’re….uh, you’re Jonathan Westmore!”

Jonathan smirks. He extends his hand. She extends hers and they shake. He’s taller than she anticipated, which is especially telling considering she stands at an imposing 6’2”. After for what seems like an eternity, Thin Fedora Man clears his throat. Both Jonathan and Deborah turn their attention toward him. Standing behind him are two wait staff carrying plates of food.

“Ahem. Dinner is now ready to be served. After we clean up in the kitchen, everyone on the premises will be ready to leave, as your instructions dictate,” he says.

“Thank you, Robert,” Jonathan calmly acknowledges.

Hm. “Robert” is Thin Fedora Man’s name? Uh, alright. I was expecting “Humbert” or “Carruthers,” but Robert will do, I suppose.

Robert leaves as the two staff members place the plates at their respective spots. Jonathan and Deborah are still standing face-to-face, neither of them willing to move an inch.

Lucy Lawless as Xena: Warrior Princess.

“Oh my god. Never in a million years would I expect you to be the man arranging this whole thing,” Deborah says. Her eyes are focused intently on Jonathan’s handsome face.

For those of you who are not aware, Jonathan Westmore is the former CEO of Westmore Capital, a venture capital firm that’s launched more than thirty of the largest corporations in the world. He inherited the company from his father, Peter Westmore, who founded the company shortly after returning home from serving in World War II. Peter married and divorced several times, but eventually settled down with a woman named Linda Sharpe, who once posed nude for Playboy and was at one point in her life considered a “rising superstar” in the modeling industry. After marrying Peter, she abandoned that dream and instead settled for living life as an ultra-wealthy housewife. Later, Jonathan was born, along with several other brothers and sisters. When Peter passed away in 1983, Jonathan, who was only 23 years old at the time, took over the reins of his father’s empire.

Jonathan transformed Westmore Capital from a largely successful American company into one of the most successful financial firms in the world. He became a celebrity who was even more popular than his father. He dated models (just like his mother used to be), Hollywood starlets, pop singers, Olympic athletes, and the daughters of other rich men. In 2012 he ran unsuccessfully for President of the United States of America as an independent third-party candidate. Deborah, and plenty of other women, voted for him. When you’re as rich, successful, and devilishly handsome as Jonathan Westmore, why the fuck wouldn’t you vote for him?

Alas, he had no chance of winning the highest political office in the nation, and simply retired from public life afterward. He stepped down from the company and appointed his daughter, Stephanie, as the new CEO. Though in his mid-50s, Jonathan still remains unmarried ever since his divorce from his fourth wife in 2005. Deborah has definitely had dreams of marrying him and living in one of his (many) stylish mansions across the globe, but she knows such a dream is likely never to come to fruition.

Except, after this stunning revelation, it very well could happen!

“Life can be full of surprises,” he laughs. “Please, sit down and enjoy supper.”

The menu tonight includes prime rib, mashed potatoes, grilled asparagus, a stuffed tomato, and a kale and pear salad. A $5,000 bottle of Chateau Île de Bourguenolles wine complements the succulent meal. The wait staff promptly exits after their duty is finished. Jonathan and Deborah sit down at the table. She places the napkin on her lap, but notices her host staring at her conspicuously, visually taking in every single inch of her muscular flesh.

Prime rib. It’s what’s for dinner.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Miss Frost. May I call you Deborah?”

Deborah almost swallows her tongue at the sound of Jonathan Westmore saying her name like that. God damn, what’s the over-under on how long she can last without collapsing to the floor?

“Uh, of course you can call me Deborah! Debbie, if that floats your boat.” She takes in a deep breath, wanting to prevent herself from hyperventilating. Jonathan senses her nervousness and tries to put her at ease.

“Please, Debbie. It’s okay. You’re safe. There’s nothing to worry about. Let’s just sit back, relax, chat, and enjoy this delicious dinner,” he reassures her.

“I’m not scared. I’m just, you know, a bit overwhelmed at this whole thing,” she says. “Never in a million years did I expect to ever be able to meet you, Jonathan.”

He smiles, which melts her heart. She doesn’t notice that her left breast is completely hanging out of her costume, exposed for everyone to see. Her nipple is erect, signaling her arousal. Thankfully, she is blissfully unaware of her immodesty.

“Well, here you are. And here I am. But I’m famished. Shall we eat?”

She nods her head. Jonathan takes a sip from his glass of wine and beams with approval.

“Excellent! Bon appétit, Debbie dear.”

To be continued…