Female Bodybuilders in Limbo

Monique Hayes is out-of-this-world.

Female bodybuilders seem to exist in a world all by themselves, don’t they?

Mainstream culture certainly doesn’t fully recognize their impressive accomplishments. The IFBB doesn’t seem to care about female competitors nearly as much as their male counterparts. Feminists, for whatever reason, don’t loudly embrace them as examples of “strong independent women” (even though they are undoubtedly exactly that). Sports media will celebrate a few physically gifted female athletes, but usually only go as far as the Williams sisters and a few MMA fighters. And even then, they still need to be traditionally feminine, beautiful, and not be too muscular.

The only group of people in our society who truly embrace female bodybuilders with any sort of passion would be…a very small subculture that consists of folks like me and those of you who read this blog.

Hm.

Female bodybuilders do appear to exist in limbo, don’t they?

They live in a strange, isolated world. We fans also exist in this world, but we are certainly not on the same plane as them. Celebrities and their fans will always exist in the same universe, but no one can deny that there’s always going to be a clear separation between the two cohorts. And in this case, female bodybuilders are celebrities as far as we’re concerned. Maybe not according to our mainstream culture, but in our hearts they’re as revered as any Hollywood icon or pop singer.

If female bodybuilders live on one continent on Planet FBB, fans like you and I live on a different continent on the other side of the hemisphere. Same planet, but different environments. Way different environments.

FBBs are not lonely, but they don’t have too many advocates on their side. Their list of partners, associates, allies, and lobbyists (not necessarily in the political sense) are few and far between. And it appears to be shrinking as the years go on. This might be an exaggeration, or maybe it is not. But what we can say for sure is that FBBs exist in probably one of the most bizarre cultural environments possible.

Female bodybuilders are sort of like Hare Krishnas, Scientologists, or Furries. We’re all aware that these sort of people exist, even though we may never come into contact with one of them. We might have a buddy from high school who may have implied on Facebook that he/she is into that sort of thing, but other than that these folks exist mostly on a theoretical level. I’ve never personally met a practicing Scientologist, but they sure do claim that they’re the “world’s fastest growing religion.” Maybe I need to get out of my apartment more.

Sherry Mayumi is a former U.S, Marine who will kick your ass…if she had reason to, that is.

Most people in the world know that female bodybuilders exist. But only an infinitesimal number of those people could name at least one current (or past, for that matter) athlete. If you were to ask a random person on the street what they thought about female bodybuilders, most of the responses – regardless if they come from a man or a woman – probably won’t be too positive. Or they’ll laugh it off and say they don’t know enough about them to make a comment. Fair enough.

It goes without saying that the vast majority of us don’t personally know a female bodybuilder, never mind being on a first-name basis with one. Even those of us who love female bodybuilders more than anything else probably can’t call one a friend or even an acquaintance. FBBs tend to know (or at least know of) each other very well, which makes sense when you consider how intimate of a community they belong to. But their numbers are small – unfortunately – while the number of their fans is larger…but still remarkably small.

According to Catholic theology, “Limbo” is a speculative place where souls go after their worldly bodies die if they did not receive the Christian baptism. Without getting into further detail, this basically means your soul is stuck in an environment that is neither Heaven, Hell, nor Earth. You exist in “no man’s land.” You don’t have a home because no one wants to claim you. It’s pretty darn depressing when you think about it.

Female bodybuilders, therefore, exist in a similar – albeit without the element of “spiritual damnation” attached to it – situation. No one is willing to openly embrace them. Not sports journalists. Not feminists. Not fellow non-bodybuilding athletes. Not Hollywood producers. Not hot shot talent agents. Not even some powerful people within the bodybuilding industry. And those of us who do love them do so in secret. I don’t tell my friends, family, and co-workers that I love muscular women. And I know for a fact I am not alone in making this decision.

So even the most enthusiastic supporters of female bodybuilding aren’t willing to be vocal about it. I try to be as vocal as I can, but I choose to do so under the guise as an anonymous blogger. I’d like to think of myself as a “friend of FBBs,” but can I really stake this claim when I’m too embarrassed to publicly declare my admiration for them? What kind of an ally is that?

Georgina McConnell is like the girl next door. If you happen to live next to a House of Muscle Goddesses.

This isn’t meant to shame anyone or spur any of you to take a specific action. Although if you feel compelled to take matters into your own hands, be my guest. Rather, this is meant to point out a strange yet fascinating aspect of female bodybuilding: They have no home, but that’s okay because they don’t need one.

Huh?

Female bodybuilders don’t need a massive amount of public adoration in order to justify their existence. Nor do they need that to validate their considerable accomplishments. FBBs have carved out a small yet not insignificant niche market for themselves. Their biggest fans may not feel comfortable expressing their fandom quite like football fans or cosplayers do, but that’s perfectly fine. That’s not entirely necessary. Female bodybuilding fans are able to live out their fandom with complete anonymity if they so choose – and many do.

Likewise, female bodybuilders do not have to conduct all their business in broad daylight. Obviously, activities such as competing, endorsing corporate products, running a business, modeling, personal training, and acting are done publicly. In fact, the more publicized these activities can be, the better. Obviously.

However, there are other entrepreneurial actions that do not need to be so public. Offering muscle worship/wrestling sessions and performing in “adult” entertainment media can fly more under the radar. These activities are not a “secret” in the dictionary definition sense of the word, but they aren’t exactly ones that all FBBs are willing to blast out to the world. Also, every FBB is different. Some are very open about the seedier sides of their lives. Others prefer to keep a more “clean” public image and leave the other stuff behind closed doors. To each her own.

Therefore, FBBs exist in multiple worlds. They exist in the open, but also in the shadows. You can read their biographies on Wikipedia or their own websites, but you’re only seeing a fraction of the truth. You can follow them on Instagram, but you need to go behind a paid subscription firewall to really see what kind of photography they like to participate in. You may see that they offer “sessions” to paying customers, but you actually need to set one up in order to truly know what goes on in those hotel rooms.

Lightness and darkness. Truth and secrets. Openness and guarded candidness. Experienced reality and unsubstantiated rumors. The tip of the iceberg and whatever exists below it.

Female bodybuilders live in all of these worlds, often at the same time. They simultaneously write an email to a personal training client to remind them to eat more kale while sitting in a cheap motel wearing a sexy BDSM outfit. They chat on the phone with one of their protein supplement sponsors minutes after wiping a random guy’s semen off her chest. They send a loving text to their children wishing them “good night” just moments before filming a gang bang porno on an amateur movie set.

Not all FBBs can relate to these hypothetical scenarios, but many can. Or at least some of them. For female bodybuilders who wish to make a living doing what they do, they have to live in both worlds – whether they like it or not. Only the elite of the elite can make enough money doing competitions, working part-time or full-time, and endorsing products. Most FBBs have to add to their income through, ahem, “nontraditional” means.

And that means living in a world that is, as explained earlier, simultaneously in the light and in the shadows. Or, it means living in a world that is neither completely in the light nor completely in the shadows. It’s both at the same time. Or neither.

Essentially, they got to do what they got to do. No matter what form it takes, a paycheck is a paycheck that subsidizes the rent and puts food on the table (and bodybuilders have to eat a lot of food to remain that big). Money earned under the table is still money that you can deposit in the bank. Uncle Sam just isn’t able to tax it.

The elegant Elise Penn.

Also, fans of FBBs – like FBBs themselves – want to keep their fandom as under the radar as possible. You don’t just casually declare on Facebook that you’re about to meet a female bodybuilder for fantasy wrestling, muscle worship, and (hopefully) a hand job at the end. That’s just not what most of us do. Instead, we also live in the darkness, albeit for a temporary amount of time. But that’s not all bad. FBBs with families and public reputations want to keep the more erotic side of their business a secret. Guys (and gals) who engage in these erotic activities also want it to be kept a secret. So confidentiality is desired by both parties. Both sides benefit. Both sides consent to what is happening. Both sides want it kept hush-hush. It’s not only a win-win, it’s a situation in which “losing” is considered unacceptable by both sides.

“Losing” means risking public ridicule. It means embarrassment. It means lost sponsorships. It could mean jail time. It could also mean being ostracized by your own industry. Whatever the case may be, this sordid world existing in limbo is in everyone’s best interests.

One more observation about public adoration. It’s overrated. Big time.

Sure, many FBBs love it when peers, fans, and friends compliment their looks. After all, what’s the point of all that hard work if nobody is around to appreciate it? While more eyeballs on you could mean more lucrative opportunities down the road, FBBs don’t necessarily need hundreds of millions of rabid fans frothing at the mouth, hanging on your every word and action. Rather, all they need are a few dedicated but respectful supporters who will pay them $400 per hour doing perfectly legal activities in complete secrecy. These folks will not just verbally compliment you, they will worship you. They will lay their fingers on your body and admire your handiwork without words. Yet, their silence speaks volumes.

These fans aren’t just casually expressing their fondness for an FBB’s work. They’re treating it like a quasi-spiritual experience. Or maybe it’s a full on spiritual experience in the literal sense. Touching a muscular woman’s body is much different than clicking the “like” button or leaving a nonsensical comment on Instagram using the appropriate hashtags. Look at it from the perspective of the session provider: her clients aren’t casual participants, like someone turning on the TV to the baseball game just for the background noise. They’re giving her a significant portion of their month’s wages for the opportunity to see her for just one single hour.

That’s quite a sacrifice. And showering her with verbal and physical compliments on top of it all proves that this is no joke (what exactly is a “physical compliment?” That’s up to your imagination to decide…). Public adoration is fine. It really is. But it can’t beat the kind of adoration that’s more intimate, quieter, deeper, and meaningful. One cannot easily replicate that outside of the context of an erotic session.

It’s one thing to download Beyoncé’s albums and follow her on Twitter. It’s quite another thing to pay a quarter of your hard-earned paycheck to an FBB, meet her at a hotel somewhere far away, and make yourself vulnerable to each other. These sessions are extremely vulnerable for both parties. Probably more so for the provider, but it is as well for the client. An FBB opens up her body – her most treasured asset – to a complete stranger. A client expresses their inner most desires to someone who might – or might not – be judging them; often times these desires being uncomfortable to talk about.

Erin Tolen is showing us that baby got back.

In my experience, when I first started participating in muscle worship sessions I had to give myself permission to enjoy the experience. I had to repeatedly remind myself that it’s okay to be indulgent every once in a while. It’s okay to be selfish. It’s okay to seek what you want and not apologize for it. So there is without question a high degree of vulnerability required to be a participant. As there is to be the one opening her own body to be touched in the most intimate ways imaginable…and the possibility of pain, injury, and violation.

Therefore, FBBs should be living in limbo. They don’t need to live in a black and white world where there are definitive rules that govern what people should and should not be allowed to enjoy. Of course, there are reasonable parameters that should be observed. But when both sides are consenting to everything that is going on, it’s best for all involved to not think about whether what’s transpiring is considered “socially acceptable” or “popular.” Those are superficial labels we attach to behaviors that don’t encompass the full spectrum of what makes people happy.

At the end of the day, that’s what it all boils down to. Whatever makes you happy. Whatever makes female bodybuilders and fans of female bodybuilders happy is alright, regardless of whether they exist in the light or the dark. Lightness and darkness are boundaries we arbitrarily place on things that we are comfortable acknowledging. It has nothing to do with what the actual truth is.

The Truth with a capital “T” is somewhere in between. Or somewhere else. Or both. Whatever.

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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…

A Most Magnificent Body of Work – Part Two of Five

Debbie Leung showing us her best side.

Continued from part one

Twenty minutes later Deborah is parking her car in stall #17, the spot assigned to her by the apartment complex. Cassandra owns a motorcycle that she hasn’t ridden in at least a year; and probably won’t until her leg fully heals. So until then, Deborah essentially has to drive her everywhere. It’s a burden, but one that she has gotten used to.

Once inside, she pats Bruce on the head. Bruce is their orange tabby whom they adopted from Cassie’s brother, whose new wife is allergic to cats. Deborah never thought she’d ever become a mommy, but that all changed when this adorable ball of fur entered her life.

“Meow,” Bruce purrs with gratitude.

“Meow, meow back to you, little guy,” she whispers. Deborah finishes her banana strawberry smoothie and tosses the cup into the trash. She drops her purse onto the kitchen counter and takes out the envelope. She reopens it and counts the contents inside. Sure enough, it’s 100 $100 bills, which indeed adds up to $10,000. Deborah may never have been good at math, but she can do basic arithmetic when large sums of money are involved. She closes the envelope and places it back inside her purse.

She doesn’t know if Cassie is still awake, so she proceeds cautiously to the bathroom to brush her teeth. All of a sudden, a familiar soothing voice breaks the silence.

“Good evening. Or is it officially morning yet?”

Deborah looks up at the wall clock. It is only 11:30.

“No, it’s still evening. Hello sweetie.” Deborah approaches her lover and kisses her with more intensity than usual. Cassandra heaves after their lips come apart.

“Wow! That’s more than just a simple good night kiss. What’s gotten into you?” Cassandra switches on a light and takes a good look at Deborah. Her hair is unkempt, but that is not unusual. She appears to be like a walking zombie, which is definitely out of character. Usually the Debbie she knows carries herself with more pomp and authority.

“The strangest thing just happened to me as I was walking out of the gym,” Deborah begins. “I still haven’t been able to process it.”

“Well, that’s quite out of the ordinary. Did that asshole start to flirt with you again?” For years this random spray tanned muscle bro would always hit on her at the gym. Finally, he stopped only because Cassie clocked him in the nose after he called her a dyke. There were hundreds of witnesses, but no one felt any sympathy for the douchebag. In fact, the crowd cheered her on.

“No, I haven’t seen that guy for several months. Just as I was leaving, this guy I’ve never seen before struck up a conversation with me in the parking lot,” she says. Deborah goes to her purse, takes out the envelope, and hands it to Cassandra. “He offered me a deal on behalf of his ‘client.’ He didn’t say who his client is. Then he gave me this.”

“What’s in it? It’s pretty heavy.”

“Go ahead. Open it.”

Cassandra does. After looking inside, her eyes become as wide as Deborah has ever seen them.

“Holy shit! Is this for real?” Cassandra takes out the bills and begins to count them one by one. “Holy mother of God, this is a shit ton of money!”

“I’ve counted it. Twice. It’s ten thousand dollars. Real dollars. I used to work at a bank, remember? I know a fake dollar bill when I see one. And every single one of them is real. No doubt about it.” After the initial shock wears off, Cassandra next discovers the business card that is also tucked away inside the envelope. She reads it.

“I’m guessing this is the phone number of the person you talked to?”

“Yes. He told me I should think about his offer. If I want to take him up on it, I should call this number.” Deborah sits down at the dining table. Cassandra, sensing a longer conversation is about to commence, joins her.

“What was his offer?”

Deborah clears her throat. Bruce meanders over to his water dish and drinks from it.

“He says his client wants me to spend the night with him. He didn’t specify what we’d be doing, but you can use your imagination,” she begins. “His client is willing to compensate me with one million dollars–”

“Are you serious?! One million dollars? In cash?”

“He sounded serious. And he gave me this money to prove he’s not blowing smoke. Says I can keep the ten thousand bucks regardless of whether I choose to go through with it or not. He told me I have 48 hours to reply.” Deborah sinks back in her chair and sighs. Bruce jumps on her lap and rubs his head against her hardened abdomen. She scratches the orange fur ball’s underbelly, much to his delight.

There is a long pause.

“This is unbelievable. He cannot possibly be serious.”

“That’s what I thought at first as well,” Deborah says. “I’ve been thinking nonstop about this ever since. I don’t know what to do. He didn’t seem dangerous or anything.”

“Did he follow you home?” Cassandra asks. She peers outside through the window facing the main street. Not a single car has zipped by in the past fifteen minutes. After all, it is the dead of night.

A luscious Monica Brant.

“I don’t think so. He drove off before I did.” Bruce has decided he wants to sleep on his favorite mommy’s lap. Deborah continues to stroke his belly.

“Are you sure? He could have had someone else tail you.”

“Don’t be paranoid, Cassie dear. He didn’t seem threatening. He did give me $10,000, right? That’s not something a scary man would do.” Reluctantly, Deborah also looks out the window. She sees an old retiree walking a dog. Why the fuck would you walk your dog this late at night?

“Hm. 48 hours, you say? What will you do? What did he say if you said no?”

“He said if either I said ‘no’ or I never contact him, he would pursue other candidates or something like that. Either way, I keep this money. I just wouldn’t be eligible to get the bigger prize.” Cassandra stands up and closes the blinds. Deborah is happy to see how effortlessly she can move around without wincing in pain. That wasn’t the case not too long ago.

“Other candidates? What is this, a job interview? Wow. What are you going to do?”

They stare at each other for a long time. Bruce yawns. Deborah feels a yawn of her own sneaking up on her.

“I have no fucking clue.”

***

The screeching of an alarm clock awakes both Deborah and Cassandra from their slumber. Bruce has already awakened hours ago, which isn’t surprising considering cats sleep for twenty hours a day – or so it seems. He dutifully sits next to his food dish, ready to be fed. Today is Thursday, which means it’s Cassie’s turn to give the feline what he demands.

Deborah lies in bed staring up at the ceiling. Was last night a dream? Did that encounter with Thin Fedora Man really happen to her? As Cassandra plops a lump of wet food into Bruce’s dish, Deborah suddenly makes her decision.

“I’m going to do it.”

Cassandra’s ears perk up. Bruce could not care less, chowing down on his food with the ferociousness of a starving Dickensian orphan.

“Really? Why?”

“It’s only for one night. Plus, I can talk to him, ask a few more questions, and back out if he reveals further details that make me uncomfortable.” Deborah sits up in bed and rubs her eyes. “It never hurts to ask, right?”

“Maybe not, or maybe so,” Cassandra answers, with a slight hint of melancholy in her voice.

***

The rest of the day proceeds as normal. Deborah drives Cassie to work. She’s a part-time laboratory tester at a pesticide company. She makes sure new anti-insect products won’t poison humans. It’s a pretty important job.

Deborah also works part-time as a nutrition coach at a fitness gym across town. The gym itself is small, dirty, and low-grade. Never in a million years would Deborah ever train there. But she will earn a small paycheck from them. But would she ever work out there? Not a chance.

“I look forward to our next meeting,” Deborah says to a short overweight man named Calvin. Calvin is one of Deborah’s best clients. He may be overweight, but he used to be much more overweight. So much so, his doctor told him to lose 175 pounds or he might not live to see his 50th birthday. That was quite a wakeup call, to say the least.

“Thank you. See you next time, Debbie,” Calvin says. She prefers that he not call her “Debbie,” but he’s a pleasant enough fellow so she doesn’t mind all too much. As Calvin stands up to leave, out of the corner of her eye she sees a man wearing a fedora walk through the front door. She intently watches the mysterious man, and then sees it’s just Jeff, the boyfriend of the gym’s manager. God, how paranoid is she getting? Deborah then realizes she’s kept a close watch on every single person who’s entered the gym. Why is she constantly looking over her shoulder?

Deborah takes a sip from her water bottle and deeply sighs. She can’t keep going like this. Frightened. Anxious. Suspicious of everyone. Unable to focus on the task at hand. She sees the time is 11:17. A bit early for lunch, but late enough in the day that she can take it. Deborah checks her calendar. Her next appointment is at noon. Perfect.

Ten minutes later, Deborah is sitting in her car with her phone and Thin Fedora Man’s business card sitting on the dashboard. She breathes in deeply like a Buddhist monk and exhales.

“Let’s do this shit.”

She quickly dials the number and waits. Six rings later, a voice that resembles that of Thin Fedora Man answers.

“Good day, Miss Frost.”

“Hello, whoever your name is. Is this the gentleman I spoke to last night?”

“Indeed, it is. Have you made a decision?”

“I have,” Deborah says. She looks around to see if anybody is watching her. Other than a squirrel that has just run up a nearby tree, the coast appears to be clear. “I’m interested in taking up your client’s offer. I’m saying yes.”

“He will be most pleased to hear that,” the voice responds. “Will your girlfriend mind that you’ll be taking on this endeavor?”

Deborah’s heart sinks. How the fuck does he know that she has a girlfriend? How does he know about Cassie? Is her life in danger? Is she being watched after all…?

“How do you know I have a girlfriend?” she inquires with urgency.

“You’ve mentioned her on your Instagram page,” Thin Fedora Man says. “It’s public knowledge.”

A squirrel in a tree.

Oh. Right. That pesky thing. The perils of putting your whole life out there to the public.

“Right. I have talked about her publicly. Silly me.”

“No worries,” he chuckles. “Do you know where the municipal airport is outside of the city?”

“Yes. It’s not too far from here.”

“Good. Now listen to these instructions very carefully. Go there this Saturday morning at 9 o’clock. Park your car in the main garage and grab a ticket from one of the kiosks,” he says. “Then, proceed to the ticket counter and tell them you’re scheduled to ride the Silver Hawk. It’s my client’s private jet. Give your ticket to the front desk employee and he or she will validate your parking. We’ve already paid for it in advance. Got all that?”

“Yes.”

“Delightful. You will be escorted to the Silver Hawk. I will be standing outside it on the runway. Then, we will board and fly off to the location my client has chosen for this little adventure.” Deborah realizes she probably should be taking notes, but so far nothing about this seems particularly complicated. “You can expect to return home by Sunday evening. Are we clear on this?”

Deborah watches the squirrel nibble on a lone French fry that somehow fell on the ground. The squirrel seems so at peace with not a care in the world. She envies the little bugger.

“Crystal clear. I understand.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Unless you have any further questions, I will end this conversation now. Just so you know, the moment I hang up, this phone number will become disconnected, so you can’t redial to reach me again,” he warns. “So the next time we chat will be on the tarmac.”

“Okay. That’s fine. I have no questions.”

“Excellent. Goodbye, Miss Frost. See you in two days.” Thin Fedora Man hangs up. She hears nothing but the dial tone. Deborah ends the phone call and drops her phone on the passenger seat. She can do nothing but stare ahead into the nothingness in front of her. It may be lunchtime but at this moment Deborah has no appetite.

***

That night, Deborah breaks the news to Cassandra about her conversation with Thin Fedora Man. She seems stoic and confident that everything will turn out alright when all is said and done.

“It’s basically a really elaborate muscle worship session, right?” Cassandra asks. For the uninitiated, a “muscle worship session” is a type of erotic service many female bodybuilders offer to male clients. Lots of muscular women – both young and old, married and single, mothers and the childless – do this. There’s no shame in it. It’s not particularly taboo or discouraged by the female bodybuilding community. Deborah has never offered such services before, but at a steep price of $1 million she may never have to work another day in her life again if the evening with Thin Fedora Man’s client goes well.

When you think about Deborah Frost, think about 1970s bombshell Deborah Shelton, who appeared in the TV show “Dallas” and won the Miss USA beauty contest in 1970. Only much more muscular, of course!

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Deborah admits. “I know lots of girls who do that sort of thing. I’ve never done anything like that, but it’s not because I’m a prude. It’s just not something I’m comfortable with. But you’re right. One million dollars is a shit load of money.”

Cassandra approaches her lover and kisses her deeply. She reaches out and feels Deborah’s massive biceps. She’s just gotten back from the gym, so Deborah’s muscles are more swollen than usual. Once their lips come apart, Cassandra unzips Deborah’s jeans and pulls them gently to the floor.

“It is a shit ton of money. More than we could ever imagine. Think about what we could be doing if we never have to worry about money ever again…”

But Deborah is in no mood to think. And judging from Cassandra squatting down and pulling down her panties, it appears she isn’t either.

Five minutes later, the two lovers are in bed. Cassandra is sucking on Deborah’s enormous clitoris, desperately wanting to bring her lover to orgasm. Deborah does eventually come, but she feels no pleasure as her mind has wandered off in another direction. After a full hour of making love – and it’s been several months since Deborah and Cassandra have engaged in a lovemaking session this long and intense – the two lovers find themselves intertwined together, covered in sweat and the grime of the day. They smell awful, but it’s the least of their worries at this moment.

“I’m not scared,” Deborah reassures her partner.

“I know you aren’t,” Cassie whispers back, caressing her lover’s dark brown pubic hair.

***

Two days later, Deborah follows Thin Fedora Man’s directions just as he instructed her. Carrying only a small black suitcase with a change of clothing, lingerie, makeup, a can of pepper spray, a pocket knife, a Tupperware container of food (steak, brown rice, and asparagus), and a hair brush inside it – she decided to “pack light” for this overnight excursion – Deborah drives to the barren municipal airport and parks her car in the main garage. She takes a parking ticket from the nearest kiosk and scurries to the front desk area at a brisk pace.

It’s surprisingly crowded for such an early morning flight. All eyes stare at her, which by now Deborah has grown accustomed to. It’s quite unusual to see a tall muscle-bound woman strut around out of the blue.

“Mommy! Is that a boy or a girl?” a little snot-nosed kid blurts out rather loudly. Embarrassed and apologetic, the woman shushes her son and gives Deborah a regretful look. Deborah pleasantly smiles and walks away. The boy still stares blankly at her, confused and disoriented.

“How may I help you?” a perplexed young man asks. Deborah leans over the counter and speaks to the Front Desk Man in a low voice, not wanting anyone to hear their conversation.

“I’m here to ride the Silver Hawk,” she says.

Front Desk Man checks his computer. After a moment, he gives Deborah a stunned look of disbelief.

“That’s very strange. Usually every flight has a, uh, you know, a flight time. But not this one. It’s just sitting in Runway D waiting for…um, you to show up,” he says. “Is your name Deborah Frost?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

The puzzled young man inadvertently stares at Deborah’s defined pecs peeking out of her low-cut top and raises an eyebrow.

“Wow. You must, uh, work out, huh?”

“I go to the gym when I find the time,” Deborah sarcastically replies. Front Desk Man instantly realizes his inappropriate behavior and furiously works on his computer to process Deborah’s flight. He grabs a boarding pass that emerges from a printer and hands it to her.

“So, um, here you go. Here’s your ticket. Do you need your parking validated? It says here that the owner of the Silver Hawk has already paid for it ahead of time.” Deborah nods her head and hands her parking ticket to Front Desk Man. He enters the code in the computer and tosses the worthless piece of paper into the trash.

“Fantastic. I believe that’s it. Go to your left and walk down that hallway to the security zone. After that, head over to Gate D12. One of our employees will escort you to your flight after you show them your boarding pass,” he awkwardly explains. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No thanks.” Deborah holds onto her boarding pass as if her life depended upon it. She gets the funny feeling that perhaps it does.

“Great. Cool. Enjoy your flight.”

Fifteen minutes later a short Vietnamese girl wearing a suit jacket and a short blue skirt escorts Deborah to the Silver Hawk. Deborah cannot help but imagine what her pussy must look like. She’s always had a “thing” for Asian chicks. Before Cassie, Deborah once dated a tall Chinese girl who played for the school’s basketball team. She possessed the most beautiful pussy she’s ever laid her eyes on. Unfortunately, she spoke broken English so their relationship never felt natural. Oh well.

A luxurious private jet.

“Enjoy your flight,” the Vietnamese girl says as they enter the tarmac. Sitting authoritatively on the runway is a gorgeous twin engine silver colored jet that looks like a dream come true. Deborah doesn’t notice the Vietnamese girl walk away because she’s too busy being in awe of the plane. As if on cue, the side door opens and Thin Fedora Man walks down the stairs to greet her.

“Good morning, Miss Frost. It’s nice to see you again.”

“Likewise. Oh my God, this plane is beautiful! How much does it cost to rent?” A second mysterious person shows up out of nowhere and takes her luggage. Still, Deborah doesn’t notice this. Thin Fedora Man laughs and shakes her hand.

“I couldn’t tell you. My client isn’t renting the Silver Hawk. He owns it.”

Deborah’s mouth nearly drops to the ground.

“Seriously?! He owns this?”

Thin Fedora Man chuckles some more. He takes her hand and guides her toward the jet.

“Of course he does. I think you will discover my client has much deeper pockets than you think.” And just like that, within minutes Deborah is sitting down at her seat and buckles her seatbelt. Thin Fedora Man chooses to sit in the cockpit. She’s all alone, with an endless supply of magazines at her disposal. A stewardess enters the cabin with a tray of scrambled egg whites, turkey sausage, tomato slices, a buttermilk biscuit, fresh fruit, orange juice, and coffee. She sets the tray beside Deborah and promptly exits. A few moments later the engines turn on and the plane crawls forward.

It’s at this moment that her feelings of wonderment dramatically shift to unmitigated dread. She cannot explain why. But as the Silver Hawk prepares to fly off into The Great Unknown, Deborah only has one thought running through her mind:

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

To be continued…

A Most Magnificent Body of Work – Part One of Five

Tall muscle goddess Maria Wattel.

One more set, Debbie. That’s it. Just one more set.

Looking up at the bench press bar, Deborah knows she has only one more set of ten repetitions remaining before her chest workout would come to an end. Then she could cool down, work on her abs, shower, buy a protein smoothie, and go home.

At this point Deborah has worked her way up to benching 275 pounds. The only woman currently in the weight room, all eyes are on her and she’s well aware of it. Some men are rooting for her, others are hoping she will fail. But Deborah is determined to prove everybody wrong. Even her supporters.

“Alright, time to do this motherfucker,” Deborah whispers to no one in particular.

Deborah places both hands on the bar, equidistant apart, and lies down on the bench. Her forehead is dry, not a single drop of sweat is left remaining in her body. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and imagines herself pumping this bar up and down ten times before putting it back on the rack. She can do this. She’s done this many times before. Even with all these idiots watching her. For her, pre-visualization is the key to success. If you cannot imagine yourself doing it, how can you actually do it?

Time to do it, Debbie. Time to make yourself stronger. Stronger than you’ve ever been before.

She opens her eyes, focuses on the ceiling fan above her, grips the bar tight with both hands, and lifts the bar off the rack.

Deep breath in.

Down, exhale, up. One.

Inhale.

Down, exhale, up. Two.

Inhale.

Down, exhale, up. Three.

Inhale.

Down, exhale, up. Four.

Inhale. Slight exhale. Another inhale.

Down, exhale, up. Five.

Inhale.

Down, exhale, up. Six.

Deep inhale. Holy shit. This is getting tough. Dammit.

Down, exhale, up. Seven.

Her eyes burn when a drip of sweat seeps into her eye socket. She was under the impression her body had no sweat left in it. She is wrong.

Fuck.

Inhale.

Down, exhale, up. Eight.

Fuck!!!

Inhale.

Down, exhale, up. Nine.

Oh, shit. She has to give up. Her arms tremble. She feels her elbows start to wobble. She’s going to drop the bar and smash her neck in half. She needs a spotter. But no! She refuses to give up. Nobody tells Deborah she can’t do anything. Fuck that shit. Deborah can do whatever the fuck she wants. Fuck the world. Fuck her doubters. Fuck anybody who thinks she’s a weakling because she’s a woman. Fuck that!!!

Inhale.

Down, exhale, up, up, up, up!

Just a little bit more….

Ten.

Deborah groans loudly, her booming voice reverberating across the room. She couldn’t care less if she’s distracting her fellow exercisers. This is all about her, nobody else. Fuck everybody else.

On the verge of collapsing, Deborah places the bar back on the rack and drops her arms to the floor. She’s gasping for air harder than a heavyweight prize fighter after the twelfth round. Her chest feels so tight it could burst with the prick of a needle. Her arms feel like jelly. She doubts she can move a single muscle until tomorrow morning.

But she has to move. She can’t spend the night and sleep here. No way. No fucking way.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. This is a classic case of mind vs. matter. And in Deborah Frost’s case, her mind won. She kicked matter’s ass. Big time. Oh yeah.

Yet another tall muscle goddess, this time it’s Shawn Tan.

After a minute or two (which felt like an hour), Deborah sits up, grabs her towel, and wipes herself off. She then stands up, wipes down the bench, and proceeds to take the weight plates off the bar and place them back where they belong. Her “audience” has moved on and returned to their own little worlds. She just bench pressed all that fucking weight and her doubters are left to eat their own shit. Let them eat shit.

Time to do some ab work.

Deborah’s tall 6 foot 2 inch frame is covered from head to toe with big, thick muscles. As ripped as a professional bodybuilder and athletic as an Olympic gymnast, Deborah Frost is a unique, one-of-a-kind physical specimen. She doubts anybody in the world has ever had a body quite like hers. And she’s determined to make sure it stays that way.

At 27 years old, Deborah is certainly young enough to still be in the prime of her physical potential. Everything depends on her work ethic. And her work ethic is off the charts.

Forty-five minutes later, Deborah is stark naked and standing at a shower stall, feeling the hot water cascade off her strong, muscular body. She is not alone, showering alongside a short elderly woman, a grossly obese high school girl, and a young ditzy blonde who looks like she could be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.

Mmmm. Delicious. She’d love to lick her sweet pussy. She looks so soft, so sweet. She must smell like roses.

But Deborah isn’t usually into girls like her. She prefers women like Cassandra, her long-time girlfriend who lives with her. Like Deborah, Cassandra is as strong as an ox and refuses to let anybody tell her she can’t do anything. She’s just got back home after serving an eight month-long tour of duty in Afghanistan with the U.S. Marines. Cassandra was wounded when a road-side bomb hit her patrol vehicle, lodging a long piece of metal into her left leg. She sees a physical therapist every single day to help her recover.

But all Deborah could think about is fantasizing about Cheerleader Girl. That, and getting clean. Maybe she should focus more on getting clean.

Cheerleader Girl turns off her shower and walks away to her towel hanging on the wall. Deborah watches her curvy, round butt sway from side to side as she struts. Deborah can feel an electrical current pulsate between her legs. God, she needs release. Really bad. All this pent-up energy can’t be taken out through a workout. She needs a good, old-fashioned fuck.

Cassandra can help her with this when she gets home.

Gorgeous blonde FBB Cindy Phillips.

After her shower, Deborah quickly dresses and buys a small protein smoothie at the gym’s food bar. Her preference is banana strawberry. It’s fucking fantastic.

“Thank you. Have a good night,” the Smoothie Guy says. Deborah cannot remember his name to save her life and it’s beyond the point of embarrassment to ask him again. So she just smiles and nods as pleasantly as she can.

“You’re welcome. See you next time!”

He’s cute. A bit short and pudgy, his dark hair and perpetual five o’clock shadow is too irresistible to ignore. Deborah hasn’t had sex with a guy in nearly a decade, but she’d consider it if Smoothie Guy ever mustered up the courage to ask her. Or the foolishness to ask her. Same thing.

“See you tomorrow, right?” The Front Desk Gal asks.

“Yup, tomorrow. For sure. Today was chest day, so tomorrow is back and shoulders. Got to balance yourself out, you know what I mean?” Front Desk Gal nods. Deborah flashes her a subtle smile and sashays out of the gym.

The time approaches 10:30 p.m., which is a little bit later than she’s used to working out. Today she had a late start because she had to drive Cassandra to and from her therapy appointment. Usually she can snag a ride from her sister, but not today. Today, Cassie’s sister was meeting with her brand new sugar daddy. Deborah hopes things work out this time. Heaven knows she needs one right now.

Tonight, Deborah parked her car in the back lot. The gym’s super popular Zumba teacher taught back-to-back classes today so the front lot was completely full when Deborah arrived. Oh well. It could be worse. Heck, odds are stupid aerobic classes like that keep the gym in business. So she doesn’t have a whole lot to complain about.

Deborah fumbles with her car keys. She really needs to simplify how many damn keys she carries around in her tiny purse–

“Miss Frost?”

Deborah turns around to see whose voice it is that called out her name. It’s pitch black outside, so it’s nearly impossible to properly see who it is.

“Yes? Who is it?”

Standing next to a broken light post smoking a cigarette is a thin man wearing a black overcoat, a burgundy red fleece scarf, and a light gray fedora. The man approaches her nonchalantly. Even though she has every reason to feel threatened, she remains calm and collected. The man takes one last drag and tosses the cigarette on the ground. He steps on it for good measure.

“Good evening. Don’t feel alarmed. I’m not with the paparazzi or anything like that,” the man says. “I know people like that are constantly swarming you.”

“From time to time. But not for a while.” Deborah briefly dated in college a guy who was the school’s stud quarterback. He was drafted in the top ten and played two seasons in the NFL before overdosing on heroin. Deborah had broken up with him prior to his death, but the mysterious circumstances surrounding his sudden passing made her the subject of a criminal investigation. His fame, combined with her unusual muscular body, created a temporary media firestorm. Eventually, her name was cleared and she resumed living her life as normal.

Mysterious man wearing a fedora and smoking a cigarette.

She and William never had sex because he was secretly gay but refused to publicly come out. She was just a “girlfriend” for show. He felt like being outed would hurt his chances of playing in the pros. He wasn’t totally wrong. She went along with the charade as long as she received a cut of his paycheck. He agreed to this arrangement. Their phony relationship resulted in her receiving $15,000 per month from him in cash. They were both happy with this “business arrangement.” They both benefitted. But eventually even that had to come to an end, like everything does.

“I’m glad. It’s good to see your life has returned back to the way it was.”

“What do you want? An autograph?”

The Thin Fedora Man takes another step toward her. Deborah’s heart rate increases slightly.

“Oh, no. I’m not looking for that at all. I’m actually here to deliver a message to you. Would you like to hear it? I believe you will find it financially rewarding.” Deborah’s ears perk up at the mention of money. Due to her living life as a professional bodybuilder – which pays very little – and Cassandra having to spend so much of her money on therapy sessions, money is always tight with them. Always.

“Go away.” Deborah unlocks her car and takes one step toward it.

“Very well. As you wish. I will inform my client that you have refused his offer before even hearing it. He will be quite displeased with this news.” The Thin Fedora Man turns around and walks away. Impulsively, Deborah shouts back at him.

“Wait! Come back. I want to hear your offer.” The Thin Fedora Man stops dead in his tracks and smiles. He turns around and faces Deborah, a woman who is by far the most muscular he’s ever seen in his life.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I want to hear it. Go on.” How fucking pathetic does she look right now? Deborah shudders at the thought of her actually talking to a complete stranger who claims to represent someone interested in giving her a lot of money…

“Fantastic. I will not reveal my client’s name, but he will reveal himself if you choose to meet with him. He is offering you this: My client wants to spend one evening with you at a location of his choosing. The time parameters will be agreed upon beforehand,” he says.

“During this time together, he asks that you allow him to do whatever he pleases with you. Whatever he pleases, if I may reiterate that crucial point. Don’t worry, no physical or psychological harm will come to you. He can assure you of that. In return, you will receive $1 million in cash on the spot. No questions asked. No need to do anything else after that.”

Deborah can smell Thin Fedora Man’s smoky breath from several paces away. She tries to not cough. The struggle is real.

“Wow. That’s quite an offer. I’ll give you and your client credit. I’ve never been approached before about something so elaborate. But my answer is still no,” Deborah says. She begins to walk away toward her car for the second time.

“He figured you would immediately refuse. I also can sympathize with your reaction. This is why he’s offering you this ahead of time.” Thin Fedora Man takes out a white envelope from his coat pocket and hands it to Deborah. “It’s $10,000 in cash. Straight up. Even if you ultimately refuse my client’s offer, the money is still yours. No need to return it. Go ahead. Open it. It’s yours.”

Cautiously, Deborah takes the envelope from him and opens it. She peers inside. Sure enough, a thick stack of 100 dollar bills greets her. She gasps.

“Fuck me. You’re not joking around,” she mutters under her breath.

An envelope full of cash.

“No, he is not,” Thin Fedora Man chuckles. “Also inside this envelop is a business card with a phone number that you are to call if you would like to take him up on his generous offer. You have 48 hours to respond. If he does not hear from you, he will then pursue other potential candidates for this particular escapade. Understood?”

Unable to believe her eyes, Deborah looks up at Thin Fedora Man and nods her head faintly. “Yes, I understand completely.”

“Good! We look forward to your response. Have a pleasant rest of your evening, Miss Frost.”

And just like that, Thin Fedora Man turns around and calmly walks away. He gets inside a car parked several yards away and turns on the engine. Deborah still has not moved an inch since looking at the stack of bills. She sees red break lights illuminate the pitch black parking lot as the vehicle driven by the enigmatic man backs up. A chill runs down her spine.

“Holy hell. Is this guy for real?” she says to herself.

Dumbstruck and clutching the envelope as if her life depended upon it, Deborah can do nothing but watch Thin Fedora Man’s car speed off toward the main highway, leaving behind a thin trail of dust floating around in the darkness.

To be continued…

The Strap-On Fantasy: Ready, Willing, and Well-Endowed

Denise Masino showing Lisa Cross who’s the boss.

Imagine you’re lying on the ground with your hands and feet tied together with rope. There’s a gag in your mouth. You cannot speak a word. You struggle to move. But for some odd reason, you feel no desire to speak or move. You just lie there. Waiting. In complete silence.

Suddenly, a door opens. The silence is broken. You cannot look behind you, but you can clearly hear the clank of high heels banging against the cement floor. The steps come closer. And closer. And closer. Finally, the clanking stops. You hear a low gravelly voice barking out orders. It sounds masculine, but strangely feminine at the same time. But instead of being confused or perplexed, you’re frightened, nervous, and uncontrollably aroused all at the same time.

A strong pair of hands takes hold of you and turns you around. Finally, you see who it is that has graced your presence. It is that of a muscular woman. Tall, confident, and ripped from head to toe with big bulging muscles, she’s a sight you’ve never seen before. You will never forget this moment, the moment your eyes first see her size and strength. It is forever burned into your memory. And for that, you are eternally grateful.

You look at her gorgeous face, then her pecs, shoulders, biceps, six-pack abdomen, and her tree trunk thighs. She definitely goes to the gym regularly! But the one thing that you cannot help but notice is the enormous strap-on attached to her pelvis. Your eyes focus on a huge ten inch long black dildo hanging between her legs. It is the most intimidating thing you’ve ever witnessed. It looks hard, violent, and unforgiving. It is a tool of punishment. It is her way of asserting her deserving and rightful dominance.

However, no matter how scared you get, there’s a small part of you that desires that dildo to penetrate you. You want it shoved deep inside your body, invading your most intimate parts. You want her to be the one to do it. And from the way she positions herself over you, it appears as though that’s precisely what’s about to happen. Again, you are powerless to object. You cannot escape from your fate. She is going to do it. Hard. Over and over again. Until she decides to stop, not when you decide it should stop. She may want to penetrate you for hours. Or maybe for only a few minutes. Or seconds. Regardless, it’s her choice…not yours.

You fully expect the penetration to hurt immensely. It will be the most painful and humiliating experience of your life. But you wouldn’t have it any other way. You want this to happen, even though you’re terrified out of your wits. You’re sweating. Your heart is racing a million miles per second. If the dildo doesn’t kill you, cardiac arrest might instead. But if that were to happen, it would be tragic but at least you will die happy.

The moment of truth is approaching. She parts your thighs, preparing to enter you. She licks her lips. She grabs onto the black dildo and strokes it up and down as suggestively as possible. She then takes out a bottle of lubricant and dabs a small amount onto her fingers. She reaches down and smears it on you. It feels cold, but comforting. The anticipation has reached a fever pitch. It’ll only be a few moments until she finally enters you. She smiles. You grimace, but you also remain calm. You’ve accepted your fate. You choose to accept what’s coming to you.

At last, she positions her dildo right at your entrance, and she squeezes it in…

Alright, wake up sweetheart! It’s time for school.

Huh? What just happened?

If the following anecdote arouses you in any way, I suppose that means I’ve done my job, which is to act as a (de facto) scribe of your dirtiest inner thoughts. Your fantasy world may not be this vivid or kinky, but I’m sure you’ve had your moments. I can guarantee it. Whether you’re truly into kink or if you’re more vanilla, you’ve probably at some point during your female muscle fandom watched a video or two that features a strong powerful woman wearing a strap-on dildo.

Melissa Dettwiller cannot help but submit to Lynn McCrossin (may she rest in peace).

Maybe she’s penetrating a guy. Or a woman. Or a fellow female bodybuilder. Or maybe she’s just by herself and she’s teasing you with it. No matter the circumstances, this fantasy scenario is not uncommon within the female muscle fan community (believe it or not, such a community actually exists!). Watching a hypermuscular woman wear a gigantic strap-on dildo – the color specifications can differ depending on who you are – can be quite arousing, even if BDSM isn’t necessarily your “thing.”

Why is that? Why do we enjoy watching Angela Salvagno or Yvette Bova wear a strap-on around their waists while they prepare to unleash pain and humiliation upon a hapless victim? How many of us wish we were that victim? Or at the very least, how many of us wish we could witness in-person this act of tyranny up close?

The Strap-On Fantasy is a fascinating one to ponder about. It covers a wide range of ideas that exemplify why female muscle fandom is so perplexing. Whether we secretly wish for an FBB wearing a strap-on to enter us where the sun doesn’t shine or whether we get turned on watching it happen to somebody else, let’s dig deep into this phenomena further (no pun intended).

The first major observation is that many female muscle lovers enjoy watching a muscular woman assert her sexual dominance. Many of us don’t fantasize about making love to an FBB as if she were our equal (although I do!). Rather, many of us desire that she take control, declare her sexual sovereignty, and do whatever she wants with us. However, such a fantasy isn’t just reduced to a powerful woman “being on top” in the bedroom. It takes it one step further.

Any woman – muscular or not – can assert her dominance in the bedroom. Either she decides what transpires or she determines the pace of play. Whichever it is, neither option is particular unusual or noteworthy. But when you add the element of a strap-on into the mix, things get a bit dicey. A muscular woman with a strap-on attached to her isn’t trying to become more “masculine” or “man-like.” It certainly appears that way, but underneath the surface we come to realize that a strap-on isn’t just a fake penis. It’s an external (and material) symbol of sexual dominance.

As a society, we view the penis – for better or for worse – as a symbol of sexual sovereignty. It’s an external organ that, when stimulated, provides pleasure for the person who has it. Women have organs that provide her sexual pleasure as well (her vagina and clitoris, primarily), but neither organ is pronounced enough for our psyches to relegate them as “vehicles of pleasure.” The vagina is internal and the clitoris is very small. For this reason, when we were little kids we thought that “boys have a penis” and “girls don’t have a penis,” as opposed to “girls have a vagina.” Girls do have a vagina, but it’s less obvious. Women can have orgasms without a partner, but far too many across the world aren’t explicitly aware of this ability. You can’t learn anything unless you’re taught, right?

Given this backdrop, a muscular woman wearing a strap-on is an exaggerated and crude way for her to showcase her sexual abilities. It’s her way of communicating to the world that she possesses (even in an artificial sense) a sexual organ that exists for the purpose of giving her sexual pleasure. Obviously, a strap-on is just a toy and doesn’t actually provide her pleasure (unless it’s a double sided strap-on), but that’s beside the point. It’s all about symbolism. If we associate a large sexual organ with sexual dominance, a strap-on hammers this point home unlike anything else.

Along the same wavelength, our culture tends to associate sexual dominance with the ability to penetrate. If you can penetrate your partner, that makes you powerful. It makes your partner subordinate to you. It makes him or her passive. It makes you the active participant who’s initiating the coital act. You are not surrendering your body’s autonomy by allowing someone else to enter it. You are the invader, not the invaded. If all of this sounds violent, it certainly does. On a more serious note, that’s often why we consider rape the highest of all crimes, perhaps worse than murder. Or at the very least, it’s the crime that’s just below murder as the worst possible crime you can commit against another human being. There’s something unholy about entering another person’s body without permission or with ill intent. It’s unseemly, discomforting, and appalling to comprehend. These sentiments stem from our cultural associations of “the ability to penetrate” with “strength” and “being penetrated” with “weakness.”

There’s nothing weak about Angela Salvagno.

Fair or unfair, that’s how we tend to view these matters. I am not here to argue whether or not I like this; rather I’m just pointing out the way things are. So the bottom line is this: Sexual dominance can take many forms, but the ability to penetrate your partner with a pronounced sexual organ is chief among them. Because women do not (normally) possess such an organ, a strap-on is the next best thing; a symbolic way for them to exhibit their power, independence, and authority.

The second major observation is that we enjoy watching female bodybuilders hug that fine line between “feminine” and “masculine.”

Of course, we love muscular women because they’re women with big beautiful muscles. Not because we think they look like men. And not because they exhibit qualities that we traditionally associate with masculinity. Female bodybuilders are feminine. They’re just a different kind of feminine. Or, they’re an “enhanced” version of feminine that embraces muscular curves in addition to her conventional curves.

But on second thought, perhaps there’s a shred of truth to the stereotype that guys who love muscular women are, whether they realize it or not, also embracing the FBB’s “masculine-lite” qualities. Or maybe, and this sounds much more plausible, guys like us are really turned on by strong ladies who walk that fine line between what we are and are not supposed to be attracted to.

We love watching a beautiful feminine FBB sport a large strap-on dildo not because it appears she has a penis – and thus appears to be a “man” of sorts – but because she doesn’t really, but she acts like she does. As men, we may or may not be proud of our phalluses. We may like the power it gives us, or at least the perceived power it gives us. And we love seeing our favorite FBBs share in that power, even if it’s superficial and temporary. Deep down inside our dirty imaginations, we secretly want our FBBs to be strong, powerful, and well-endowed. We want them to act like men while still being women. In our minds, acting masculine doesn’t make you masculine. You can exhibit masculine qualities while still being unquestionably feminine in nature.

As I’ve written before many times, female muscle fans love large clits because it’s their way of demonstrating their sexual power. It’s a (albeit, smaller in size) phallic-like external organ that gives sensual pleasure when stimulated by one’s self or by a partner. It provides orgasm. It becomes engorged when aroused. It grows in size when aroused. And if it’s large enough, it can be sucked on or jerked off to the point of climax. Sound familiar?

Due to extra testosterone in the body caused by both muscle growth and taking synthetic steroids, women bodybuilders often see their clitorises grow significantly in size. There’s a perfectly rational scientific explanation for this phenomenon. So the “female phallus” theme is more evident when we’re dealing with ladies such as Denise Masino (a goddess among men), Angela Salvagno, and Brandi Mae Akers. These women possess abnormally large clits that are gorgeous, sexually alluring, and allow them to demonstrate their power in the bedroom.

We all know that Denise, Angela, and Brandi Mae do not have penises. They have clitorises and vaginas just like every other woman. But without a doubt, the shape of the meat between their legs is noteworthy and sets them apart from the rest of the female species. Their status as women is undeniable. Nobody – at least, nobody with a fully functioning brain – seriously believes these ladies are anything but ladies. Internet trolls aside, it is because they’re strong, beautiful, confident, sexy, and feminine that we love them so damn much. They’ve captured our hearts because they break the mold of what society traditionally expects women to look like while still retaining much of that mold. They don’t defy these notions so much as they redefine them. And that is an impressive feat.

Yet, we are still intrigued by tiny voices inside our heads that tell us there’s more to these ladies than meets the eye. Is it that these ladies expand the definition of “feminine,” as I’ve argued above? Or, do they shatter these definitions completely and flesh out the argument that there’s actually no such thing as “masculine” and “feminine?” Are these labels real or perceived? Are they based on objective biological scientific fact or are they shallow and archaic holdovers from a less enlightened time? Maybe straight men aren’t actually attracted to women…they’re attracted to femininity, regardless of who (or what) exhibits these characteristics.

This brings to mind all sorts of questions regarding sexual orientation, the nature of gender, and whether or not our understanding of biology is totally accurate. But suffice to say is that we know what we like and do not like. Sometimes, someone will come along and challenge our previously held conceptions of our personal preferences. This can be a good thing, but it can also be a confusing thing. The world is a complicated place, indeed.

Meet Mistress Kiana, a London-based erotic service provider.

There is something intriguing about people who are androgynous. We may or may not be attracted to them regardless of who they are – or claim that they are. Female bodybuilders are not always cleanly in the “feminine” category, mostly because the definition of “feminine” changes depending on who is doing the defining. FBBs can walk that fine line between the labels we choose to place on each other and ourselves. Perhaps this ambiguity is what enthralls us the most.

The Strap-On Fantasy forces us to reconsider why we associate a penis with masculinity. After all, we know not to associate big muscles with masculinity. We can think of hundreds of examples of big muscles being very feminine. Muscles are universal, not monopolized only by men. So by that logic, why should we associate a large phallus hanging between one’s legs as being solely masculine as well? What if, instead of the strap-on being designed to look like a penis, it were designed to look like a comically oversized clit? I have no clue if such a contraption actually exists, but the idea should bring a smile to your face.

So, we love seeing a strong woman with a fake penis, but only because it enhances her femininity, not because her appearance traverses into the territory of masculinity. Got that? Don’t worry if you find this confusing. I do too!

The third major observation is how intertwined the concepts of strength, power, and sexuality are. I’ve touched on a lot of these ideas already, so here’s what I’ll say about this. It seems nearly impossible to separate a female bodybuilder from her sex appeal. She isn’t a robot. She isn’t a machine. She’s a flesh-and-blood human being who strives to sculpt the “perfect body” as she sees it. And such an endeavor will inevitably augment her sex appeal. Whether this is intentional or unintentional, as casual onlookers we cannot train our eyes to see things differently. We cannot help but look at a female bodybuilder as a sexual object.

Perhaps we also see her as an athlete, trainer, entrepreneur, model, wife, mother, sister, community leader, celebrity, and most of all, a human being. But how can you not also look at her beauty and find your mind drifting off into all sorts of erotic places?

Don’t make Mistress Treasure (Victoria Dominguez) angry!

Connected to a female bodybuilder’s body is her strength and power. I define “strength” as her pure physical strength and “power” as the dominion she has over her surroundings, including the people around her. We are drawn to FBBs not just because of what they look like, but also because of how they act and what they can do. It arouses us to see them lifting heavy weights at the gym. It turns us on to watch them grapple a helpless male opponent to the ground while he begs for mercy – and doesn’t receive it. We may not fantasize about being the hapless chap whose face turns red while his torso is contorted in all sorts of unpleasant directions, but we sure enjoy witnessing it. Or at least, many of us do. I’m not super into that sort of thing, but whatever.

It’s not enough for us to see our favorite FBBs be strong. We need them to act strong. And not just do stunts like bend steel or crush an apple with her bare hands. That’s all fine and dandy, but what really gets our blood boiling is seeing an FBB exhibit her strength through her sexuality.

These concepts cannot be separated, no matter how much we try to. Strength, power, and sexuality are almost synonymous at this point. They aren’t of course, but that doesn’t stop us from thinking about these ideas within the same framework.

The final major observation is this: No strap-on dildo can possibly compete with a real penis. Regardless of the size of your penis – whether you think it’s small, medium-sized, or large – no dildo in the world can act as a substitute for the real thing. Women often say that as much as they love masturbating with a dildo, nothing beats the feeling and knowledge of a man’s actual flesh entering her. Synthetic materials can provide the same orgasmic effect, but it’s not psychologically the same.

A female bodybuilder wearing a strap-on is just that – a female bodybuilder wearing a strap-on. She isn’t an “honorary” man. She isn’t actually well-endowed. Her endowment is fake. She’s still a woman and a man is still a man. Even a man being anally penetrated by a woman wearing a strap-on is still a man. The power she derives from having a phallus is superficial and disappears the moment she takes it off. A man, on the other hand, never relinquishes that power.

Perhaps this is why erectile dysfunction is considered such a bruise to one’s ego. The inability to produce an erection consistently (or at all) is essentially a form of emasculation. His penis isn’t literally cut off, but it might as well be. It’s limp. It’s useless. It cannot bring a woman to orgasm. In a way, the failure to bring a woman to a satisfying climax is the height of emasculation.

Never mind he can’t bring pleasure to himself. That’s almost beside the point. He cannot successfully penetrate his female partner – which in turns makes him less of a man. “Male enhancement” medication sells like hotcakes for a reason.

However, despite all that, even a small and limp penis is still much more potent – mostly in a symbolic sense – than every single dildo sitting on the shelves of every single sex shop in the world. As an elongated piece of meat that protrudes outside of the body, a phallus is the ultimate symbol for maleness. Women, even muscular women, have no such external symbol. No strap-on ever created in a factory can compete in the long-term with the real thing. An FBB wearing a strap-on has power in the bedroom only temporarily. As I mentioned earlier, the moment she takes it off she instantly returns back to her normal state. She is “emasculated” as well – figuratively speaking, that is.

Porn star Ava Devine teaching a lesson to naughty Brandi Mae Akers.

It provides a small amount of giddiness knowing that men still hold the ultimate bargaining chip: a perfectly functional and real penis. No FBB can possibly match that. Regardless of how big her muscles get and how large her dildo is, she’s not even close to being a man. She can never actually be one of us.

But alas, is that necessarily a bad thing? Sexual power can come from anyone, no matter what is hanging (or not hanging) between their legs. So does it really matter whether a man has a penis and an FBB has a strap-on – or no strap-on at all?

Let’s think of it this way: the next time you see Angela Salvagno or Brandi Mae Akers wearing a large dildo around their waists, ask yourself this question:

Does the strap-on complete her dominating presence, or does it merely complement it?

In other words, does she even need the strap-on in the first place, or is it just a fun toy for her to play with for the time being? In the back of your mind, do you secretly wish that she actually has a phallus hanging between her legs? It could be a penis that co-exists with her vagina or it could be a clitoris that’s grown far larger than normal. Either way, is that a must? Do you clamor for her to have such an endowment? Or are you perfectly content with her having a slit between her legs and allow her muscularity to speak for itself?

Muscles give women power. The penis gives men power. When a woman can have both, it’s understandable why we’d have such vivid daydreams that prevent us from getting to school on time.

The Erotic Dreams of Max Shimura: Episode Five – Gym Rats (part two of two)

The gorgeous Laurie Steele.

Continued from part one

As quiet as a church mouse, Max creeps out from behind the corner and reveals himself to Tanya. Embarrassed to his very core, Max isn’t sure whether he should immediately run away into the next zip code or stand there and take his punishment.

Either way, he’s going to be in major trouble!

“I, uh, seem to have been unaware that the gym had closed,” Max stutters. “My mistake. Sorry about that!”

Tanya, glistening in her own sweat and standing as tall and confident as an Amazon warrior, smirks at Max’s clumsy excuse. She knows he’s full of bullshit…and thinks it’s completely adorable.

“Don’t worry, Max. Come on out. Seriously. I won’t bite,” she says. “I’m not even angry.”

She steps forward away from leg press machine and places her hands on her shapely hips. Max reluctantly approaches her. Although she’s naked from head to toe and is possibly the most perfect physical specimen he’s ever seen in his life, he maintains eye contact with her as he gives her the most shame-filled expression possible. Tanya still smiles.

“You probably didn’t expect me to take off all my clothes, huh?” Max nods his head in agreement. She bobs her head in response. Out of the periphery of his vision, Max notices an unusually large phallic organ hanging between her massive legs. He chooses to ignore this observation and remain focused on crafting an apology in his head.

“No, I didn’t. That came as quite a surprise,” Max says.

“That’s okay. I’d be shocked too if I were you.” She reaches down into her gym bag and takes out her water bottle. In one fell swig, she empties it and tosses it back inside. She lets out a modest burp.

Sarah Hayes showing off her triceps.

“The truth is, I never work out in the nude. Especially not in public. Especially when there are security cameras everywhere.” Tanya points to the ceiling at a panoramic 360-degree camera stationed almost right underneath her. Max gulps as he reckons with the fact that this entire interaction is being recorded and stored into the cloud. Holy shit, will some random bloke working at some God-awful private security company watch this whole thing and…

“But, I don’t worry about such things. Generally speaking, nobody watches this unless they have a reason to,” Tanya takes a few steps closer to Max. He feels a chill run up his spine as she closes the proximity gap between them.

“I am…um, really sorry for peeping on you,” Max says.

“I’m sure you are. In your defense, you aren’t the first guy who’s tried this, and you probably won’t be the last.” Tanya strikes a quick side chest pose, showing off her impressive triceps. Max cannot believe his eyes…or the situation he finds himself in!

“I should be going…”

Tanya grabs Max by the shoulder and squeezes it tightly. Instead of pain, which is what he was expecting to feel, Max is pleasantly surprised at both her considerable strength and gentle touch.

“Why? We’re just getting started. Aren’t we?” Tanya leans over and kisses Max unexpectedly. He quivers in response. She steals his breath away from him. Their lips come apart after what seems like a blissful eternity. “You’re different from everyone else, Max. You’re modest, you don’t show off, and you treat everyone with respect. There’s a lot to like about that.”

“Thanks. I don’t know what to say. I just try to be myself, I guess.” As he fumbles his words, Max is afraid he might tip over and fall flat on his face. Luckily, he doesn’t.

“You just want to be yourself? Good for you,” she says, leaning in toward him. He can smell a grimy musky sweaty scent emanating out of every pore of her gorgeous body. Usually he would grimace at such a noticeable stench, but in this moment it smells like sweet exotic perfume. “I try to do the same. I try to live my life as authentically as possible, and without any regrets.”

Coco Crush giving us her best side.

Max nods. It’s the last thing he can do until…

Tanya squats to the ground and tears off Max’s shorts. Taking the not-so-subtle hint, Max takes off the rest of his clothes until he’s down to only his underwear. His erection is as plain as day. But instead of being embarrassed by it, he feels powerful. More powerful than he’s ever felt in his entire life. Even though Tanya is stronger and more authoritative than he is, for some unexplainable reason he cannot help but feel invincible.

“So, who do you think has a bigger one, you or me?”

Max blinks unintelligently. He is as dumbfounded as he’s ever been.

“I…um, uh, beg your pardon? What are you talking about…who has a, uh, bigger one?”

She smiles. He still cannot think straight. Then, she takes his hand and leads him toward a wall mirror. The two of them stand side-by-side in front of a smudged-up mirror, looking intently at their reflection. The sight of a tall muscular woman dwarfing a medium-sized man almost looks comical, but in this environment it’s as erotic of a sight that has ever been produced.

“It’s a simple question, Max. Who has a bigger one, you or I?” Suddenly, out of nowhere, Tanya spreads her massive legs apart and shows off her…

Her…

Um, her……………….

………………………………………………………..

Holy shit!

…her enormous clitoris!!!

Hanging between her legs, almost as if it exists purely for shock value, is the largest clitoris Max has ever seen before. Before he can process what he’s just seen, Tanya abruptly rips off his underwear and exposes his erect penis for the two of them to see. Fully hardened, Max’s modest size never bothered him before. At least, not before he encountered a fully nude Tanya!

Protruding out from between her legs is what appears to be a hefty six-inch long piece of meat. Mostly covered by a thick-layered dark brown clitoral hood, the head of her clit looks to be the size of the tip of Max’s thumb. What the hell!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How the FUCK is that even possible????????

“Is that what I think it is? Is…um, is that your…you know?” Max’s erection deflates as he attempts to mentally process what he’s witnessing. He doesn’t seem to notice. She doesn’t seem to care.

“What? What do you think it is, Max?” She continues to flex her enormous muscles.

“Is that a, uh, penis?”

There is a long awkward pause.

Tanya bursts out laughing and slaps Max playfully on the back. She doesn’t mean to cause any harm, but her sheer strength causes him to screech in pain. She grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him down to the floor. Max is on his knees with his face right in front of her divine clit.

“Fuck, no! It’s my fucking clit, you dumbass! I’m a woman, not a man. For fuck’s sake.” Tanya strokes her feminine endowment up and down, exposing the bright pink head to its fullest extent. Indeed, her clit is an eye-popping six inches long, if you count the tip to the point where it appears to enter inside her body. Max’s modest erection is not quite 5.5 inches, a sore subject with him whenever the topic of “size” ever comes up in casual conversation. Fortunately for him, it rarely does.

“Believe it or not, I have to wear a cup around my pussy every time I go out in public so that it doesn’t attract too much unwanted attention,” she says. “It can be quite distracting, wouldn’t you say?” Max nods in agreement, which is the only thing he can do right now.

“You want to take a closer look?”

Autumn Cleveland in her natural habitat – the gym.

Max looks up at Tanya and stares at her ocean blue eyes. She does not seem to be joking. Obediently, he sticks his face between her legs. Tanya is fully erect, with small traces of moisture dripping down her slit. Max is impressed by the stature of her feminine endowment. Eventually, Tanya pushes Max’s head closer in and he takes the whole thing into his mouth. He sucks on her engorged piece of meat with furious curiosity. She moans and trembles as the initial rumbles of orgasm shake inside her.

“Fuck, Max! Oh, fuuuuuuuuuck……”

Tanya lies down on a nearby stretching mat and spreads her legs out as widely as she possibly can. Max’s lips have not come apart from her beautiful meat. He laps her ultrasensitive pink head with his tongue, relentlessly beating it back and forth. Tanya shakes in response. She’s close. Max also knows it. He pinches the sides of her labia and stretches it as far as it can go, further exposing her pink head to his tongue. Finally, she comes.

Trembling, squirming, and gasping for air, Tanya lifts her pelvis off the floor and lets out a small fart. Breathing heavy and enjoying her last few vaginal contractions, Tanya lays her head down on the mat. Max scoots closer to her and kisses her on the lips. She enjoys the taste of her own juices. Before she can say “thank you” to him, Tanya wraps her fingers around Max’s penis and gently strokes it up and down.

My God, Cindy Landolt. You sure do things to me…

Max moans. Tanya turns on her side and kisses his cheek as she caresses him with more urgency. Sweat drips off his face. He closes his eyes so that he can indulge in the moment. He notices the hardness of her calluses against his sensitive shaft and loves it. Max is pleasantly surprised at how gentle she is, considering the power of her forearms. She may be bigger, stronger, and more accomplished than he is, but in this moment Max has never felt like more of a man than he is now. He feels in charge, even though he clearly knows she’s the one who is…

“Oh!”

Max climaxes, spurting his hot semen all over Tanya’s six-pack abdomen in five potent squirts. She allows it to drip down her belly and onto the mat. Minutes later, Tanya and Max are lying in a pool of their own fluids – sweat, saliva, semen, and vaginal juices – all without having a care in the world. They’re a sticky mess…and that’s the way they like it to be.

Who gives a fuck if a security guard watches what they’re doing? Who cares if gossip spreads across the gym and soon everyone will know about their illicit nighttime coupling? Let those idiots say whatever they want. Tanya needed this. So did Max. And now they have each other, at least they do for this moment.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring? They don’t want to think about that right now. All that matters is the here and now.

Tanya strokes Max’s limp penis and brings it back to life. After a long period of silence, Max decides to speak.

“Ready for round two?”

Tanya leans over and kisses him deeply.

“Ever since we got done with round one!”

They laugh. They kiss again. This time, it’s Max who takes charge. Full of newfound confidence, he mounts her, looks at her pretty blue eyes, and begins to make love to her.

This is the Moment When She is at the Peak of Her Power

Tina Nguyen is at her most powerful right here.

She stares straight ahead, her gaze can pierce through your soul. She’s exhausted. She’s fatigued. She’s determined. She’s ready.

With 65-pound dumbbells in each hand, hanging casually next to her hips, she takes in a deep breath and regards herself in the mirror – not out of vanity, but out of a concern for maintaining proper form and technique. She’s a professional in mind and spirit, though not in livelihood (yet).

With astonishing confidence, grace, and strength, she lifts one dumbbell up to her chest, the cold metal barely grazing her collarbone. She exhales and slowly lowers the heavy weight back to her side, returning it perfectly to where it previously was. Then she lifts the other dumbbell upward in the exact same manner, this time her other collarbone experiences the unforgiving touch of the frosty iron. All the while, curious onlookers can see large veins running down her hardened biceps as she powers through these lifts. It seems like with each repetition, the veins get more pronounced as her biceps grow larger and larger.

The blood rushing into her arms coincides with the blood rushing into the private areas of the males in close proximity. They are unable to concentrate on their own workouts because they are too distracted by hers.

But none of them would have it any other way.

Oh boy. Have you ever experienced a scenario similar to this? I know I have. Maybe not at my local gym – though there have been a few isolated incidents – but certainly while watching Internet videos of female bodybuilders lifting heavy weights. If you haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing such a beautiful phenomenon in recent days, drop whatever you are doing and conduct a few Google searches to whet your starving appetite.

For people who love female bodybuilders, athletes, weightlifters, and fitness models, there are few things that turn us on more than to watch our beloved ladies grind at the gym. Glamour photoshoots behind a pristine white backdrop are fine. So are professionally-done photo sessions taken on an immaculate white sandy beach. But few pieces of media can seriously contend with a video (even if it’s grainy and shot on an iPhone) that showcases a muscular woman laboring hard to become – or remain – a muscular woman.

Indeed, workout videos are our porn. This is nothing new. There already exists a blog post exploring this topic. However, what deserves further examination is a specific moment in these videos that particularly makes our hearts leap out of our chests:

The moment of muscle peak.

This is probably best exemplified in the above example of a female bodybuilder doing bicep curls. But it’s even more evident when she’s doing preacher curls. Preacher curls are, in case you are not familiar with exercise jargon – isolation lifts in which you place your arms against an incline bench (or pad) and lift either a barbell or dumbbell upward toward your chest, targeting specifically your biceps. Visually speaking, preacher curls make for excellent video fodder because you can noticeably see the participant’s biceps swelling up as he or she completes the lift.

Sexy muscle mama Dena Anne Weiner.

When we see a muscle-bound woman’s face strain as she struggles to finish the final repetition of her grueling set, it’s difficult to watch this with zero physical reaction. How can your pulse not start to race, your heart beat a little faster, and blood not rush to your groin? I’d stop being such an adamant female muscle lover if such reactions ceased to take place inside me.

It is at this moment when her biceps are at its largest. “The Moment of Muscle Peak” is so arousing because it symbolizes in a single still frame why we love female bodybuilders so much: They had to earn their gorgeous muscles through hard work and hard work only. No shortcuts, no underserving gains, and certainly no free passes. She didn’t earn her muscles by paying a plastic surgeon to implant them underneath her skin. She may take drugs, but drugs alone do not produce large muscle mass. That only comes from expending sweat, energy, and burning more calories than some of us consume.

Here is the video that inspired me to write this post. It shows world-renowned Swiss female bodybuilder Jay Fuchs doing preacher curls at the gym. Follow her (or periodically revisit) her Instagram account if you don’t already. She completes a few repetitions of preacher curls with her left arm. We see the veins pop out of her skin. We see her bicep grow to its largest possible size. We see it expand and contract. We witness how tired she must be. We empathize with her struggle and admire how she is able to persevere through it. But we also notice how beautifully her bicep “jumps” up as she squeezes the dumbbell close to her chest. It’s as though it’s going to burst open. We are amazed how her skin is able to physically contain so much swollen flesh.

But alas, her muscles are able to expand and contract without her skin peeling open. What a miracle! After she is done with her set, she drops the dumbbell on the floor and flexes for her audience. We now see, in a classic sequence, the simple dynamic of “cause and effect.” We see her lifting weights at the gym. And now we see the results of her years of hard work!

How Miss Fuchs transformed herself into an Angelic Muscle Goddess isn’t a mystery. It’s not a secret. There’s no magic potion that made it happen. It’s all out in the open. The ways and means are as simple as it gets: Hard work, hard work, and more hard work. She has nothing to hide. She also has everything to gain. So do we.

The aforementioned Jay Fuchs.

Jay Fuch’s social media feed, as well as the feeds of hundreds of other beautiful muscular women around the globe, provides a simple yet provocatively arousing look into why some men love muscular women so damn much. “The Moment of Muscle Peak” isn’t just confined to when her muscles are actually at its largest. It’s the exact moment (or moments) when you symbolically get to witness what it is that separates a muscular woman from a “normal looking” woman. It’s the moment when it stops being all fun and games and, as the colloquialism goes, “shit gets real.”

Maybe it’s when Minna Pajulahti is attempting an impressive single deadlift. Or when Lisa Cross finishes her last squat. Perhaps it’s seeing Theresa Ivancik grunt her way toward completing a set of shoulder presses. Or seeing a female Olympic sprinter cross the finish line. Or a lady CrossFit athlete climbing up and down a rope.

It’s the moment when she’s at the peak of her power. When she’s actively doing the hard work necessary to transform herself into a better version of herself. It’s not for show. She’s not showing off for the camera or trying to put on a performance. She doesn’t care if she’s wearing makeup or if she looks “camera ready.” All of that is inconsequential nonsense. The only thing on her mind is finishing her set, breathing steadily, and moving on to the next lift. The rest will take care of itself. She doesn’t care one iota if her hair is unkempt or if she doesn’t quite look like a polished supermodel. After all, when you have muscles that big…who has the right to criticize you?

The Moment of Muscle Peak is when she is at her most unstoppable. It’s when we are helpless to do anything else but witness “true beauty” in action. Unlike a boring and passive Sleeping Beauty, a female bodybuilder busting her tail at the gym is a Wide Awake Muscle Queen Who Refuses to Take Shortcuts and Deserves Her Accolades. She ain’t no princess, sweetheart. She isn’t even a queen, despite the idiomatic expression. Instead, she’s a peasant. She’s Cinderella without the Fairy Godmother granting her temporary “princess status” until the clock strikes midnight.

She’s so damn beautiful because she’s a peasant who earned her regal status not by merely wearing a tiara, but by building up so much muscle on her body that you can’t help but mindlessly stare at her while you struggle to pick up your jaw off the floor.

The biceps on Monique Jones are enough to give me a heart attack.

A female bodybuilder isn’t at her most powerful when she’s got some hapless guy in a headlock or a scissor hold. Nor is she at the height of her authority when she has someone tied to a bed while she squeezes his balls until he begs her to stop. That is, in my humble opinion, a somewhat superficial form of expressing one’s power. Rather, she’s at the height of her power when she’s all alone in the weight room, with sweat dripping down her face, struggling to finish that one final rep before she can’t handle it anymore. Afterward, as she’s breathing hard like a racehorse and chugging down water to help her recover, she’s at her weakest. But in her weakness she finds her strength. She punishes her body so that it can emerge even more powerful than before. She’s drained of her energy for now, but not for very long. Eventually, she’ll refuel and rest up to the point where she can do it all again…this time harder and more strenuously than before.

Female bodybuilders are lone wolves. They aren’t lonely by choice, rather it’s a byproduct of the life they’ve chosen to lead. More often than not, her workouts are not made public. A short 30-second video clip posted on YouTube or Instagram doesn’t do justice to her full training regimen. It’s not even a drop in the bucket. The vast majority of the time she’s all alone at the gym (or at least, she’s all alone in her own personal bubble) away from smartphone cameras or preying eyes. She grinds away for several hours a week in the privacy of her own little world. She spends an inordinate amount of time cooking unglamorous food that tastes the same but plays a crucial role in helping her build muscle mass. She’s constantly reading up on supplementation tips and making valuable contacts – both in-person and online – who can help her succeed at her dream of living life as a bodybuilder.

These lone wolves do have their moment in the spotlight, however. They do compete in bodybuilding shows. They do pose for sexy photo or video shoots. They do meet starry-eyed clients for muscle worship or wrestling sessions. They do walk out in public and see the stunned faces on complete strangers who were not expecting to randomly see a woman with so much muscle. When you’re an entrepreneurial female bodybuilder, it’s impossible to be kept a secret forever.

Muscle goddess Angie Semsch.

But once again, that’s just a drop in the proverbial bucket. The process it takes to be a bodybuilder isn’t for the faint of heart, nor is it terribly exciting day-in and day-out. But for those of us who do appreciate the arduous journey it takes to become a Divine Muscle Goddess, we cannot help but stare with our undivided attention as she’s lifting that heavy dumbbell. In that moment, she’s defying gravity, challenging our preconceived notions, and taking one step closer toward reaching her final destination. We can’t always describe why we love watching this; but we do regardless.

The Moment of Muscle Peak, therefore, has two meanings: It’s both the moment when her muscles are at its most swollen and strained; and it’s the moment when she’s at her most empowered. It’s both literal and figurative. When Jay Fuchs is isolating her biceps and lifting that dumbbell toward her beautiful chest, she’s showing us two sides of her personality. One side is her willingness to do the hard work necessary to develop large muscles. The other side is her devotion to striving toward an ideal.

And what is that ideal? She wants to be the best version of herself that she can possibly be. She refuses to settle for anything less than that. And why would she? What would be the point?

As fans of Miss Fuchs and countless others like her, we do not see any other point. Seriously. If you can think of a reason why Jay shouldn’t pursue her personal ideal, you can tell us after we’ve picked up our jaws off the floor.