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Forum Saradas  |  Female Muscle Art - Female Muscle Fiction  |  Muscular Women Fiction  |  Undercover
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Author Topic: Undercover  (Read 50095 times)

Offline JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #45 on: January 16, 2023, 07:18:18 pm »
Thanks for the kind words!

I've got the next few chapters mapped out in my head, but I need to find time to get them down on the page. I started a new job in November last year and it's been keeping me busy - as I've had less time to write, I've concentrated on adding short chapters to 'My Type of Woman' as they're quicker to produce.

I hope things should become quieter later this month, at which point I'll have some more free time to update both 'Undercover' and 'Body Swap'.

So for the moment I'll keep things spoiler-free and just say: watch this space!
I'm currently (very slowly) writing the following stories, all of which can be found on this forum:

Undercover
Body Swap
My Type of Woman
April Fool's

Forum Saradas

Re: Undercover
« Reply #45 on: January 16, 2023, 07:18:18 pm »

Offline JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #46 on: March 26, 2023, 10:56:52 am »
It was a distrait Harriet who drove into town that morning, skittish and not a little rueful. Her triumphant mood had not lasted long. Once she had proudly strutted past the two plumbers - with an ostensibly polite ‘You’re welcome’ that she had nonetheless intended to sting like an insult - and skipped back down the stairs, she had not even returned to the ground floor before her excitement had dissipated and she had started to regret the choice she had made.

Not, that is, her decision to show off how much stronger she was than the plumber; no, he had been thoroughly deserving of his humiliation - rather, her decision to say ‘Yes’ to Florence.

By the time she was sitting in her car, she was assailed by further doubts. Why had she said ‘Yes’ so emphatically? ‘A teensy-weensy favour’? It was anything but. Just thinking about what would be required of her gave her stage fright! She should at least have said that she would think it over, or given some other non-committal response which would have allowed her the option of gracefully declining at a later date. But no. She really hadn’t been thinking clearly. She must have been too exhilarated by her physical domination of that chauvinist pig. Perhaps she had even been a little light-headed by the time she had climbed to the fifth floor while carrying all that weight. Goodness knows she had been hallucinating some very unexpected things by the time she had reached Mrs Jones’ front door.

But despite all these misgivings, Harriet realised that she was still gratified that Florence had thought of her as someone reliable whom she could ask for help, in spite of their very recent acquaintance.

And, Harriet wondered, even if she had wanted to say ‘No’ outright to Florence, would she have been able to?

When Harriet had first met Florence, it had been immediately obvious that she was a woman with a forceful personality; Harriet could easily imagine that it would be difficult to deny her anything she wanted and that she was someone who would be quick to make her displeasure clear. But Florence hadn’t bullied Harriet into saying yes. She hadn’t needed to. When Florence spoke to you she had a way of making you feel like you had become the cynosure of her eye. The rest of the world ceased to exist. Unprepared and overcome, Harriet had been ensorcelled by Florence’s luminous radiance.

It was a magic of sorts and it had meant that Harriet had wanted to please Florence so badly that she hadn’t vacillated or reluctantly acquiesced; she had eagerly accepted without a second thought. She had told Florence it would be no trouble at all; she had professed herself delighted to be able to help.

How could she tell Florence she had changed her mind now? She didn’t want to risk going down in Florence’s estimation; it was important to her that Florence felt she could be relied upon. Besides, there was the secondary consideration that this could well be the chance to cement her friendship with a Peyton-Maxwell, the very reason why Beck had sent her to Wimbourne Hall in the first place.

Harriet mentally corrected herself: this wasn’t a secondary consideration; this was the primary reason for her mission.

That first meeting with Beck felt like an age ago now - another era, almost; enough time had passed for Harriet to have evolved into something new, a different form entirely. Survival of the fittest, thought Harriet, catching sight of the corded muscle in her forearms as she turned the steering wheel.

Harriet pulled into an expensive - and nearly always empty - short stay car park on the edge of the town centre. She made a point of leaving her car here no more than once a week. From here she would walk in the opposite direction of the high street and, she reassured herself, she would also have some time to think things over. She pulled the release lever to move her seat back, the better to slide her thick thighs out from under the steering wheel and to allow her to manoeuvre the breadth of her body through the small car door. 

The warmth of the morning sun on her bare skin had a pleasant, calming effect on Harriet and she relaxed as she walked round the car and opened the boot to grab her bag and hoodie. Her tranquillity was short-lived however, spoiled by the realisation that she hadn’t retrieved the latter from the back of the plumber’s van. She cursed and half-heartedly began a search for an alternative.

It was the work of a minute to establish beyond doubt that the only other option was her lime green kag in a bag.

That morning Harriet had planned to make the most of the balmy day by heading down the quiet, tree-lined residential streets that led to the boomerang-shaped public park that bordered the north-west edge of town; then she would follow the overgrown dog-leg footpath that ran from one end of the park to the other, before doubling back down a serpentine alleyway and skirting round the outside of a derelict council building; from there she would cut through the loading bay and eventually reach her destination: a fire escape door, hidden around a corner at the edge of the station garage.

While no one had really expected Harriet to be followed, Beck had been very clear that she couldn’t risk being seen regularly visiting the police station, and so she had walked a variation of this meandering route five times each week for the many months she had been undercover.

It had been a simple but effective compromise to ensure that Harriet could meet Kane for her daily training sessions. At first Harriet had found this low-level subterfuge exciting, but it had quickly become obvious that no one was at all interested in the anonymous woman in her shapeless, nondescript clothes walking around town.

She was entirely indistinguishable from ary other person going about their daily business, even if she was pretending that she was a spy in Cold War Berlin, and the process had become sufficiently routine that Harriet could automatically vary the path she took each day without much thought and without any concern about being noticed.

As a plan, it relied entirely on Harriet remaining inconspicuous; the circumspect approach would be pointless if she were to draw a lot of attention to herself.

Normally Harriet excelled at being unobtrusive, even when she didn’t necessarily want to be. Over the years she had grown accustomed to being overshadowed by her taller, prettier, more talented sister, and to sitting demurely to one side, untroubled by the fascinated relatives or the solicitous tutors who lavished her sibling with attention. As a teenager, unlike her peers, she had never courted or received boys’ attention; other girls were always more willing to flirt or to wear shorter-than-regulation skirts. At school, she had been thought of by her teachers as hard-working and self-sufficient at best. At university, she had always met her academic obligations, but had largely blended into the crowd; she had also been an unremarkable hockey player, a teammate who could be relied upon to make up the numbers and warm the bench.

Harriet was used to being underestimated.

And today, in baggy clothes and from a distance, Harriet could still pass for unexceptional, a fausse maigre, albeit of the most astonishing type. A more observant passerby might note a certain steely resolve about her, an understated confidence that hinted there was more to her than met the eye, but nothing overtly unusual, nothing that would make Harriet difficult to ignore or to forget.

Harriet walking around town in a sports bra was another matter entirely, her powerful body revealed to onlookers, her torso so much wider and thicker than they would expect, or than most would have even believed achievable, her muscles like the hawsers of an Atlantic liner, her smooth skin punctuated by reticulated patterns of veins.

Harriet’s body was a deliberate act, a statement that she was different.

No one, no matter how naive, could imagine that Harriet had come to look like this by accident; she had made a commitment to become as muscular as possible, that much was self-evident. Just as it was impossible to view a cathedral without appreciating the labour of the many stonemasons required to build it, you could not look at Harriet’s body, once willowy but now buttressed with precisely hewn muscles, and fail to recognise that it must have taken a great deal of time and effort and determination to craft its formidable physicality.

Harriet took up space, and she did so unashamedly, unequivocally, defiantly. Her strength was evident even in repose, and not just her strength: Harriet looked purposeful, she looked poised, she looked dangerous.

It was impossible to underestimate her now.

Harriet’s was no longer a body you could easily ignore. Harriet’s was no longer a body you could easily forget.

Harriet’s was a body you went home and mentioned in awed conversation to your spouse, or animatedly discussed with friends in the pub, or enviously gossipped about with your colleagues around the office watercooler.

Harriet’s body was an event, a close encounter, an anecdote waiting to be shared.

Not that Harriet wanted to admit it, at least not if the alternative was to walk across town wearing a garish waterproof on a glorious sunny morning, the pristine blue sky untroubled by a single cloud.

Her muscles were not that unusual, she told herself; it wasn’t as if she was a professional bodybuilder, or anything - their lives revolved around working out in the gym and dieting and… Well, it wasn’t like it was unusual for a woman to take fitness and strength-training seriously these days. Plenty of women worked out - Insta**** gave the impression the world was full of hard-bodied gym bunnies proudly reminding everyone that #strongisthenewsexy or that they were 'muscle mommies'.

She refused to believe that simply walking around in a sports bra would make her more eye-catching than dressing like she was preparing for a monsoon while wearing some budget Mike Wazowski cosplay.

It wasn’t as if when she wore a sports bra in the gym that everyone stared at her… Well, maybe they did, but the point was she wanted people to stare at her in the gym; it was part of the plan.

But people wouldn’t stare at her otherwise, surely?

Harriet started to close the boot, hesitated for a second, and then stuffed the cagoule in her bag, just in case.



Half an hour later, Kane opened the fire escape door and looked from Harriet’s face of thunder to the boundless blue sky.

“Nice coat. Has it been stoatin’ down, aye?”
I'm currently (very slowly) writing the following stories, all of which can be found on this forum:

Undercover
Body Swap
My Type of Woman
April Fool's

Offline MuscleWomanBR

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #47 on: March 27, 2023, 10:32:43 pm »
Congratulations! Your style is elegantly ironic and the plot of your stories avoids the mundane.

Offline jeffbeans

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #48 on: April 01, 2023, 02:21:33 pm »
I've been waiting for an update to this fantastic story and this was a real scene setter, can't wait to read what happens next, and if the sister will be introduced at some point  :bravo:

Offline JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #49 on: April 02, 2023, 08:43:41 pm »
The sweat coursed down Harriet’s body like snowmelt from a mountain range in spring. Rivulets ran down the undulant muscles in her back and coursed along the sharply-defined declivities of her abs. Her workout had been long and it had been draining, but she remained in perpetual motion nonetheless, dancing forwards then back, rocking from one foot to the other, and the perspiration dripped and sprayed from her body with every dart and sway, every feint, every lunge, but especially with each aggressive thrust, each vigorous swing of her arm, each reverberative hammer blow of a punch.

Moist prints on the grubby floor left an ephemeral record of her footwork, their traces quickly scuffed and spoiled with each new sally. Those that remained extant told the story of quick, certain movements and a choreography of controlled violence.

Kane loomed at the side of the room, stern and solid as an Easter Island statue, watching Harriet closely as she threw a final flurry of punches, the thwacks of leather on tarpaulin in counterpoint to the guttural exclamations with which Harriet accompanied her blows.

Finally spent, Harriet slumped forwards, gloved hands resting awkwardly on her knees, her body exhausted but her mind comparatively soothed and her frustration beginning to ebb. She glanced briefly at Kane, knowing better by now than to expect any sign of approval, but still hoping that her application and, yes, her prowess might be acknowledged; once upon a time she would only have been able to move this heavy bag by giving it a full-body push, but now with the power and the placement of her punches the bag was positively terpsichorean. In return for its punishment, Harriet’s inanimate dance partner had exorcised a few of her demons.

But not all of them.   

Even before she had reached the park that morning, Harriet had started to realise that not wearing her cagoule had been a mistake. An elderly gentleman wearing a garish MCC tie, his hands full with a copy of The Telegraph and a hamper, had nonetheless paused to fumble with his phone and take a photo of her as she had walked past; a postman pushing his buggy along the pavement had eyed her up with all the subtlety of Mr Magoo trying to read some small print; and the driver of a passing van had repeatedly honked its horn at her as he drove by, his companion leaning out of the window to shout something incomprehensible but doubtless lewd.

Harriet looked at the implacable Kane again. It was difficult to feel even moderately muscular when in the presence of this gigantic woman, let alone sufficiently muscular to justify being gawped at on the street like you were a Victorian side-show freak, but Harriet could not dispute the evidence of her walk to the station. The vox populi was clear: she may not be the Elephant Man, but she was an elephantine woman.

Nah, bruv, that bitch is butters; she is fully hench. The words of the teenagers hanging around by the park entrance still played on her mind. She could rip your dick off, bruv. Had they known she could hear them? Would they have cared that she had?

As she caught her breath in the gym, Harriet still felt humiliated. But even worse was the feeling of regret. The feeling of inaction. She felt stultified. She had shown herself how satisfying it could feel to take retaliatory action in the face of insults or abuse, and she had wanted to say, or - even better - do, something in response to each and every arsehole to have belittled her but, intent on keeping a low profile, she had swallowed her pride and kept on walking.

In the park, she had quickly scuttled behind a tree and pulled on the ugly waterproof to hide her body. As she had continued her walk, the passersby she had subsequently encountered on that fine, sunny morning had certainly given her some inquisitive looks as a result of her choice of outfit, but they had not felt entitled to pass comment on her. Harriet felt sure everyone she had passed had quickly forgotten her.

Apparently, while a woman choosing to dress differently may have been odd, evidently a quirky dress-sense was both acceptable and also common enough to prove only briefly diverting; it was expected behaviour. Women were supposed to be slaves to the bizarre and arbitrary vagaries of fashion, after all. But if a woman chose to rebel against body standards, against being skinny and weak, to some men she obviously became a punchline, an abomination - even a threat.

As Harriet had continued her walk to the station, she had felt ashamed. She had been sexualised and demeaned, insulted for the crime of being a strong woman - but the real source of her frustration was that she had not had the pleasure of showing the voyeurs and the hecklers that she was capable of fighting back. Unlike earlier that morning, she had not made a scene. It had doubtless been the right thing to do, at least for the mission, but she found no satisfaction in her self-restraint, only disempowerment.

The French talk of l’esprit de l'escalier, the Germans of Treppenwitz. Harriet didn’t regret thinking of a witty rejoinder too late: she regretted not getting mediaeval on someone’s arse. Never mind a belated riposte; she lamented the fists left unthrown. She stood up straight and scowled at the punchbag: it had done its duty but it had been a poor excuse for an opponent and undeserving of her retributive anger.

“So who ripped yer knittin’? You’ve been pure growlin’ all morning.”

Kane’s words interrupted Harriet’s psychological self-flagellation.

“What? Oh. Oh, no, it’s nothing.”

“Aye? Because ye look scunnered.”

“No, it’s really…” Harriet began, and then paused, hit by a flash of inspiration. She could think of no one more deserving, nothing more satisfying. “Perhaps I can ask you for a favour?”

“Aye.”

“Actually, no. Never mind. It was a bad idea.”

“Ye sure?”

Harriet hesitated, and then she caught sight of herself in the mirror. The sheen of sweat made the muscles in her upper body glisten; the anabolic lighting only served to highlight her impressive size and definition. Her marled grey leggings clung to her tightly. Like many women, Harriet had enjoyed how the right pair of leggings could have a flattering effect on your body, lifting here and shaping there, streamlining your frame, making you look tighter and more athletic. At least, that was once the case: as she watched her reflection now she could see how her thighs fought back against their imprisonment; her solid muscle shaped her clothing, rather than the other way round. And even beneath the resilient material, the separation in her quads was visible like cracks in a limestone pavement.

Maybe it was a bad idea, but there was only one way to find out. She was ready to take that risk.

“Well, what would you say if, erm, unofficially, I asked you to look up a number plate for me and…” Harriet’s voice died away in the face of Kane’s inscrutable stare.

“Aye, I could do that. Unofficially, I could do that.”

“Really?” asked Harriet, trying not to look surprised at how casual Kane had been about her request.

“Aye, nae bother.”

“So if I gave you a number plate, you could just… find out who the owner of the car is for me, and where they live?”

“Easy. Just one thing ye’ve got to do first.”

“Oh?” Harriet tried to look calm, but she was worried that Kane would want to be told more. Why this number plate? Why did she want to know where the driver lived? What did she intend to do with this information?

“Against the wall; hands on yer heid.”

For a second, Harriet failed to comprehend Kane’s meaning and thought she was being arrested, until she saw Kane reaching towards her own pair of boxing gloves.

“First ye’ve got to survive this conditioning drill. Twenty, no, thirty jabs to the stomach. Then some sparring. Get through that and we can talk business.”

“I suppose you’re the boss,” said Harriet, relieved, before exclaiming: “Oh, wait!”

Harriet hesitated, unwilling to divulge the promise she had made to Florence. “Could you not punch me in the face, please? I’ve got an… event to attend.”

For the first time that day, Kane smiled.

“I cannae promise that. Just dinnae let me hit you. Simple as.”
I'm currently (very slowly) writing the following stories, all of which can be found on this forum:

Undercover
Body Swap
My Type of Woman
April Fool's

Offline jeffbeans

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #50 on: April 09, 2023, 05:13:20 pm »
Love it! Please continue  :bravo:

Offline JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #51 on: June 20, 2023, 05:49:37 pm »
Despite the pain, Harriet couldn’t help but smile at her ridiculous appearance as she looked at her reflection in the mirror.

Scattered around her feet like she was surveying the results of a trolley dash through a jumble sale were the upended bags of clothing she had retrieved from the hallway cupboard and brought through to the bedroom.

Searching through them for something suitable to wear - with a sense of futility which grew with every passing minute - she had been struck by how all these formal clothes that she had once worn nearly every day now looked, felt - and, indeed, smelt - unfamiliar.

As she had unfolded blouses, skirts and trousers, shaking out creases and stroking rumpled material flat, she had looked anew at her old clothes.

They were smart, yes, and she supposed they were practical up to a point, but they were drab and conformist, they were restrictive, they were designed for passivity, for inertia.
They didn't stretch, or support, or wick. They weren’t hard-wearing. In a sense, they limited the woman who put them on, discouraging her from action. You couldn’t be dynamic in these clothes; you couldn’t do anything except look acceptably and inoffensively feminine.

The clothes were soft and delicate and sedate, just like the unremarkable women they were supposed to adorn.

Harriet’s spirit had rebelled at the very sight of them.

She had tried and failed to imagine a trouser suit wrapped around her body like cling film, her muscles coiled, writhing and straining underneath the material, perspiration patches staining her underarms, back and crotch, grunting brutishly as she squatted three times her bodyweight.

And so she was delighted when she realised that wearing these clothes was entirely out of the question anyway.

No longer could she be compelled to vesti la giubba: it was a physical impossibility…

Inserting her right arm into the sleeve of a blouse, she had found that her forearm was too thick to pass through the armhole.

A pair of tapered-fit trousers had bunched around her knees, unable to be pulled past the promontories of muscle directly above them, let alone encompass the intimidating circumference of her quads at their thickest.

A pencil skirt had fared a little better by virtue of its long zip which allowed more room for manoeuvre, but even that was defeated by the size of her glutes. She had hopped and wriggled just as she had to in order to squeeze into her leggings, all to no avail. Eventually she had accidentally torn the skirt in half when she had become impatient and taken a big step forward to grab another bag of clothes.

The first pair of tights she had tried on had laddered when she had accidentally snagged them on her jutting calf; the second pair she had ripped deliberately in a spirit of investigation, her muscle shearing through the sheer material as she repeated her movements to try to establish whether it had been a one-off.

And now the process of elimination meant she stood wearing a bizarre combination: a pair of frilly granny pants that made those worn by Bridget Jones look like skimpy lingerie in comparison; and a strapless bra that had been stretched so tight around her chest and back that it looked like a tourniquet.

She considered flexing to put the bra out of its misery and pull it apart, but her nipples were already tightly pinched under the twisted, distorted material and she was worried the pressure would only get worse before it got better.

Then again, she had only been able to get the bra into position by hooking it up around her waist, her torso’s narrowest point, where it had sat like a novelty cummerbund. The lace trim had disappeared into the ridges between her abs, the muscles craggy as an importuous coastline; from there she had slowly rolled the bra up her body.

Rolling it back down would probably be marginally less painful but significantly less fun than flexing out of it, and it wasn’t like it was remotely worth keeping, anyway.

She leaned forward slightly, extended her arms until they were in a cruciform position and then arced her fists forwards and together as if she were doing cable flies. She bit her lip and winced as the band was pulled tighter, her pecs swelling and rising like she was watching fast-forwarded footage of two loaves of bread left to prove in a warm room.

The hooks didn’t last long. Fatigued and distorted, they suddenly slipped out of their corresponding eyes and the bra catapulted off to Harriet’s left with a satisfying twang.

Harriet gently rubbed her chafed nipples and sighed. A shopping trip was in order.

Ten minutes later, she had pulled on a more comfortable sports bra, a pair of jogging bottoms and a hoodie, climbed into her car and set off for the shopping centre.



Harriet started walking across the car park but, after fifty yards or so, she stopped abruptly.

There was no historical marker or blue plaque visible, but she recognised this place: it was both a battleground and a site of great significance, to her if no one else. 

She had hauled herself back to her feet on that bent fencing and she had tripped and stumbled on the edge of that distinctive pothole as she had staggered back to her car.

This was where she had been punched to the ground.

She stared blankly at the nondescript patch of tarmac.

Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth, Kane had said to her recently.

Harriet had thought the sergeant an unlikely aphorist at the time and so she had Googled those words when she had got home; if anything, she had been even more surprised to find out that Mike Tyson had said them, presumably between nibbling on mouthfuls of ear.

Brillat-Savarin, Confucius, Wilde, Tyson. Spot the odd one out. Would you like to phone a friend?

Not that Mike Tyson was wrong. Harriet remembered how she had been totally incapacitated by the crippling explosion of pain as the fist had connected with her face.

Her chest tightened and her breaths became shallower.

She remembered how helpless she had felt, how her legs had crumpled beneath her; she remembered her disgust as his spit had covered her face and her fear, her all-consuming fear.

She blinked rapidly and forced herself to start taking big, slow, calming breaths, to tell herself that she was in control.

Never again, she thought. Never again.

She continued her walk towards the shopping centre, but hesitated as a thought struck her.

Nodding decisively, she unzipped her hoodie to reveal the sports bra she had changed back into before leaving her flat, and tied the hoodie around her waist.

Heads turned as Harriet walked through the entrance and into the building. A susurration of whispering voices followed her progress until, as she passed the crowded food hall, she heard an excited child’s voice cry out.

“Mummy, look, it’s the muscle lady! Hello, Miss Muscle Lady!”

Harriet looked to her right and saw Katy and her mother sitting at a nearby table. Katy was waving enthusiastically; her mother looked embarrassed but, after a second’s pause, shyly joined in with her daughter.

Harriet waved back and, having acknowledged their greeting, felt obliged to go and say hello. She headed towards them, navigating carefully between the chairs and tables scattered haphazardly across the floor.

Now Harriet did start to feel self-conscious: it was hard not to when she was in such close proximity to the people staring up at her from their seats that her bare arms were brushing against people’s exposed backs and shoulders. She could see the surprise - or worse, disgust - on their faces as she edged past them.

She found herself worrying about being too large and clumsy to manoeuvre through this tight space and tried desperately to avoid looking like a bull in a china shop. Then she remembered all the agility and footwork drills Kane forced her to run through and relaxed: as big as she was, her balance had never been better.

“Well, this is a coincidence!” said the mother, greeting Harriet with a brittle smile and half-rising from her chair, looking as if she were about to bow, as Harriet reached their table.

“Yes, it is a coincidence,” Katy chimed in, “because we’ve been coming here every Thursday evening since we met you that time and we always wait to see you but we never do.”

Katy’s mother sunk back into her seat, her smile looking even more fixed than it had done initially.

“Katy, you know we come here every Thursday so you can meet your cousin,” she said hurriedly to her daughter. “Remember? So you can go to the cinema together and I can do some shopping in peace and quiet.”

The last three words were gently but unmistakably stressed.

“But you told me to look out for the muscle lady and let you-”

“Hush now, Katy. Finish your drink like a good girl.”

Katy resumed sucking on her straw, looking happily between Harriet and her mother and swinging her legs from her chair in a carefree manner.

Harriet stood awkwardly by the table, unsure if she should limit herself to exchanging some brief pleasantries before moving on, or sit down. She prepared to excuse herself; the woman’s smile was forced and she was rigid in her seat. She obviously didn’t want Harriet to hang around.

“Please, won’t you join us?” the woman asked.

“Of course,” said Harriet quickly, taken by surprise not only by the offer but also by the speed with which she accepted it.

Harriet extended her arm to reach for a spare chair at the adjacent table.

“Look, mummy, her muscle looks just like a velociraptor’s claw!” said Katy, pointing at Harriet’s tricep as she grabbed the chair.

“I’m sorry,” the mother said to Harriet, “she gets over excited easily. She’s learning about dinosaurs in school at the moment so her daddy let her watch Jurassic Park, even though I said it was too scary for her.”

“That’s okay,” replied Harriet, sitting down and grinning at Katy. “I’d never really thought of the similarity before. That’s a very good comparison. But I hope I’m not as scary as a velociraptor?”

“No, you’re much bigger than a real velociraptor but you’re a nice muscle lady. Mummy thinks so, too. Mummy’s been lifting weights because she wants muscles like you.”

“Katy, I’m sure she doesn’t want to hear about that! Stop bothering her!”

“Go on, mummy, show her your muscles.” Katy tapped insistently on Harriet’s hand to ensure she had her attention. “Mummy’s muscles are much bigger than they used to be. They’re not nearly as big as yours though. And daddy doesn’t like them, so he doesn’t want mummy’s muscles to get bigger.”

“Ssshh, Katy!”

Harriet studied the mother’s face. The woman looked embarrassed, although there was a defiant gleam in her eye now and her jaw was set resolutely. Harriet glanced down at the woman’s covered arms - she was wearing a buttoned up white blazer over a black top - but it was impossible to tell if Katy was telling the truth.

As Harriet’s eyes lingered on the woman’s arms she heard a voice say I would love to see you flex your biceps; I bet they look great.

It slowly dawned on Harriet that those words had been spoken in a voice that sounded surprisingly like her own.

For a moment, Harriet wondered if it had just been her inner monologue but, unless the woman was a mind reader, Harriet must have spoken out loud because a response was quickly forthcoming.

“Really? No, you’re just being nice… Unless… Really?” said the woman, nervously.

“No, I mean it,” said Harriet, trying to collect herself. “You’re… you’re a very stylish woman, but nothing looks as good on a muscle as a woman… I mean, nothing looks as good on a woman as muscle. I think you’re… erm… I think muscle on a woman is beautiful…”

Harriet’s voice tailed off, and she cringed at the way she had stumbled over what had been intended as a simple compliment. She was babbling. This woman must think she was an idiot. Harriet looked for the escalators, ready to gesture towards them, make her excuses, and leave.

Harriet turned back to see the woman slowly tucking a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. Odd, thought Harriet, because her hair had been so flawless just a moment earlier. They shared the briefest flash of eye contact before the woman looked back down at the table, still playing with her hair.

“I think muscle on a woman is beautiful, too,” she replied quietly.

“Show her, mummy, show her!” said Katy, clapping her hands in excitement. 

“Yes. Please? I would love to see you flex.”

The blonde looked back up, a genuine smile slowly spreading across her face; she looked a different woman now, revivified by Harriet’s request like a plant by water.

“Really?”

“Definitely.”

The woman slipped off her blazer. Underneath it she wore a sleeveless silk blouse, elegant and expensive-looking, entirely in keeping with what little Harriet knew about her.

But Harriet barely noticed that: as the blonde planted her right elbow on the table, the silver chain bracelet on her wrist gently tinkling against her Apple Watch, Harriet’s attention was immediately drawn to the woman’s shoulders, no longer slender to the point of being boney, but thicker and rounder than she remembered.

With one quick movement, the woman flexed her arm. As she looked down at the surprising expansion of her own muscle, her eyes sparkled with pleasure and the smile became positively radiant.

Harriet, prepared to politely feign admiration, found no need for dishonesty.

“Oh wow, that is… that is seriously impressive. I wasn’t expecting that. That’s amazing! And your delts are looking pumped, too!”

“Thank you,” said the blonde, modestly. “If I’m being honest, I had no idea building muscle was such hard work!”

“Well, if I’m being honest, I thought you were the one of those women who probably did pilates and wouldn’t like to even break a sweat in a class… I mean, you look so glamorous, and your hair’s so perfect and everything, that I couldn’t really picture you-”

“Pumping iron?” The blonde laughed. “It came as a shock to me too, but you… I felt inspired to start… And once I saw the results and the way my body responded… I just wanted more and more… It’s definitely been nice to be able to eat as much as I want though. I’ve been ravenous recently.”

They both fell silent, staring at the conic peak of her flexed bicep.
 
“Can I feel it, mummy?” piped up Katy. “I promise I won’t tell daddy that it’s got bigger since the last time.”

“Okay, Katy, but only if you promise.”

The blonde’s smile had vanished again. She saw Harriet’s inquisitive look and sighed.

“My husband… he’s very traditional. He was very surprised when I started lifting weights. He likes to think he knows what’s best for my health because he’s a surgeon, even though he’s just a cosmetic surgeon. He always says I’m a walking advert for his business, that I’m what women want to look like.”

“He always says mummy needs to make sure she stays slim and beautiful.”

Harriet felt herself getting cross on the woman’s behalf.

“For the record,” the woman continued, “I never did like breaking a sweat in my pilates class, but that’s because I never liked pilates, full stop. My husband was the one who signed me up. When he found out I’d hired a personal trainer at the gym instead and started weight training and eating to build some muscle, well, we had a disagreement…”

“When he came back from his last trip he said mummy had to stop because he didn’t want her to have more muscles than him.”

Harriet rolled her eyes and snorted.

“You don’t know him,” said the blonde. “He means well. Even though he’s away travelling a lot, he’s always checking in and video calling me at all times of the day to make sure we’re okay. I just wish he knew how happy lifting weights and gaining muscle made me. I’ve never felt better. I didn’t know how amazing-”

“Being strong felt?” said Harriet, seeing her own opportunity to finish a sentence and taking it.

“Exactly! But look who I’m talking to - you’re the single most amazing woman I’ve ever seen. You’ve got muscles on your muscles!”

“Yeah, it’s your turn to flex now, muscle lady!” said Katy.

“Definitely,” said her mother. “And I don’t think I’m the only one who’s put on muscle since we last met. You look incredible.”

Happy enough to spend time alone flexing, Harriet now felt lost for words, a little giddy, even, at being cajoled into doing so by other people. She took refuge in cliche: “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she mumbled.

Unlike the blonde, Harriet flexed slowly; she knew the value of delayed gratification when she flexed. The slower her muscles expanded, the bigger they appeared to grow. Hours of practice in front of the mirror meant that she was so in control of her body she felt she could almost sense the movement of the individual muscle fibres.

Her bicep waxed gibbous.

“Now who’s seriously impressive?” said the blonde, dazed disbelief writ large across her face.

The occupants of nearby tables were pointing and staring. Harriet ignored them and continued to hold the flex. The blonde stretched out her hand to touch Harriet’s swollen bicep, but as she moved closer she hesitated.

“Be my guest,” encouraged Harriet. “What do you think? Has it got bigger since the last time?”

The blonde’s fingers gently, tentatively, brushed across Harriet’s soft skin, pulled tight as a drumhead over the hard muscle. Harriet wondered if the woman was feeling embarrassed or if she wanted to savour the moment. Finally the woman slipped first her fingers and then the open palm of her hand across the precipitous peak of Harriet’s bicep, adjusted her grip, and squeezed.

Harriet had no idea how long they stayed in this position - realistically it was only a matter of seconds, but entire minutes could have passed and she wouldn’t have noticed.

The blonde moistened her lips with her tongue and exhaled slowly.

“It’s definitely bigger,” she said, and Harriet thought she detected a slight tremble in her voice. “And it’s so hard! I mean, my personal trainer at the gym is a total badass but she just looks tiny compared to you. But I think I know your secret now: muscle is addictive. Once you know how good muscle feels, you just want more and more - and I definitely want more muscle.”

Her hand lingered on Harriet’s arm for a moment more, and then she slowly withdrew it.

“Me too,” said Harriet, fervently. “I can’t imagine ever having enough muscle.”

“I feel like, I don’t know… like a switch has been flipped inside my brain. I’ve always been such a girly girl, I’ve always wanted to be skinny and pretty… but muscles like yours… I can only imagine what it must feel like to be that strong! Even though my muscles are still small and I’m still not lifting that much weight, there’s nothing better than flexing them in front of the mirror when I’ve got an amazing pump after a brutal workout. I feel like a different woman when I do that - like an animal, almost.” Perhaps concerned she had said too much, the woman paused and seemed to be composing herself before continuing. “Of course, I’m still a girly girl at heart: when I get home I still love to light a few candles and slip into a bubble bath to relax. It’s how I spend most evenings these days.”

“I have to stick to showers: my shoulders are too wide for me to fit in the bath. I kept getting stuck,” said Harriet, her mind elsewhere, lost in a cloud of scented bubbles.

The blonde’s mouth dropped open. She reached out for Harriet’s bicep again, but this time she didn’t ask before running her fingers up Harriet’s arm to her capped delt, grooved and scalloped like a seashell.

“Thank you for complimenting my muscles,” she said. “I know you were just being nice to me, but it means a lot, coming from you. I can only dream of becoming as strong as you. I mean, shoulders so muscular you can’t fit in a bath? That’s… that’s just crazy.”

“I meant it: your bicep is seriously impressive. Besides, being as muscular as me isn’t all fun and games: you can still look stylish in normal clothes, whereas I’ve basically grown out of everything I own that isn’t made of Lycra.” A note of panic entered Harriet’s voice. “I’m meant to be attending an event soon and I have no idea what I’m going to wear. Not a clue. Nothing fits, not that any of my clothes were really suitable anyway, even if they did still fit me. That’s why I’m here today, shopping for something nice to wear.”

“Mummy can help you,” said Katy, who had been listening along. “She always picks out the nicest clothes.”

Harriet could feel the blonde staring at her, as if trying to gauge her reaction. Reluctant to look too desperate, despite thinking Katy’s idea was a brilliant one, Harriet started to speak slowly, thoughtfully, as if she were still weighing up the suggestion.

“I suppose… if it wouldn’t be too much tr-”

“No! I’d love to help. That is, if you wa-”

“I need all the help I can ge-”

“What sort of thing were you-”

“It’s a kind of awards ceremony, so something quite dressy…” Harriet took a deep breath before continuing. “Maybe something… I don’t know… a little sexy? What do you think - could I pull that off?”

“Oh my god, yes! Are you kidding? With your figure? You’d look stunning in a bodycon dress.”

“Wouldn’t that be very tight? I’m not sure I want a dress that’s too tight. It’s not very… me.”

“Oh no, it should definitely be something tight; your body deserves to be shown off.”

“Well, I guess I was actually thinking of something sleeveless to show off my arms a little,” said Harriet, feeling sheepish at sharing her intention to flaunt her body.

The woman laughed. “A little?” she said. “I don’t think you can only show off your arms a little. They have a way of attracting attention… In fact, ooh yes, that could work: what about a long, fitted sleeve?”

“Really?” asked Harriet, uncertainly.

“Imagine the way you’d fill out a sleeve with all your muscle. And then flexing and your bicep bulging through the material because it’s just too big to hide!”

The blonde was staring off into the distance, lost in thought, her hand absent-mindedly stroking Harriet’s shoulder.

“I hadn’t thought of that; that sounds quite-”

“No! I’ve got it: a quarter-length sleeve. It would sit just around the midpoint of your bicep,” the woman said, running a single finger back down Harriet’s arm to demonstrate where she had in mind, “and when you flex, the sleeve will slowly be forced up your arm, revealing more and more muscle, accentuating it, highlighting it… It’s perfect!”

The blonde’s hand stayed on Harriet’s bicep. She sat back in her chair triumphantly, gently caressing Harriet’s muscle as she pictured the effect.

Harriet knew beyond all doubt that she needed this woman’s help.

“And… can you give me a hand finding something like that? I’m not really sure where to look, but I don’t want to ruin your plans for the evening…”

“It’s no problem. Katy’s cousin will be here in a minute and they’ll go to the cinema for a couple of hours so I was planning to go and do some shopping myself anyway.”

“Can’t I come too?” asked Katy. “I like shopping for clothes too.”

“No, Katy, I think it’s best if I help the nice lady on my own. Oh!”

“What is it?”

“It’s just occurred to me: I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m Harriet.”

“My mummy’s name is Jessica.”

Harriet laughed.

“Thank you for the introduction, Katy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jessica.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Harriet,” said Jessica, giving Harriet’s arm another stroke and then looking worried. “Oh, sorry - I should stop squeezing your arm. It’s just…”

Jessica’s voice tailed off.

“It’s just that you needed to size me up properly to help you pick me out the right dress,” said Harriet.

“Yes, yes, exactly! Shall we get started, then? I have a couple of shops in mind.”

Jessica stood up and started to head towards the escalators.

“What about me, mummy?”

“Oh! I’m sorry, Katy! Of course, we’ll wait for your cousin to turn up first,” said a flustered Jessica, sitting back down. “I wasn’t sure where we needed to go so I was just checking how to get up to the next level.”

“Silly mummy! It’s the same way we came down earlier.”
I'm currently (very slowly) writing the following stories, all of which can be found on this forum:

Undercover
Body Swap
My Type of Woman
April Fool's

Offline brave_archer

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #52 on: June 22, 2023, 07:34:18 am »
Man, oh man, another fantastic chapter! Can't wait for Harriet's fitting session. Jessica is one lucky lady.

Offline jeffbeans

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #53 on: June 25, 2023, 03:09:06 pm »
Love how you've slowly delevoped the Jesica character, can't wait for more! :clap:

Offline Jaybee

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #54 on: July 04, 2023, 02:27:51 pm »

“I’m from the Serious Fraud Office, sir. I’m-“

“Fuck me, you guys are quick. And all for the sake of twenty pence? Still, the bastards have got it coming to them - they sold me a stale Danish last week too.”

 :clap:

Hilarious!! 

Been meaning to write up my review of MKOW, which is seriously good.  I'll do that first before I finish this story.

Btw I can't access people's profiles to find other posts/stories, any idea what has to happen to enable that?

Offline Maestro

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #55 on: July 19, 2023, 07:23:27 am »
What a fantastic story! I am hoping beyond hope that you will write another few chapters. I hope that’s not too much to ask. Mostly, though, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me/us so much pleasure in your wonderful, imaginative writing.
K+++

Offline Maestro

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #56 on: July 19, 2023, 07:23:41 am »
What a fantastic story! I am hoping beyond hope that you will write another few chapters. I hope that’s not too much to ask. Mostly, though, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me/us so much pleasure in your wonderful, imaginative writing.
K+++

Offline Maestro

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #57 on: July 19, 2023, 07:26:14 am »
Oops!! Sorry about the duplicate responses!! It reflects my great enthusiasm.

Offline JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #58 on: October 14, 2023, 01:48:15 pm »
Thanks for the positive feedback!

I took a break from writing over the summer, but now it's colder and darker outside again I think that staying indoors and dabbling with my stories is a much more enticing prospect!

Anyway, here's the next chapter...




“Ooh, now what do you think of Hervé Léger?”

What did she think of Hervé Léger? Had she ever thought anything about Hervé Léger?

“Oh. Um. Yes. He’s good.”

Oh god, that was stupid. Stupid. Stupid!

“I was thinking of a Hervé Léger bandage dress for you. Or… yes, maybe we should look at some cut-out dresses! That would be a great option. Have you ever thought about wearing a cut-out dress to showcase your abs? Maybe something in, like, a Grecian style?”

“Uh, no.”

Did that sound dismissive? That sounded dismissive! Too abrupt! Although the answer was technically Grecian style - well, it was laconic, at least.

Harriet ran her hand down the abdominal archipelago of her six-pack and tried to relax. Why was she so tense? Jessica was trying to help her, after all, and goodness knows she was terrible at shopping for clothes by herself…

Harriet could still remember the last time she had ventured into a luxury department store looking for a nice dress: her sister had invited her to a swanky fundraising event at the Barbican. The generosity of the offer had been somewhat spoiled by the way her sister had emphasised that the dress code was glamorous while she had slowly looked Harriet’s outfit up and down in a manner that made it clear that she considered Harriet’s vestimentary options deficient in this regard.

To humour her sister, and repeatedly reminding herself that the invitation was generous even if the spirit in which it had been delivered had not been, Harriet had reluctantly gone shopping, comforting herself with the thought that the expense and inconvenience would be worth it given that the night’s showpiece performance would be one of her favourites: Berlioz’s Grande Messe des mort.

Inside the shop she had wandered aimlessly, lost and overwhelmed among the racks of designer clothing, not quite sure what she was looking for or where she might find it, uncertain what size she would fit or which style would be the most appropriate for her body shape.

Becoming convinced that her indecision was making her look furtive, and worried that she might be mistaken for a skulking shoplifter, she had made an attempt at spontaneity and picked out a midnight blue dress simply because she liked the colour.

She had gasped in horror at the price tag.

And then had come the indignity of the retreat, and the attempt to avoid making it look too hasty.

She had tried to maintain a casual facade that she hoped suggested she was a woman who would happily pay four figures to add the perfect statement piece to her capsule wardrobe, if only this shop’s clothing collection was better curated; and not that she was more accustomed to shopping in Primark and getting back change from a tenner.

Ultimately she had turned up to the event in her standard subfusc work clothes, having prepared an excuse about how she had been unavoidably detained at the office and had therefore been unable to go home and change as planned. No one had asked her for the details.

One glass of champagne and two canapés later she had been unable to bear any longer the company of the various glamorous patrons of the arts; their judgemental stares had followed her around the room with all the subtlety of a hallway of portrait paintings in a 'haunted' mansion being investigated by Scooby-Doo et al.

She had retrieved her coat from the cloakroom and slipped away.

And so now Harriet watched Jessica with quiet admiration, not only envying the ease with which her new acquaintance shopped for clothes, but also how elegant she looked wearing them. Harriet followed Jessica gratefully, happy to defer to her expertise and fascinated by the assured way Jessica moved from rack to rack.

Jessica had, in fact, visibly grown in confidence as she led Harriet through the labyrinthine women’s clothing department, the Ariadne to Harriet’s Theseus.

The hesitant Jessica with whom she had made awkward small talk en route to the shop became a woman who moved with a clear sense of purpose as soon as she crossed the threshold. There was no more nervous, aimless chit-chat, at least not from Jessica - instead, she began to pepper Harriet with questions, many of which Harriet could not satisfactorily answer.

What did she normally prefer: midi or maxi? Halter or Sabrina? French or Italian style?

Harriet ummed and ahhed, mumbled and stuttered, glad that the conversation was flowing more easily for Jessica, but painfully aware that she was contributing little to their duologue. The unexpected interrogation had left her on the back foot - it was as if Jeremy Paxman had started doing interviews for Vogue.

Harriet began to worry that, with each new uncertain answer, she was at risk of compounding the impression that she was not only clueless about fashion, but also inarticulate and uncooperative. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful; she was desperate to let Jessica know how appreciative she was of her advice and suggestions. She just didn’t seem able to find the words to provide the fulsome responses that Jessica’s ideas deserved.

Harriet tried to comfort herself with the thought that her fashion sense was fixed at a point in time before the efflorescence of her musculature and that her sense of style was now redundant because of these changes - tempora mutantur, and all that. But deep down she knew that she would have been no better placed to answer Jessica’s questions at any point in her adult life.

If Jessica was finding Harriet’s meagre contributions frustrating, however, she didn’t show it; she remained enthusiastic, darting between concessions and displays, keeping up an animated running commentary as she took Harriet on a zig-zagging tour of the shop floor.

As Jessica stopped to investigate some backless dresses, Harriet caught sight of herself in a mirrored column. She had forgotten that she had taken off her hoodie and had been walking around in a sports bra, but it wasn’t the sight of her heavily muscled torso - or the realisation that it felt completely natural to reveal so much of her body in public now - that made her stop abruptly: it was the expression on her face.

She looked eager, but worried - almost puppyish, come to think of it; wanting to be helpful, keen for praise, but not sure what to do.

Harriet stared at her anxious reflection, finding herself ridiculous.

She drew herself up to her full height, chest out, shoulders back, her muscles transmuting as she moved, jockeying for room, fighting for prominence. The mirror was no longer wide enough for her to see her entire body reflected back at her. She took a deep breath and flexed her pecs, radial striations shimmering across the surface of her skin.

Just look at these muscles. Remember how strong they are. What did she have to be scared of?

Nothing. She was fearless. Nothing could scare her now.


As Harriet admired herself in the mirror, Jessica took her by the hand.

Harriet shied like a skittish horse, her eyes widening, her cheeks mantling, her tongue tangling with her uvula.

Jessica’s soft palm nestled against Harriet’s own. It felt small and delicate in her hand.

Jessica wasn’t facing Harriet; she was absorbed in inspecting a floorplan by the escalators and didn’t seem to have noticed Harriet’s reaction.

Then Jessica stepped onto the escalator; Harriet followed quickly, obediently, wondering what would have happened if she had needed to be pulled along like a reluctant child: would Jessica have let go or tightened her grip?

They remained hand-in-hand as they ascended. They remained hand-in-hand as they walked the length of the next floor. They remained hand-in-hand as Jessica paused to ask a shop assistant for directions.

Harriet didn’t speak. She stared blankly at the back of Jessica’s head. Had Jessica become impatient with her? Had she simply felt that she was dawdling? Or was she worried that she might get lost? Whatever the reason, Harriet was so surprised to find Jessica’s fingers intertwined with her own that she was too tongue-tied to say anything.

Eventually, Jessica slipped her hand free.

The experience passed without comment and Jessica focussed her attention on another rack of clothing. Harriet stood and studied her new friend’s movements, trying to get an indication of what had just happened, of Jessica’s intentions or feelings; but Jessica seemed unaffected, continuing to talk in an enthusiastic voice as she selected a red midi dress with a scoop neck to add to the selection already draped over her arm.

As Harriet scrutinised Jessica with all the concentrated intensity of an anthropologist trying to squeeze years’ worth of fieldwork into just a few seconds, she was unable to divine any sense of unease or unhappiness.

Instead, Harriet once again found herself becoming distracted by how comfortable Jessica looked and her mind wandered...

Harriet might worry that she herself stood out as an interloper among the luxury brands and the clothes from the high-end fashion houses; that she was obviously too gauche for haute couture and too lacking in the required self-confidence to wear something expensive, clingy or revealing. And try as she might she couldn’t suppress the feeling that at any moment a member of staff might walk over to her, shake their head and then politely but firmly usher her out.

But no one would doubt that Jessica - so effortlessly stylish, obviously wealthy and distractingly beautiful - was anywhere but in the right place. She so clearly belonged here.

Harriet wondered if people might view her in the same way when they watched her in the gym - did she also look like a woman in her natural habitat? She felt a sudden yearning to be recognised and admired as a powerful woman, formidable, perhaps even scary. She certainly believed that the gym was where she belonged, and that she was an authority on getting the best out of every piece of exercise equipment, no matter how arcane its purpose or opaque its instructions.

She enjoyed speculating that this might be the case, that a total stranger could glimpse her from a distance and be both impressed and intimidated by her body.

What would it be like if the roles were reversed and they were in the gym now instead, with her quizzing Jessica on her goals and offering her advice?

She would be a hard taskmaster as Jessica’s personal trainer; she would always encourage Jessica to squeeze out more reps and to struggle on until failure; she would check Jessica’s form as she lifted and watch her every movement; she would spot her in the squat rack, poised behind her, hands reaching out ready to grab her, to help her if anything went wrong, to hold her, to…

“Oh no, I’ve been boring you, haven’t I?” laughed Jessica, as she once more took Harriet by her hand and squeezed it gently. “You’ve totally zoned out. I wondered why you’d stopped answering my questions.”

The second dose of unexpected physical contact jolted Harriet back to reality. She blinked rapidly as she tried to recall the last few seconds of the conversation and work out what Jessica had asked her.

“No! No, I’m not bored - I was just thinking about something I, erm, I really need to do later,” said Harriet, hurriedly improvising. “You see, I-”

“Hmm,” said a smiling Jessica, raising a sceptical eyebrow, “I don’t know. I think I got carried away and you were too polite to say anything.”

“I’m sorry,” said Harriet, shame-faced, “I guess I’m not… Let me put it this way: I’m more used to thinking about RDLs than LBDs. But you’re so cute when you’re enthusiastic that I didn’t want to disappoint you by asking to change the subject-”

“You think I’m cute?”

The question hung there, unanswered. Harriet silently cursed her unguarded choice of wording.

Jessica made eye contact with Harriet and started to giggle.

“No one’s called me cute since I was a girl,” said Jessica. “But thank you for the compliment, I guess?”

“When I said ’cute’, I meant... I meant that you looked really happy and enthusiastic… You must know what I mean - you get all excited when you talk about fashion, your face lights up. It’s nice to see people get enthusiastic about the things they love.”

“You honestly liked listening to me? I’d like to believe you, but I recognised that faraway look in your eyes - I see it every time I buy a new dress and start describing it to my husband…”

The smile faded from Jessica’s face. There was another pregnant pause. Harriet tactfully changed the subject and pointed out a dress behind Jessica.

“Talking of new dresses, what do you think about that one? I like it, anyway.”

Jessica quickly turned. She had to stand on her tip-toes to get a better look at it.

“That’s actually very nice. It’s a bit of a stretch for me to reach it...”

Jessica leaned forward and reached upwards, her blazer riding up her back as she did so.

The chance to admire Jessica’s arms and shoulders earlier that evening had served to pique Harriet’s interest, and she would be lying if she denied using the opportunity to follow Jessica around as a chance to study her physique, to try to establish how much Jessica’s body had changed.

Jessica’s oversized blazer may not have been as large as David Byrne’s Big Suit, but it was nonetheless effective camouflage for any muscles that lay underneath, and it gave no indication at all that the body it obscured was in any way athletically proportioned.

As Jessica reached to unhook a hanger from a high rail, Harriet sneaked a look at Jessica’s glutes.

At least that was the plan, but Jessica was unexpectedly swift, suddenly turning around while triumphantly clutching the dress. Harriet had insufficient time to react and averted her gaze from the seat of Jessica’s trousers a second too late, instead trying to appear intently interested in an adjacent display of mannequins.

It slowly dawned on Harriet that she was now admiring an array of maternity wear.

In an attempt to distract from the awkwardness of the situation, Harriet turned to focus her attention back on the dress, stroking it as Jessica also busied herself inspecting the material, eventually holding it up in front of Harriet, trying to judge if it would look good on her.

“Do you think it’s big enough for me?” Harriet asked, still feeling embarrassed and trying to keep the conversation firmly set on another topic, any other topic. “I thought it would be backless - I don’t think it will be big enough for these…”

To help illustrate the point, Harriet flared her lats until the width and taper of her muscles spread like a bat’s patagia. It was a simple but attention-grabbing flex which immediately made the dress appear comically inadequate for her physique.

Jessica gasped.

“How do you flex like that?” she asked, earnestly.

“How do I flex my lats, you mean?”

“No, just… how do you flex with such control? Like when you flexed your bicep earlier. It’s as if you can make every muscle move in exactly the way you want it to, exactly when you want it to. It looks so natural and easy. I always feel like I’m straining whenever I flex.”

“Practice, practice, and more practice. I didn’t like flexing in the mirror at first - in fact, I didn’t even think of it as practice. Back then it just felt really self-indulgent and, well, totally narcissistic standing in front of the mirror and watching myself flex my muscles. But eventually I realised that building up my muscles is one thing and learning to flex them is another. Flexing is a skill in itself; just because you have big muscles it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re good at flexing them. I wanted to get better at it so I had to start practising.”

“So… if I want to improve, I should do what you do and spend some time every day in front of the mirror, naked, flexing my muscles?”

“I didn’t say anything about being naked!”

“Oh! That’s how I imagined you practising your flexing… No, that came out wrong! I didn’t mean that I was imagining you naked - I meant that I imagined that would be the best way for someone to practise, so you… no, so whoever was practising could easily see all their muscles.”

Harriet giggled.

“I’m just joking; I know what you meant.”

Jessica put her hand on her hip in a stance of mock annoyance; the twinkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips made it clear she was not being serious. She tilted her head to one side and regarded Harriet closely.

“You know, that’s the first time I’ve seen you relax and look like you were enjoying yourself? I was starting to think you didn’t like me.”

“What? Of course I like you!” said Harriet, quickly. “I’m sorry - it’s just, I don’t know, I guess I’m not used to opening up to people easily. I’m naturally very reserved.”

“What was it you said earlier? ‘It’s nice to see people get enthusiastic about the things they love’? If I didn’t know as much already, I’d say you love flexing your muscles.”

“Oh god, I must have sounded totally obsessed with myself. I did, didn’t I?”

“Not at all. I just realised what you meant about me as I watched you talking about your muscles. Your face lit up. Has anyone ever told you you look cute when you’re enthusiastic?”

This time they both giggled.

“Your face changes so much when you laugh. It’s like you’re a different person,” said Jessica.

“Really? In a good way?”

“Yes. You… you have no idea how… how forbidding you look most of the time, do you?”

“Forbidding?”

“You’re so stern and so serious-looking. And combine that with all this,” Jessica continued, freeing her hand to wave it in the general direction of Harriet’s body, “you can look a bit scary. I mean, you look like you could snap someone in half if you wanted to.”

Harriet glanced down at herself. She had never really thought about it before, but from this angle her peripheral vision was dominated by her muscles, their development occluding her surroundings. Beneath the proscenium arch of her clavicles was a dramatic stage of pectoral muscle, substantial enough for a full symphony orchestra and choir; her shoulders loomed large to each side, so far apart it was like they were doing their best to avoid each other; to her sides hung her arms, thick and heavy-looking, vascular, defined.

“I guess I am a bit scary,” Harriet said softly. “But I don’t want to be - okay, maybe sometimes I do want to be scary, just a little bit, but not all the time. I’m nice, really. You… you do like me, don’t you?”

“I know you’re nice. I definitely thought you were scary the first time I met you, but even then I knew there was more to you than meets the eye,” replied Jessica, laying a reassuring hand on Harriet’s arm. “Besides, I know what it’s like to be judged for my appearance. People who don’t even know me expect me to behave in a certain way because of how I look. I think it must be the same for you. But I know you’re nice, really I do. And I do like you. I like you a lot. I even like that you can be scary!”

“I like you, too,” said Harriet, her voice still very quiet, worried that to say those words with a greater emphasis would mean speaking too loudly, too urgently, too awkwardly.

“I’m glad you like me. I just thought, you know, really we barely know each other and yet here I am bossing you around and telling you what you should and shouldn’t be wearing… I kind of forced myself on you; I just thought I could help you.”

“Honestly, you have been so helpful! I feel like the last hour has been a crash course in amazing fashion tips. I should have been taking notes!”

“Has it really been an hour already? You should head to the changing rooms so you can try on some of these dresses. I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, but I think I’ve picked out some great options for you. You are going to look incredible in all of these.”

“Oh, but you’ll come with me, won’t you? I think I still need you. Need your help, that is.”

Jessica smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

“Of course! You don’t think I’m going to abandon you now, do you? Besides, I’ve been looking forward to a fashion show, thank you!”

“Oh good,” Harriet replied, before pausing and smiling nervously. “Also, there’s something I need to admit to you… I feel like I’ve been misleading you and I want to tell you the truth.”

Jessica was silent, staring curiously at Harriet.

Harriet beckoned Jessica closer and then leant towards her ear.

“The truth is, I do practise my flexing in front of the mirror totally naked.”

Harriet didn’t wait to see Jessica’s reaction to her confession; instead, she turned and walked quickly towards the changing rooms.

The shop floor was crowded and uncomfortably hot, and Harriet told herself that was why her cheeks were burning. At least, that would be her story if anyone asked, and she would be sticking to it.
I'm currently (very slowly) writing the following stories, all of which can be found on this forum:

Undercover
Body Swap
My Type of Woman
April Fool's

Offline jeffbeans

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #59 on: October 14, 2023, 09:15:49 pm »
"I’m more used to thinking about RDLs than LBDs."

Yes, he's back! So glad to see you writing again. This was a slow burner but things are heating up between Harriet and Jessica - please continue  :bravo:

Forum Saradas  |  Female Muscle Art - Female Muscle Fiction  |  Muscular Women Fiction  |  Undercover
 

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