Forum Saradas
Female Muscle Art - Female Muscle Fiction => Muscular Women Fiction => Topic started by: JohnAubrey on April 02, 2023, 09:04:25 pm
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Maybe this is going somewhere, maybe not. But I got the inkling of an idea yesterday and thought I'd see where it goes...
“I’m sorry? Let me get this straight: you’re saying a teenage girl is stronger than you?”
I glanced across at my wife, who had turned in her seat to face me, her expression entirely disbelieving.
“Yeah, probably. I mean, okay, I’m a man and I go to the gym, but I’m not really training like I’m a bodybuilder, or anything.”
“What, and Katy is training like a bodybuilder? No, stop being silly. The last time I saw her was when she was back home after her first term at uni and she was basically the same small little girl she’s always been. What is she, like, a foot shorter than me? There’s no way she’s stronger than me, let alone you!”
“You’ve really not seen her in a while, have you? That was over a year ago. She had a growth spurt. And she’s still shorter than you, but she’s definitely not smaller than you, not now.”
“What does that mean? How can she be bigger than me if she’s shorter than me?”
I slowed down as we approached the traffic lights.
“She’s… y’know, wider than you and I bet she weighs more than you now.”
“So she’s fat, then? She’s obese?”
“No, she’s not definitely not obese. She’s muscular. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! And muscle weighs more than fat so that’s why she weighs more than y… that’s why she weighs a lot,” I said, just about managing to avoid a possibly offensive choice of words.
“So you’re saying a teenage girl who is shorter than your wife is some kind of bodybuilding freak and now she magically has so much muscle that she’s heavier than me and stronger than you?
“She’s probably stronger than me, yeah. Dave said she’s squatting almost as much as him these days, and Dave likes his leg days. And I don’t think there’s anything magical about it: I think she works out pretty much every day.”
“No, I don’t believe it. You’re winding me up.”
“Hey, next time I go round to watch the match at Dave’s, you can come with me and see for yourself, if you like.”
“Oh, so that’s what this is - some weird attempt to get me to waste my Saturday afternoon and trick me into watching the match with you and Dave? Hang on, isn’t Saturday the first of April?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“April Fool’s Day? You idiot, you had me going there for a while!”
“No, ignore the date: I’m telling you the truth! Why is it so hard to believe?”
“Because teenage girls are not stronger than adult men. Because teenage girls don’t just become… become the Incredible Hulk. Because you are a wind-up merchant.”
“Why would I possibly lie about this?”
“No, the question is: why would you continue to lie about this now I’ve worked out what you’re up to? And the answer is: because you’re an arse.”
We sat in silence until the light turned green and we started to move again.
“I mean, it was actually pretty embarrassing confessing that Katy’s probably stronger than me. To be honest, I thought you’d take the piss out of me, not refuse to believe me. But, really, you should see her. She’s pretty amazing.”
“What the fuck does that mean? ‘She’s amazing’?”
“Not in a pervy way, or anything! Just… she’s impressive. You’d be impressed, is all.”
I risked another glance at my wife. She was glaring at me, her arms crossed, face like thunder.
“Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, sure, trick your wife into participating in a crappy joke by making her angry. This Saturday I’ll come with you, and I’ll meet Katy, and I’ll see just how amazing she is now for myself. I hope you think this was worth it, because all you’ve managed to do so far is sound like a creep and piss me right off.”
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Great start ! Im curious how she looks like.
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You have my attention, sir.
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You know what? Maybe this is going somewhere, after all...
I planted my elbow on the table, gripped Katy’s hand, and tried not to look too intimidated.
It wasn’t easy.
Katy’s body remained hidden underneath her baggy hoodie, but she looked so damn cool and casual. Cocky, even. Her gaze was steady as she stared me down, her lips twitched as she failed to suppress a smirk, and her whole attitude was condescending. She knew that she was stronger than me. She knew that she was stronger than a fully-grown man and she knew that she would beat me.
I knew it too.
The problem was, my wife still didn’t believe it.
Katy squeezed my hand tighter and I tried not to wince.
“Shall we go on 3, Mr B?” she asked.
“Wait a minute,” interjected my wife, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I want to make sure you’re suitably motivated; I wouldn’t like to think you were giving anything less than 100%.”
She bent down and whispered in my ear. I blanched as I listened to her ultimatum.
“Please excuse us for a second, Katy - we just need to step outside for a moment.”
Katy let go of my hand and I stood up and reluctantly followed my wife out of the room.
---
The car door opened and my wife climbed in.
“Right, let’s go see Katy the Incredible She-Hulk, then.”
I held my tongue. The last few days had been full of barbed comments along these lines - “I was going to ask for your help carrying in the shopping, but as you think you’re weaker than a teenage girl, maybe I should just phone Katy and ask her to come round and do it”; or “Do you think these leggings fit me; do I look as amazing as Katy in them?” - but I knew she’d be eating her words shortly.
I remained diplomatic and didn’t mention we were now running late thanks to her decision, at the last possible minute, to go back upstairs and change her outfit. Women!
Dave gave me a cartoonish wink when he opened the front door.
“Hello, Rosie, I didn’t know you were coming round to watch the match with us today!”
I regretted telling Dave why Rosie was joining us; he was as subtle as a rhino, even when he wasn’t keeping a secret.
By the time the match kicked off, I was sitting next to Dave on the sofa, a beer in my hand. Rosie wandered through from the kitchen with a glass of white wine.
“I hear Katy is back from uni at the moment, Dave. I’ve not seen her in ages; is she around at the moment? I’d love to say hello.”
Dave remained fixated on the TV but gestured vaguely towards the garden.
“Oh, she’ll be in the home gym - just go out the back door and walk round to the garage.”
“In the gym, did you say? Is she doing some yoga, or something?” asked Rosie, innocently.
“Yoga?” Dave snorted. “No, she’ll be doing some proper exercise and lifting some weights.”
“Little Katy’s lifting weights?”
“Yeah, didn’t you see her after her growth spurt? I guess it has been a while. She grew six inches when she got to uni. Oh come on referee who are you fucking kidding that was never a yellow! Uh, yeah, so I think she got a bit self-conscious about feeling so skinny after she got taller.”
“So she started to pump some iron, did she?”
“Yeah, never thought she’d be in the gym lifting with me, but she’s taken to it like a duck to water.”
“I think I’ll leave you boys to it and go and find her.”
Unlike Dave, I couldn’t concentrate on the match. I fidgeted in my seat, watching the on-screen clock ticking, waiting for the moment when I got the grovelling apology that I was owed.
Waiting for the moment when my wife would have to confess she was just as impressed with Katy’s muscles as I had been.
Ten minutes passed, but nothing happened.
Finally, the kitchen door opened. My wife walked back in, alone. She picked her glass of wine back up and downed it.
I wasn’t even pretending to watch the game now, sitting on the edge of my seat and staring into the kitchen at my wife instead.
“Well?” I asked, as casually as I could manage. “How is she?”
“Perhaps Katy isn’t as keen on working out as you say she is? The gym was totally empty. Your garden’s looking lovely though, Dave, especially the begonias.”
Bugger the begonias! I glanced back at Dave - where was Katy? She hadn’t gone out, had she? I needed Rosie to see Katy, and to see her muscles. I wouldn’t live it down, otherwise!
“Probably upstairs, taking a shower,” shrugged Dave, unconcerned and still concentrating on the match.
“That’s a real shame,” said Rosie, pulling a sceptical face at me as she spoke. “Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll see her later?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
And then we heard the sound of someone coming downstairs.
---
I walked back into the room, trying not to let my discomfort show. My wife followed me. She knew why I was so uncomfortable.
The problem was, soon, so would everyone else.
Tentatively, I sat back down at the table and gripped Katy’s hand again.
“We good, Mr B? Yeah? Okay! 1… 2… 3!”
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You're doing a hell of job building up anticipation here. Can't wait for Rosie, and us, to see Katy's new body.
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GREAT build up, knowing how good you are at writing inventive strength feats and fantastically eloquent descriptions this story is bound to be another winner! :clap:
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For a few seconds, I thought I’d been guilty of over-exaggerating Katy’s strength.
For all that Katy’s biceps had looked massive the last time I had seen her, it was all relative, and she was still smaller than me. Maybe my wife had been right: Katy was only a teenage girl, after all, and teenage girls are not stronger than full-grown men.
Still, if I was going to win, it would be best if I won comprehensively; somehow, a slow struggle to eventually beat a teenage girl at armwrestling felt like it would be even more embarrassing than a quick defeat - at least a quick defeat would vindicate my position and show my wife that I had been right all along.
I gave it my all and within seconds I had gained a big advantage and pushed Katy’s hand back several inches.
I was torn between disappointment and relief.
I saw my wife reach for her glass of wine and realise it was empty. She shook her head and snorted derisively as she looked back at the uneven contest.
“I’m going to get a refill. I knew you just needed a little incentive to drop the whole pointless charade. I expect you to have won by the time I get back.”
She turned around and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Hey, Mr B?” said Katy, “I’ve got two questions. One: what did Mrs B mean about the incentive?”
“Erm, nothing,” I said quickly, keen to avoid the subject. “What was your other question?”
“Is that all you’ve got?”
Suddenly Katy’s arm turned to stone, her grip on my hand tightened, and I cried out in pain.
“Oh, stop being such a drama queen! Honestly, you’re fooling no one!” called my wife from the kitchen.
Katy winked at me, and then started to apply more pressure. Not that you could tell from looking at her face, which showed no sign of strain at all. Like a hot knife through butter, her forearm smoothly returned to the perpendicular and my arm was levered back.
The force Katy applied was irresistible and I was helpless as she manoeuvred herself into a winning position.
As the back of my hand approached the table, I lunged across and grabbed it with my free hand, trying to use the strength of both my arms to stop the inevitable defeat. The reality of losing had hit home, and I couldn’t face the humiliation.
It didn’t help. Katy’s progress remained serene and unstoppable. She pressed my hand firmly into the table.
“Naughty, naughty, Mr B!” she giggled. “That was cheating. I think we need to declare round one null and void and start again.”
She stopped pushing and started instead to pull my hands back up, her elbow still planted on the table. Once again I fought her with everything I had, but her one arm was still stronger than both of mine. She dragged me back to the position we had been in before my wife left the room.
My wife reentered, a full glass in her hand, and took in the image of me grimacing as my two hands clasped Katy’s one.
“Oh my god, you are such an idiot,” she said. Still, we both know what happens if you lose…”
“What happens if he loses, Mrs B?”
“No! I! Won’t! Lose!” I grunted.
—
My wife led me into the toilet and locked the door.
“What’s going on? We were just about to start the armwrestling match. What did you mean ‘you want to make sure I'm suitably motivated and if I don’t give 100% I’m getting no sex for a month’?”
“It’s simple: I don’t trust you to play fair and beat Katy; I think you’re going to lose on purpose.”
“But how can you prove I won’t be giving 100%? And I could give 100% and lose anyway!”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
My wife started to remove her cardigan and then turned around.
“Unzip me.”
I eased down the zip on her floral summer dress and she turned to face me again, letting the dress drop to the floor.
I nearly let out a wolf whistle. Before leaving the house, my wife had changed into her sexiest, and my favourite, lingerie set.
It was black. It was lacy. It was tiny. It was positively indecent and I loved it.
She gave me a twirl. I reached out to grab her arse and give it a squeeze but she swatted my hand away.
“Oh no, first you need to lose your clothes.”
“What, really? We’re really going to do this here, in Dave’s bog?”
She pouted at me.
I was out of my clothes faster than a quick change artist.
She reached out and tickled my fully-engorged penis.
“We’re going to need to do something about this.”
“Fuck yes! If I move over here, there’s room for you to kneel in front of me.”
“I don’t think you understand: you’re not about to get lucky. I mean we need to do something about your hard-on because it is going to look ridiculous sticking out of my thong.”
“What?”
You’re going to put on my underwear, bra and thong and suspenders, and then put your clothes back on.”
“What? Why?”
“Same principle as strip poker: if you lose the first round to Katy, you lose your shirt. Lose the second round and you lose your trousers. I imagine your choice of underwear will be a talking point.”
“You’re crazy! What makes you think I’d agree to that?”
She grabbed my dick and squeezed.
“Because if you don’t agree to my terms, like I said: you’re getting no sex for a month.”
“Bullshit! This is stupid!”
She started to gently stroke my cock.
“It just became two months. Do you want it to become three? Imagine sleeping in the spare room for three months and not getting any of this…”
She gave a little shimmy and her breasts nearly jiggled out of her bra.
“Fuck! Okay, okay! Fuck!”
“Look on the bright side: at least you get to watch a little striptease now. And I’ll be so happy knowing that my big, strong husband won’t pretend to lose at armwrestling to a teenage girl that I promise you’ll get that blowjob you so desperately want when we get home. Happy?”
I wasn't happy, but I was horny, and horny always wins.
Now I just had to make sure that I won too...
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Waiting for the April Fool's joke to be that we'll never find out who wins that match 😂
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Wow awesome! Love the two hands vs 1
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Can't wait to read about the match and what happens next
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Love the set up, can't wait for more :clap:
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I’m not sure what was more humiliating: the scornful look my wife was giving me, the way her lacy thong was chafing my balls, or the fact the teenage girl sitting opposite me was toying with me in an armwrestling match we both knew I couldn’t win.
If I was pressed for an answer I would probably say it was a three-way tie.
The smirk that Katy had been struggling to suppress was now a full-blown smile of smug superiority. Until we had first locked hands, maybe she hadn’t known how much stronger than me she actually was, and the realisation of her physical advantage had clearly gone to her head. If she had felt bad initially about the prospect of showing me up, she had certainly got over it quickly.
Katy was definitely relishing the opportunity to intimidate me.
“Are you really sure you won’t lose, Mr B?” she asked, in a mocking tone.
I gritted my teeth and held my breath as I concentrated every fibre of my being into trying to push back her hand.
“Oh, I’m sure he won’t lose,” said Rosie, firmly. “Even if he’s currently pretending otherwise.”
I could feel a vein pulsing in my forehead as I twisted my torso, hoping the extra torque might help me gain an advantage.
The bra straps were digging into me and pinching my skin. How do women cope with wearing these things? I tried to use the discomfort as extra motivation, a reminder of what that lay in store for me if I lost.
Dave swore loudly at the TV, reached for his bag of crisps and then swore again.
“Fuck! I don’t want to miss this corner - can someone grab me some more Monster Munch?”
“Are you going to wrap this up now? I don’t want to miss your victory,” said Rosie, bending over to stare meaningfully at me, her dress falling open just enough to reveal an enticing glimpse of her cleavage. “Actually, do you know what, I’ll just go - you seem to be determined to make this charade last as long as possible.”
“Fucking put someone on the near post! Pickled onion, please!” shouted Dave, as he sensed movement towards the kitchen.
Katy watched Rosie walk out of the room and then focussed her attention back on me.
“Wow, she really wants you to win... Going to try to cheat again, Mr B?”
“No. You’re. The. Cheat,” I grunted in frustration, barely able to get out the words.
“Me, a cheat?” asked Katy, sweetly. “I don’t think the fact I’m much, much stronger than you is cheating, is it? Or do you think because I’m just a teenage girl, I should stay smaller and weaker than you because you’re a man? Is that it? You think that me working out every day is cheating because I’ve built all this muscle? Months of dedication and discipline was just me cheating because now I’m stronger than you? All the 5am gym sessions, the force feeding myself protein, the progressive overload, the lifting to failure - all just me cheating? Well, if it’s that easy to cheat, why haven’t you done the same?”
She squeezed my hand tighter and I grimaced.
“You’re starting to look really sweaty, Mr B,” she said. “Do you need something to wipe your forehead?”
With her free hand Katy pulled up the front of her hoodie and jokingly offered it to me. She laughed as I stared in amazement at her ripped abs, clearly visible even through her white cami.
“Ignore my six-pack - that’s just what happens when you cheat super-hard.”
Rosie walked back in and Katy quickly pulled her hoodie back down.
“Tell me you saw that?” I panted at Rosie as she walked past, heading towards the sofa.
“Saw what?”
“Her muscles!” I said, my voice surprisingly high, partly in indignation but also because even my vocal cords were tensed as I struggled to keep up the pressure.
Rosie simply shook her head, looking thoroughly fed up with me.
Desperate now, feeling that the only way out of my predicament was to make Rosie realise how muscular Katy actually was before she beat me, I gestured at Katy’s arm.
“Feel her!” I squeaked. “Feel her!”
“Um, bit weird, Mr B,” said Katy, her face a picture of confused innocence.
“Yes, I don’t think that’s very appropriate.”
I gave another grunt and grabbed the side of the table with my free hand, braced myself against the frame, and heaved.
The table creaked, but Katy’s arm didn’t waver.
“Are you even trying, Mr B?”
Katy ostentatiously extended her own free hand and held it over her mouth as she yawned, then looked at her watch.
“I’m heading out soon,” she said, and suddenly I felt my hand forced back.
The last few minutes had been like trying to push against a supporting wall: Katy’s arm had been completely immovable. But if I’d felt helpless then, now it was like the wall was suddenly toppling towards me and I was trying to hold it up all by myself.
In short: I was doomed.
Desperation turned to terror at the prospect of being beaten, and more particularly at the thought of what would happen afterwards. Panic set in. My eyes darted around the room as I looked for something - anything - that I could use to justify abandoning the match.
Maybe if I was really fortunate, a devastating electrical fire that would rip through the house and destroy half the street before it could be be controlled would break out right… about… now?
No such luck.
But at this point losing face was surely better than actually losing; the best option for me was to stop the match and walk away.
I could bluster my way through some excuses afterwards, no matter how unconvincing. My cowardice may be exposed in front of my wife, Dave and Katy but, more importantly, my body wouldn’t be.
I glanced over at Dave and Rosie: Dave was still absorbed in the match; Rosie was staring at her phone. This was my chance to bail out.
Without saying anything, I made an abrupt move to stand up only to find Katy’s grip on my hand was unbreakable. She raised an eyebrow and gave me a look every bit as derisive as the one my wife had given me earlier.
I tried to extend my legs and lean backwards, still trying to free my hand.
Katy said nothing and continued to stare at me, a frown of almost teacherly annoyance on her face.
Despite my best efforts, and gravity’s assistance, Katy’s elbow remained anchored to the table.
And then Katy stopped trying to push my hand towards the table and instead began to pull me back towards her, bicep curling my uncooperative body.
I stopped trying to escape and tried to remain simply standing upright, my feet scrabbling for purchase on the floor. It was hopeless; I might as well have been a lump of iron being pulled towards a magnet. The edge of the table began to press into my thighs and I started to stoop forwards like a drunk about to lose his balance.
Katy gave a sudden heave and I found myself dumped back into my chair.
I could have sworn I saw her bicep visibly bulging beneath the thick, baggy sleeve of the hoodie.
“Whatever am I going to do with you, Mr B?”
Under the table, I felt her legs coil around mine, pinning me against the chair.
I was now acutely aware of two things: firstly, that Katy’s calves were so big and hard they dug into mine, causing me physical pain. Secondly, that I had given myself a serious wedgie as I tried to escape, my wife’s thong riding right up inside me. It was an indication of how powerful Katy's legs were that the lingerie flossing my sphincter was only the second thing I noticed.
I was trapped.
“Ready to lose, Mr B?” Katy whispered.
Katy had trapped my legs, she had trapped my hand in a vice-like grip and now, as her steely-eyed gaze met mine, I realised I couldn’t even look away from her.
She had me at her mercy.
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this is almost like a British sitcom, so much going on its very entertaining
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Awesome! :rock:
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I agree, it's like a tv series, that has that wow moment that makes you so anxious :clap: to see the next episode. Great story!!
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Hello to all and many belated thank yous for the kind comments.
I've had barely any time at all to write so far this year but, given the day, I thought I should make the effort to knock up another quick instalment of this story.
The next chapter will arrive this time next year. (This may or may not be an April Fool's joke.)
Enjoy!
I was still gazing into Katy’s eyes a few seconds later, totally mesmerised by the self-assured way in which she was staring me down. I tried to cast my mind back: teenage girls weren’t this confident or this aggressive when I was that age, were they? They definitely hadn’t wanted muscles like the ones I knew Katy was hiding underneath her hoodie - thick, beefy, powerful muscles.
I tried to imagine a teenage me flirting with Katy… Girls were meant to flutter their eyelashes and coyly avert their gaze when they were with a boy they liked, not look at you like Shelob deciding that you were only a dollop of brown sauce and two slices of bread away from making a tasty breakfast sandwich.
She looked so proud of her strength, so pugnaciously defiant; she was in competition with a taller, heavier man, but there was absolutely no sign of any weakness, no self-doubt, no sense of inferiority.
She was a teenage girl who knew she was freakishly, unstoppably strong and she loved it.
A teenage me would have been terrified of Katy, stuck somewhere between worry and worship, paralysis and priapism.
To be honest, I was terrified of her now. I had known that she was strong, but not so strong that she could control three of my limbs without apparent effort, all while she was sitting casually in a chair and adjusting her ponytail with her free hand.
And then I became conscious of another sensation, an entirely unwanted one: it was the feeling of the back of my hand pressing against the hard surface of the table. Katy was so strong that she had eased my arm into such a controlled descent I hadn’t even noticed I was about to lose.
I was like a lobster in a pot. The water had slowly come up to a boil and, before I even knew what was happening, I was cooked.
It was over. I had lost. Katy had won. There was a dreadful silence, waiting to be filled.
Not daring to speak or to move, my eyes darted sideways to glance at Rosie. She was still staring at her phone and hadn’t yet seen what had happened. Maybe this was the last chance saloon? I might not be able to stand up yet, but if Katy let go of my hand before Rosie noticed I had lost, there would surely still be some way I could bluff my way out of this.
After all, I was an intelligent man, capable of thinking on my feet and improvising to meet the situation; a subtle and ingenious solution was surely only a flash of inspiration away.
I felt sure that I could extricate myself from this situation with a minimum of fuss and embarrassment while maintaining an aura of dignity, my air of suave sophistication intact.
And so I prepared to shout Oh god, I have diarrhoea! and make a run for the toilet as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
I looked back at Katy and my heart sank: she was also staring at Rosie, and she seemed annoyed that her victory had so far gone unnoticed. Katy definitely didn’t have the look of a girl who was about to modestly let her physical prowess go unremarked.
We both remained sitting silent and still at the table and there was no indication that Katy was about to relax her grip; if anything, the force with which my hand was pinned down was gradually increasing, as if Katy were growing more resentful by the second about being ignored.
Now it was Katy’s turn to look back at me. She noticed the mortified expression on my face.
Please? I silently mouthed, trying to pull my hand free.
At once the intimidating Amazon warrior sitting opposite me was replaced with a much more familiar-looking mischievous teenage girl. Katy’s frown disappeared as she smothered a laugh and then stroked her chin, looking theatrically pensive, tilting her head first one way, then the other, as if weighing up a decision.
Eventually she couldn’t hide her amusement any longer: a giggle bubbled up and broke free from her lips.
In my peripheral vision, I could see Rosie lift her head…
At this point, several things happened in quick succession.
First, the doorbell rang. Katy emitted an Oh! as her expression immediately turned to one of shock; before I knew what was happening, she had unwound her legs from mine, released my hand and jumped up from her chair, dashing out of the room.
At much the same time as Katy leaped up, Rosie made eye contact with me.
If Katy’s look earlier had scared me, this was worse. This was a look with which even the most uxorious husband was familiar; a look universally dreaded by the male of the species; a look which could only be delivered by a wife to her other half.
It was a look that said Oh, you’re for it now, mister.
And I would have been - for it now, I mean, and probably for it for a considerable time afterwards into the bargain - if only something else hadn’t happened that very second, something miraculous.
“GET IN!” bellowed Dave, leaping from the sofa, throwing his arms aloft. “FUCKING GET IN! WHAT A FINISH!”
Like a whale spouting water, a spray of beer left the can in Dave’s upthrust hand and arced through the air, sparkling in the afternoon sunshine that bathed the room in glorious light.
(“ABSOLUTE THUNDERBASTARD!”)
In a moment of numinous beauty, it formed an ephemeral rainbow, the reflecting light coruscating and dazzling me as I watched open-mouthed, deeply moved by the majesty of the serendipitous evanescence flashing before me.
(“HE MUST HAVE A FOOT LIKE A TRACTION ENGINE!”)
And then I gave thanks - not for the rainbow, but for the pot of gold at the end of it: in this case, a generous slosh of cheap lager splashing all over Rosie’s face and hair like she was the participant at a bukkake party who would be having an awkward conversation with a dry cleaner the next day.
“SHIT! Sorry, Rosie!”
As Rosie spluttered and wiped away the beer cascading down her shocked face, I knew I had immediately been demoted from the position of man with whom she most wanted to have some stern words.
“I’m really sorry, Rosie, I didn’t mean to… Uh, come with me and I’ll grab you a towel.”
A hangdog expression on his face, Dave led my wife from the room.
My spirits soared higher than Dave’s beer. This was my chance! I gave Dave and Rosie a few seconds to leave the hallway and then I tiptoed to the door, ready to dash to the privacy of the toilet and take off the infernal bra and thong. I could beg forgiveness from Rosie later - she’d been talking about Mustique recently and I suspected the only way she might not kick me out of bed would be if it were king-sized and located in the beach-adjacent luxury suite of a boutique hotel.
I quickly stopped worrying about expensive holidays as I stealthily eased the door open a crack and established that Katy was standing in the hallway, in excited conversation with the mystery party who had rung the doorbell.
Cursing my luck, I threw caution to the wind, aware that my time alone could be brief. I quietly closed the door, withdrew into the middle of the room and pulled off my shirt; I’d have to risk getting changed here and now.
My fingers fumbled with the bra hooks as I contorted my arms behind my back and desperately tried to free myself. Never mind wearing these things - how on earth did women manage to take them off? I flailed around without success, looking like a drunken hula hooper who was yet to realise he may have had the hula down pat but that he had forgotten all about the hoop.
I heard movement on the stairs and began to hop from foot to foot with anxiety. This proved to be one piece of additional choreography too many and I lost my balance and toppled backwards onto the sofa.
I was out of time! In a moment of desperation, I started to roll the bra down my torso, squawking with pain as chest hairs, caught in the twisted material, were ripped from my body as I frantically tried to escape my lacy cage.
The door swung open.
I froze.
The conversation in the hallway continued, no louder or closer than it had been before, and no one walked into the room.
It must have been a draught! I relaxed.
Then I heard Rosie and Dave talking in the hallway. I panicked again.
The bra had reached my hips. I improvised, pulled my trousers down, dragged the bra below my waistline, hoisted my trousers back to full-mast, flung my shirt back on and collapsed into my chair, a panting and sweaty mess trying his best to look insouciant.
Rosie and Dave walked back in.
Dave headed directly for the sofa, eager to renew acquaintance with his bag of Monster Munch and to make sure he hadn’t missed any action. My wife, on the other hand, headed directly for me, crossed her arms and glared.
Even Elsa would have been considerably less icy than Rosie right now. And, unfortunately, I don’t think Rosie was about to let it go.
I gulped.
“So…” she said.
“So… what?” I asked, doing well to maintain the insouciant facade while concentrating very hard on preventing my right eye from developing a twitch.
Rosie snorted.
“Oh, you know. You know. For reasons that are beyond me, you think it’s funny to pretend to lose an armwrestle to a teenage girl. Well, if that’s the way you want to play it, you know what happens next. Lose the shirt...”
“Wait, I wasn’t pre-”
“Or else,” she said, hooking a finger in the front of her dress, leaning forward and squeezing her breasts together with her arms. Seinfeld once joked that looking at cleavage is like looking at the sun. You don't stare at it. It's too risky. But when it comes to my wife’s breasts I am Captain Pinbacker. I couldn’t not stare at them: they’re magnificent. The thought of not being able to see them, or indeed to kiss them, to fondle them, to run my tongue around her erect nipples, to motorboat them, to squeeze them as I brought her to climax, was too much to bear.
I stood up and pulled off my shirt.
“Fine. Is this what you wanted?” I said angrily and, as it turned out, much louder than I had intended.
It was at this exact moment that Katy reentered the room. She stopped as she saw me, a look of confusion on her face. But that was nothing compared to the look of shock on the face of the pretty little brunette standing behind her, her hand half-raised in greeting.
There was another dreadful silence, waiting to be filled.
I cleared my throat...
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I haven't been reading stories here in awhile, so I was pleased to stumble across your story. PLEASE continue. Wonderful!
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The chapters to all of your stories are always worth the wait, even if the time between them is often unbearably long. Here's hoping to see more of all of your currently in-progress works soon.
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So happy to see a new chapter....and an Alan Partridge reference!! :clap:
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I'm definitely aiming to continue all my stories - this one was always intended to be shorter chapters knocked out more regularly, even if that hasn't ended up being the case! Anyway, here's the next instalment; hopefully the wait wasn't too long this time.
No Alan Partridge references, but more silliness ensues...
All that clearing my throat managed to achieve was to make Rosie, Katy and the mystery girl regard me expectantly, as if I’d just stood up and tapped my glass with a spoon at a wedding reception.
Even though I was only shirtless, as their eyes bored into me, I felt totally naked.
I wouldn’t have thought twice about walking around with my top off at the pool or the beach, or even in the park on a sunny day, so why did standing bare chested in the relative privacy of a friend’s living room make me feel so uncomfortable?
It must have been all the women staring at me. Macbeth probably felt much the same way when he was in conference with the Three Witches. I was being subjected to a level of female scrutiny that would have made me uncomfortable even if I had been fully clothed.
Right now I couldn’t even take much solace in the fact that things would have been even worse if I hadn’t managed to remove the bra. Or if someone had declared me Thane of Cawdor.
I gave a start as a mysterious hissing noise broke the silence.
My brain started to leap to conclusions: was it my wife, expressing an almost feline fury at my emasculation at the hands of a teenage girl? Perhaps Katy was trying to suppress a snigger as she mentally compared her own powerful, virile form with my own? Or could it be the new arrival, reading the room and simply deciding it would go down well if she heckled me?
Any way you looked at it, I was exposed, embarrassed, and the subject of some form of female contempt. Most men think that the ultimate humiliation is to be mocked by a woman; as Margaret Atwood once wrote, men are afraid that women will laugh at them.
Of course, some men know that, actually, the ultimate humiliation to be feared is to lose an armwrestling match to a teenage girl while wearing women’s underwear, and then to be denied sex by your wife, but we can forgive Margaret Atwood for trying to keep her truisms universal.
Besides, realistically, how many men are unlucky enough to have ever found themselves in a situation where they’re being performatively dominated by a cute but cocky blonde girl with an impish sense of humour and a hyper-mesomorphic ability to build muscle?
Apart from me, that is.
The silence seemed to grow, to swell, to become even more silent.
In retrospect, this was probably because Dave had finished rustling his bag of Monster Munch in the background, but the longer the silence lasted, the greater the pressure of coming up with an explanation became.
Eventually it reached the point where it was unbearable. Overwhelmed, my brain froze and my body wilted.
And so, when there was a sudden enthusiastic glugging noise and I realised that the hissing sound had simply been caused by Dave opening another can of lager, I felt like a man whose reserve parachute had opened just in time to prevent his family from having to get in touch with his tailor to order him some burial clothes that were much, much wider and much, much flatter than when he was measured at his last fitting.
The realisation buoyed my confidence. I was able to relax, to take a moment to inspect my audience, and then to start feeling gratified when I noticed that the stranger was staring appreciatively at my body.
Not all female attention is bad, especially when the female in question is an attractively perky brunette and she’s obviously admiring the results of your gym regimen.
As I had emphasised to my wife a few days ago, I wasn’t training like a bodybuilder - but I was a regular visitor to our local gym and I was probably in the best shape of my life. It was what had made the disparity in strength between me and Katy even more shocking: I had never been stronger. But still, this girl didn’t know about that; as far as she was concerned, I was an impressive specimen of manhood.
Her eyes lingered on my biceps, still slightly pumped from my recent exertions.
Some female attention makes men want to show off, even if it’s ill-advised to do so.
I started to feel almost bullish. The dying embers of my machismo, so recently doused by Katy, were reignited.
“Welcome to the Chippendales show,” I said, throwing a quick double-bicep flex and attempting a disarming smile at Katy and the visitor.
I had chosen the wrong cultural reference.
“To Chip ‘n’ Dale’s show? Like, the cartoon chipmunks?” asked Katy, her confused frown only growing bigger, and even more confused.
“No, no, the Chippendales. You know? The Chippendales? I was just joking that I looked like a Chippendale.”
“Oh, like you’re a useless old wreck that belongs in an antique shop?” Rosie chipped in, unhelpfully.
I could sense from my wife’s sarcastic tone that she wasn’t happy. Not only was she wondering where her bra had gone, she had also definitely resented both the visitor ogling my muscles and the clumsily flirtatious way in which I had attempted to engage the girls in conversation.
I tried to sidestep my wife’s insult and recall something more contemporary.
“Aha. No, not that kind of Chippendale. The Chippendales are a male striptease dance troupe - you know, just like the guys in that film…”
“You’re saying you’re like a male stripper in a film?”
“Yeah! What’s it called, what’s it called? Tip of my tongue…”
“The Full Monty?”
“No, not that one, the one with Channing Tatum.”
“You’re comparing yourself to Channing Tatum?”
“Yeah, I’m like him in that film, you know the one…”
“You must mean the one where he plays an idiot. 21 Jump Street?”
“No.”
“22 Jump Street?”
“No! Why would you say that? That’s the exact same character!”
“He also plays an idiot in The Lost City, so… The Lost City?”
After her series of contributions, my wife was looking happier than she had done all afternoon.
“No, the one where he’s a male stripper! Magic Mike! That’s it, Magic Mike!”
I paused triumphantly.
“I’m so confused. What’s this got to do with Chip ‘n’ Dale?” asked Katy.
“And who’s Monty?” asked the stranger.
“And why have you taken your shirt off?” Katy continued.
I deflated.
“No reason. Just a bet.”
“A bet?” said Katy, “What kind of bet?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing, just a bet,” I replied, trying to avoid going into details.
“I bet him that he would beat you and, if he didn’t, well, let’s just say strip poker rules applied,” said Rosie.
My wife’s eyes were darting around the room, trying to find where I had stashed her bra.
Little did she know that it was hidden down my trousers, where its underwiring was currently pressing uncomfortably against my testicles, so the joke was definitely on her.
“A bet? You had a bet… if Katy beat him… If Katy beat him at what?” chimed in the visitor, obviously intrigued.
“In an armwrestle,” said Katy. “But I didn’t know we were placing bets on the result.”
“An armwrestle? Huh… Sooo… You’re telling me that you beat him in an armwrestle? But… but he’s a man...”
“So he has always led me to believe,” said Rosie, her voice dripping with enough acid to melt through several decks of the Nostromo.
“Such a big, strong man…” the visitor continued, reaching out to give my arm a quick squeeze.
My wife snorted.
“There’s no way you could beat a big, strong man like him. I know you had that amazing growth spurt when we were at uni, but you can’t beat a man; you’re still just a girl. I mean, look at him: that’s not a dad bod. He’s fit… He must go to the gym a lot... He’s got some nice muscles… He’s way taller than you… He’d probably beat most guys his own size in an armwrestle; he’d totally beat you. Like, easily. You couldn’t beat him unless you got lucky or cheated or something.”
“I must have got lucky,” grinned Katy.
“Yeees…” said my wife, slowly, her voice freighted with suspicion.
“Yep, just one of those things. But I’m man enough to take it on the chin. Nice to meet you, by the way,” I said quickly, trying to change the topic of conversation. “We haven’t been introduced…”
“Oh, hi! I’m Annie. I’m Katy’s-”
“Friend! She’s my friend from uni,” cut in Katy, quickly, turning a noticeable shade of pink. “We were going to be meeting up later, but she just came by to see if she could drop some of her stuff off here first.”
Her friend.
The two girls were staring avidly at each other, deep in an unspoken conversation.
Her friend. I must have misread Annie’s signals; she can’t have been flirting with me...
“Um, yeah, I’ve got a few bags and I thought, y’know, it could be a late night and I might need somewhere to crash later, and then I thought of Katy, and I was like, I’m sure Katy wouldn’t mind if I spend the night with her, um, at hers, um…” Annie finally said.
The thought occurred to me that maybe Annie had been flirting. Just not with me. Maybe she had been flirting with Katy. Maybe Katy had explained what had been happening to Annie when she had arrived. Maybe, by talking about my muscles and my manliness, Annie had not been flattering me, but rather the person whom she knew had managed to beat me in a test of strength.
I know you had that amazing growth spurt when we were at uni… Annie knew very well what Katy was hiding under her hoodie! She was probably intimately acquainted with every one of Katy’s rock-hard muscles; while I thought Annie had been flirting with me, she had probably been imagining every bulge and ripple of Katy’s muscles as her friend had crushed me, the big, strong man.
I had been wrong earlier: this was actually the ultimate humiliation.
My only consolation at that moment was that the topic of conversation had changed course sufficiently that I thought I could see the first glimmering of light at the end of the escape tunnel.
I crawled desperately towards it.
“Well, sounds like you guys have stuff you need to do, so don’t let us get in your way - unless, do you need any help getting your bags out of the car? Let me just put my shirt back on before I go outside…”
My wife’s hands landed on my shoulders and I flinched. Rosie gently but firmly pushed me back towards the table and into my chair.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked.
“Forgetting something? No, no, I don’t think so.”
“Oh, but you are. It was going to be best of three. That is, if Katy’s not scared that her luck’s run out?”
Katy hesitated.
“I don’t know…” she said. “We should probably get going if we want to be there in time.”
“Don’t let us make you late,” I offered, trying to sound selfless.
“We should get going, right?”
“Are you kidding? I want to see this! Who cares if we get there a little late?”
I decided Annie definitely wasn’t going to be on my Christmas card list.
“Okay, sure, yeah, I’m up for another round! Ready, Mr B?”
“Oh, he’s raring to go,” replied my wife on my behalf, kneading my shoulders in a massage that could only have been less relaxing if I had made the mistake of booking it at a parlour called Scissorhands Shiatsu.
I was already feeling slightly sick and my stomach gave another lurch when I caught a glimpse of Annie furtively giving Katy’s arm a loving squeeze as she walked past her. As Annie’s hand pressed into the clothing, the sleeve of Katy’s hoodie didn’t crumple or collapse as it should; no material gave way; no folds were formed...
Something was lurking beneath the surface.
Something big.
There was another hissing sound caused by some escaping gas. I would have liked to blame Dave again, but the truth was that I was just very, very nervous.
Where were the Rescue Rangers when you needed them?
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Another great chapter! Your manipulation of words and moods is second-to-none. The way you've slowly compounded the many emasculations our protagonist is enduring is masterful and the build up to the ultimate reveal of Katy's body is agonizing, in the best way possible. :bravo: