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Forum Saradas  |  Female Muscle Art - Female Muscle Fiction  |  Muscular Women Fiction  |  Undercover
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Author Topic: Undercover  (Read 50096 times)

Offline JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #30 on: February 24, 2022, 04:17:46 pm »
A short chapter, just to move the story on... More to come, obviously, but I'll probably try to get a new chapter of Body Swap finished first.




“Ah, Pooter. Welcome. Come join us - we’re just plotting the overthrow of the government.”

Beck stood next to a low wall, flanked by a pair of pigeons.

Coo. Coo.

“Admittedly my co-conspirators have been reluctant to vouchsafe any details more precise than that, but they’re probably still establishing my bona fides and I expect to gain their full confidence soon.”

“Be… Beck, what in god’s name… What are we…”

The little man was puffing like a steam train and his peevish voice died away, his complaint abandoned while he leaned back against the firedoor and mopped his brow with his pocket square.

“What in god’s name are we doing, meeting on the roof?” Beck said, finishing Pooter’s query for him.

“Pre… precisely.”

“Well, if I learnt one thing from Infernal Affairs, it’s that it’s cheaper to buy speakers from Cheung Wai…”

“Wha… what?”

“But if I learnt two things from Infernal Affairs, it’s that it’s cheaper to buy speakers from Cheung Wai and that undercover cops like meeting on rooftops.”

“I don’t… understand, Beck - we’re not undercover. So why… have you made me walk up twelve… flights of stairs to meet you up here?”

“Precisely, Pooter, we’re not undercover; and, as such, no one would anticipate us holding a clandestine meeting up here.”

Not for the first time, Pooter found himself thinking that he would rather be unpicking a complex tax avoidance scheme than Beck’s perverse logic.

“But-”

“Plus, it does a man good to get out of the office from time to time. I worry about you, Pooter - stuck indoors all day, poring over spreadsheets and legislation… I thought you’d be grateful for the chance of some fresh air and a nice view while you provided me with an al fresco update.”

Pooter had just about regained his breath and, with it, his equanimity. The sight of clear blue sky and the warmth of the sun were undeniably pleasant.

“Well, I have been tied to my desk all week, I suppose.”

“Besides, up here we can kill two birds with one stone,” Beck said, pointing to the low wall at the edge of the flat roof.

Coo. Coo.

Pooter looked alarmed.

“Surely you don’t mean you want to kill those pigeons?” he asked.

“No, Pooter - treasonous plots aside, they seem like unimpeachable members of avian society. But from up here, as you update me, we have a splendid view of, well, come and take a look.”

Pooter edged his way to the wall, in a manner that would have suggested to someone who didn’t know him well that he was acrophobic, rather than just a man who was so cautious about everything that he would read the instructions for a new stapler twice before first using it.

Below them, on the other side of the street, they looked down on the roof of a multi-storey car park.

“It’s not the most scenic of vistas, Beck.”

Beck glanced at his watch.

“Wait for it…”

On cue, a black SUV with tinted windows drove up the ramp and onto the roof, eventually pulling up behind a similar vehicle at the far corner of the car park.

Beck nodded to himself, as one professional appreciating the work of another - the size and position of the cars meant that they now occupied the one place in the car park behind which the CCTV cameras could provide no coverage. Only from the elevated position where Beck and Pooter stood on the roof of the adjacent building was there a clear line of sight to what was going on.

Two men emerged from one of the SUVs and hauled out a large, obviously heavy, black bag. With some difficulty, they manoeuvred it into the back seat of the car in front of theirs and then returned to their own vehicle. Transfer complete, both cars headed down the exit ramp, the whole transaction over in under a minute.

Pooter looked worried. “Oh dear, oh dear. I don’t suppose that was…?”

“No,” Beck replied, opening the firedoor. “Not yet. Anyway, now the show is over, let’s head back down. And you can tell me all about the myriad ways in which those funds you’ve been trying to trace are, in fact, ingeniously and deviously untraceable - and while you do that, I’ll show you where the lift is.”

“Well, it’s actually a very interesting arrangement involving no fewer than seventeen shell corporations… Wait, there’s a lift?”

Coo. Coo.





The heavy door closed so smoothly that the young man didn’t even hear the auctioneer enter, totally absorbed as he was with the view through the window.

“Ahem, excuse me, sir.”

The young man jumped and turned around, a guilty expression on his face.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, sir; but I was given to believe you requested to speak with me?”

“Yes, yes. It’s just, well, I heard that Johnson was taking delivery of his order, and I wondered if I could… if it’s possible for me to…”

“I’m afraid we are not ready for despatch, sir. We always endeavour to stagger delivery dates and my latest information is that you will not be able to take receipt for another few weeks yet, sir.”

“But I can’t wait any longer! I mean, just look,” the young man whined, gesturing yearningly to the window with his arm. “Just look…”

“I appreciate you are keen, sir. I believe a few refinements are still required if the order is to meet the exact specifications with which you provided us.”

“Never mind refinements! I can’t wait any longer!”

“Very well, sir. I will see what can be done. Please rest assured that I will plead your case most assiduously. May I bring you anything in the meantime, sir?”





“Jab, jab, right cross. Good! Jab, right cross, left hook. That's braw!”

Harriet’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“Jab, right cross, left uppercut, right cross.”

Harriet knew that her technique was still far from perfect, but the satisfaction of channelling all of her pent-up aggression into every punch only made her even more eager to improve.

“Dinnae drop your hand so much for the uppercut. Let’s try that again.”

Harriet didn’t reply, but she nodded to show she’d understood.

Sweaty and panting, Harriet readied herself for the next flurry by shifting her weight experimentally from foot to foot, still learning to gauge exactly where her centre of gravity was now - the size and shape of her body was so dramatically different to when she had last played hockey at university that she had quickly found that she was unused to making quick, precise movements while retaining her balance at all times.

Before the session had started, she was like a child who believed she had mastered riding her bicycle; but then the stabilisers had come off, and it had become clear that staying in control as she moved was not as easy as she had imagined.

Harriet was aware that it would take a lot of hard work to improve her technique, but new physical challenges were what she craved now, new ways to push her body to its limits, and to establish what she was capable of achieving.

“Ready? Again! Jab, right cross, left uppercut, right cross. Good!”
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 #30 on: February 24, 2022, 04:17:46 pm »

Offline JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #31 on: April 01, 2022, 05:36:56 pm »
The two teenagers were so engrossed in the view that they didn’t hear Harriet approach. They didn’t even notice when she tried to establish what the girls were gaping at through the half-open door, stopping directly behind them and peering over the top of their heads; together they formed an impromptu tableau reminiscent of the way a gurning local might photobomb a pair of oblivious tourists.

By all rights, they should have been gaping at Harriet, who had regained her amour-propre since the incident in the car park. The gym had become her therapy, and two sessions a day, six days a week, with additional daily boxing lessons, had assuaged her trauma better than lying on a couch and talking about her feelings ever could.

There was, of course, another benefit to taking refuge in the gym: her fight had shown her that she wasn’t as strong as she thought. The solution to this problem was simple: get stronger. She had never been the type to give up after a setback anyway. Retreat was not an option; in defeat she had learned that she was a revanchist.

But as well as resolving to grow stronger, she also wanted to start making it unambiguously clear to other people how strong she had become, and how strong she was continuing to grow - or, as she had been amused to think of it, driving to the gym that morning and watching her biceps twitch as she gripped the steering wheel: putting the guns in gunboat diplomacy.

Her muscles had grown bigger, yes; but now her willingness to show them off had finally developed correspondingly. This was in marked contrast to the size of her new gym outfits, which had shrunk in inverse proportion to her increasing swagger.

Comfort and modesty were no longer her primary concerns when choosing her workout clothing - instead she had taken a deep, calming breath and then picked out her latest purchases based on a simple, albeit totally alien, principle: what’s the scantiest style of this item currently in stock?

In truth, she had not particularly enjoyed the number of times she had needed to stop between sets today to tug her tiny shorts back down after they rode up the inside of her meaty thighs, nor how there was essentially no material at all to wick away the sweat which poured down the muscles in her exposed back and left the seat of her shorts stained wine-dark.

It was worth it though. It felt like there wasn’t a single person in Wimbourne Hall that hadn’t admired her as she destroyed her delts that morning, and by the end of her workout she realised that she was not only enjoying attracting all this attention in the gym, but also that she had almost come to expect it as something due to her, recognition for all her hard work.

So at any other time that morning she might have felt slightly affronted at being completely ignored - but then she spotted what the two teenagers were looking at.

“Oh my god. Look at her quads; they’re so big you can see them from behind,” one girl whispered to her friend.

Inside the private studio that lay beyond the doorway, Harriet - not without some difficulty - recognised Dina standing at the far end of the room. The young sprinter stood in front of the floor-length mirrors, looking a little ungainly in a pair of high heels, practising some poses. Her shorts, which looked even more inadequate for their task than those currently clinging to Harriet’s own glutes, had been forcefully hiked up into an awkward-looking wedgie to reveal even more glistening flesh for inspection in the mirrors, and her sports bra was noticeably well-filled. Dina turned to face the other direction.

“And you can actually see her glutes from in front. They’re like… they’re like…” the second girl’s voice trailed away as a suitable simile escaped her.

‘They’re like shy twins, peeping out from behind their mother,’ thought Harriet, privately completing the comparison.

Harriet remembered Dina from when they had both first joined the gym at Wimbourne Hall. She recalled overhearing Dina’s then-coach discussing power-to-weight ratios and block starts with her, and admiring the young athlete not just because of her obvious determination and focus, but also because of her commitment to function over form.

At the time it had seemed to Harriet, then a mere weightlifting neophyte, that everyone else in the gym was working out simply to look a certain way, to maintain a certain aesthetic. She had quietly judged them all, these slaves to narcissism, so obviously checking themselves out in the mirrors as they lifted, and interupting each workout with regular stops to take more selfies than Rembrandt painted self-portraits in his entire life.

But time in the gym had clearly served a different purpose for Dina: it was necessary drudge work to help her develop more power so she could become a better athlete. How she looked was immaterial; improving her times on the track was all that mattered.

“Oh my god. She is such a freak. Her muscles are so gross.”

“Shut up! You’re the one who wanted to start coming to the gym to impress Tristan. You’re just well jel that you don’t have a dumpy like that!”

“Can you even imagine trying to fit a bum that big into a pair of jeans?”

“Can you even imagine how good a bum that big would look in a pair of jeans?”

Harriet was aware that, soon after joining Wimbourne Hall, Dina had become one of Florence’s clients and had disappeared from the main public gym. Since then, just as with Chardonnay, Harriet had only glimpsed Dina in photos on Florence’s insta**** feed. She had been impressed, but also a little disappointed, by the progress those photos recorded - impressed because Dina was clearly packing on muscle; disappointed because Dina now seemed to have become just another gym-bunny prioritising form over function.

But, and there were no two ways about this, Harriet knew that she had herself become consumed by the pursuit of gains above all else. She couldn’t even really remember life without the gym any more. Lifting had become her entire personality.

“I think each of her thighs is bigger than my waist.”

“Not after all that pizza you stuffed in your face last night, you fat bitch!”

The two girls giggled.

“It was a cheat day, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever. Everyday’s a cheat day for you. Anyway, you don’t get to look like that if you take too many cheat days.”

“Oh my god, you do actually want to look all… freakish like her, don’t you?”

Freakish, thought Harriet. Yes, the word applied. Not necessarily to Dina’s physique, but to the circumstances: another one of Florence’s clients had undergone a dramatic development; and the photographic record of Dina’s progress on Insta**** did not reflect the reality any more than Chardonnay’s pictures had.

“I’d rather have a dumpy like hers than a pancake like yours. And you want to impress Tristan so bad, but I bet he wants a girl with a squat booty like that.”

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking lez for her muscles. No wonder you’ve been secretly gyming it on your own so much recently.”

“Um, bitter much? You drag me along to the gym; I don’t go without you. It’s not my fault I’m getting all the gains because I work harder and actually follow a diet plan.”

“Bitch.”

Harriet knew from Insta**** that Dina had started to build pounds of extra muscle under Florence's tutelage, and from what she could see now it was clear that Dina hadn't stopped - however her physique was very different to Chardonnay’s; while the latter was so lean she might have been excarnated of all adipose tissue, Dina retained a softer look. Chardonnay, implants apart, was all razor-sharp edges, whereas Dina was smoother, en cabochon rather than faceted.

And while Dina’s upper body was much more muscular than it had once been, it was her glutes and quads that really caught the attention, her lower body developed to the point where the circumference of her thighs would probably prove a hindrance to her if she were to try to sprint.

In fact, there was a pronounced disparity in development demarcated by Dina’s waistline which brought to mind the border between North and South Korea.

“Hey, you’re the one who said she was all about wanting a big peach.”

“But I just want to get toned; I don’t want to look like a… like a man - not like her.”

“I keep telling you: there’s no such thing as ‘tone’; there’s just muscles. And she does not look like a man”

Harriet nodded. As unusually muscular as she was, Dina could never be mistaken for a man - her curves were too abundant, her face was too pretty. However, an image had popped into Harriet’s head when she first caught a glimpse of Dina, and she had been unable to shake it ever since… The mismatch between Dina’s upper and lower body put Harriet in mind of Hylonome, the beautiful centauride.

Dina walked tentatively towards the far side of the room and the girls leaned forward to keep her in sight. Inadvertently they put too much weight on the door, which yielded to the pressure and swung open, leaving the two girls sprawling forward. One toppled into the studio.

“You girl! This is a private studio!” came an imperious voice, sharp and sudden as the crack of a whip, from an unseen corner of the room.

The door swung shut and the second girl squealed, suspended as she was in mid-air. As the teenager had fallen forward, Harriet had reached out with her right arm and grabbed her round the waist, stopping her from following her friend onto the floor of the room beyond the door, and pulling her back towards her own body.

The teenager dangled from Harriet’s arm like an uncooperative toddler scooped up by an impatient parent at bedtime. Harriet used her left arm to pull the girl back upright, and then rotated her suspended body through 180 degrees until they were face to face. Harriet’s arms were rock-steady, but the girl was so disconcerted by what was happening that she reached forward and grabbed Harriet’s shoulders as if she needed to steady herself and prevent a fall.

Her eyes went from darting back and forth in an attempt to work out what was going on, to opening wide as she focussed on the powerful woman in front of her, her hands getting further apart as they stroked up and around each of Harriet’s swollen anterior and then lateral delts, occasionally stopping for a squeeze all that muscle, her fingers unable to make any dent whatsoever.

Harriet couldn’t help but smile at her amazement.

“Don’t worry - it’s not the first time I’ve literally swept a girl off her feet. Actually, it’s becoming a bit of a habit. You’re in safe hands.”

“What… How… Is this place, like, the island of the Amazons, or something?”
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 JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #32 on: May 08, 2022, 10:53:20 am »
Trying to produce some shorter chapters on a more regular basis. We'll see how that goes, but for now here's another slice of action from Wimbourne Hall...



There are not many women in the world capable of casually picking up a young adult and then holding them off the ground at arm’s length; and among the members of this exclusive club there is perhaps just one who could achieve this physical feat while also becoming distracted by the minutiae of classical mythology. That woman was Harriet.

“‘Island of the Amazons’? Oh, you’re talking about Themiscyra. Interestingly enough, it’s only in the Wonder Woman comic books that Themiscyra’s an island - in Greek mythology the Amazons were associated with a variety of places, but most of them were around the shores of the Black Sea, including the actual town of Themiscyra.”

“Erm… what?” came the mumbled reply, Harriet’s didactic tone confusing the teenager even more than her muscles already had.

“Um, but if you were favourably comparing me to an Amazon warrior, thank you; I appreciate the compliment.”

The girl's face became animated again, her hands moving from Harriet’s shoulders to linger over the pronounced chevrons of her triceps, her fingers splaying as she tried and failed to circumscribe Harriet’s arms.

“Oh my god. Yeah, you’re just like a badass Amazon warrior. You should totally be Wonder Woman; you’d be so much better than that skinny actress who plays her. I mean, she’s beautiful and all, but she’s not buff. She’s nothing like you. Oh… I don’t mean, like, you’re not beautiful. I mean you’re buff and you’re beautiful. Yeah…”

The door swung back open with a bang and, red-faced from the scolding she had just received, the other teenager burst from the studio and fled in the direction of the changing rooms. She passed so quickly that she completely failed to notice her friend dangling from Harriet’s arms; for her part, her friend was so absorbed in admiring Harriet’s physique that the disturbance behind her went unheeded.

Harriet gently lowered the girl to her feet. The teenager loosened her own grip, but then slowly trailed her fingertips down the length of Harriet’s arms to her wrists, as if reluctant to relinquish all contact with Harriet’s muscle. The girl’s probing touch tickled Harriet’s forearms as her fingers explored the vascularity made especially obvious by Harriet’s pump, her veins as pronounced as rivulets of wax running down a guttering candle.

“I think you’d better catch up with your friend - she looked a little upset.”

The teenager stopped staring at Harriet’s abs long enough to glance briefly over her shoulder, and then did a double-take as she spotted her friend disappearing into the changing rooms.

“Oh! I’d better go,” she said reluctantly, looking back round and addressing her remark to Harriet’s six-pack. Harriet wondered if this was what it felt like to be a busty woman wearing a low-cut top and talking to a man.

“Hey, eyes up here,” Harriet said, jokingly.

The girl didn’t seem to notice. She started to shuffle backwards away from Harriet, as if taking leave of the Queen, her eyes fixed on Harriet’s thighs now. Harriet shifted her weight from one foot to the other, knowing this would make her muscles jump.

Trying to keep track of all the undulating ripples Harriet’s change in stance caused, the girl’s focus kept shifting back and forth between each of Harriet’s legs like she was in the crowd at a tennis match following the flight of the ball during a rally.

“Oh. My. God,” the girl muttered to herself, before finally turning around and starting to follow her friend, but not without another couple of glances back at Harriet over her shoulder.

Harriet watched her go, then turned back to the studio door. The teenager who had unexpectedly burst in had clearly received a frosty reception, and Harriet hesitated slightly before reminding herself that technically she had an invitation.

She just hoped that Chardonnay was somewhere inside, because the plan had been to meet here and there was no sign of her.

Oh well, no turning back now. She pushed open the door.
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 JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #33 on: May 22, 2022, 05:45:58 pm »
“I’m sorry, I know that pedagogical standards these days are so low that if you leave school barely literate but without getting pregnant that is considered quite the academic achievement, but this is simply too much! The door clearly says ‘Private’. Leave, immediately!”

Harriet made eye contact with Dina, who was fiddling with the waistband of her shorts and looking in Harriet’s direction with a diffident expression on her face. The owner of the imperious voice was standing between them and currently had her back to Harriet, but despite the fact this woman was facing the other way, looking down at her phone, and was partially hidden by stacks of plyo boxes, she was undoubtedly Florence Peyton-Maxwell.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. My name is Harriet. I was supposed to meet Chardonnay here; she said she would introduce me to her personal trainer,” Harriet said, ensuring she sounded suitably contrite.

Florence looked up slowly and caught sight of Harriet in the mirror. She regarded Harriet’s reflection for a moment or two without turning around. Harriet had the distinct impression that every swollen inch of her body was being quickly but thoroughly scrutinised. Over the course of the last two hours that Harriet had spent in the gym, she had become unable to resist flexing whenever she noticed someone staring at her, but now she restrained herself, feeling there was no need for such ostentation here.

Florence raised an elegant eyebrow, although Harriet couldn’t tell if it was done quizzically or in grudging respect, and then her expression became one of amusement and she nodded slightly.

“Of course, how silly of me! I certainly recognise you from the public gym; I’m just not used to seeing… so much of you. Yes, Chardonnay expressed an interest in coordinating a tête-à-tête. In a manner of speaking. How did she actually put it again? Oh yes, she said she wanted me to ‘have a chinwag with another big strong bitch.’ Such a lovely turn of phrase Chardonnay had. But didn’t she tell you? She flew to Guadeloupe yesterday night. A last minute holiday.”

“Oh,” said Harriet, genuinely taken aback, “she didn’t say anything about that to me.”

“I understand it was a grand romantic gesture on the part of her latest suitor - he whisked her away for an unanticipated tryst. Again, not Chardonnay’s actual words - If I recall correctly, I believe she felt ‘dirty weekend’ was the mot juste - although I got the impression we won’t be seeing her again for quite some time,” said Florence, finally stepping out from behind the boxes and smiling at Harriet.

Any puzzlement at this revelation on Harriet’s part melted away as she found herself dazzled by the full force of Florence’s undeniable charms.

As unlikely as it seemed, Florence was even more beautiful in the flesh than she appeared in photos. Harriet found herself wondering how that was possible. She was aware that many Insta**** influencers and others who relied on their online image often had teams of people dedicated to making them look as good as possible, or that at the very least the pictures that eventually made it onto their pages were carefully selected from dozens - or scores, or hundreds - of other photos in order to show themselves at their absolute best.

In this way any unflattering realities could be obscured. The camera could lie, after all, even if they were only lies of omission. Nonetheless, some careful curation ensured that your online followers need never see your frizzy, flyaway hair, blemished skin, cellulite, or bloating.

And yet, standing before her now, Florence was so perfect that Harriet wondered if she had entered the uncanny valley.

Always thorough, Harriet had researched the Peyton-Maxwells’ family tree before first visiting Wimbourne Hall, and the results had confirmed her belief that aristocratic families often had a gene pool barely deep enough for a paddle. When a family stringently maintained centuries of snobbery regarding making suitable matches for their issue, it meant that debutantes had limited access to any unapproved balls.

The risk of this approach, of course, was that down the generations your progeny could end up more inbred than Hovis, running the risk of becoming trapped in a genetic cul-de-sac. There was only a vanishingly small chance that, if they were lucky enough to avoid suffering some variation on the theme of a Habsburg jaw, they’d become such a sensational thoroughbred that they’d make a eugenicist shout ‘I bloody told you so!’

Florence had beaten those odds and was inarguably one of the lucky few, the kind of timeless beauty as capable of launching a thousand ships three millennia ago as she was a new fashion line today.

And it was immediately obvious why women were so desperate to be lucky enough to call Florence their personal trainer; if she taught you even half of what she knew, you would almost certainly become at least twice the woman you were.

Florence was a living, breathing advert for the benefits of working out, glowing with health, her naturally athletic body supplemented with a beautifully-balanced musculature fine-honed in the gym. Serendipitously, her mesomorphic genetics were complemented by an innately voluptuous distribution of her minimal body fat.

Florence looked like she could step onto the stage to compete at a few day’s notice, or star in a fitness photoshoot at the drop of a hat; but she also looked like she could model lingerie, or be the new face of Dior.

She was a walking optical illusion.

To look at Florence was to have your brain turn somersaults: at first glance, you saw a beautiful woman; and then you slowly became aware of her muscles; but, conditioned by normal beauty standards, your brain refused to accept that this beautiful woman could actually be as muscular as she first appeared; and then the muscles slowly swam back into focus, and you realised how dense and defined they were, how they were actually even bigger than you had first thought; and then your brain crashed, rebooted, and focussed on her beauty again.

Harriet herself remembered the first time she had seen a photo of Florence hitting a double biceps pose. She had been scrolling past various workout pics until she was compelled to stop and stare at this one. In trying to make sense of what she was studying, at first her brain had leapt to the conclusion that this was one of those jokey photos where the woman hides her own arms out of view as her bodybuilder boyfriend crouches behind her and flexes in a way that makes it look like the bulging biceps belonged to her. There was no way a woman who looked like that could have arms like that, Harriet had thought.

And then she realised that she was wrong. Very, very wrong.
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 quick

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #34 on: June 04, 2022, 07:57:47 pm »
 :wow:
Don't know how I'm only coming across this one now.  Awesome work!

Offline Jaguar

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #35 on: July 13, 2022, 09:12:19 am »
Fantastic story, wonderfully written.  I love it!

I'm anxiously awaiting the next installment.   :rock:
* You are the author and you are the boss of your story!
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Offline JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #36 on: July 22, 2022, 05:22:52 pm »
Thanks for the comments! Here's the next chapter:




Once upon a time, the simple act of crossing her arms had given Harriet the unfortunate appearance of timidity. Even the most callow, unobservant student of body language would have confidently declared that every time she did so, Harriet made herself look defensive and insecure.

For her part, Harriet had always been completely unaware that she had given people this impression; and she had no idea of just how often she had unthinkingly crossed her arms in a manner open to such an interpretation during even the most mundane of working days.

By no means an extrovert, Harriet had, however, never considered herself to be a particularly timorous individual, and she would have been shocked to learn how her colleagues - even those of them who knew her to be clever, experienced and entirely competent - frequently perceived her to be nervous or out of her depth, a conclusion based purely on her gentle physicality and meek demeanour.

But there she was, day after day, sitting or standing with her arms crossed, making herself look small and uncertain, putting a protective barrier between herself and the world, in meetings with management, in casework conferences, even walking around the office on a warm day with no cardigan as she worried that her eminently sensible blouse was perhaps too revealing.

No one would think Harriet timid when she crossed her arms now, her forearms and biceps surging to greet each other like long-lost friends, the suggestion of striations playing across her obrotund shoulders, her surprisingly hard décolletage compacting and becoming even more deeply delineated.

This pose could only be considered defensive in the same way that Hadrian's Wall was defensive - in reality it was a show of strength designed to intimidate.

It wasn’t just all the additional muscle that gave Harriet this new bearing - it was an obvious difference of attitude as well, a sense of quiet but unshakable determination and a newfound confidence that came from knowing that she’d never been bigger, or stronger, or better equipped to defend herself.

The number on the scales when she weighed herself continued to go up, but so did the numbers for all her lifts; and Kane, a woman not known for her fulsome praise, had nonetheless recently been moved to compliment both her improved punching power and hand speed.

In other words, it wasn’t just the additional muscle; it was the knowledge of what all that extra muscle allowed her to do. These days, if Harriet were to cross her arms in public it would send a new, entirely different message to anyone watching her: fuck around and find out.

Not that Harriet was looking to pick any more fights, not for the moment at least. While it was true she had become more aggressive, she was channelling all of that violent energy into her workouts.

Anyway, these days, Harriet was more likely to cross her arms in the privacy of her own home. 

Not only was it the perfect excuse to feel her biceps - to casually cup each hand around a hard malicorium of muscle and to be thrilled anew by how big and solid she felt - she also found it soothing.

Just as other people would relax after a long day by sitting on the sofa and lovingly petting their cat or dog, Harriet would cross her arms and stroke her own biceps as she waited for the bath to run, or as she stared hungrily at the microwave as it reheated some chicken.

And just as other people might rub their temples or scratch their chin when trying to remember something, Harriet would thoughtfully squeeze her tumid biceps or run her fingers up and down the ridges of her triceps, effectively using her muscles as aides-mémoire.

Harriet was doing just this as she stood in her kitchen and concentrated on recalling the details of her conversation with Florence earlier that day…



Harriet’s awed reverie was broken by Florence directing a question at her. Florence spoke as one used to issuing orders to the staff and having them unquestioningly obeyed, and her patrician voice was difficult to ignore.

“Well, you may have missed Chardonnay, but what do you think of my latest project? Do stop cowering in the corner, Dina, and come here! Show our unexpected guest what we’ve been working on.”

Dina mumbled something inaudible, and stepped forward cautiously; it was clear that she was not accustomed to wearing heels.

“I must apologise on Dina’s behalf,” tutted Florence, turning back to Harriet. “She lacks confidence in herself, not to mention poise. How one yearns for the days when one could simply dispatch awkward young ladies like her to a Swiss finishing school.”

Looking down to make sure she placed her feet correctly, Dina carefully adjusted her position and started to draw herself up into a front pose.

“No, not there, you silly girl; there! In front of that mirror, so we can all see you better!”

Dina bowed her head, wobbled over to the position indicated, and began, once more, to strike a pose.

Harriet forgot all about Dina’s clear discomfort as she focussed on the erstwhile sprinter’s legs, which were even more mesmerising up close than they had appeared from the doorway. For a moment, in the silence of the studio, Harriet thought that she could actually hear the sound of the muscles in Dina’s quads flexing and solidifying, just as a nature documentary might embellish fast-forwarded footage of a plant growing with audio created by a foley artist. Eventually she realised that the sound was actually Dina’s contorted shorts stretching under the pressure.

“Well, what do you think? A fine figure of a girl, is she not? Even if she moves with all the grace of a blindfolded elephant.”

“Wow. You look amazing, Dina. You remind me of some of those Brazilian competitors you see on Insta. You would absolutely smash it on stage in Wellness,” said Harriet, smiling and trying to appear as encouraging and friendly as possible as she addressed Dina directly.

“Ah, someone is certainly au fait with their divisions! Yes - I was tasked with training her to look like a Wellness competitor,” replied Florence. “And I always deliver what I promise.”

As she said this, Florence stepped forwards with a slight frown on her face, her attention perhaps diverted by some flaw she had spotted in Dina’s physique. Harriet and Dina were able to share a quick look before Florence stepped between them.

“Anyway, speaking of ‘Brazilian’, that reminds me of something that needs to be attended to: Dina, don’t forget that I’ve booked you in for a long overdue full pamper session and massage at the spa. You don’t want to be late,” said Florence.

Dina looked mortified at the implication her bikini line needed some attention, but wordlessly turned to grab her things and leave.

“Oh, one moment, Dina. Before you go, why don’t you show Harriet just how hard we work here?”

Without saying anything, Dina reluctantly started to pull down her shorts, unbunching them and slowly peeling the sweaty material from her skin, revealing a thong nestled between a pair of gleaming, glabrous glutes so prominent that the county council could have added them to their sightseeing map of the local area.

With her shorts in her hands, Dina turned to face Florence and Harriet and began to twist the garment roughly, wringing it tight. A stream of perspiration poured from the material, splashing onto the floor. Dina did not hold back; Harriet could see her biceps knotting as she applied more and more pressure, until the final few drips were squeezed out.

Dina looked up from the puddle at Florence like a bashful schoolgirl, uncertain of the quality of the work she was showing to her teacher, but nonetheless still hoping for a gold star.

“Good girl,” said Florence, briskly. “Well done. Now, as you are so obviously in need of the practice, I want you to keep your heels on and walk straight to the spa. I suggest that you take the shortcut through reception, otherwise you’ll miss your appointment, and that simply wouldn’t do, would it?”

Dina flinched.

“Can I… can I put my shorts back on first?”

“No, I’m afraid there’s no time, Dina; you’re running late. Hurry along now, hurry along like a good girl.”

Dina paused, and shot a glance at Harriet.

“Bye. Nice to meet you,” she muttered.

"Yes, you too."

Slowly and inelegantly, Dina walked off towards the studio doors. Harriet could only imagine the sensation she was bound to cause on the other side of them.
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 charlesdent

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #37 on: July 24, 2022, 08:31:13 pm »
Absolutely one of the best stories I've read. Thank you. Living the Britishisms too

Offline JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #38 on: September 06, 2022, 12:54:19 pm »
Absolutely one of the best stories I've read. Thank you. Living the Britishisms too

Glad you're enjoying it!


I had a quiet weekend, and managed to get some writing done. So without further ado, the next chapter...



Harriet had been pacing back and forth across the kitchen as she dwelt on that afternoon’s encounter, her lips twitching as she subvocalised her recollection of the conversation like an actor going over her lines; and any theatrical director who might have happened to observe her at this moment would have immediately recognised the frown which clouded her face as a prelude to some awkward questions about the script, particularly about a certain character’s motivation.

She stopped still and shook her head, frustrated by her inability to interpret Dina’s behaviour.

Harriet knew, better than most people ever would, that a conspicuous physical change could be accompanied by a markedly new attitude, but in her personal experience both the physical and the mental shift should be positive ones. In her case, building muscle and strength had given her a new confidence, a new sense of purpose, almost a new identity; Harriet had come to the conclusion that, before she had started her training, she had been inchoate, but now she felt more fully-formed, like she had unlocked her potential and was becoming who she was supposed to be.

She couldn’t imagine ever wanting to forgo her gains, or the way they made her feel - nor indeed, the way those gains made her look - and she was struggling to reconcile Dina’s own formidable new physique with the young woman’s lapse into discomfited anxiety.   

Dina’s demeanour. Dina’s demeanour. Dina’s demeanour.

The words ran through Harriet’s mind over and over, rhythmical as a train rattling along a track.

From what little Harriet remembered of Dina when their paths had crossed in the period after they had both joined the public gym, Dina had been a determined and inquisitive athlete, dedicated to self-improvement and unafraid to ask her coach questions. Even these brief encounters had given Harriet the sense of a driven personality, of a young woman who was motivated, focussed, and unafraid to be assertive. But the impression Dina had given after today’s meeting was that she was as coltish and awkward as a teenager after a growth spurt, apparently yet to come to terms with her magnificent, glistening muscles and uncomfortable with the attention they attracted.

Clearly not all of Florence’s clients felt this way, and Dina was completely unlike Chardonnay in this regard. Harriet could still vividly remember her own fascination when she had first experienced the way Chardonnay had luxuriated in her powerful, pumped-up body, basking in all the attention she received, positively purring with self-satisfaction as she flexed and posed. And in her fascination Harriet had come to recognise a sense of longing, a sense that she was missing out on fully enjoying her own body. An aphorism sprang to mind: carpe diem; or, to put it in terms that Chardonnay would have understood: YOLO.

Or was she just guilty of projecting, Harriet wondered. After all, just because she herself envied Chardonnay’s attitude - her unashamed, almost guileless, exhibitionism; the way she was self-obsessed but also constantly aware of, and courting, bystanders’ attention; and always as satisfied as the cat who had got the cream - it didn’t necessarily mean that Dina felt the same way.

And Harriet had to admit that, while she was privately delighted with her body and increasingly enjoyed showing it off in the gym, she was still coming to terms with the little voice in her head - sounding awfully like her mother - which would make itself audible, criticising her behaviour as narcissistic and gaudy and unbecoming; she could ignore it during the exhilaration of her workout, as her muscles filled with blood and she enjoyed taking a perverse pleasure in feeling the pain of the burn, but the voice would grow louder on the drive home until, alone in her flat in the evenings, Harriet started to feel ashamed of her behaviour and began to worry that people had found her confidence obnoxious and that she had been embarrassing herself in public. 

For all that Harriet was inspired by Chardonnay’s outlook on life and her flamboyance, and as much as she wanted to enjoy herself in the same unabashed manner, she had yet to fully overcome the message that had been drilled into her ever since she was little: well-behaved girls are quiet and modest. Some small part of her remained unconvinced that it was proper to make oneself the centre of attention like Chardonnay always did, and made her feel guilty about taking pleasure from pumping up her muscles in the gym and flexing in front of the mirrors in full knowledge that she was showing off.

Vanity, thy name is Harriet!

She considered the possibility that Dina was sharing this mental struggle, but she could tell that the jigsaw she was trying to piece together didn’t match the picture on the box. Dina had taken no pleasure in her body at all. So how had she stayed sufficiently motivated to achieve such impressive results?

The metamorphosis undergone by Dina was no less remarkable than that of Chardonnay; granted, the focus of Dina’s training had clearly been different, with a focus on her lower body, and her diet had been designed to achieve a softer look, but in both cases Florence had achieved miracles with her clients, pushing them past the point which most people would consider achievable, the non plus ultra, and then far beyond, forcing them into a state of such fecund hypertrophy that their bodies had grown to a size which most women would not even have imagined to be physically possible.

Why, then, did Dina seem so out of sorts? Hadn’t Florence said that Dina wanted to become a wellness competitor? In which case, shouldn’t Dina be delighted? She had, after all, been transformed from a strong but slender young athlete, who looked so unremarkable when fully clothed that she would surprise people when she informed them that she was a sprinter, to a woman so abundantly muscled that telling strangers that she worked out would be entirely redundant, and whose thighs couldn’t be hidden even if she borrowed a pair of M.C. Hammer’s parachute pants.

Perhaps it was Florence herself that made Dina so uncomfortable? Maybe Dina quailed at being the focus of Florence’s attention? Florence was an incredibly domineering personality, of course, but Harriet had encountered plenty of posh girls like Florence at university, and as a result was perhaps more used to their forthright, often abrasive manner. It didn’t help that Florence was so beautiful - people were even less likely to object to her behaviour when she was so attractive, and so that had provided her with no incentive to develop a more emollient approach to interpersonal relations either.

The children of aristocratic families were used to giving orders, and the possibility of their directives not being followed, or much liked, didn’t even occur to them. Their ancestors had passed down a sort of generational memory of bellowing orders on various European battlefields in various centuries. The Peyton-Maxwell personality was a forceful one, although Florence herself almost certainly gave it no thought at all; perhaps Dina had simply yet to come to terms with it?

Thinking about Dina’s progress sparked a thought, and Harriet started to search for her phone, wanting to check Insta**** again to study some photos. She looked round the kitchen, but remembered her phone was charging in the bedroom. Then she spotted her laptop behind a pile of supplements on the kitchen table; her usual seat was likewise covered in a tower of tupperware pots, ready for her next meal prepping session.

She grabbed the heavy old wooden chair from the corner of the room, where it normally served a purely ornamental purpose and which had last done duty in lieu of a stepladder when a light bulb had needed to be changed the previous year, and easily swung it forward with one hand as she walked around to the far side of the table; she was so preoccupied that it didn’t even occur to her that the last time she had moved it, she had struggled to lift it with both hands, and instead had dragged it across the kitchen floor. 

She sat down hurriedly and cursed as the underside of the table scraped across the top of her thighs. Gingerly, she extricated herself, stood back up and inspected the chair. Was it too high to comfortably fit under the table? No, that couldn't be the case - she had inherited both the chair and the table from her grandmother, and they had once formed part of a set. It took a few moments for her distracted mind to solve the problem, the solution coming as she squatted down to look for an obstruction under the table, and placed her hands on her solid, spreading quads - a solution which made her smile in pleasure: her thighs had grown so much that it was her legs, and not the chair, that were too big to fit under the table.

She sat back down and slowly edged herself forward, this time grabbing the edge of the solid oak table and lifting it off the floor a little, creating enough room that she could squeeze her legs in underneath. Intrigued by how easy she found this, she removed one hand and kept on lifting, the table sloping like a tilting bridge. She only stopped when the cluster of tubs slipped dangerously close to the edge.

She lowered the table back down until it rested on the top of her thighs, her legs leaving its legs sitting proud of the floor. She shifted in her seat to get comfortable. As her quads twitched and jumped, the table bounced upwards again; Harriet found herself distracted from opening her laptop by experimenting with this new trick, and she spent a happy minute diverted by lifting the table with only the power of her expanding thighs until a tub of pre-workout was finally jolted off the edge and fell into the tower of tupperware which collapsed and scattered across the kitchen floor. As a final flourish, the pre-workout rolled into the fridge whereupon its lid popped off, strawberry-scented powder spreading across the tiles.

The nagging, guilt-inducing voice started to whisper once more, chastising Harriet and reminding her that this was what happened when she was self-indulgent and silly.

Harriet sighed and tried to remember where she had left the dustpan and brush.
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 JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #39 on: November 07, 2022, 05:22:54 pm »
A new chapter. It could probably have done with another quick bit of editing but, yet again, time is against me. I hope it's not too much of a mess to read!



Harriet finished tidying up the mess and carried the dustpan and brush back to the hallway cupboard where she had eventually found them, hidden away out of sight, nestled among other items, all once quotidian but now largely forgotten relics of a life she had left behind.

Inside the cupboard were piles of her office clothes - trouser suits, blouses, cardigans and sensible shoes - all of which had been gradually relegated from her bedroom wardrobe as her collection of gym wear had grown ever larger.

After all these months, Harriet wasn’t even sure how many of these clothes would even fit her now. She briefly considered making a trip to the local charity shop to make a bulk donation, but then she rummaged through the pile, picked out and unfolded a blouse, and held it up against her torso; it looked so small in comparison to her upper body that it may as well have been a child’s size. Harriet laughed in surprised delight. What was it that Marie Kondo said? Only keep things if they sparked joy? In that case, she was definitely keeping these clothes - they were proof of her progress, evidence that showed how far she had come on her fitness journey, and that definitely sparked joy.

Harriet spotted her waffle maker sitting on a shelf next to a sandwich toaster, both made redundant given that butter, sugar and cheese barely featured in her diet anymore. They had occupied valuable kitchen counter space and had been moved along with Harriet’s modest collection of cookbooks to make way for the neat rows of tupperware Harriet laid out each weekend to form a production line during her food prepping sessions.

No more waffles dripping with syrup, no more toasties oozing cheese, instead Harriet ate nearly all of her meals from tupperware containers, the contents of each box precisely weighed and the meals inside blandly uniform and monotonous. Harriet could see Nigella Lawson’s face smiling down at her from the cover of a book - a smile that would have turned to a dismayed frown if the author had been aware of Harriet’s ascetic approach to cooking. But that didn’t matter; Harriet’s body was a machine and food was fuel, nothing more; lean protein was essential above all else, the rocket propellant her muscles needed to keep on growing. 

Here, too, were to be found a music stand, bundles of sheet music and Harriet’s violin, which she had played nearly every evening before she had first entered Wimbourne Hall. No matter how difficult her day had been, rehearsing a Beethoven sonata was a guaranteed way of soothing her nerves. But she didn’t have time for hobbies now and besides, if she wanted to relax, she would just heave her sofa out of the way to make room for some shadow boxing or to practise some advanced push-up variations in her living room.

As Harriet closed the cupboard door, she caught sight of herself in the small rattan-framed mirror that hung next to the coat hooks. She stopped in her tracks and scrupulously surveyed her reflection. There was nothing particularly unusual about this: even outside the gym, it had become Harriet’s standard response to catching sight of herself in a mirror, and a prelude to checking out her gains. In fact, the bedroom carpet in front of her full-length mirror had become noticeably worn where she stood and flexed every morning after waking up and every night before going to bed.

The procedure was actually much the same when it came to any reflective surface in which Harriet could catch a glimpse of her body: when she noticed her calves in the washing machine door, she would stand on her tiptoes and flex until the jutting lozenges of muscle made contact with each other between her legs; when she spotted her glutes in the shine of a supermarket fridge, she would twist her hips and admire her booty pump; when she noticed her vascularity as she reached to open her car boot, she would clench her fist and roll her wrist, admiring the thickness of her forearm reflected back at her.

In the moment, Harriet didn’t consider this behaviour to be narcissistic, until, that is, she became aware that someone was watching her, at which point her old insecurities would take over. On more than one occasion in Sainsbury’s she had realised that someone had seen her admiring herself and - flustered and hastily improvising - she had gone into an unconvincing routine of pretending to be inspecting her leggings for dirt, which she would then ostentatiously brush away before grabbing the nearest item on the shelf and retreating down the aisle. She would rather go through this awkward charade than leave any curious strangers thinking that she was inspecting her own hammies rather than the ham.

Social awkwardness aside, the simple truth was that Harriet’s behaviour in front of mirrors truly wasn’t narcissism: it was the result of disbelief. Her brain was still unable to process the idea that this was what she looked like. No matter how many times she looked at herself, a mental double-take was necessary because her internalised self-image still lagged behind the reality.

Compounding this confusion, Harriet still struggled to comprehend that she had achieved all of this by virtue of her own hard work. A cynic might quibble that she had resources at her disposal far beyond those available to most gym-goers: she had Kane as her personal trainer, crafting Harriet bespoke workout routines with the benefit of her years of experience; and Harriet’s gym membership, not to mention all of her and food and supplements, were on expenses - but it was her drive, her discipline, her dedication that had allowed her to achieve this transformation.

She had not known that she had the capacity for such physical or such mental strength.     

But unlike every other reflective surface she encountered, Harriet never stopped to check out her physique in this particular hallway mirror. It served a decorative purpose more than anything, too small and placed too high up on the wall to be much use for anything other than quickly making sure she didn’t have unwanted interdental spinach before leaving her flat.

And unlike every other mirror Harriet checked herself out in, because her view of herself was limited in it, and her body not at all visible, she was not impressed with what she saw.

Her hair, still mostly pulled back into a deteriorating messy bun - part of her no-fuss preparation for her workout - looked flat and greasy after her exertions in the gym. A smear of pink powder was stuck to her pale, grimey forehead where she had pushed some stray fringe out of her eyes as she tidied up the spilled pre-workout. Her hoody was rumpled and - she noticed now as she glanced down - stained with food.

Her fairy godmother might still just be able to get Harriet to the ball, but the barman wouldn’t have enough time to finish mixing her first cocktail before the clock started to strike twelve.

On any other day, Harriet would have been unaffected by her dishevelled appearance - it would probably have resulted in little more than a pause for a self-deprecating chuckle before she forgot all about it. Harriet had been perfectly content with her modest, if unremarkable, good looks ever since she was a teenager, by which early age she had even come to terms with the fact that her sister was prettier than her. Given how effortlessly superior her sister had been at most things, Harriet had had plenty of opportunities to calibrate her own self-worth accordingly.

She might not be looking her best right now, but it was nothing that a good, hot shower, a comb, and a change of clothes wouldn’t solve. Even then she might not be the most glamorous of women, but the compensation was the fact that she could easily bench-press most glamorous women, Hermės handbags and all.

But today was different: today Harriet had spent time in the presence of Florence, by some considerable measure the most beautiful woman she had ever met face-to-flawless face, and it was hard not to compare her own appearance with that of Florence and to feel self-conscious as a result. 

Harriet had been so preoccupied with thinking about Dina that she hadn’t yet had time to consider her meeting with Florence, or wonder why it had had such a profound effect on her.

Perhaps it was because one rarely encountered women as perfectly pulchritudinous as Florence in day-to-day life. Instead, such women were to be found in the pages of glossy magazines, on the big screen at the local multiplex, or dating Leo DiCaprio - assuming, of course, that they were not a day older than 25. Actually meeting one of these elusive creatures was as discombobulating as encountering a unicorn.

Harriet couldn’t even console herself with the thought that she was Florence’s physical superior. Florence may have been as striking as a supermodel, but she was not scrawny and underfed like most of the women favoured by designers to parade up and down catwalks. Florence was every bit as buff as she was beautiful, both beauty and beast.

And yet, for all that she was now harbouring feelings of inadequacy, Harriet had to admit that this was not how Florence had made her feel during the time they had spent together that afternoon. It had been invigorating to have been the sole focus of Florence’s attention. As pathetic and needy as it sounded, Harriet found the notion that she was capable of fascinating such a beautiful woman made her feel in some way worthy; she certainly couldn’t deny that she had found the level of undivided attention she had received from Florence to be undeniably flattering.

There were no two ways about it: their time together had made Harriet feel good about herself, and full of anticipation and excitement.

Harriet closed her eyes, partly so she didn’t have to look at her reflection, but mostly to help savour the memory of her interaction with Florence…

After Dina had left the studio, Florence had turned to face her, and had slowly looked her up and down again with a confident, unwavering stare that made it clear that she considered herself to be in charge. Then Florence had started to walk a circuit around Harriet, nodding her head in appreciation.

Harriet had felt like a horse being inspected by its rider before an equestrian event.

As she stood in her flat with her eyes shut, Harriet found it very easy to picture Florence at a dressage competition. and then became distracted by the mental image of Florence wearing tight jodhpurs, leather boots, and carrying a riding crop…

Harriet shook her head and tried to focus. What had Florence said to her?

“Size, shape and symmetry. Splendid, simply splendid,” Florence had murmured, as she had stopped and stood directly behind Harriet. “I am not often so sibilant, but I must say I am very impressed. I can see why Chardonnay thought we should be introduced. You must be a very dedicated young lady.”

“Yes. I… I like lifting,” Harriet had blurted in response, unable to think of anything better to say, and then she had flinched as Florence had unexpectedly placed her hands at the uppermost extremes of her lats, before gently running her fingers down the tapering ypsiloid form of Harriet’s back, stopping only when her forefingers had hooked themselves in the waistband of Harriet’s shorts.

“And you say you’re looking for a personal trainer? You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve achieved all this by yourself?”

Before Harriet could answer, Florence had stepped forward and had pressed herself up against Harriet’s back.


Harriet recalled the feeling of pressure applied by Florence’s body to her own - it may have been gentle, but it was assertive, a subtle indication of the weight and power of Florence’s muscles. The old Harriet would have crumpled, or stumbled away; the new Harriet had stood her ground, and this pleased her.

Florence had rested her chin on the hard downward slope of Harriet’s right upper trapezius, from where she had smiled at Harriet in the mirrored wall.

“Where do you go from here? What are your goals? What do you want to achieve?” Florence had asked.

Harriet had struggled to answer, and not only because she had never been asked these questions before, but also because it was hard to formulate a response as she continued to process the sensation of Florence’s unexpected physical contact, Florence’s warm, solid body still pressing into her back.


In her hallway, with her eyes still closed, Harriet tilted her head to the left and touched her neck in the spot where she remembered the soft skin of Florence’s cheek tickling her. No one had been that intimately close to her since Amy had flung herself at her in the car park. Thinking about Amy came as a surprise to Harriet, who had until now successfully suppressed her memories of that night because recalling what had happened - or what had nearly happened - made her feel uncomfortable.

This scenario was totally different though: Amy had been a woman in a frenzy, whereas Florence had been calm, cool, and in complete control of both herself and the situation. It had been a business conversation, and nothing more. Right?

“I don’t know. I… just like lifting,” Harried had replied.

“So you said. Between you and me, darling, I think that much was manifestly obvious even before your lips formed those rather prosaic words,” Florence had said, with a wink. “Perhaps you can tell me why you like lifting so much?”

Harriet had made eye contact with Florence in the mirror, and then had felt inspired to bare her soul.

“I… I like challenging my body. I like knowing I’m in competition with myself. I like the fact that I’m rewarded for my hard work. I like my muscles, and I like knowing how much stronger I am now - not just how much stronger I am than I used to be, but how much stronger I am than other people. I like knowing I can lift more than other women, but I especially like knowing I can lift more than most men; and I like it even more when I stand next to them in the gym and watch the men as they realise that I’m stronger than them. I like standing in front of the mirror and flexing and watching my muscles bulging and I like seeing how much I’ve grown - and I’m tired of feeling guilty about it, and of pretending I don’t like it, because I do, more than almost anything.”


Florence had turned her head towards Harriet slightly as she had blurted out her confession, which had brought her lips closer to her ear. Florence had waited until she had fallen silent before whispering, “If you want, I can make you bigger.”

Harriet remembered how her mouth had gone dry, and the way her tongue had stuck to her palate. Even now, the memory of those words made her shiver.

“Bigger. Wider. Thicker. Leaner. Stronger,” Florence had continued as she lifted her hands to squeeze Harriet’s biceps, unignorable even at rest. “Assuming that’s what you want, of course? It’s what I specialise in - I transform women’s physiques to make people’s wildest dreams come true, and I could do the same with you. And you’d certainly be very popular.”

“Popular?” Harriet had asked, distractedly, desperately trying not to squirm with excitement at the thought of building even more muscle. Oh god, yes, she wanted more muscle. Her knees had grown weaker and weaker with excitement at each enticing comparative enunciated by Florence. 

“With my followers, darling. They will simply adore you on Insta****.”

“Oh, of course,” Harriet had replied, almost dizzy at the thought of training in the gym alongside Florence, with hundreds and thousands of Insta**** users from around the world envying photos of her growing muscles.

“There’s just one problem: I only take on new clients at certain times in the year. No exceptions, not even for women as impressive as you. I run open auditions for anyone who wants to work with me, and I only agree to take on those women for whom we have a clear vision. Even though Chardonnay appears to have no need of my services for the time being, I’m afraid I’ll be too busy for any new clients for at least a few more weeks.”

“I can wait. I can audition,” Harriet had stammered, desperate not to lose this opportunity to work with Florence, and ready at that moment to make even a Faustian pact if it meant she could grow bigger.

“Oh good. I did hope you would say that. I think we can achieve wonderful things together. I’ll ask reception to give me your contact details and I’ll definitely be in touch. Splendid, simply splendid. Oh look, you’ve made me come over all sibilant again.”


Harriet opened her eyes and once again caught sight of herself in the small rattan-framed mirror. She no longer looked drab and frowzy; her eyes gleamed and a beatific smile lit up her face.
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 jhunter

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #40 on: November 08, 2022, 01:41:57 am »
Not bad for a turn of events. Good luck on more.

Offline JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #41 on: November 27, 2022, 05:35:48 pm »
When her alarm rang the following morning, Harriet jumped out of bed like a child on Christmas Day, full of excitement, her body tingling with excess energy. Naked, she dropped straight to the floor and began to work her way through a set of 100 push-ups with the precise regularity of a metronome.

When Harriet had first begun to work out regularly, the concept of the ‘mind-muscle connection’ had puzzled her. You raised a weight, and then you lowered it - what was there to think about? But over time, and with prompting from Kane, she had learnt to concentrate on the contraction of her muscles as she exercised, ensuring that her form was strict and her results were maximised.

This morning Harriet particularly savoured that ability to exclude all other thoughts and to focus on the sensation of her muscles straining against gravity. She relished the feeling of how thick her pecs were as they squeezed together when her arms straightened, her chest a dense palimpsest of muscle fibres built on top of muscle fibres. Not even the sensation of her nipples brushing against the carpet could distract her from the meditative exaltation of physical exertion.

When Harriet finished her push-ups, she made a point of heading straight to the shower without her customary posing routine. A few minutes later she emerged from the steamy bathroom in her dressing gown, wet hair slicked back, and headed straight to the hallway, where she stopped and stood once more in front of the same small mirror in which her reflection had displeased her so much last night.

Harriet wanted to know what she would see this morning, now she was in a better mood, and without her swollen muscles hogging the limelight. She wanted to forget the headliner topping the bill and focus on the support act.

This time, as Harriet looked into the mirror, she saw a strong, confident woman staring coolly back at her - and that strength and confidence would have been evident to anyone; there was no need to see Harriet’s remarkable body to reach that conclusion.

She had presence, an attitude, an aura.

As Harriet turned her head from side to side she was also interested to note some changes in her face that had previously passed her by. She had been so preoccupied by the remarkable evolution of her body over the last few months that she had missed the fact that her cheekbones and jawline were looking more defined now, and her skin had a healthy glow even if she remained as pale as Lady Agnew of Lochnaw.

She had certainly been too harsh in her estimation of herself the previous evening, she thought, when the harsh lighting had doubtless exacerbated her tired and sweaty appearance.

As Harriet stood admiring herself in the hallway, she became aware of a strange noise growing gradually louder in the corridor outside her front door: a scraping and a puffing that made it sound like Thomas the Tank Engine was slowly struggling home after an all-night bender.

The noise stopped and, after a pause of a minute or so, the doorbell rang. Harriet pulled a puzzled face at herself in the mirror and turned to open the door.

Outside she found Mrs Jones standing next to a large box, her face red and her hands on her hips, clearly struggling for breath.

“Hel… hello. The post… the postie left this for you… yesterday. I wanted it out of the way because I’ve got some men in… and it was blocking the hallway. It’s very heavy,” said Mrs Jones, delivering the last few words in an accusatory manner, as if she thought Harriet guilty of plotting to inconvenience her as much as possible.

“You’ve got some men in?” asked Harriet, puzzled.

“Some builders. I’m getting my bathroom and my kitchen redone. Did I mention that the box is very heavy?”

“Yes, you mentioned,” said Harriet, trying not to roll her eyes. “Couldn’t one of your big strong men have brought me the box?”

“No, they’re downstairs getting bits and bobs out of their van. It’s too heavy to pick up so I had to push that blasted thing all the way along the corridor all by myself! Well? Aren’t you going to say ‘thank you’?”

Harriet resisted the temptation to ask why Mrs Jones hadn’t come to ask her to retrieve the box rather than struggle to move it herself. Besides, she already knew the answer: to have done so would have precluded the opportunity for a good old moan.

“Oh, I’m sure it can’t be all that heavy,” said Harriet.

Mrs Jones snorted dismissively in response.

With a serene smile on her face, Harriet bent her knees and smoothly lowered herself until she was in a position to grasp either side of the box.

“Step back, please,” she instructed.

In one explosive, fluid movement, she stood up and raised the box high above her head as if she were snatching a barbell.

Mrs Jones gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.

Unbeknownst to Harriet, an exposed twist of parcel tape had stuck to her dressing gown cord as she had raised the box, and had pulled it undone.

Harriet’s dressing gown unfurled like parting curtains and Mrs Jones might as well have just borne witness to the door of the TARDIS opening, because what was hidden inside was much bigger than she had expected.

Nearly naked, Harriet stood before Mrs Jones, her body revealed to be almost as detailed as an écorché model in its muscularity, and just as shocking.

Harriet still had no idea she had become an inadvertent ecdysiast: she assumed Mrs Jones was stunned by her display of strength.

“Oh, you’re right: it is quite heavy. Not for me, though. What do you think? Impressed?” asked Harriet, innocently.

Mrs Jones mumbled something incoherent in reply.

“You have to admit, you weren’t expecting that, were you?” laughed Harriet, enjoying Mrs Jones' surprise.

“What… What is happening? Is that some kind of outfit?” Mrs Jones managed to ask, stepping further backwards, titubating with shock.

“What do you mean?”

“Is it some kind of muscle suit like you see in the movies?”

“What?”

Harriet looked down, and saw her bared pecs thrusting forward like ziggurats, nipples erect.

Harriet’s eyes briefly widened in shock, and then narrowed purposefully.

“No, Mrs Jones, this is not a muscle suit. This is all me. I’m sure you won’t approve, but it turns out that although I am a nice young lady, I do also like going to the gym and getting all sweaty and muscly. I like it very much. Now, unless you want to take a picture, stop gawping, come here, and re-tie my dressing gown cord for me.”

Mrs Jones stepped forward. Her hands trembled as she reached for the cord and pulled it tight. Harriet’s gown was secured at the waist, but the shawl collar still hung loose, leaving her chest exposed

“Pull the material tighter,” Harriet prompted, her arms still unwavering as she continued to hold the box high above her head.

Mrs Jones obliged, her hands still shaking as if she were in the grip of delirium tremens; as far as Mrs Jones was concerned, seeing pink elephants right now would have been no more shocking than the sight of Harriet’s body.

As Mrs Jones tugged on Harriet’s collar, there was a brief tinkling sound. Harriet felt a metallic coldness against her skin.

“Mrs Jones, is it possible that you have just dropped your keys inside my dressing gown? Honestly! If you wanted me to undress again so you could take another look, all you had to do was ask.”

“Oh! Sorry! Yes. I mean no. I mean, yes: I dropped my keys; but no, it wasn’t on purpose!”

“Well, you’ll just have to reach into my dressing gown and pull them out, won’t you?”

Mrs Jones’ face twitched.

“Could… couldn’t you just give a little shake so the keys will fall down onto the floor?”

“No, Mrs Jones, that won’t work and I’ll tell you why: I’ve caught your keys between my pecs. Reach in and remove them.”

Mrs Jones’ hand moved towards Harriet’s chest, the older woman staring at her own arm in disbelief like it was acting against her will and she had been struck down by Dr Strangelove Syndrome. Her nervous fingers tapped against Harriet’s collar bone, and then the top of her left pectoral. As far as Mrs Jones could tell, the difference in hardness between Harriet’s bone and Harriet's muscle was imperceptible.

“Lower.”

Mrs Jones’ fingers hesitantly followed the course of the well-defined furrow between Harriet’s pecs, eventually reaching the keys.

Sighing with relief, Mrs Jones fumbled for a grip and tried to pull the keys clear.

They didn’t move. Harriet was still flexing and the keys were trapped in a pectoral vice.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Harriet chided, “aren’t you going to say ‘thank you’ for keeping your keys safe for you?”

Mrs Jones stared wildly at Harriet, still pulling on her keys to no avail.

“I’m not getting tired, Mrs Jones, but I am getting bored. I need to take this box inside and then pick out a cute gym fit because right now I’ve got the feminine urge to go and pump some iron. Well?”

Mrs Jones stopped trying to pull the keys free.

“Thank you for catching my keys. Please can I have them back?”

“All you had to do was ask.”
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 JohnAubrey

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #42 on: December 07, 2022, 11:05:32 pm »
Harriet left her flat and walked into the corridor for the second time that morning, but this was not an encore: she was no longer en déshabillé and there was no audience applauding wildly. Mrs Jones hadn’t hung around to shout ‘Brava!’, and not just because she thought that was a type of Fiat.

By now Harriet had changed and was more appropriately dressed for a trip to the gym. Finding the lift was out of order, she skipped down the stairs instead, although she may as well have been floating, because she felt as light as a feather.

After Harriet’s first appearance in the corridor that morning, and once she had allowed Mrs Jones to retrieve her keys, she had returned to the privacy of her own hallway, closed the door behind her, and carefully placed the package on a side table. She had calmly walked back to her bedroom, stopped to adjust a vase on the dresser, opened the blinds to let in some light, and then shrugged her dressing gown over her rounded, cucurbitaceous shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

As she had stood naked in front of the full-length mirror, Harriet slowly, thoughtfully, raised her hand to pinch herself, to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Harriet’s core had become sufficiently solid and defined that this had not been easy. Initially she hadn’t applied enough pressure and her forefinger ran between her obliques like a stylus slipping into the groove of a record; she was so lean that there was very little that was soft to squeeze between thumb and finger. A doctor with callipers trying to measure her body fat would have struggled just as much. In the end, Harriet really had to dig her digits into her side for the pinch to take effect through her carapace of muscle.

Having established that she was, indeed, awake, Harriet had continued to stand in front of the mirror, still and silent and contemplating this confirmation for a few moments, staring at her reflection impassively.

Suddenly, like a switch had been flipped, Harriet had started to jump up and down and scream like an excited schoolgirl who was celebrating her outstanding exam results, something she had not even allowed herself to do when she had actually been a schoolgirl, preferring instead to politely thank her teachers for their hard work and support over the years.

Then Harriet had turned and jumped full-length onto her bed. The frame had registered its objection to her weight with a cracking sound, but she hadn’t noticed it - she had been too busy burying her face in a pillow to muffle her excited laughter.

By the time an outwardly composed but still ecstatic Harriet reached the ground floor, she was aware that she was running late and bustled through the main door and into the car park. She walked the length of a badly-parked Transit van and continued on towards her car, passing a couple of men in conversation by the van’s open rear doors.

The wolf whistle was piercing and loud enough to echo off the nearby building. Harriet turned her head in surprise to look back over her shoulder and saw two men all staring at her, the older man removing his fingers from his mouth.

“Alright dahlin’? Goin’ to the gym? I can give you a workout in the back of the van instead, if you like? Go on! At least get ‘em out for the lads!”

He started to laugh and the younger man joined in, but reluctantly. Harriet’s pulse quickened and she swiftly looked away and made ready to step smartly towards her car, a place of safety, the instinctive and ingrained reaction of most women when catcalled on the street, before she stopped in her tracks.

She no longer belonged in the category of ‘most women’.

Harriet’s fists clenched. She could feel the material of her sleeves being pulled tight across her biceps. She turned around.

“There must be some mistake: I didn’t order coq au vin,” Harriet said. “Besides, from the look of you, I think I’m more likely to get filled up by an amuse-bouche.” 

The joke was delivered in a tone that was polite but so chilly that you could sense icicles forming on Harriet’s words even if you couldn’t quite grasp the full meaning of them. She started to stalk back towards the men, staring fixedly at the whistler, much like an art historian closely examining Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1.

They looked startled; the younger man stopped laughing entirely. He hadn’t expected such a cool, combative response and he looked to his leader for reassurance. His colleague forced a smile and closed one of the van doors to lean against, revealing the word ‘Plumbing’ and half a telephone number.

“Calm down, love - I was just jokin’ around. Actually, my mate here made me say it,”  the older man, tubby and balding, replied, elbowing his partner in the ribs. “He thinks you’re well fit,”

“That would be an understatement,” said Harriet, through gritted teeth.

She was just a few steps away from them now, hands still clenched. She imagined how satisfying it would feel to bury her left fist deep into the fat slob’s stomach and then snap his head back with a right uppercut as he doubled over; the younger one was so skinny she could probably pick him up and throw him clear over the van. It would be over in an instant.

Harriet looked sternly at the young man - in all likelihood, still a teenager - who had been poked by his older colleague. He couldn’t even manage a show of bravado, unable to meet her eye, staring at his trainers like they were a portal to a dimension where he wasn’t apprentice to a boorish oaf.

Harriet took pity on him and forced herself to relax. Thinking more rationally, she realised that the teenager was entirely blameless and that she had been seconds away from physically attacking him and another grown man; she also realised that she had been utterly confident in her ability to take on, and crush, both of them. But this wasn’t worth picking a fight over. Perhaps a spot of reeducation was in order instead…

“Are you working for Mrs Jones? Because she’s waiting for you upstairs.”

“Yeah, well, she’ll be waitin’ for a while. Lift’s fucked.”

“There are stairs.”

“I’m not carryin’ this toilet up four flights of stairs!”

“Interesting. You won’t, or you can’t?”

“You what?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a big, strong man? So why are you telling me you’re not able to carry that up a few stairs?”

“You’re fuckin’ kiddin’, ain’tcha? With the cistern, that’s 120 pounds, that is. I’m not luggin’ that up to the fifth floor”

“Oh, 120 pounds? Is that all?”

Harriet flashed a wink at the young man, who had cheered up considerably as he watched his mate so quickly discomfited - and by a woman, no less.

“And, and it’s a weird fuckin’ shape. It’s awkward to carry, that is.”

He was scrabbling for excuses, and they all knew it.

“Never send a man to do a woman’s job. I believe some mention was made of ‘getting them out for the lads’?”

“Eh?”

“I doubt it's what you had in mind, but I’m happy to oblige.”

Harriet unzipped her hoody and theatrically pulled back each sleeve in turn to reveal arms which would have shamed a stevedore. Just like with her dressing gown, it took some tugging to get the material over her powerful shoulders. She balled up the hoodie and tossed it into the back of the van, leaving only a sports bra covering her upper body. The two men goggled at her, struck dumb by the unexpected mass of beef revealed to them.

Harriet rolled her neck like Antonio Banderas in Desperado preparing for a shootout.

“You: go ahead to open the doors; and you: stay behind me to make sure anyone else on the stairs keeps a safe distance,” ordered Harriet, pointing first at the older man, and then at his younger companion.

“Wait, what?”

Harriet reached into the van and wrapped her arms around the base of the toilet.

“Oi, what you doin’? Leave it - you’ll only fuckin’ drop it!”

With a small grunt for dramatic effect, Harriet hoisted the toilet into the air.

“Off we go, boys. Do try to keep up.”

Without waiting, Harriet started to retrace her route back across the car park. Behind her she could hear a muffled argument. As she approached the main door, the pudgy plumber overtook her, already out of breath after a brief dash to catch her up, and pulled the door open.

Harriet didn’t break her stride as she entered the building, nor as she began to ascend the stairs. She wanted to keep up an impressively unrelenting pace and focussed on keeping her breathing steady, trusting in the power of her legs to keep pushing herself, and her load, upwards.

Right foot up, and: push.

In her mind, Harriet kept telling herself that no matter how tough this got, it could never be as bad as Bulgarian split squats.

Left foot up, and: push.

Bulgarian split squats were the absolute worst.

Right foot up, and: push.

As she approached the first floor, the fat man struggled to accelerate past her on the stairs, his beer belly apparently proving more of an impediment to him than an unwieldy 120 pound toilet was to her.

Left foot up, and: push.

By the time Harriet reached the second floor, her legs were beginning to burn. She didn’t worry about it: the arrival of lactic acid during a workout was as familiar a feeling as hunger these days, and she knew how to fight through the fatigue. To help keep her motivated she closed her eyes and imagined that Kane was walking alongside her, haranguing her.

Right foot up, and: push.

On the third floor, Harriet had to briefly pause to readjust her grip on the toilet; she was starting to get sweaty and the porcelain had a slippery surface. She made the adjustments as quickly as she could, determined not to put the toilet down before she reached her destination.

Left foot up, and: push.

As she passed the fourth floor, Harriet could feel the drops of sweat rolling down her back. She had begun to feel slightly dizzy, but she fought to keep up her steady pace. She closed her eyes to conjure up the image of her personal trainer again, and was surprised to find herself imagining not Kane, but Florence walking alongside her, brandishing a riding crop. She hesitated and misplaced her foot, almost slipping. She opened her eyes

Careful now. Right foot up, and: push.

Approaching the fifth floor, Harriet’s legs began to wobble. She closed her eyes again and once more was greeted with a vision of Florence, pursing her lips and shaking her head; the hallucination grasped the riding crop in both hands and bent it, testing its flexibility while she tutted. Whatever am I going to do with you, you naughty girl? she seemed to say.

“Go on! Nearly there! You can do it!” came a voice of encouragement from the young man a few steps below her, who had hitherto been silently enjoying the spectacular view.

Nearly there. Left foot up, and: push.

Harriet reached the fifth floor landing. The rotund, puffing man standing ahead of her filled her line of sight and intruded into the last vestiges of her fantasy - it was like hoping to see Lady Chatterley but being greeted by Mellors instead.

With her destination now in sight, Harriet powered on past the plumber, soon arriving at Mrs Jones’ front door, where she carefully placed the toilet down on the floor. Both men were standing behind her and she could feel their eyes boring into her. Without turning round, she stretched extravagantly, the muscles in her back rippling slowly like a flow of lava.

Harriet was tempted to continue her demonstration with some even more serious flexing, but was interrupted by the sound of her mobile ringing in the pocket of her jogging bottoms. The screen showed an unknown number. She shrugged, purely for the men’s benefit - knowing full well how it would make her traps tower - and answered the call.

“Harriet, darling, it’s Florence. I was wondering if you could do me a teensy-weensy favour?”

“Yes, of course! No problem!”

“But you silly thing - you don’t even know what I’m going to ask you yet!”
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 #43 on: December 09, 2022, 08:10:56 pm »
Wow, how have I only just discoverd this story?!!

This is truly incredible muscle fiction. The standard of writing is excellent, the slow development of story and character is really impressive. The scenarios you are creating and the descriptions of strength and muscle are fantastic. Harriet is such a fascinating and multi-layered character I can't wait to see what happens next!  :bravo:

Offline jeffbeans

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Re: Undercover
« Reply #44 on: January 14, 2023, 05:24:07 pm »
This is such an amazing story, are we close to an update?  :thanks:

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

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