The wife finds out about the 800 muscle lines

[bigjake737]

I had this story a number of years ago.  I don't even know if these lines still exist.

Twenty years ago, in the spring of 2005, David and Karen Mitchell were a couple in their mid-40s, drifting through a suburban existence that had lost its edge. Karen, a traditional housewife, juggled the chaos of their two teens—a 15-year-old boy lost in his Xbox and a 13-year-old girl tethered to soccer fields. David, a software developer, punched the clock at a tech firm, churning out database code that paid the bills but left him hollow. Their days blurred into a rote cycle of chores, kids, and quiet evenings, the spark of their early years buried under the weight of routine.
David, though, had carved out a secret escape. Late at night, he'd lock himself in his office, pull a crumpled note from his drawer, and dial into the muscle lines—phone services staffed by bodybuilding women, their voices deep and commanding, their bodies forged with steroids and iron. What began as a fleeting curiosity spiraled into obsession, draining hundreds from their joint credit card each week—$300, $450, charges he disguised as "consulting" or "tech fees" when Karen glanced at the bill.
Karen wasn't blind. She'd noticed David's detachment—the late nights, the locked door—but the truth hit on an April morning in 2005. While reconciling the checkbook, she spotted the pattern: repeated 800-number charges under a vague billing name. Suspicion gnawed at her. She grabbed the cordless phone, shut herself in the bedroom, and dialed, but not as herself. She roughened her voice into a low growl, adopting the guise of "Rick," a guy digging for dirt.
The line clicked, and a husky voice purred, "Hey, sugar, ready to worship some real power?" Karen, as Rick, grunted, "Yeah, sure. Tell me about you." The woman—Candy—dove in, her tone brash and playful. "I'm 5'9", 190 pounds of solid muscle, babe. Biceps like cannonballs, quads that'd crush you. You into strength, right?" Karen pressed deeper. "How'd you get that way? What's your training?"
"Heavy weights, six days a week," Candy replied. "Bench 250, squat 400—no fluff, just power. Eight meals a day—eggs, steak, shakes. Little juice on the side keeps me growing." Karen nodded silently, absorbing it. Then she pushed. "How many guys you talk to a day? What keeps 'em calling?"
"Dozens," Candy said, laughing low. "Twenty, thirty, depends. Most of these guys call 'cause they know their wives would never buy into looking as muscular and godlike as me. They're stuck with soft and normal, dreaming of this instead—power they can't touch at home. Me? I'm the real deal." Karen's jaw tightened. "What do they ask you?" she said, voice steady.
"Oh, the usual," Candy went on. " 'How big's your arm?'—16 inches, no pump. 'Could you pin me down?'—in a second, hon. 'What's it feel like to be that strong?'—like I'm a damn titan. They eat up the details—veins, sweat, the way my traps flex. It's their little power trip." Karen's mind churned. She saw it: David wasn't just chasing muscle; he was chasing something their life lacked—something "godlike," untamed. She muttered a gruff "Thanks, Candy," and hung up, pulse racing.
That night, she faced David at the kitchen table, the credit card statement splayed out like evidence in a trial. "What the hell is this?" she demanded, voice cutting. He fumbled, confessed—the calls, the women, the cost. Divorce hovered, but Karen pivoted. "I'll give you that power," she said, eyes blazing. "I'll get muscular—godlike, even—but you ditch the lines. Deal?" David, cornered, agreed.
Next day, Karen stormed a gym, hired Trish—a grizzled ex-bodybuilder—and attacked the weights. Heavy lifts, relentless sets, a diet of protein and purpose—no steroids, just will. Months later, her body shifted—arms corded with muscle, legs carved and strong. She wasn't just big; she was formidable, a living rebuke to Candy's taunt. David watched, awed, as she became more than a voice—he stayed off the lines, tethered to her now. The kids marveled, their humdrum world upended. Karen didn't just match the fantasy; she redefined it, proving power wasn't a call away—it was hers, real and undeniable.

[bigjake737]

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[Crazydude]

I really have been enjoying your stories and the concept of them. I really hope you continue with them.

[bigjake737]

Chapter 2: 
Resolve.

Chapter 2: Iron Resolve
Karen Mitchell wasn't about to let Candy—a husky voice on a phone line—dismantle the life she'd built with David over nearly two decades. That April confrontation in 2005 had lit a fire, but by early 2006, with her initial gains plateauing, she realized matching Candy wasn't enough. She wanted to surpass her—size, seduction, sexuality, the whole damn package. Candy's words from that call echoed like a challenge: bench 250, squat 400, 16-inch biceps. Karen grabbed a measuring tape one morning, wrapped it around her arm, and scowled—11 inches. Piddling. Five more to go. Couldn't be that hard, right?
She slammed the tape down and did the math. David's muscle-line habit had bled them dry—hundreds a week, thousands a year. A top-tier personal trainer? One-tenth the cost. She found Trish again, the ex-bodybuilder who'd kickstarted her transformation, and signed up for three sessions a week, soon upping it to five days, two hours each. Trish was a mountain of a woman—6 feet tall, arms like steel cables, a voice that rumbled. Karen had grown to crave that look, the raw power of muscle rippling under skin. Trish was her muse, her roadmap to crushing Candy's fantasy.
The plan was brutal. Mornings started with squats—barbells groaning under plates—then deadlifts, presses, curls. Her diet ballooned: 3,500 calories daily, piled with chicken, oats, whey shakes, and slabs of beef. Nightly, she collapsed into bed, muscles throbbing, a soreness she learned to love. At first, it was a slog—every rep a battle, every bite a chore. But by week six, the ache felt good, a badge of progress. She measured her biceps daily, scripting her seduction in tandem—phrases to purr at David, poses to flaunt when the kids were out. She'd catch him smirking at her early antics, amused by her flexing in the kitchen, but she didn't care. This was war.
By week 24—six months in—Karen was a different beast. Her arms hit 13½ inches, thick with veins snaking over hard-earned muscle. She bought a posing suit online, deep red, and strutted through the house when the teens were at school. David's amusement faded to something else—jaw slack, eyes wide. She'd flex her quads, 22 inches of sculpted power, and purr, "Still need Candy, hon?" He didn't. She was outpacing the fantasy, her presence raw and commanding. Bench was at 185, squats at 300—numbers climbing steady. Trish nodded approval, but Karen felt the itch for more.
Eight months in, late 2006, Trish cornered her after a session. "You're solid, Karen. Strong. Sexy as hell. But there's a next step." Her voice dropped, serious. "You wanna blow past Candy—size, voice, the whole game? It's faster, bigger. Little help from the juice." Steroids. Karen froze. She'd built this body clean, fueled by spite and sweat. But Candy's 16-inch arms loomed, her deep growl taunted. Trish leaned in. "You'd pack on mass quick—15, 16 inches easy. Voice drops, too. David won't know what hit him." Karen's pulse raced. Temptation clawed at her. She thought of David, of Candy's smug "godlike" jab, of the woman she could become.
"Okay," she said, voice trembling but firm. "Let's do it."
Trish grinned, handing her a vial and a plan. The next chapter would show the cost—and the triumph—of Karen's leap into the deep end. Eight months had forged her; the next stretch would redefine her. Candy wouldn't stand a chance.

[bigjake737]

Chapter 3..


Chapter 3: Fire and Iron
In the summer of 2007, David got the call—two months with the Army Corps of Engineers in Washington state, aiding cleanup after wildfires ravaged the area outside of Spokane. Karen watched him pack, a knot tightening in her gut. Eight weeks away, surrounded by chaos and downtime, was a recipe for relapse. The muscle lines—those late-night sirens—might lure him back, undoing everything she'd forged. She wasn't about to let that happen. If David needed a fantasy, she'd be the voice on the line, the power he craved. She'd out-Candy Candy from 1,000 miles away.
Trish had laid out the plan weeks earlier, synced to David's stint: an eight-week cycle of testosterone, estrogen inhibitors, and a stack of bodybuilding supplements—aggressive, precise, funded by Karen's savings. The goal? Amplify her size, deepen her voice, and crank her sexuality to a level David couldn't resist. She'd started the day he left, needles and pills reshaping her by the hour. Five days a week, she hammered the gym—bench creeping past 220, squats kissing 350—while her diet hit 4,000 calories, a furnace fueling the change. Nightly, she'd call David, voice roughening with each passing week, spinning a fantasy he couldn't escape.
"How much you lifting now?" he'd ask, voice crackling through the hotel phone. "Bench is at 235," she'd growl, lower than Candy's ever was. "Squatting 360. Growing every day, babe." He'd press, hungry: "Favorite muscle?" She'd pause, smirking. "My traps—thick, hard, rising up my neck. You'd lose it if you saw 'em." Then the kicker: "What'd you do if I was there?" Her libido, roaring from the testosterone, turned her answers vivid. "I'd pin you down, flex these 15-inch arms in your face, make you beg for it." By week four, her voice was a seductive rumble, outmatching Candy's husky drawl. She'd detail her masturbation sessions—slow, explicit, every moan and shudder painted for him. David was unraveling, wild with want, pleading for more each night.
The cycle peaked at week eight, just as David's plane touched down. Karen met him at the airport, a metamorphosis made flesh. Her biceps stretched 16½ inches, veins popping like cords. Her chest swelled with muscle, traps framing a jawline sharpened by the gear. Her voice, now a deep, velvet growl, hit him as she said, "Miss me?" He froze, eyes raking over her—188 pounds of power, 5'7" of undeniable goddess. She'd eclipsed his wildest dreams, a titan in a tank top.
They didn't make it home. Karen pulled their SUV into a secluded overlook, city lights sprawling below. Doors locked, windows up, they tore into each other—hands groping, breaths heavy. She flexed her quads, 25 inches of iron, as he traced them, awestruck. He kneaded her biceps; she gripped his shoulders, guiding him. They climaxed together, a messy, primal release, then slumped back, panting. After a beat, they straightened up, grinning like teens, and drove home to the kids.
That night, David was different—attentive, romantic, almost reverent. Over dinner, he squeezed her hand, eyes soft. "You did this for us," he said, voice thick. "I'm done with the lines. You're more than I ever dreamed." Karen smiled, then leaned in, mischief sparking. "Good. Now it's your turn. Get as big as me—bench 250, squat 400, arms to match. I'll train you myself." David laughed, but her stare held firm. The challenge was set. Their marriage, once ash, was now iron—and they'd forge it together.

[phil123]

... and then she will outmuscle him

[Wookey]

This is a fantastic story of shared growth

[bigjake737]

David's catch up.

Chapter 4: Borderline Gods
By October 2007, the Witch Creek Fire tore through San Diego County, a beast of flame and smoke that pulled David south for a three-month gig with the Army Corps of Engineers. At 47, he was leaner than he'd been in years, thanks to Karen's relentless push, but still lagged behind her titan frame—his arms a modest 14 inches to her 16½, his bench stuck at 195 while hers soared past 235. Karen's transformation had flipped their dynamic; she was the godlike force now, and David was scrambling to catch up. The fire gig was his chance—hard labor, long hours, and a shot at the physique she demanded.
He checked into a budget hotel near the fire lines, the kind with thin walls and a faint bleach smell, and wasted no time. Day one, he joined World Gym in San Diego, a gritty spot packed with iron and sweat. There, he met Giorgio—a trainer built like a tank, 5'11", 230 pounds, with biceps that bulged like softballs and a no-nonsense glare. David laid it out: "Two months. I need to get big—bigger than my wife. She's outlifting me, and I'm done trailing." Giorgio sized him up, smirked, and said, "You're starting late, but we'll make it work. Heavy weights, heavy food, and a little edge. You in?" David nodded, desperate.
The regimen was brutal—six days a week, two-hour sessions. Giorgio piled on the plates: bench presses climbing to 225, squats pushing 300, curls that left David's arms screaming. Meals were a grind—six a day, 4,500 calories of chicken, rice, and shakes, shoveled down between shifts on the fire line. By week four, his arms hit 15 inches, veins starting to show, but it wasn't enough. Karen's nightly calls—her voice a low, taunting growl—kept the pressure on. "How's my big man doing?" she'd purr, then flex her stats: "Squatting 375 now. Traps are monsters. You keeping up?" He'd lie, "Close, babe," but he wasn't. Giorgio saw the gap and pulled him aside after a session. "You want real size fast? There's a pharmacy across the border—Tijuana. Injectables, cheap and strong. Test, tren, whatever you need. Two months, you'll be a freak." David hesitated, then thought of Karen's quads, her traps, her dominance. "Tell me where," he said.
Meanwhile, Karen caught wind of David's plan through a slipped comment on one of their calls—his voice too eager, too vague about "progress." She stormed into the gym the next day, cornering Trish. "He's juicing down there. I need more—push me harder." Trish, arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "You're already a beast, Karen. What's the goal?" Karen's eyes blazed. "The edge of femininity—massive, deep-voiced, unstoppable. The serious stuff." Trish nodded, upping her cycle: testosterone enanthate, a dash of trenbolone, and a tighter lifting split. Karen's bench hit 255, squats broke 400, and her arms swelled to 17 inches, thick and vascular. Her voice dropped lower, a sultry rumble that made their phone calls a fevered spiral. David would detail his injections—thighs hardening, chest broadening—while Karen countered with her own gains, each call a duel of lust and muscle. They'd masturbate, breathless, feeding off the other's transformation, the line crackling with deviancy.
By mid-December, 2½ months into David's stint, Karen couldn't wait. She booked a flight, told the kids she'd be back in two days, and landed in San Diego. She tracked David's hotel, key card in hand, and slipped into his room while he showered. He emerged in damp briefs, towel slung over his shoulder, and stopped dead. At 205 pounds, his arms now 16½ inches, chest carved and roid-pumped, he was a new man—veins like rivers, traps rising sharp. Karen stood there, thong and nothing else, 192 pounds of sculpted power—17½-inch biceps, quads at 26 inches, traps swallowing her neck. Her voice, a velvet growl, hit him: "Surprise, babe." He dropped the towel, eyes raking her. She flexed, slow and deliberate, every muscle popping. He lunged; she met him halfway.
The bed groaned under them—hands clawing, mouths crashing, a tangle of steroid-fueled hunger. She pinned him, biceps flexing as he gripped them, awestruck. He flipped her, tracing her quads, her abs, her traps, each touch igniting her. They climaxed hard, a shuddering mess, then collapsed, laughing through the sweat. After a beat, Karen propped up on an elbow, smirking. "You're almost there, hon. Bench 250 yet?" David grinned, chest heaving. "240. Next week." She nodded, satisfied. "Good. We're gods now—together."
Back home, the kids barely blinked—Mom and Dad were freaks, sure, but they'd seen the buildup. David quit the fire gig early, and they trained side by side, a marriage forged in iron and juice. Candy's voice was a ghost; they'd built something stronger, wilder, theirs alone.

[bigjake737]

 


Judy Mitchell's Diary (Daughter)
April 15, 2005
Dear Diary,
Something weird's going on with Mom and Dad. I was supposed to be asleep last night, but I snuck downstairs for a glass of water and heard them in the kitchen. Mom was mad—like, really mad. She was waving a piece of paper and saying stuff about "800 numbers" and "hundreds of dollars." Dad looked like he got caught stealing cookies, mumbling about "consulting fees." Then Mom said something about "muscle women" and Dad just shut up. Muscle women? Like, what? I thought Dad was just coding boring computer stuff all night in his office. Now I'm wondering what he's actually doing in there. I didn't stick around long—they started getting louder, and I didn't want to get busted. But Mom said, "I'll give you power myself," and it sounded intense. I don't know what's happening, but it's kinda freaking me out. School's fine, I guess. Scored a goal in soccer practice today. My legs are getting stronger—Coach says I'm fast.

May 2, 2005
Dear Diary,
Okay, Mom's acting like a superhero or something. She joined a gym! Like, she's there every day, lifting weights with this scary-looking lady named Trish who's got arms bigger than Dad's. I overheard Mom telling Dad she's gonna get "godlike" (her word, not mine) and make him forget those phone calls. I still don't get it, but I think Dad was talking to some lady who's super muscular, and Mom's trying to be like her? Anyway, I was in the living room doing homework, and Mom came home all sweaty, telling Dad she squatted 135 pounds today. Dad's eyes got all wide, and he said, "That's more than me." It was kinda funny, but also cool. I didn't know Mom could be so strong. I've been practicing my kicks for soccer, and I'm thinking maybe I should try lifting weights too. I want legs like Mom's—powerful, you know? Gotta be the best on the team.


June 10, 2005
Dear Diary,
I heard Dad on the phone last night, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't work. I was passing by his office to grab my shin guards, and the door was cracked open. He was talking all quiet, like he didn't want anyone to hear, saying stuff like, "How big are your arms now?" and "What's it feel like to lift that much?" The lady's voice was super deep, like a movie villain, and she laughed and said, "Sixteen inches, hon, and I could crush you with my quads." Her name was Candy—I heard Dad say it. I don't know why, but it made me mad. Like, why's Dad talking to her when Mom's getting so strong? Mom's arms are bigger than mine now, and she's always flexing them in the kitchen, joking with my brother about arm-wrestling him. I tried lifting one of her dumbbells today—15 pounds—and it was heavy, but I did a few curls. Felt awesome. I'm gonna start lifting after soccer practice. I wanna be strong like Mom, not just fast on the field. Everyone at school thinks strong girls are cool, right?

September 20, 2005
Dear Diary,
Mom's a beast! I mean that in a good way. She showed me her gym log today—says she's benching 160 pounds and her arms are almost 13 inches around. She's got these veins popping out when she flexes, and it's honestly the coolest thing ever. I overheard her telling Dad she's doing it for him, to "beat Candy at her own game." Dad looked kinda guilty but also super into it—he kept staring at Mom's muscles like they were magic. I'm starting to get why he was calling that Candy lady. Mom's strength is, like, powerful in a way that makes people notice. I started lifting weights with Coach after practice—nothing crazy, just 10-pound dumbbells and some bodyweight stuff. My arms are sore, but I scored two goals in our game yesterday, and I swear it's because my legs feel stronger. I told my friend Sarah about it, and she wants to try lifting too. Being strong is gonna make me unstoppable—on the field, at school, everywhere.


January 15, 2006
Dear Diary,
Mom's totally different now, like she's half superhero, half Mom. She's got this red posing suit she wears around the house sometimes (when me and Jake are supposed to be at school, but I saw her once). She was flexing in the mirror, and her muscles were HUGE—way bigger than last year. I heard her tell Dad her arms are 13½ inches and she's squatting 300. Dad's not calling Candy anymore—I know because I checked the phone bill when Mom left it out (don't tell). They're always talking about lifting now, like it's their new favorite thing. Last night, I heard Mom say, "I'm stronger than your fantasy, David," and he laughed and said, "You're the real deal." It's kinda gross how lovey-dovey they are, but also kinda awesome. I'm lifting three times a week now—Coach got me a real program. My biceps are starting to show a little, and I'm the fastest on the soccer team. Sarah and me made a pact to get "peaked" (her word) so we can be the coolest girls in eighth grade. I think muscles are the key to everything.


October 5, 2006
Dear Diary,
Things are wild. Mom's arms are 15 inches now, and she's benching 185 or something crazy. I heard her talking to Trish about "taking it to the next level," and I'm pretty sure they meant steroids because Mom's voice is getting deeper, like a cool radio DJ. She's still Mom, but she's also this powerhouse who makes Dad blush just by flexing. I'm not supposed to know, but I heard Dad say he's scared she's stronger than him—and he's been hitting the gym too! I'm lifting four days a week now, and my arms are legit getting bigger—maybe 10 inches? I can curl 20 pounds, and Coach says I'm a natural. Soccer's going awesome—I'm the star forward, and nobody can knock me off the ball anymore. I overheard Mom and Dad talking about how strength makes you "stand out," and I get it. All my friends think my muscles are cool, and even the boys are kinda impressed. I'm gonna keep lifting until I'm as strong as Mom. She's my hero.


August 12, 2007
Dear Diary,
Holy crap, Mom and Dad are like comic book characters now. Dad's been away in Washington for these wildfires, and Mom's been training like crazy to "keep him in line" (her words—I heard her on the phone with Trish). She's benching 235, squatting 360, and her arms are 16½ inches! Her voice is so deep now, it's kinda funny but also super commanding. She calls Dad every night, and I overheard her saying stuff like, "I'd pin you down with these biceps, babe," and I had to run to my room because EW, parents are gross. But honestly? It's inspiring. Dad's getting bigger too—I saw him when he came back last week, and his arms are almost as big as Mom's. I'm lifting five days a week now, and my biceps are 11 inches. I can bench 80 pounds, which Coach says is insane for my age. I'm the best player on the soccer team—nobody can outrun or outmuscle me. Sarah and my other friends keep saying I'm "goals," and I'm starting to think they're right. A peaked physique is everything—it makes you confident, popular, unstoppable. I wanna be like Mom and Dad—strong, fearless, godlike.

December 20, 2007
Dear Diary,
Mom surprised Dad in San Diego last week—she flew down where he's working on those fires. I stayed with Grandma, but when they got back, they were all goofy and happy, like they're in love again or something. Mom's HUGE now—17½-inch arms, quads like tree trunks. Dad's not far behind—his chest is all muscly, and he's benching 240. They train together in the garage now, spotting each other and laughing. I heard Mom tell Dad, "We're gods now," and he just grinned. I'm so proud of them, but I'm also pushing myself harder. My arms are 11½ inches, and I'm benching 95 pounds. Soccer season's over, but I'm still training like it's game day. I'm the strongest girl in ninth grade, and everyone knows it—Sarah says I'm "iconic." I overheard Mom talking about Candy again, saying she's "nothing compared to us." I don't know if Dad ever talked to her again, but it doesn't matter. Mom and Dad built something better—something real. I'm gonna do the same. Lifting's my thing now, just like soccer. I'm gonna get a peaked physique and be the best at everything—school, friends, life. Watch out, world—I'm coming for it.



Michael Mitchell's Diary  (son)
July 22, 2005 - San Diego, California
Dear Diary,
Okay, this is gonna sound messed up, but I gotta write it down somewhere or my head's gonna explode. So, I was in my room last night, sprawled out on my bed playing Xbox—usual stuff, Halo 2, kicking ass online—when I heard Mom and Dad through the vents again. Those stupid air ducts in our house on Elm Street carry everything from the kitchen right into my room, and they don't even know it. Usually it's boring crap like "Did you pay the electric bill?" or "Judy needs new cleats," but last night? Holy shit, it was wild. Mom was going off about Dad calling some chick named Candy—yeah, I've heard that name before, some muscle lady he's been sneaking calls to from his office. Mom was pissed, like, "You spent $450 last month on those damn lines, David!" Dad tried to play it off, mumbling about "just talking," but then Mom dropped a bomb. She said, "I'm gonna get bigger than her—stronger, sexier, everything. You'll see." Dad didn't even argue, just kinda groaned like he was already picturing it. Gross. 
Here's the thing—I used to think all that muscle girl stuff was nasty. Like, at Patrick Henry High School, me and the guys are always checking out girls like Stacey with the big boobs, tight shirts, you know? That's the dream—soft, curvy, hot. Girls with huge muscles? They freaked me out. I saw this bodybuilding magazine at the 7-Eleven on University Avenue once, and those women looked like dudes with wigs—veins popping, arms bigger than mine. No thanks. But then today happened, and I don't know what's wrong with me anymore. Mom's been going to World Gym on Adams Avenue for a couple months now, and this afternoon she had Trish over—you know, that trainer lady who looks like she could bench a car. They were in the garage off our driveway, lifting weights, and I was just grabbing a soda from the kitchen when I saw them through the window. 
Trish was spotting Mom on some heavy-ass squats, barking orders like, "Push it, Karen, two more!" Mom's legs were shaking, but she did it—135 pounds, I heard her say after. But Trish? Man, when she turned around to grab more plates, her back was insane—like, these thick slabs of muscle flexing under her tank top, all ripply and strong. I couldn't stop staring. My heart was pounding, and I felt... stuff. Like, down there stuff. I'm not proud of it, but it was like my brain flipped a switch. Suddenly, big boobs didn't seem as hot as big muscles. Trish's arms were probably 15 inches around, and I kept imagining her picking me up or something. I ran back to my room and locked the door, freaked out but kinda... into it? 
Now I'm thinking about what Mom said last night—getting bigger than Candy. I heard Dad on the phone with that chick a while back through the vents too, maybe a month ago, asking her about her biceps and how strong she was. Candy's voice was all deep and cocky, saying crap like, "I'd pin you in a heartbeat, hon." Back then, I thought it was weird and lame, but after seeing Trish today, I get it. Power's sexy. Mom's getting there too—her arms are starting to look legit, not just mom-arms anymore. I heard her tell Dad she's curling 25 pounds now at World Gym, and he sounded way too excited about it. They're both turning into freaks, and I'm over here realizing I might be one too. 
School's gonna be different now. I used to drool over Stacey and her crew in the cafeteria, but there's this girl in gym class at Patrick Henry, Lisa—she's on the track team, super fit, got these toned legs and shoulders from throwing shot put. Never noticed her before, but I'm gonna start. She's the best shot putter in school—beats all the boys, no contest. I saw her at practice last week near the field off 54th Street, and she's trim but stacked with muscle—arms like cannons, legs so thick and ripped they look like they could crush concrete. She's obsessed with the weight room, always there after school, piling on plates like it's her religion. I wanna get big too—bigger than Dad, bigger than the guys on the football team. If I get jacked, maybe girls like Lisa—or hell, girls like Trish—will notice me. I'm starting tomorrow. Push-ups, sit-ups, whatever I can do in my room. Then I'll hit the school weight room near the gym. I want biceps that pop, a back like Trish's. 

Update - September 10, 2005 - San Diego, California
Okay, I've been at it for weeks, and it's paying off. I'm benching 90 pounds in the Patrick Henry weight room now, and my arms are starting to bulge a little—maybe 12 inches? Lisa's been there every day, and last Monday, I worked up the guts to talk to her. She was squatting 185—like, what the hell, that's more than most of the football guys! Her arms are probably 14 inches, veins all over, and her quads are monsters, but she's still lean, not bulky like those magazine chicks. I asked her how she got so strong, and she grinned and said, "Weights, dude. Every day. You lifting too?" I nodded, and she told me to spot her. We've been meeting up daily since—4 p.m. sharp, weight room by the locker hall. She pushes me hard—yesterday, she made me curl 25 pounds till my arms shook, then clapped me on the back and said, "You're getting there, Mitchell." I'm sore as hell, but I'm pumped—she's insane, and it's making me better. I can bench 110 now, and my back's starting to look like Trish's, kinda. Lisa's cool too—we talk about lifting, music, stupid school stuff. She laughed at my Metallica shirt today, said it's "old man music," but then flexed her bicep and let me feel it. I'm hooked. Muscles draw the hottest, strongest girls—I know it now. Me and Lisa, we're getting tight, and I'm not stopping. Game over, big boobs. Muscles are where it's at.


Update - September 17, 2005 - San Diego, California
Holy crap, today was unreal. Me and Lisa were in the weight room at Patrick Henry again, same time, 4 p.m., pumping iron like usual. I've been dying to see her flex up close—not just a quick flash, but for real. So after she crushed a set of deadlifts—225 pounds, no sweat—I just blurted it out: "Hey, Lisa, can you flex for me?" She smirked, like she knew I'd been waiting to ask, and said, "Oh, you wanna see the goods, huh?" Then she played it up big-time—stepped back, rolled her shoulders, and flexed her biceps slow and dramatic. Those 14-inch arms popped, veins snaking over them like lightning bolts, and her quads tensed up too, huge and shredded under her shorts. She cocked her head, grinning at me, and said, "What do you think, Mitchell? Strong enough for ya?" I could tell she was into it—into me, maybe. My heart was hammering, and I couldn't think straight. 
So I went for it. I stepped closer, all nervous and sweaty, and stole a kiss—quick, right on her lips. I thought she might shove me off or laugh, but she froze, then whispered, "I loved that," her breath hot against my ear. Next thing I know, she grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the weight room, past the gym, and we ducked under the bleachers by the football field off 54th Street. It was shady and quiet, just us, and we started making out—hard. Her hands were on my shoulders, mine on her back, feeling those crazy muscles flex under my fingers. Her lips were soft but fierce, and it lasted, like, five minutes—felt like hours, though, like time just stopped. We pulled back, panting, and she grinned at me, all sly, and said, "You're trouble, Mitchell." I smirked back, trying to play it cool, but inside I'm freaking out—she's the hottest, strongest girl I've ever met, and she's into me too. We're meeting tomorrow, same time, weight room, then maybe under the bleachers again. I'm benching 115 now, and with Lisa pushing me, I'm gonna get huge—big enough to keep her around. Muscles rule everything.




David Mitchell's Story
It started as a stupid whim, back in early 2005, a late-night scroll through some shady corner of the internet when I stumbled on the muscle lines—phone services promising women with biceps bigger than my head, voices like gravel, dripping with power. I was 45, a software developer grinding away at a tech firm in San Diego, stuck in a suburban rut with Karen and the kids on Elm Street. Life was fine—Karen was the love of my life, always had been—but it was predictable. Code all day, dinner at six, Xbox blaring from Michael's room, Judy's soccer cleats by the door. I'd always love Karen, her soft smile, her quiet strength, but something was missing. A spark. A thrill. That's when I dialed the first number, hands shaking, credit card ready. 
Candy answered that night, her voice a low, commanding purr that hit me like a freight train. "Hey, sugar, you ready for some real muscle?" she'd said, and I was hooked before I could hang up. She painted a picture I couldn't shake—5'9", 190 pounds, biceps at 16 inches unpumped, quads that could crush a man. She'd flex over the phone, describing every vein, every ripple, every ounce of power she'd forged with heavy iron and a "little juice." Bench 250, squat 400—she'd growl the numbers like a challenge, and I'd sit there in my locked office, heart racing, picturing her traps rising like mountains, her arms thick and vascular, a goddess I could never touch. It wasn't just sex—it was power, raw and untamed, something Karen's gentle curves and homemaker life couldn't touch. I felt guilty as hell every time I hung up, the joint credit card statement mocking me with $300, $450 a week, charges I'd bury under "consulting fees." But I couldn't stop. Candy was a diversion, a fantasy I'd lose myself in, night after night, and it owned me. 
Karen wasn't blind. I saw her eyeing me, the late nights, the locked door—she knew something was off. I'd lie awake beside her, her steady breathing a quiet accusation, and I'd hate myself. What if she found out? What if she left me? I'd always love her—20 years, two kids, a life built together—but Candy's voice scratched an itch I couldn't reach. It was her size, her strength, the way she'd laugh low and say, "I'd pin you down, hon, and you'd beg for more." I'd imagine her flexing those cannonball biceps, her quads squeezing the life out of me, and I'd be lost. It wasn't love—it was obsession, a drug I couldn't quit. 
Then came April 2005. Karen cornered me at the kitchen table, the credit card statement spread out like a crime scene. "What the hell is this, David?" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. I fumbled, sweat beading on my neck, and spilled it—the calls, the women, the money. Her face went white, then red, and I braced for the end. Divorce was on the table, I could feel it, but then she pivoted. "I'll give you that power," she said, eyes blazing. "I'll get muscular—godlike, even—but you ditch the lines. Deal?" Guilt choked me, but I nodded, desperate to save us. "Deal," I croaked, promising I'd stop. 
That promise was hell. Every night, my hand hovered over the phone, Candy's number burned into my brain. I'd pace the office, palms sweaty, imagining her husky drawl, her 16-inch arms flexing just for me. I'd clench my fists, slam the desk, anything to resist. Karen deserved better—I knew it—but the itch was a beast, clawing at me. I'd see her leave for World Gym on Adams Avenue, determination in her step, and I'd feel worse. What if she couldn't match Candy? What if I'd always crave that voice, that size? I loved her, but the pull was relentless, a war I fought with every ounce of will. 
Then she started to change. By late 2005, Karen came home from the gym sweaty and strong, arms corded at 13 inches, quads thickening under her jeans. She'd flex in the kitchen, smirking, and say, "Still need Candy, hon?" I'd shake my head, but inside, I was still torn—Candy's 190 pounds loomed large. I resisted the calls, barely, my promise holding by a thread. But then 2006 hit, and Karen kicked it up. She trained with Trish five days a week, two hours a pop, piling on muscle like a machine. Her biceps hit 15 inches, veins snaking over them, and her voice—God, her voice—started dropping, a sultry rumble that made my spine tingle. She'd catch me staring, purr something like, "Like what you see, babe?" and my mind did a full about-face. 
By summer 2007, I was gone for two months with the Army Corps in Washington, cleaning up wildfires near Spokane. Karen called every night, her voice now a deep, velvet growl that outmatched Candy's husky taunt. "Bench is at 235," she'd say, "squatting 360. Traps are rising, David—you'd lose it." She'd tease me with her gains, her libido roaring through the line, detailing every flex, every shudder. I'd grip the hotel phone, unraveling, Candy's ghost fading fast. When I got back, Karen met me at the airport—188 pounds, 16½-inch arms, traps swallowing her neck. "Miss me?" she growled, and I was done. We didn't make it home—pulled the SUV into an overlook, locked the doors, and tore into each other. Her quads flexed at 25 inches under my hands, her biceps hard as steel. She was a titan, and I was obsessed. 
Later that year, October 2007, the Witch Creek Fire dragged me to San Diego County for three months. I trained hard at World Gym near the fire lines, pushing my bench to 240, arms to 16½ inches, chasing her. Karen flew down mid-December, slipped into my hotel room at the Budget Inn off I-15, and stood there in a thong—192 pounds, 17½-inch biceps, quads at 26 inches, voice a low, sultry command. "Surprise, babe," she said, flexing slow and deliberate. I lunged; she met me, and the bed groaned under us. She pinned me, her power overwhelming, and I couldn't get enough—her traps, her abs, her everything. 
Back home on Elm Street, we trained together, side by side, a marriage forged in iron. Candy was nothing now, a faint echo I didn't need. I'd resisted her with all I had, and it was worth it—Karen's growth, her body, her voice, it was all I'd ever dreamed of and more. I'd catch myself staring at her in the garage gym, her muscles rippling as she spotted me, and I'd think, This is it. This is what I waited for. I can't stop thinking of her—my wife, my goddess, my obsession. She's everything Candy never was, real and mine, and I'm never looking back.

[bigjake737]

Trish's Training Diary

April 10, 2005
Client: Karen Mitchell – Initial Consult
New client today—Karen Mitchell. Called me up for a consult, voice tight like she's got something to prove. Took one look at her over the phone (damn video calls are handy) and pegged her right off: Revenge Body. She's got that fire in her eyes, the kind that says someone's crossed her and she's here to make 'em regret it. Didn't spill much yet, just said she wants to "get strong—really strong." I've seen this before—usually a cheating ex or a smug rival. Bet it's a husband; she's got that married vibe. Scheduled her for three days a week starting tomorrow. Let's see what she's made of.
Side note: Did a voice-over gig this morning for some protein shake ad—easy cash. The Candy muscle line's picking up too—calls every night like clockwork. Keeps the bills paid while I mold these bodies.

April 15, 2005
Client: Karen Mitchell – Week 1
Karen's the real deal. Showed up at World Gym on Adams Avenue, no fluff—just a tank top and a scowl. Asked her what's driving her, and she finally cracked: "My husband's been calling muscle lines. Some chick named Candy. I'm gonna outmuscle her, outshine her, take him back." Boom—there it is. David's her man, and Candy's the enemy. Laughed inside because, well, I'm Candy, and David's that guy who calls at 10 p.m. sharp asking, "What're your measurements?" and "How'd you get started?" Not a creep, just a dreamer. Karen doesn't know I'm her nemesis, and I'm keeping it that way—ethics be damned, this is too good.
Started her light—squats at 95, bench at 65, curls with 15s. She's got grit, pushed through shaky legs. Told her to eat big—chicken, oats, shakes. She's all in. Gotta admit, I'm rooting for her to crush it, even if it's me she's crushing. 

June 20, 2005
Client: Karen Mitchell – Week 10
Karen's blooming—arms at 12 inches now, quads starting to pop. She's up to squatting 135 and benching 110, no quit in her. Caught her flexing in the gym mirror today, smirking like she's picturing David's jaw dropping. Asked her how it's going at home; she said he's off the lines, staring at her instead. Good.
Chatted about muscle lines casually—told her I know women who do it, how it's "profitable if you've got the voice and the build." Her eyes lit up, but she didn't bite. Yet. David's still calling me as Candy, though—same questions, same awe. I play along, keep it vague, but damn, it's weird knowing I'm training his wife to outdo me. Endorsed a new barbell line today—Candy's Iron—cash keeps rolling in. 

September 25, 2005
Client: Karen Mitchell – Week 23
Karen's a beast now—13 inches on those arms, bench at 160, squats at 225. She's got veins showing, a real Revenge Body in the making. Today she asked, "How do I seduce him on the phone? He used to love that Candy chick's voice." Nearly choked—kept it cool, though. Told her, "Talk about your measurements—arms, quads, how they're growing. Then say what got you started—let him hear the passion." Straight out of David's playbook, and she ate it up. Said she'd try it tonight.
He called me as Candy an hour later—10 p.m., like always. Asked my stats; I fed him the usual: "16-inch biceps, 190 pounds, squatting 400." He sighed, said, "My wife's catching up." Laughed to myself—buddy, you've got no idea. 

January 20, 2006
Client: Karen Mitchell – Week 41
Karen's a goddamn force—13½-inch arms, benching 185, squatting 300. She strutted in today in that red posing suit, flexing like a pro. Said David's "done with the lines for good." I believe it—why call me when she's turning into a goddess? Upped her to five days a week, two hours each. She's hungry for more, keeps muttering about "Candy's 16 inches." I nod, push her harder, keep my secret locked tight.
Did a Candy call last night—David didn't dial in. First time in months. Guess Karen's voice is the only one he needs now. Good for her. Voice-over for a gym chain came through today—money's stacking up nicely. 

October 10, 2006
Client: Karen Mitchell – Week 78
Karen's flirting with the edge—15-inch arms, bench at 205, squats at 340. Voice dropping too, all husky and commanding. She's on a "little juice" now—my suggestion, her call. Said she wants to "blow Candy out of the water." Oh, honey, you're damn close. Told her about muscle-line types today—dropped hints about the "measurements guys" and "origin story buffs" like David. She grinned, said, "I've got him hooked with that already." She's a natural—didn't even need my Candy persona to teach her.
David hasn't called the line in ages. Think he's forgotten me. Fine by me—Karen's my project now, and she's rewriting the game. 

August 15, 2007
Client: Karen Mitchell – Week 122 | New Client Inquiry: David Mitchell
Karen's a titan—16½-inch biceps, bench at 235, squats at 360. Voice like velvet gravel, pure seduction. David's been away in Washington for the wildfires, and she's been calling him nightly, spinning fantasies that'd make my Candy gig blush. Came in today buzzing—said he's "wild for her" over the phone, begging for more. She's not just a Revenge Body anymore; she's a Seduction Body too, wielding that power like a weapon.
Then the phone rang mid-session—David, calling from Spokane. Caught me off guard. "Hey, Trish, right? Karen's trainer?" he says, all eager. "She's been raving about you. I'm back in a couple weeks—any chance you'd train us both? Maybe a package deal?" I quoted him a rate—$80 an hour solo, $120 for the pair. He haggled a bit, landed on $100 for both, three days a week. Deal. But then he paused, voice squinting through the line: "You sound familiar. Have we talked before?" My gut twisted—Candy flashbacks—but I laughed it off, "Oh, I get that a lot. Probably my voice-over work—radio ads, you know." He hummed, unconvinced, but let it drop. Set a consult for September 1 when he's back.
Karen overheard, smirked, and said, "He'll love you—wait till he sees us flex together." Oh, I'm sweating now. If he figures out I'm Candy, this house of cards collapses. Did a product shoot for Candy's Muscle Gear this morning—ironic as hell. Gotta keep my game face on. 

September 1, 2007
Clients: Karen Mitchell & David Mitchell – Joint Consult
Met David today at World Gym—first time face-to-face. Karen's beside him, 16½-inch arms popping, all proud. David's leaner than I pictured—maybe 175 pounds, arms around 14½ inches, a guy who's been sitting too long but wants back in the game. Pegged him quick: Get the Rust Out Body with a side of Seduction Body—he's here to shake off the cobwebs and keep up with his wife's fire.
He shook my hand, stared hard, and said, "I know you from somewhere." My heart skipped—those damn Candy calls—but I shrugged, "Maybe a gym expo? I'm around." Karen jumped in, "She's the best, David—got me here." He nodded, still squinting, then said, "Your voice—it's uncanny." Played it cool, shifted to stats: Karen's crushing it, and David's starting with squats at 185, bench at 160. He's got potential—fire in his eyes like hers.
Set them up for Monday—three days a week, two hours. He kept glancing at me, gears turning, but didn't push. Good. I'm Trish the coach, not Candy the muscle-line queen. Let's keep it that way. 

December 22, 2007
Clients: Karen Mitchell & David Mitchell – Week 140 (Karen) / Week 16 (David)
Karen's back from surprising David in San Diego—flew down to his hotel during that Witch Creek Fire gig. Walked in today glowing, arms at 17½ inches, quads at 26, bench past 255. David's right behind—16½-inch arms, benching 240, a lean 205 pounds now. They're training together, a matched set of gods. He's shed the rust and turned that seduction dial to max—keeps flexing at Karen, grinning like a kid.
Today, he pulled me aside after their session, eyes narrowed. "Trish, I swear we've met. That voice—it's stuck in my head." I laughed, "David, I've got one of those voices—radio, ads, you name it." He smirked, "Maybe. Still feels off." Karen swooped in, flexed her bicep, and said, "Focus on this, hon—Trish made it happen." He dropped it, thank God.
She thanked me later, said, "You helped me take him back from Candy." Nearly spilled it—thought about saying, "I am Candy, and you've beaten me fair and square." Held my tongue. Her marriage is "running on all cylinders," she grinned. As Candy, I'm thrilled—Karen's victory is mine too, in a twisted way. Booked a Candy voice-over for a steroid supplement ad this afternoon. Life's funny—coaching them to outshine me, profiting off it all. Couldn't ask for a better gig.