Sue Guess is muscular girl next door

[bigjake737]

n the polyester pulse of 1975, where disco thumped and shag rugs sprawled, Sue lived in a modest house tucked behind the grander home of Michael's family. Sue was Michael's sister Jenny's friend, a lanky 16-year-old with a galaxy of freckles, a nose that seemed to chart its own course, and a deep, gravelly voice that sounded like she'd been gargling gravel. The boys at school snickered, tossing out nicknames like "Froggy" or "Big Nose Sue." Michael, though, was smitten. At 18, a senior and the school's golden boy—track star, prom king hopeful, and the guy every girl swooned over—he couldn't fathom why Sue, of all people, made his heart sprint. Her unapologetic oddity, her loud laugh, the way her hazel eyes twinkled when she cracked a bad joke—it hooked him. He was popular, smooth, but utterly stumped by his feelings for her.

One muggy July afternoon, Michael was in his upstairs bathroom, fiddling with the window blinds for no good reason. His gaze drifted to Sue's backyard, a scrappy patch of grass framed by a wobbly fence. What he saw stopped him dead. There was Sue, in a bright red bikini straight out of a Sears catalog, lifting weights. Not those flimsy, pastel dumbbells girls sometimes twirled in gym class, but heavy, clanking barbells that would've humbled the wrestling team. Her pale, almost ghostly skin shimmered under the sun, muscles straining with each rep. Her biceps bulged, her shoulders flexed, and her thighs looked like they could crush a cinderblock. Michael's jaw dropped. This wasn't just rare for the mid-'70s—it was radical. Girls didn't lift like that. But Sue did.

He couldn't look away. The image branded itself into his brain: Sue, fierce and powerful, her freckled face locked in determination as she hoisted the barbell overhead. For the rest of the year, Michael was a wreck. Even as he glided through the school hallways, classmates orbiting him like he was Elvis, his mind kept replaying Sue's backyard. Her baggy sweaters and corduroy skirts couldn't hide what he knew was underneath—a physique forged by sweat and iron. Every time he passed her, loping beside Jenny, his cool-guy mask slipped. His cheeks would burn, his palms would sweat, and he'd mumble something dumb before bolting. Sue, oblivious, would just grin and wave, her coarse voice calling, "Hey, Mikey, what's up?"

By spring, Michael's crush was a five-alarm fire. He was doodling barbells in his notebook during history class and zoning out during track practice, daydreaming about Sue's muscles instead of his next race. One day, after school, Sue cornered him in the empty hallway near the lockers. Her freckles seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights, and her eyes had a mischievous glint.
"Mikey," she said, her voice low and playful, "I gotta talk to you."
Michael's heart jackhammered, his usual swagger AWOL. "Uh, yeah? What's up, Sue?"
She leaned closer, her lanky frame slightly shorter than his lean, athletic build. "I've seen you, you know. Staring out your bathroom window. Watching me lift."
His face went fire-engine red. "I—I didn't mean—uh, I was just—"
Sue laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that made his knees wobble. "Relax, I'm not mad. Actually... I love it." She paused, her grin softening. "I've had a crush on you for a while, Mikey. And I can tell you're into my muscles. Don't try to hide it."

Michael's brain bluescreened. The school's golden boy, who could have any girl, was floored. "You... you have a crush on me?"
"Yup." She crossed her arms, and even through her sweater, he could see the outline of her biceps. "So, I gotta ask—do you ever, like, dream about my body? All this?" She flexed one arm playfully, and Michael nearly choked.
"I, uh..." He swallowed hard, his voice a whisper. "It's more than dreams, Sue. I think about you all the time. Like, all the time. Sexy thoughts, I mean." His face was practically molten, but the words tumbled out, his cool-guy filter fried.
Sue's grin widened, and she grabbed his hand. "Come with me."
She led him to the community pool, deserted in the late afternoon. The water gleamed under the fading sunlight, and Sue kicked off her sneakers, peeling off her sweater to reveal a tank top that showcased her sculpted arms. Michael's mouth went dry. She sat on the pool's edge, feet dangling in the water, and patted the spot beside her.
"Sit," she said, her voice taking on a theatrical, deeper tone, like she was channeling a game-show host. "And get ready, Mikey, 'cause I'm gonna give you a show. See, women aren't doing bodybuilding yet—kinda crazy, right? But me? I'm obsessed with male bodybuilders. Guys like Arnold and Franco, all oiled up, flexing like gods. I study their poses, their routines, everything. And since you're obviously into this—" she flexed both arms, her biceps popping like softballs—"I'm gonna be your personal Mr. Olympia. Call me... Steve!"

Michael laughed nervously, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might crack a rib. He was already feeling a rush of arousal, his track shorts suddenly feeling tighter. He crossed his legs, trying to play it cool, but Sue's playful energy was electrifying.
"Alright, Steve," he managed, his voice cracking. "Show me... uh, what you got."
Sue hopped to her feet, striking a dramatic stance. "Bodybuilding's all about symmetry, power, and attitude. There's these compulsory poses every guy's gotta nail. Watch close, Mikey." Her voice was still deep, hamming it up, but her eyes locked on his, knowing exactly what she was doing to him.
She started with the double biceps. "This one's the money shot," she said, turning slightly, her back to him, then snapping her arms up. Her biceps exploded, veins snaking across them like rivers on a map. Her lats flared, giving her a V-shape that made Michael's breath hitch. "You gotta squeeze every muscle, make 'em pop. Chest up, abs tight, legs grounded." Her freckled skin glistened with a light sweat, and Michael shifted uncomfortably, his face burning.

Next was the side chest. Sue pivoted to her side, planting one foot and flexing her arm closest to him. "This shows off the pecs and arms," she said, her bicep bulging against her chest, which, even in her tank top, looked carved. "You angle just right to make everything look thick—shoulders, triceps, even the quads." Her thigh muscles rippled as she tensed them, and Michael gripped the pool's edge, trying to focus on her words and not the heat coursing through him.
Then came the back double biceps. "This one's for the wings," she said, turning her back to him and flexing. Her lats spread like a cobra's hood, her traps rising like mountains. "You gotta make your back look like a roadmap—every muscle defined." Her voice dropped lower, teasing. "You like this one, Mikey? I bet you do." He nodded dumbly, his throat too dry to speak, his arousal impossible to hide now.
She spun around for the front lat spread. "This screams power," she said, planting her fists on her hips and flaring her lats wide. Her shoulders looked broader than his, her abs a faint ripple under her pale skin. "It's all about width—make yourself look like a wall." Michael's eyes were glued to her, his hands clenched to keep from trembling.
Finally, she hit the most muscular, crouching slightly and crunching every muscle inward. "The crab pose!" she growled, her biceps, traps, and quads exploding in a symphony of strength. "This is where you show everything—raw, animal power." Her freckles stood out starkly against her flushed skin, and she held the pose, grinning wickedly. "So, Mikey, what's the verdict? Am I a champ or what?"
Michael was a mess, his face scarlet, his breath shallow. "You're... unreal," he stammered, barely able to meet her eyes. His body was betraying him, and he shifted again, hoping she wouldn't notice. But Sue—Steve—knew. She sat beside him, closer now, her tank top clinging to her chiseled frame.
"Women might not be bodybuilding yet," she said, her voice back to its normal, coarse warmth, "but I'm gonna change that. I'm obsessed with those guys in the magazines—their strength, their swagger. And you, Mikey, you're into it too. I see how you look at me. Makes me feel... wanted and dare I say, 'sexy'." She flexed one arm casually, the bicep peaking. "Wanna feel it?"
Michael's hand shook as he reached out, his fingers brushing her bicep. It was granite-hard, warm, the freckles dancing under his touch. He traced her shoulder, her forearm, her quad, marveling at her power. It wasn't just her muscles—it was her boldness, her defiance of every rule about what girls should be. That's what had snared him, the school's golden boy, all along.
"You're incredible," he whispered, his voice thick with awe and something deeper.
Sue leaned in, her coarse voice soft. "You're pretty great yourself, Mikey."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, they sat by the pool, talking and laughing, their hands intertwined. Michael didn't care about his popularity or why he was drawn to Sue. He just knew she was the strongest, most extraordinary person he'd ever met—and she liked him back.

Years passed and like most crushes or obsessions, Michael and Sue went to different schools and then to different homes in other cities.  Michael thinks often of Sue, the girl next door who was way ahead of her time with muscles and a figure that made him think of the beauty of a muscular woman and the feminine form that had been maximized as a Michelangelo sculpture.  She was a muscular queen, before there were muscular queens.   

[bigjake737]

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[Wookey]

Great start. Looking forward to the next chapter. K++++

[Sieming]

Nice story. There were a few things, like "blue screened" and referring to the mid-70s that drug me out of the mid-seventies. But I liked the idea. Personally, I would have liked to see how this played out in high-school, but I can understand wanting to jump forward to where you want to tell the next bit.

It was great when you put in the extra blank lines to get some paragraph spacing at the start. It would be much easier to read if you kept that up through the whole thing.

[bigjake737]

The summer of '76 hit like a fever dream, humid and endless, the kind of heat that made the air shimmer above the asphalt. Michael's acceptance letter to State sat on his desk like a countdown clock; three more weeks and he'd be gone, dorm-bound, track-team bound, leaving behind the only backyard that had ever mattered. Jenny was off at church camp, his parents in the city for some cousin's wedding. The house was his, silent except for the low hum of the attic fan and the thump of his pulse whenever he drifted to the upstairs bathroom.He told himself he was just checking the blinds again.

He lied.Sue was out back, same scrappy patch of grass, but everything about her had detonated. She'd always been strong; now she was impossible. Twenty pounds of new muscle in ninety days, poured onto her frame like molten steel. Shoulders capped like softballs, delts split into striations, quads so thick her sweatpants clung like they'd been painted on. Sue's buddy from Gold's Gym—some Venice Beach lifter with a van and a wink—had hooked her up with "vitamins." Little pink tablets, chalky and bitter. She popped them like candy, chased them with raw eggs and mile-long jogs to the beach. The mirror in her bedroom told her the truth every morning: she was becoming a myth.She was mid-set—barbell loaded with every plate she owned—when she spotted him in the window. Pump had her skin glowing, veins forked across her forearms like lightning. Sweat darkened the waistband of her gray sweats. She racked the bar with a clang that carried across the fence, rolled her neck, and looked straight up at him."Hey, Mikey." Gravel and honey. The voice that used to make boys laugh now made his knees knock. She raised one hand in a lazy wave, biceps leaping into a hard, round peak.

"Enjoyin' the view?"Michael's mouth went desert-dry. He managed a nod, palms slick against the sill.Sue's grin turned wolfish.

The supplements had done more than pack on size; they'd cranked her internal thermostat to incinerate. She felt reckless, electric, every heartbeat a drumline between her legs. She hooked her thumbs under the hem of her tank—threadbare, white, already soaked—and peeled it up and off in one motion. The fabric caught briefly on her lats before surrendering.Michael's breath stopped.Sunlight poured over her torso like liquid gold. Pecs etched and full, abs a tight six-pack that flexed with every breath. Freckles scattered across her chest like constellations. Her sports bra—plain, functional, red as a stoplight—strained against the new mass. She planted her feet wide, hit a front double biceps, and the world narrowed to the swell of her arms, the flare of her back, the way her traps rose like wings.

"You want less?" she called, voice husky, teasing, daring.He found air.

"Yes—God, yes. Show me all those gorgeous muscles."  Michael's sexual urge gave him emboldened him.  He would gladly come over to her side and massage those beautiful muscles in the Southern California sun.

Sue laughed, low and filthy, and reached behind her back. The bra clasp snapped open. She let it fall.Michael gripped the window frame so hard the wood creaked. She was marble and fire—breasts high and firm atop slabs of pec, nipples tight from the heat and the rush. She rolled her shoulders, hit a side chest that made her tit jump against the swell of her arm, then spun for a back lat spread.  His eyes fixated.  He was about to lose it.  Her lats flared so wide the shadow swallowed half the lawn. Veins traced over her ribs, down into the waistband of her sweats. She looked over one shoulder, eyes glittering.

"Still with me, golden boy?"He couldn't answer; his throat had sealed shut. He screamed "you are a goddess!!"  It was so loud his mom who was one mile away likely heard his sexual desperation.  His running shorts were a lost cause. Sue's gaze flicked down—through two panes of glass and twenty feet of air—and she knew. The recklessness surged.  She was sexually aroused too.  She hooked her thumbs into her waistband, shimmied the sweats down just enough to reveal the deep V of her obliques, the top etch of her glutes. Not naked, not quite, but enough to brand the image into his retinas for life.She dropped into the most muscular pose, crab style, every fiber exploding. A growl rumbled out of her—raw, animal. Sweat flew off her skin in tiny arcs. She held it, trembling, until her quads shook, then straightened and blew him a kiss with fingers still curled from the flex.  Michael could see her body throbbing as she was going through orgasm too. 

"Memorize it, Mikey," she rasped. "College girls won't look like this; and will never be this orgasmic. Not ever."

She scooped up her clothes, turned, and walked inside—slow, deliberate, glutes rolling like twin boulders under pale skin. The screen door slapped shut behind her. Michael slid down the bathroom wall, heart hammering against his ribs, the ghost of her silhouette burned into the dark behind his eyelids. He was able to climax again with just the thought of her power.  Three weeks until campus. A lifetime until he'd see anything that compared.He never told a soul. Some memories are too sharp to share; they cut if you try.

[bigjake737]

The memory of Sue never faded for Michael, even as decades blurred the edges of 1975. He'd built a life: college track scholarship, a corporate job in Chicago, a wife who loved his easy charm, two kids who inherited his speed on the soccer field. But in quiet moments (flipping through old Muscle & Fitness magazines at the gym, watching a woman deadlift heavy), his mind snapped back to that muggy afternoon at the bathroom window. Sue in her red bikini, hoisting iron like defiance incarnate. Her gravelly laugh echoing across the fence. The poolside flex-off that left him wrecked and reborn. He'd tried to find her once, in the pre-internet '80s, dialing information for her family's old number. Nothing.

Life pulled them apart like taffy: her to California, chasing bodybuilding dreams before women's divisions even existed in the IFBB; him to the state university. Rumors trickled through Jenny: Sue competing in underground physique shows, judges scratching their heads at a freckled teen with delts like You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login the '90s, Michael spotted her in a grainy "Flex" magazine: Sue Reeves, 30-something, onstage in a posing suit that hugged her quads like a second skin. Veins popping on her arms, nose still proudly crooked, freckles faded but fierce. Caption: pioneer. He bought the issue, hid it in his desk drawer, stared at it during lunch breaks, heart racing like he was 18 again.

They reconnected in 2005, at Jenny's wedding back home. Michael's fascination with Sue likely broke up his first marriage. Now at Jennifer's wedding, he stood awkwardly in a suit that hid his dad bod. Sue strode in like she owned the room: taller in heels, still lanky, arms corded from years of training, a simple dress straining against her lats. Her voice boomed across the reception hall: "Mikey! Holy hell, look at you!"They talked all night.  Her voice was silky and deep. It mesmerized him.  She was a trainer now, owned a gym in Venice Beach, coached female pros who owed their careers to trailblazers like her. "Remember the pool?" she rasped, flexing discreetly under the tablecloth. Her bicep rose, much larger in person than the magazines revealed.  Michael's hand found her bicep instinctively, the warmth flooding back. "How could I forget?"No grand reunion romance, just laughter, shared stories, a quiet acknowledgment. She was married to a powerlifter who adored her strength. But as they posed for a photo, her arm around his shoulders, Michael felt it: the spark that had ignited his fascination with the muscular feminine form.  With his arms around her shoulders, Sue slowly tilted her head as if going through a mini orgasm.  Michael knew there was something left.  He was brought back to reality. Sue wasn't just ahead of her time; she'd carved the path.

2025 happened and  Michael had been following Sue religiously on social media. At 66, she's a silver-haired icon, posting throwbacks to '75 with captions like Before #GirlBoss meant squats and deadlifts. Young women tag her in their progress pics, calling her the original muscular queen. And Michael? He smiles at his phone, doodling a barbell in the margin of his notebook during meetings. Some crushes don't crush; they sculpt.But the real reunion came in October, at the 50th high-school class reunion in the old gymnasium, now draped in cheap streamers and the smell of instant coffee. Michael walked in wearing a fitted navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. At 68, he was lean and carved: shoulders broad from decades of pull-ups, forearms veined from grip work, waist tapered from deadlifts. His hair had gone salt-and-pepper, but the track-star frame had only sharpened with age. He moved like a man who still sprinted stadium stairs for fun.Sue was already there, leaning against the bleachers, arms crossed. Silver hair in a low ponytail, black dress sleeveless and tailored to her frame.  In her late 60s, she was thicker than in her competitive days, but not soft: traps rising like hills, delts round and striated, quads pressing against the fabric when she shifted her weight. Her freckles had faded to a soft dusting across her collarbones, but her eyes still glinted with mischief. She saw him and pushed off the wall, gravel voice cutting through the chatter."Mikey. You filled out."He stopped a foot away, pulse kicking like it had in '76. "Sue. You... haven't changed a damn bit."She laughed, low and filthy, and reached out to squeeze his forearm. Her grip was iron. "Liar. But I like it."They found a corner table, away from the dance floor where classmates swayed to "Stayin' Alive." She sat close, thigh brushing his under the table. The air between them crackled."I've followed you," he said, voice rough. "Every step. The '80s underground shows. Your first pro card in '89. That Flex cover in '94, the one where you hit the rear lat spread and the photographer nearly dropped his camera. Your coaching empire. And now, these videos..." He pulled out his phone, thumbed to her Insta****: 60+ and Still Crushing It: Hormone Optimization for Lifters. "I watch every one. Twice."Her eyes darkened. "You do, huh?" She leaned in, breath warm against his ear. "I've been on TRT for five years. Testosterone. Real stuff. Doctor-monitored, but hard. Makes me feel like I'm twenty again. Hungry. Reckless." and she leans in to whisper "super horney".  Her hand slid under the table, fingers tracing the ridge of his quad through his slacks. "Never stopped wanting you, Mikey. The one I never had."His breath hitched. "I used to stand at that window and pray you'd look up. Now you're right here and I still feel like a kid. "She stood, took his hand. "Walk with me."They slipped out a side door into the empty hallway, the hallway lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of hornets, but Michael barely heard them. Sue had him pinned against the lockers with nothing but the heat of her body and the promise in her eyes. She stepped in until her chest pressed to his, the hard ridge of her pecs unmistakable beneath the thin fabric of her dress.  "Take it off," she said, voice a gravel scrape. "All of it."His fingers fumbled the last button. The shirt slid from his shoulders and pooled on the floor. Sue's gaze raked down his torso, slow, deliberate, like she was memorizing every striation.  "Christ, Mikey." She traced one finger along the deep groove between his pecs, down the centerline where the muscle split, then fanned out over the shelf of his chest. "You've been praying at my altar."He exhaled, shaky. "Every damn day."She lifted her own arms, slow, and peeled the dress up and over her head in one fluid motion. It whispered to the floor. Beneath: a red sports bra stretched to its limit, and skin that gleamed like polished marble under the fluorescents.  "I wore read, the same color as my lifting bikini all those years ago".

After 50 years of lifting, her delts were round and full, capped with thick veins that forked into her biceps. Her abs were a tight, etched eight-pack, each ridge casting its own tiny shadow.  Michael's hands moved without permission, palms sliding over the swell of her traps, thumbs digging into the dense muscle. "Still so hard," he whispered.  "TRT, baby," she rasped. "I'm running more test than half the guys on your old track team." She flexed her right arm. The bicep leapt up, thick as a softball, peak sharp enough to cut glass. A single vein snaked over the top and disappeared into the crease of her elbow. "Feel what it does."He cupped the peak with both hands, reverent. The skin was furnace-hot, the muscle beneath unyielding. He squeezed; it didn't budge. A low moan escaped him.  Sue's grin turned feral. "Your turn." She dropped to a crouch, hands on his hips, and tugged his belt open with practiced efficiency. His slacks slid down, revealing quads carved from decades of squats and sprints—teardrops flaring above the knee, vastus lateralis sweeping out in thick cords.  She pressed her cheek to the muscle, eyes half-lidded. "Fuck, I could live here." Her tongue traced the deep separation between quad and hamstring, tasting salt and heat. Michael's head thunked back against the locker.  He hauled her up by the shoulders, spun her, and backed her against the cool metal. His mouth found the slope where her neck met trap—thick, corded, pulsing under his lips. He moved  down gently; he kissed all the way, slow and seductive.  She growled and flexed, the muscle swelling against his teeth.  He targetted the nipple on her pecs. "Harder," she ordered.He obliged, sucking a bruise into the peak while his hands mapped her lats—wide, thick, flaring like wings. When she hit a rear double biceps, the muscle exploded under his palms, dense and striated. He traced every ridge, every vein, thumbs pressing into the hollows beneath her shoulder blades.  Sue's breath hitched. "You're shaking.""So are you."She turned in his grip, pressed her forehead to his. "I want your hands everywhere."  He slid one palm down the canyon of her spine, over the Christmas-tree taper of her lower back, and cupped the dense swell of her glute. It was stone under velvet. With the other hand he cradled her bicep again, lifting it to his mouth. He kissed the peak, licked the vein, then took the whole swell between his teeth—gentle, worshipful.  Sue shuddered, a full-body ripple. "That summer," she whispered, "I used to stand in my backyard and flex until my skin burned, knowing you were watching. Used to touch myself after, imagining your hands right here." She guided his fingers between her legs, over the fabric of her compression shorts. Heat radiated through. "Still wet for you, Mikey. Fifty years later."He dropped to his knees. The tile was cold; he didn't care. He pressed his face to her abs, tongue tracing every ridge, lips closing over the hard knot of her obliques. She threaded fingers through his hair and pulled him tighter.  "Lower," she commanded.He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and eased the shorts down. Her quads sprang free—thick, separated, veins like rivers under pale skin. He kissed the inner sweep, teeth grazing the teardrop, then moved upward until his mouth hovered over the thin strip of black lace beneath.  Sue's thighs flexed, trapping his shoulders. "Look at me."He did. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown. She hit a front double biceps again, slower this time, holding the peak while he watched the muscle dance.  "Touch yourself while you worship," she said. "Show me what I do to you."His hand moved to his zipper—his member hard, aching, leaking. He stroked once, twice, eyes locked on the swell of her arm.  Sue dropped one hand to the back of his neck, guiding his mouth back to her quad. "Mark me. Every inch you never got to have."He did—teeth, tongue, open-mouthed kisses—until her skin bloomed red under freckles and silver stretch marks. She flexed and released, flexed and released, each contraction a pulse against his lips.  Footsteps echoed again, closer. They froze.  Sue laughed under her breath, hauled him up by the armpits, and crushed her mouth to his. The kiss was messy, desperate—tasting of sweat and iron and fifty years of almost.  "Venice," she panted against his lips. "Private gym. Midnight. I'll oil up. You bring the camera."  She stepped back, scooped her dress from the floor, and slid it on like armor. One last flex—side chest, pecs jumping against the fabric—and she walked away, glutes rolling with every step.  Michael stood there, shirtless, slacks around his thighs, heart hammering like it had the first time he'd seen her lift. Some altars you never stop kneeling at.  He would be a wreck until midnight

[brave_archer]

Boy, this one just keeps getting better and better. I'm really hoping Michael and Sue get the happy ending they both deserve after all these years 

[bigjake737]

How does a girl like Sue happen?  What was her childhood like.  Dolores, her mother, is the reason.

The first magazine arrived in a plain brown wrapper in the spring of 1965. Ray Guess, a quiet electrician with thick wrists and a quiet hunger, had ordered it from the back pages of a men's adventure rag: Muscle Builder/Power, cover line screaming "ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER: THE AUSTRIAN OAK DESTROYS ALL COMERS." Dolores found it on the kitchen table when she came in from hanging laundry, the wrapper already torn open. Ray was at work. Their daughter Sue was napping upstairs, two years old, red curls damp against the pillow.
Dolores meant only to flip through it. Instead she sat down hard on a vinyl chair and forgot the clothesline. Page after page of oiled men: Bill Pearl's vacuum pose, Sergio's impossible arms, Reg Park thick as a barn door. The black-and-white photos smelled faintly of ink and male sweat. Dolores's nipples tightened against her cotton housedress. She pressed her thighs together, once, twice, then gave in and slid a hand under the hem. She came silently, biting the inside of her cheek, staring at Freddy Ortiz's serratus. When she stood, her knees shook. The magazine went under the mattress that night, but it lived in her head forever.
Ray never noticed the damp spot on the chair cushion. He only noticed, months later, that his wife suddenly wanted sex every night, rougher than before, whispering "harder, like you're lifting" while she clawed at his back. He liked it. He bought more magazines. Dolores read them in the bathroom with the fan on, door locked, one hand between her legs, memorizing the routines: twenty sets of squats, behind-the-neck presses, cheat curls. She started sneaking into the garage at dawn while Ray snored and Sue watched Captain Kangaroo. She used Ray's rusty York barbell, adding five-pound plates when he wasn't looking. Her shoulders broadened. Veins rose on her forearms like blue lightning.

By 1968 Ray came home early one day and found her in the garage in a pair of cutoff jeans and one of his old T-shirts, sweat-soaked, pumping out preacher curls. Her biceps bulged, round and hard, bigger than his. Ray's mouth opened, closed. Dolores set the bar down, wiped her forehead with the back of a wrist thick as a coffee mug, and said, "Buy a real set, baby. The one with the two-hundred-pound plates." That night he fucked her on the weight bench, her legs wrapped around his waist, calves striated and hard as oak.

Sue grew up with the smell of chalk and liniment in the house. By the time she was seven she could deadlift the empty bar for reps while Dolores spotted her, hands hovering under her tiny ribcage. "Squeeze your butt, baby. Feel it in your pussy." Sue giggled at the word, but she squeezed. She liked the burn.
At ten Sue was still all elbows and knees, freckles across a nose everyone at school called "the beak." The boys flicked it in the hallway. The girls whispered "olive on a toothpick" when she changed for gym. She came home crying one afternoon in fifth grade, slammed her Partridge Family lunchbox on the counter.

Dolores was oiling her own delts in the kitchen, wearing only a pair of Ray's boxer shorts and a sports bra stretched thin across pecs that jumped when she flexed. She took one look at Sue's red eyes and crooked the finger.
"Upstairs. Bathroom. Now."
The bathroom door had never closed all the way since the latch broke in '71. Dolores locked it anyway, out of habit, then turned the light low. Sue stood on the fuzzy pink rug, arms wrapped around herself.
"Strip," Dolores said.
Sue hesitated. Dolores peeled off her own bra without ceremony. Her breasts were small and hard, striations fanning across her chest. She hit a side chest, traps rising like a cobra hood.
"Those little shits see this, they shut up," she said. "You want that?"
Sue nodded, eyes wide.
"Then we start tonight. But first you learn the secret." Dolores stepped close, cupped Sue's narrow chin. "Muscle feels like sex, baby. Every rep is a stroke. Every pump is a tongue. You do it right, you come without even touching yourself down there. Watch."
She grabbed the pull-up bar Ray had bolted over the doorframe years ago. Dolores jumped, caught it, and started slow chin-ups. On the fifth rep her lats flared so wide the skin stretched shiny. Her breath hitched. On the eighth she shuddered, a low moan slipping out, thighs clenching. She dropped to the mat, sweat dripping from her bangs.
"See?" she panted. "That's the power."
Sue's mouth was dry. Dolores knelt, slid Sue's corduroys and panties down in one motion. The girl's legs were pipe stems and freckles.
"Touch," Dolores whispered. "Think about your arms getting big. Think about boys staring and getting hard in their jeans because they can't have you."
Sue's small fingers found her slit, slippery already. Dolores guided her, two thick fingers over Sue's tiny ones, showing the rhythm.
"Picture your bicep round and hard. Picture veins. Picture Arnold on his knees for you."
Sue came in less than a minute, a startled squeak, knees buckling. Dolores caught her, kissed her temple, tasting salt.

"Every night now," she said. "After homework. Ten sets of curls, then you touch. I'll be in the hallway listening. When you moan my name, I'll know you did it right."
By thirteen Sue's periods had started and so had the growth. Her delts capped like softballs. Her quads brushed when she walked to the bus stop. The teasing got worse before it got better (Froggy, Big Bird, Beak), but every taunt sent her home to the garage, to the mirror, to her mother's low approving growl and the slick sound of fingers on teenage clit.
Dolores never touched Sue's pussy herself, not then. That line held, thin as tissue paper but unbroken. Instead she touched muscle: thumbs digging into Sue's hardening traps, palms sliding over oiled hamstrings, whispering, "Feel how strong you're getting for me."

And Sue grew. God, she grew.

The bathroom door was never fully closed anymore. It stayed cracked an inch, a silent invitation. By the time Sue was fifteen, the ritual had a rhythm as steady as a barbell's clank.
One humid Tuesday in June, Sue came home from school with her shoulders hunched. The boys had spent the whole lunch period chanting "Froggy" in the cafeteria; a girl named Cheryl had drawn a cartoon of Sue's nose on the blackboard with the caption Big Nose Sue Needs a Map. Sue slammed the front door, dropped her bookbag, and found Dolores in the kitchen, still in her nurse's scrubs, pouring coffee.
"Mom," Sue said, voice cracking like gravel on glass, "they won't stop."
Dolores set the mug down, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and opened her arms. Sue fell into them. Dolores smelled of antiseptic and coconut oil. She was forty-three now, but the night shifts and the iron had carved her: traps thick under the scrubs, forearms corded, quads pressing against the polyester pants.
"Come on," Dolores said. "Family room. Mirror time."

They moved to the long mirror Ray had hung over the fake fireplace. Dolores flicked on the lamp. The bulb cast gold over their freckled skin.
"Strip," Dolores ordered, soft but firm.
Sue peeled off her T-shirt and corduroys. Dolores did the same, down to a black sports bra and briefs. Mother and daughter stood side by side: Dolores compact and dense, Sue lanky but filling out fast.
"Tell me," Dolores said, rolling her shoulders. "Every word they said."
Sue recited the taunts. Dolores listened, then hit a front double biceps. Her peaks rose sharp, veins snaking.
"Same shit they said to me in '58," she said. "Called me 'Carrot Top' and 'Giraffe.' I was five-eleven by fourteen, all knees and freckles. Then I found the weights
She flexed harder; her lats flared. "Muscles shut them up. Muscles made me stand out instead of stick out."
Sue's eyes widened. "You?"

"Me." Dolores turned, hit a rear lat spread. The Christmas-tree in her lower back popped. "First time I curled the barbell, I came in my panties right there in the garage. The power, baby. It's sex."
Sue swallowed. "I... I do that too. After I lift."
Dolores grinned, feral. "Good. That's the fuel. Now show me what you've got."
Sue raised her arms. Her biceps were fuller now, pumped from curls in the backyard. Dolores stepped behind her, hands on Sue's hips, guiding.
"Chest up. Abs tight. Squeeze." Sue obeyed. The muscle leapt. Dolores's palms slid up, cupping the peaks. "Feel that? That's you. Not their words. You."

They posed for an hour: mother coaching, daughter mirroring. Dolores's voice was low, hypnotic.
"Imagine Arnold watching. Imagine him hard because of your arms."
"Flex your quad, slow. Let the separation come. That's your clit, baby. Every fiber."
Oil appeared, poured in thick ribbons. Dolores slicked Sue's delts, thumbs digging into striations. Sue returned the favor, tracing the thick veins on her mother's forearms. Their skin gleamed. The mirror reflected two muscular goddesses, freckles glowing under oil.

"Touch yourself while you pose," Dolores whispered. "Right here." Sue was at first a little shy.  The mother wanted to show Sue the incentive for working out; so she'd have a life long passion of pumping iron. It was effective counsel.

Sue's hand slid down, into her briefs. Dolores did the same. They hit a most muscular in unison (traps exploding, abs crunching). Sue's fingers circled her clit; Dolores's matched the rhythm. The room filled with wet sounds, the slap of oil, their twin gravelly moans.
"See how hard you make yourself?" Dolores rasped. "My pecs are jumping because of sexual excitement."
Sue came first, a sharp cry, thighs clamping around her hand. Dolores followed, hips bucking, a low growl that rattled the mirror. They stayed flexed, trembling, oil dripping onto the carpet.
From then on, the family room was their stage. Every evening after Ray's snores started, they'd lock the door, strip, and oil up. Dolores's body had transformed: at forty-four, she was thicker than most men at the gym, twenty-inch arms, quads that brushed when she walked. Sue, at sixteen, was closing in: eighteen-inch biceps, lats that flared like wings. They'd pose for hours (double biceps, side chest, most muscular), hands roaming freely now. Dolores would cup Sue's glutes during a rear lat spread, squeeze, whisper, "Harder. Make me wet." Sue would trace the deep groove of her mother's abs, slide lower, feel the slick heat.
One night Dolores brought out the red Sears bikini, now too small for both of them. They took turns wearing it, oil pooling in the fabric. Dolores hit a vacuum pose, abs sucked in, then slid the bikini bottom aside and fingered herself slow while Sue watched, flexing her own pumped arms. Sue came just from the sight, untouched, a gush that soaked the carpet.
"Tomorrow," Dolores said, voice hoarse, "we add weight to the bar. And we add toys."
Sue nodded, breathless. "Yes, Guru."

The teasing at school faded to background noise. The mirror told the truth: two muscular queens, mother and daughter, veins and freckles and power, fucking themselves and each other with poses and oil and the relentless hunger to be You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login night in late July, after Sue had come so hard from a crab most-muscular that her thighs shook for ten straight minutes, Dolores wiped the oil from her hands and looked at her daughter with a slow, wicked smile."New game, baby," she said, voice still husky from her own climax. "One month. Starting tomorrow. Thirty-one days."Sue, sprawled on the carpet, abs still fluttering, propped herself on an elbow. "Tell me."Dolores nodded toward the back window. The Fosters' house sat directly behind theirs, second-floor corner room always lit until late."Michael Foster," she said. "Seventeen. Baseball arms, shy mouth. Been watching you train in the yard since June.

Curtain moves every single time you strip down to pump."Sue's breath caught. She'd felt eyes on her skin for weeks, but never been sure."Your challenge," Dolores continued, tracing a thick vein down Sue's pumped forearm, "is to make that boy come in his shorts every single day you train outside. I want him jerking before you even finish your warm-up. I want him ruined for every other girl in that school. And every night you come in here and tell me exactly how you did it. Details, baby. I want to feel it."Sue's nipples hardened instantly. "And when I win?"Dolores grinned, feral. "Then I buy you your first real competition bikini (metallic red, cuts up to here), and on the night of your sixteenth birthday I oil you head to toe while you recount every stroke you made him spill."Sue licked her lips. "Yes, Guru."The challenge began the next afternoon.

Day 1–10: Teasing glances, slow oil rubs in plain view, moans carried on the hot wind. Sue reported each evening while Dolores idly flexed her twenty-inch arms, eyes You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login 11–20: Sue trained topless on the hottest days, bikini bottoms riding lower, whispering Michael's name between reps loud enough for the alley to hear. She described the twitch of the curtain, the silhouette of his shoulder, the way the light stayed on in his room long after midnight.

Day 21–29: She started facing his window dead-on. Full posing routine after every workout: front double biceps, side chest, most muscular, hands sliding over oiled pecs and abs while she stared straight up at him. Some nights she came home dripping from more than sweat and told Dolores exactly how many times the curtain had jerked, how ragged his breathing had sounded through the open window.

Day 31. The last day of August, air thick as syrup.Sue waited until the sun dropped behind the houses and the backyard fell into golden half-light. She wore the red Sears bikini (now comically small), the one that barely contained her eighteen-inch arms and sweeping quads. She oiled slowly, deliberately, every inch gleaming. Then she loaded the curl bar heavier than ever and started strict reps, eyes locked on Michael's window from the very first curl.The curtain was already pulled wide. He didn't even pretend to hide anymore.Ten reps. Fifteen. On the twentieth she racked the bar with a clang that rang down the alley, rolled her shoulders, and hit a front double biceps so vicious the peaks split and veins exploded across her arms like lightning.

Michael's face appeared fully in the window for the first time, pale, mouth open, hand moving frantic beneath the sill.Sue's smile was slow, cruel, radiant.She flexed harder, chest out, abs carved deep, oil dripping from her nipples to the waistband."I do this for you, Michael," she called, voice low and filthy and loud enough to carry over every fence in the neighborhood. "Every rep. Every vein. Every drop of oil. I do this so you come for me."

His eyes rolled back. His whole body jerked. A strangled sound floated down, half-sob, half-prayer.Sue held the pose until he sagged against the window frame, spent, trembling, utterly broken.She dropped her arms, turned on her heel, and walked inside without looking You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login the family room Dolores was waiting, thick arms folded, eyes shining with pride and hunger."Well?" she asked.Sue shut the door, leaned against it, and grinned."He'll never be the same, Mom. Never."Dolores pulled her close, lips brushing the shell of Sue's ear."Good girl," she whispered. "Now come here and let Guru reward her champion."

[Wookey]

Farrrk. If only had a next door neighbour like that. Would have gone over at 14 and trained with her every day. With a MILF to train us would have loved my high school days getting big with a hot big gf. 

[Wookey]

PS. Loved this story. K+++++++