Stage Condition

[taoschild]

Stage Condition, a noir murder mystery with a flotilla of female bodybuilders is now available on Amazon (and soon other online retailers). You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login  Here is the Intro - I will post a good chunk of Chapter 2 over the next week:
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Scattered applause starts before she even hits the pose, because the audience knows what's coming. The woman steps into the center of the stage beneath a wash of lights that burn like molten gold, searing through the haze of sweat and anticipation. Her skin gleams beneath layers of competition tan. Every muscle is visible. The crowd watches, hushing as she settles into position.

Some people see athleticism. Some see beauty. Some see something else entirely. The judges stare with practiced neutrality.

The music starts with a heavy, pulsing beat that throbs through the arena like a second heartbeat. The audience doesn't pretend. The front row leans forward, hungry. Phones rise. Cameras flash. For these few minutes, the entire room belongs to her.

Backstage, competitors wait their turn. Some pace. Some stretch. Some stare at themselves in mirrors searching for flaws nobody else will ever notice.

Months of brutal sacrifice all come down to this single moment under the lights. That's what makes bodybuilding different: the almost religious belief that perfection can be carved from flesh, even if it never truly exists. Yet women make the conscious decision to chase the illusion anyway.

She begins to move with the music.

Her arms rise overhead in a slow, sensual arc, then snap down into a powerful front double biceps. Wrists curl inward. The audience gasps.

The muscles don't simply form. They erupt.

Hot blood surges through her veins, swelling every fiber to its limit. Her biceps explode upward into thick, brutal peaks, two-headed mountains of dense, vascular power that strain against her silky skin. Veins snake across the surface like living cables, pulsing with raw strength. The sheer mass is overwhelming, masculine in its density and power, yet undeniably feminine in the graceful, lethal curves of her shoulders and the elegant taper of her waist.

She possesses the kind of body that throws every comfortable idea about gender straight out the window. A woman built like a god of war. The sight hits like pure electric sex: forbidden, intoxicating, and impossible to look away from.

It's a body that is, in a word, erotic. Not in the soft, gentle way of petals and whispers, but in the fashion of lightning and thunder.

She holds the pose, then transitions smoothly into a side chest, turning slightly as the music builds. Her pecs flex and thicken, pushing her full, heavy breasts upward against the tiny, sparkling posing suit. Hard nipples press visibly against the thin fabric with each controlled breath.

The crowd grows louder— more turned on.

She flows into her next pose with the rhythm, legs planted wide. Her legs pulse and contract until she tightens her quads until they appear so defined they look like they'd been chiseled by a mad sculptor. Her glutes are rounded slabs that flex and release with the beat, the tiny suit barely containing them. Every inch of her glistens under the lights, sweat and oil catching the gold glow as her body moves like a living weapon of pure erotic power.

The applause starts slow, a trickle that grows into a loud roar. A man near the front raises his camera. Several rows behind him, another spectator watches without blinking. Somewhere backstage, a competitor studies the woman onstage and wonders if she can beat her.

She can't.

Somebody else wonders how much sponsorship money she'll earn. Somebody else wonders what she'd look like six pounds heavier.

Everyone is looking at the same thing. Nobody is seeing the same thing.

The woman isn't just big and strong. She's sex. Raw, unfiltered, dangerous sex. The kind that makes you forget your own name. She smirks, just a little, owning the stage completely as the music crescendos.

The lights flare brighter. The crowd loses it.

Three weeks later, Elena Mirelli would be dead.

[taoschild]

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[taoschild]

From chapter 2 - when he goes to meet his high school girlfriend to get some clues because she's in the industry and discovers someone who was once a Tom Boy fuck doll who can now bench press both he and his ego
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Her shoulders spread broadly against the back of the booth, filling more space than I expect them to. Her arms rest casually on the table, but there's density to them now sitting beneath the skin even at rest. My eyes drift to her forearms.

They're resting beside her plate, relaxed, but the tendons stand out clearly beneath the skin. I know bodybuilding is about size rather than power, but everything about them seems less about appearance and a lot about function. They're thick. Ropey. Strong.

Katana catches me looking. A slow smile appears.

"Remember how we used to arm wrestle for fun, Jake?"

I immediately regret making eye contact.

"No."

"Liar."

"You cheated."

"I was stronger."

"You were absolutely not stronger, and even if you were, let's stick to present tense."

Her smile widens. That's a problem. She's entirely too confident. Without breaking eye contact, she starts pushing silverware out of the way.

Fork. Knife. Saltshaker.

"Katana."

"What?"

"Don't."

"What?"

"You know what."

The smile turns positively smug.

"I think we need a rematch."

I glance around the restaurant.

"Not in public."

"Why?"

"Because I'd like to preserve at least the illusion of dignity."

She laughs then leans forward and rests her right arm on the table. The forearm alone looks as thick as my bicep at rest. I measured mine a few years ago at 16.5 inches. Hers must have passed that mark several off-ramps ago.

She flexes once, casually. The peak rises hard and vascular, veins snaking across the surface like living cables. It's not just bigger than mine. It's in a completely different category.

"You're serious?" I ask.

"You think I'd bring it up otherwise?"

I look at the forearm currently resting on the table. Then at mine. Then back at hers. This feels like a trap. "You've spent the last decade professionally picking up heavy objects."

"And?"

"And I haven't."

"Excuses."

"Reality."

Her eyes sparkle with amusement.

"Scared?" she asks, eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Terrified."

"Good."

I point at her.

"That's not a normal response."

"Maybe not."

The silverware remains pushed aside. Waiting.

I sigh.

"I'm not arm wrestling you in a restaurant. I'll give you a raincheck."

"Coward."

"Detective."

"Same thing."

"Not even close."

She settles back into the booth, looking entirely too pleased with herself. The restaurant lighting softens most people. It somehow makes her look more substantial. It's like the booth had been designed for ordinary people and she's operating slightly outside specification.

Something in my chest shifts uncomfortably. My eyes flick away before they linger too long.

Katana, thankfully or unfortunately, notices everything.

"So," she says, folding her arms lightly on the table, "what do you actually think of the 2026 version of Katana?" She asks, immediately laying a row of neat mines that I have to hurdle. It's like she already knows there isn't a safe answer and wants to watch me navigate anyway. We've always been honest with each other. That used to feel easy.

"So, we're talking about ourselves in third person now?" I ask, deflecting.

"Jake— answer."

Now it feels like stepping onto unstable flooring.

"Honestly?"

"I'd be disappointed by anything else."

I glance down at the table for a second before answering.

"It's not really my... world," I admit. "But I respect the work. And there's something... fascinating about it."

One corner of her mouth lifts.

"Honored to be inspected like a zoo animal."

"Hey, you asked."

"You looked before I asked."

That earns a reluctant laugh out of me.

"Fair again," I admit. "And if you were in a cage, you could probably bend the bars anyway."

"True," she says easily. "I'll demonstrate sometime."

[taoschild]

More of the slow burn in chapter 2 that leads to the bedroom
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That does something unnamed to me. Something I decide very firmly not to examine. I steer us back toward safer ground before my brain gets any creative ideas.

"On a food schedule?" I ask.

"Always," she says. "Ten days out. There's no 'winging it' right now."

Ten days. The number lands heavier here than it did at the scene. Katana's in the same contest and probably just moved up one placing.

I nod slowly. "Big one."

"Biggest," she says. "New federation. Drug tested. More money. More exposure."

More pressure.

She watches me for a second as I don't respond right away.

"Okay," she says. "That look doesn't belong in a casual conversation. What's going on?"

I lean back slightly, letting out a breath.

"This is off the record," I say.

She raises an eyebrow. "That sounds promising."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"You're insufferable," I complain.

"You always loved that about me," she responds smoothly.

She's right. I always appreciated her quick comebacks and carefree nature. I look at her and take her in. There's so much more of her to take in now.

"True," I finally respond.

I lean forward slightly. "Alright. Two women. Both elite-level bodybuilders. Both in contest prep. Both found in hotel rooms, dead."

She lifts an eyebrow, mild surprise flickering across her face. "Two," she whispers, the word hanging between us. I can already tell she's half in, half somewhere else entirely. She leans back in her chair like she's considering whether I've earned a real response yet. Then she signals the server.

"Two shots of tequila," she says.

I blink. "I'm working."

"You're sitting," she replies. "And based on that gut you've started to develop, it happens a bit too often."

"Hey!" I call out.

"Hay is for horses," she responds.

"Now, I really feel like we're back in high school."

The server hesitates. I open my mouth—

Katana cuts in before I can. "He's paying and drinking."

I close my mouth again as the waitress retreats.

"Also," she adds, looking back at me, "you don't get to interrogate me in a restaurant without participating in the experience."

"What experience?"

She glances at my glassware like it personally offended her. "Relaxing."

I give her an eyeroll. "That's not really my skill set."

"I've known you long enough to notice."

A beat.

"You're bribing me with alcohol to loosen my investigative rigor."

"I'm not bribing you," she says. "I'm correcting your posture."

The drinks arrive.

She takes hers immediately, like she's been waiting all day just to have it exist in front of her. Doesn't drink it yet. Just holds it there.

"Alright," she says, settling in. "Ask your questions."

I glance at the shot glass, then at her.

"You always do this?" I ask.

"Do what?"

"Turn a homicide investigation into a social event with drinks and commentary."

She shrugs. "First time I've discussed a homicide, but as a principle I've decided that only when the detective is insufferable enough to need it."

I exhale through my nose. "Lucky me. Fine."

I tap the table lightly.

"Contest circuit. Who's actually a threat at this level? And don't give me the brochure answer."

Her expression shifts slightly, focus coming online in a different way.

"Oh," she says. "Now you're asking the real questions."

"Mhm," I say, downing the tequila smoothly.

She looks at hers with regret. "Thou protests too much about not wanting to drink."

I hold her gaze for a second. Then I say it.

"Two competitors. Dead. One last week. One last night."

The shift in her is immediate. Not dramatic, but it's there.

"Tasha and who else?"

"Elena."

"Elena?" Katana sits back in the booth and lets out a low whistle. As she does, her shoulders roll slightly and the thick slabs of muscle across her upper back and traps flex and shift under her skin. Even that small movement makes the fabric of her top stretch tight.

"Yeah," I say.

"That's impossible."

"What's impossible?"

"Her size." Katana shrugs her shoulders uncomfortably. The motion causes a ripple across her entire upper body I look at Katana and want to say 'that's the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it? But instead, I ask for her point. "What about her size?"

Katana glances around the restaurant before lowering her voice.

"She put twenty pounds of muscle on in six months. And it's not like she was starting from nothing."

"People keep saying that."

"No, Jake. I mean impossible."

"Steroids?"

"Everybody jumps right to steroids," she says with an uncomfortable sigh. "She already took steroids. More steroids alone doesn't do that either. Unless there's some new brand I should look into if I go back to gear contests."

[taoschild]

I pause and think about it for a moment, but don't want to get lost in the weeds.

"How was she killed?" Katana asks.

"Shot," I say. "Close range. Quiet."

She looks down at her food for a second, then back up.

"They're both in my same division," she notes.

"Yeah."

She leans back slightly, arms crossing—not defensive, but thinking. "Elena has blown up recently, I mean really blown up. I mean... impossibly so in the past few weeks. And for a natural show..." she trails off.

"That's..." I start thinking out loud. "That's not normal."

"No," she shakes her head once. "Neither are bodybuilders getting murdered."

A pause. The noise of the restaurant fills the space between us—voices, plates, the low hum of people living their lives like nothing's wrong.

"Why are you telling me?" she asks.

"Because you're in that world," I say. "Because you know people, I don't. Because I need to understand how this world works from the inside."

She studies me again. Longer this time.

"Fine."

I wait.

"But," she adds, "you don't get that for free."

Of course I don't.

"What do you want?" I ask.

She smiles.

"Take me out."

I blink. "We're out."

"This doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"Because you're working," she says. "I want you not working."

I consider that.

"You're negotiating with a homicide detective," I say.

"I'm aware."

"And you think this is leverage?"

"I know it is."

I can't help it—I laugh.

"Dinner," I say.

"Dinner," she agrees, "tomorrow. I have other plans after this." She slides her drink across the table and nods to it. "But you didn't—"

"I get a sniff, but I don't get to drink this close to competition," she explains. "And when we're done with all this nonsense, someone needs to be able to drive us back to your place for a fuck. For old times' sake."

The air drops.

I stare at her. There's a hungry edge in her eyes that doesn't match the casual way she says it. She's not completely joking.

"Relax, Jake," she adds, a small smirk playing on her lips. "Mostly."

"You've changed," I say.

"You said that already."

"I meant it differently this time."

She leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table, the muscle in her shoulders shifting under her skin. "How?" I think about the gym earlier. The platform. The way she moved the weight like it belonged to her.

"More... confident," I say.

She considers that, her gaze lingering on me a beat too long.

"I like that," she says, voice lower now.

I down the drink. The tequila immediately reminds me that I am no longer twenty-one, and my head gives an involuntary shake.

Katana laughs.

"Still a lightweight."

"I'm pacing myself."

"You just took it like medicine."

"Exactly. Responsible adult behavior."

"That's not what those words mean."

I point at her. The gesture feels more convincing in my head than it probably looks. Then I push back into the case before the alcohol can sand down whatever remains of my professionalism.

Names, faces, the politics of pre-competition week. How drug testing works the day before, who really matters backstage versus who just thinks they do. Who gets watched. Who gets overlooked.

For a while, it stays business. Then somehow it doesn't. The conversation drifts. Time. Distance. A story reminds her of another story. That leads to something from high school. Then an old apartment. Then an ex. Then a mutual friend neither of us has seen in years.

The case keeps resurfacing, but less often. At some point it stops feeling like catching up and starts feeling like foreplay.

Another shot appears beside my elbow. I stare at it, then at Katana. Then back at the shot.

"I don't remember ordering this."

Katana's grin suggests that memory may not be my strongest witness right now.

"That's concerning."

I pound the drink, nonetheless.

"You're safe," she says, smile widening.

"Historically speaking, that has not always been true around you."

She huffs a laugh. I'm not sure if it's from the way I'm slurring my words or our history.

The room tilts. The next thing I know, we're standing in the parking lot and Katana is steering me toward her truck with the calm efficiency of someone transporting mildly damaged cargo.

"I'm fine," I inform her.

"Of course you are."

"I can drive."

"Jake."

"Right. Sorry. Even I don't believe that one."

We're at my place in minutes. The city lights bleed through the half-drawn blinds of my apartment, painting thin silver stripes across the hardwood floor. It's past ten and I've had at least four shots— that I can remember. The quiet feels heavier than usual, like the whole block is holding its breath along with me.

Katana stands just inside the door, one hand still on the knob as if she's deciding whether to commit or leave. I've invited her in, but with Katana, that hardly matters. She scans the place with that same slow, assessing gaze she used on the squat rack earlier: cataloging weights, angles, weak points.

[taoschild]

Let me know if you fellas want more -seems like this story hasn't generated much stir - but one more drop here because now... it heats up You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login
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"Still neat," she says, voice low and amused. "Occupational hazard for a detective, I'll guess. Everything in its place. Evidence bags labeled. Suspects filed away."

I shrug, tossing my keys onto the small table by the door. "Keeps the chaos out."

She steps farther in, boots soft on the floor despite her size. She's changed out of the tank top she wore out of the gym into a simple black hoodie and leggings that do nothing to hide the work she's put into her body over the years.

"You always like things under control?" she asks, stopping in the middle of the living room. The way she says it isn't teasing. It's curious, like she's testing a theory.

"Most of the time," I answer, leaning against the kitchen counter. My tie is already loosened from the long day, jacket slung over a chair. I'm still wired from the case—the murdered bodybuilder, the missing training logs, the ten-day window that feels like a fuse burning down—but the alcohol along with her presence cuts through it like a blade.

She turns to face me fully. The overhead light catches the sharp definition in her shoulders, the thick cords of muscle along her neck that disappear into the hoodie. They're not just decorative. They're functional and powerful like a predator that's spent years refining its edge.

"Not all the time?" she presses, taking one slow step closer.

I don't answer right away. The air between us is charged with memory and regret and a different power dynamic that I can't quite grasp with my alcohol addled brain. I tell myself she's just a vehicle to observe the community, the culture, and a way to find connections to the victim. But there was a moment when she pulled the weight off the floor, traps and lats flaring, and something in my gut had twisted. Not disgust. Not quite attraction either. More like a memory of each other mixed in with something I can't quite describe.

I think about more questions and pull out my notebook.

She closes the distance between us, stopping just short of touching me. I can smell the faint trace of her same shampoo that used to reside in my shower. Her dark, steady eyes lock onto mine.

"You're still working," she says quietly. It's not a question.

"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "Can't shut it off. The case—"

"Stop."

It's not barked like an order from the academy or a suspect interview. But it lands with the same calm authority she had earlier, racking a weight most men in the department wouldn't have gotten off the pins.

And for once, I listen.

The mental checklist slows. The tension in my shoulders eases, just a fraction.

Katana's lips curve to like satisfaction. She reaches up, and her hand settles on my chest, palm flat over my shirt. Her fingers are calloused from years of gripping steel. Stronger than I remember from those casual high school hugs or the occasional sparring we did back then for fun. Back when we were both just kids pretending we knew what strength meant.

I'm no slouch. I've always been the stronger guy in most rooms and can occasionally make peace with a barbell. Standing next to Katana now, I'm not entirely sure this room counts.

Her hand slides up to my shoulder, then around to the back of my neck. She guides me toward her. And when she leans in, her body presses against mine with a solidity that steals the breath from my lungs. Dense muscle layered under smooth skin, the kind built through thousands of hours under the bar, progressive overload, and disciplined recovery. Her chest is firm against me, pecs developed from years of pressing movements, but it's her brick-like core that I can feel even through fabric, that makes my pulse spike.

"I know I tease you," she murmurs against my ear, voice low. "But you're still strong."

I feel her smile against my skin.

"I remember. High school wrestling team. You could pin most guys."

Then she shifts her weight slightly, and suddenly I'm aware of just how much of her there is. And it's solid muscle.

"But now..." she says softly.

"I'm not most guys."

I try to laugh it off, but my response comes out strained. "Katana, I'm not... I mean, muscles aren't really my thing. Never have been."

She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. There's no offense there, only amusement and something hotter, darker. "Maybe, but sex has always been your thing."

Before I can even register the movement, she closes her grip around both of my wrists in one hand. It isn't dramatic. It's just... done.

The pressure is iron. I test it instinctively, flexing against her hold, using the leverage I've practiced in countless takedowns. Nothing. No tremor in the forearm. There's just absolute and unbothered stillness—

The veins along her wrist stand out under the skin like anchored cables, and for a moment I'm uncomfortably aware that I'm not feeling resistance so much as absence of it. It's like I'm pushing against something that has already decided not to acknowledge the effort.

My brain reaches for familiar explanations—technique, angle, surprise—and comes up empty. Katana watches me try mildly amused as if I'm the one learning something here.

I stop pushing.

"That," I say carefully, "is new."