Dating App: Muscle

[taoschild]

The start of this is darker than my normal fare -- probably because I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about it -- but it will be a flirty romance in the end. Stay tuned for my next book, Uncut Power, which should be out next weekend or early next week. It's a Game of Thrones type novel with a muscular woman protagonist.
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It slips in quietly. Most days, it doesn't even rattle the windows. It waits in a smile, in the swipe of a thumb, or in the laughter echoing down the glassy corridor of her phone screen.

She used to think she understood its shape.

Until one night proved her wrong. It was a lightning strike that split her life cleanly in two: before and after.

She lived in the after now.

After a dating app had led her to a man who slipped something into her drink. After a room she thought was safe spun abruptly out of orbit. After she woke, aching, blurred, in a bed that wasn't hers.

She whispered once, staring at her hazy reflection in the shower door she couldn't bring herself to touch.

"What happened to me?"

Some details sharpened with painful clarity: the crooked smile on his profile, the joke about bad first dates she'd laughed at, and the world beginning to tilt after just one drink.

Everything else was a smear of anguish and scrambled panic.

Even now, those memories bleed out in flashes—too sharp, too fast. Glimpses she could never fully lace together, always out of order.

The smell of his cologne, sweet and chemical, sticking to her skin.

Her limbs refusing to move, as if someone else had crawled into her body and taken control.

Hot breath ghosting her neck. The wet sound of a tongue flicking at her throat

Stubble scraping her breasts.

Hands pinning her wrists with a confidence that still made her sick.

Pinches of memories slammed into her like strobe-lit snapshots one after another.

Her own voice fighting to move, to scream, caught somewhere between dream and drowning. The world spun, warped by whatever he'd slipped into her drink. She remembered the ache in her hips, the rough drag of fabric pulled aside. Shadows on the ceiling, a cackling laugh muffled by music from a phone just out of sight. Pain. Helplessness. The dim awareness of being watched, of his satisfied exhale as he pressed her down, her legs refusing to move.

She surfaced sometimes with an aftertaste in her mouth, gagging, sobbing, unable to catch her breath. In those moments, she was only a passenger, her mind firing warning signals too late to come back. Limp, exposed, unheard.

Sometimes she muttered aloud, trying to anchor herself in the present:

"You're here. You're safe. Breathe."

But the memories didn't listen. At times, they overtook her.

Pain. Helplessness—cold, animal. Her legs refused to respond.

Once, she surfaced with a bitter taste in her mouth, gagging so hard she dropped to her knees. Her sobs sounded like they belonged to someone else.

She remembered catching her reflection afterward: cheeks blotched,  mascara haunted in streaks, eyes hollow.

She whispered at the mirror, voice hoarse, "I don't know her."

After that night, everything changed.

After that night, every touch felt suspect—each brush of skin against hers, no matter how casual, set off alarms in her head. Crowded rooms felt like cages. Stray hands at parties or the accidental press of a stranger became loaded threats.

And it wasn't just physical contact. Even a certain scent in passing could drop her into those flashes, drowning again. She flinched from the eyes of men, braced herself for impact at every approach, carrying the expectation that danger could be hiding in a joke or a glance. A man standing too close in line at the grocery store made her chest seize.

Sometimes she'd stiffen on the subway, crushed between strangers, and think: "Not again. Please—not again."

Her mind chased itself in circles no one could see, replaying horrors out of order, out of context, out of mercy.

There was no relief. No cure. Only management.

The understanding of what had been done to her came in fragments, like broken glass.

The police couldn't help. Nothing could. His profile had vanished before Claire could even memorize it—ghosted, wiped out within hours, as if her pain had been engineered from algorithms and anonymity.

Gone.

She deleted her dating apps. The smiling girl she used to be in that old Tinder photo was not to survive. She deleted the girl entirely who'd once smiled into a phone, thinking she was safe. It wasn't just to avoid being found, but to erase the possibility of ever being that vulnerable again. Entirely gone was the smiling fitness girl with a high ponytail, bitten lip, and a hopeful glint that made strangers swipe right without hesitation.

She whispered as she wiped the last profile away: "No one gets near me again, unless I chose it."

[taoschild]

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[erocha75]

Awesome. More chapters, pls!!

[crow004]

Wow, that was intense. Dylan has no idea what he's in for....
Or maybe he does....

[taoschild]

People liked to call it "healing," the slow crawl she'd made back toward something resembling a life, but that word felt too clean. Healing implied gentleness. Hers had been anything but gentle. Hers was a war she fought alone in hallways and in the silence between breaths.

The old Claire hid her shaking hands behind a bright grin. That girl pretended she was fine. That girl had been hurt and then expected to smile through the ache of it. Claire had deleted that girl years ago. And when she couldn't stand feeling small anymore, she walked into a gym and didn't leave. Time blurred when every day revolved around training schedules, meal plans, coaching appointments, and the quiet, private rituals that kept her centered.

Someone had told her she had "the right genetics" for competitions. They had no idea she'd needed something stronger than medals. She needed power.

Claire's body became her laboratory for transforming vulnerability into something weaponized and undeniable. Fitness competitions and boxing lessons led to powerlifting. Powerlifting to CrossFit. CrossFit to bodybuilding. The weights, the gloves, the chalk, and wraps all became new implements of control, scraping fear from her nerves one lift at a time.

She trained until her limbs trembled, moved until the shaking had somewhere physical to go and the pain in her muscles burned hotter than the trembling in her soul. That pain became more strength. Strength became obsession. And obsession became the body she lived in now, with muscle packed on like concrete and iron.

After the limits of "natural strength" faded, Claire found herself chasing size with syringes, tablets, and the secret rituals of bodybuilding "gear." Anabolic steroids and growth compounds became another set of tools in her arsenal, each one promising to push her further from the world that made her a victim. Each dose was like an exorcism of fragility.

The side effects came, as she knew they would: her voice grew huskier, deepening with each cycle until it sometimes startled her, a rough mezzo instead of the lilting voice from old voicemails. Her clit swelled, pushing at the edges of sensation. In all her gym wear, it was more obvious, more unruly, and sometimes aching in a way that felt thrilling and troubling all at once. Acne burst across her shoulders in angry waves, and her jaw sharpened a tad. There were months when her sex drive surged ravenously and wild. It was something she learned to fold into her rituals, not an act of shame, but another tool of power.
She tracked these transformations like trophies. Pimples faded, voice settled into its new timbre, and she leaned into better skincare regimens, adapting with every cycle because her hunger for power outweighed everything else.

Her career shifted with her body. From legal secretary to coaching, her online programs gave way to in-person sessions as her physique and fame grew. Finally, she arrived at work she never expected but came to depend on: muscle worship sessions.

They weren't sexual. Well, not originally, at least. Just... business.

People paid to be near her size, her power, her presence. Some admired her strength. Some fetishized it. Some wanted to feel small in a way she used to hate—but now, she controlled every second of it. Every rule. Every boundary. She finally chose who got close, how close they were allowed, and how much they'd pay for the privilege.

When needs crested beyond admiration, that control and dominance carried into the bedroom. For as much as she traded muscle and power for pay, those sessions sometimes became darker playgrounds of her command.

Men shelled out up to a thousand dollars a session to surrender to her dominance—pegged, bound, and utterly at her mercy. Leather straps, cuffs, and sex toys all became extensions of her will and instruments to channel her deepest cravings for control.

She ruled those rooms with cold precision, commanding every movement, every breath, every whimper. There was a fierce satisfaction in wielding that power. It made her feel safe. Her husky, deepened voice cut through the silence like a whip, echoing the transformation she'd endured.

It wasn't glamorous.  It wasn't even something she liked all the time. But it paid well, and she was always the one in control. She craved control over men. It was intoxicating. Dominance wasn't an act; it was a necessity, just like an act of healing.

Six years and fifty pounds of muscle separated her from that old, smiling photo. Fifty pounds that felt like both armor and truth. The woman in the photo was weak and vulnerable. The new Claire was nearly invulnerable. Her muscle was a shield that brought both respect and fear. People stared, but not out of indifference. Her presence demanded a kind of awe; some glanced away, some watched with hungry eyes, yet none could ignore what she had built, rep by rep, scar by scar.

That life didn't leave much room for dating.

So Tinder stayed uninstalled. It was safer that way.

Until that one slow afternoon when loneliness, or maybe just curiosity, made her reinstall it "just for laughs." She didn't expect anything. The app felt like something belonging to a dead version of her.
Then she saw the messages.  Most she ignored. But one was different.

Dylan.

Cute. He had warm eyes in his pictures and a goofy confidence that felt impossible to fake.

His first message wasn't a line. It was a joke about bad parking and misplaced bravado.

It made her actually laugh. Not politely—really laugh. It was almost a sound she didn't recognize at first. And the guy was persistent. He'd messaged her old self three times, ending the last one with the line, "I'm too dumb to know when I'm being rejected, so I'll just keep embarrassing myself until you make me stop."

And Claire thought, maybe it was time to see if lightning could strike twice—minus the thunder, of course.

She answered him on a whim. And a whim turned into an evening of messages back and forth. Then a week. Then three.

Every night, she found herself curling up after training, heavy with fatigue, sweaty hair wrapped in a towel, and smiling at her phone like she hadn't in years.

He made her feel... lighter. Stronger in a different way.

They flirted. Teased. Shared music. Shared stories. Shared pieces of themselves without naming it.

But she never stopped thinking: The girl he's talking to isn't me.

That photo was five years and a whole universe ago. The woman she was now had scars he couldn't see. Muscle he couldn't imagine. A voice he'd reject and a life he might not understand.

And then one night, she asked him to send pictures of what his ideal woman looked like. She was terrified.

One after another, they came, even though he said her request was "a trap." Scarlett Johansson, Margot Robbie, and a couple of fitness models. Soft curves, bright smiles.

Her heart sank.

But then he added two more images: Cory Everson. Dana Linn Bailey. Women with real muscle. Not her kind of muscle, but still, women built from the same furnace she'd forged herself in.
Hope flickered. Fear strangled it.

Did he actually like that look? Or were they just "cool" examples? Inspiration, not desire?

She agonized over it.

And when he finally asked her if she wanted to meet in person, her stomach twisted into a knot so tight she felt winded.

She said yes. Then sat there staring at the screen, wondering what he would think when a woman twice the size of the girl in the photo walked into the room.

What if he stared? What if he laughed? What if he recoiled?

She'd survived worse than rejection. But God, she didn't want to survive this.  She wanted it to go right.

Because Dylan made her feel like the girl she used to be, who laughed so easily.  The one who believed people could be good. The one who still had hope left in her hands.

She wanted him to meet her.

Not the picture. Not the past. Her.

And she wanted to be that woman again, too. Maybe he brought it out in her. She wasn't sure. But one thing she was sure of was that the morning she walked to that coffee shop, her hands were trembling anyway.

[taoschild]

Dating App Muscle will be included as a 10 chapter Novella in the new compilation: Muscle for Christmas 2, which should be out soon. Here is a little more to wet your appetite.
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Dylan had never liked dating apps. Not necessarily because he was old-fashioned. In fact, he'd worked in tech for over a decade and could write algorithms better than most of the startups behind them. It was because there was something artificial about swiping for love. Something about the whole process made him feel like he was trying to order a soulmate off DoorDash.

Swipe right for potential happiness, please allow 30–45 minutes for emotional delivery.

Okay, maybe he was a little old-fashioned.

Still, after a string of quiet evenings filled with leftovers, documentaries he didn't finish, and a loneliness that was subtle enough to ignore but persistent enough not to, he reactivated his account.

He took a fresh headshot with good lighting. Thankfully, it was a decent hair day and it only two attempts, which was small miracle. Then he sat down on the couch, braced himself, and started swiping.

Duck-lipped selfies. Mirror pics where the flash obscured half the person's face. A woman posing with a fish. Why was there always someone holding a fish?
Of course there was the round of obligatory, parade of gym mirror shots—sweaty, blurry, aggressively filtered. He slowed down through those.

He always liked fit girls. Liked-liked them. Okay, fine. He liked them a lot.

Fine, FINE—his dream woman could absolutely bench him like he weighed nothing and maybe gently place him on a shelf afterward. That whole "strong woman picks up scrawny nerd and carries him off into the sunset" scenario was not a joke. It was... well.

He'd googled the word once. Just once. At 2 a.m. With his brightness all the way down.

"Sthenolagnia: arousal from strength."

He had closed the tab so fast he nearly sprained a finger. Not because it was wrong, but good god, because it was painfully accurate. It felt like labeling a kink that should stay in the shameful, dusty storage closet of his psyche forever.

So yeah. Fit girls. But real-life wall-throwing goddesses? Those were unicorns. And why would they swipe right on him?

He sighed and kept going.

And then—Her.

He stopped dead. Thumb frozen mid-air.

"Claire, 26. Into fitness. Terrible at parallel parking. Excellent at quoting The Office."

Dylan swiped down to her photos and stopped breathing for a full second.

The first shot was clearly from a fitness competition. Stage lights. A tanned, oiled physique carved with definition that looked half-art, half-weapon. Strawberry-blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, freckles scattered like constellations across her cheekbones. He'd always had a soft spot for gingers. Okay, more than a soft spot, but this was something else entirely.

The second photo was her in business clothes. Clean lines, confident posture, a professional smile that suggested she knew exactly how competent she was and didn't need to brag about it.

But the third killed him. She was mid-laugh, full-body, eyes nearly shut, mouth open like she hadn't remembered to be self-conscious for even a heartbeat. You could almost hear the laugh through the screen. Unfiltered joy that was warm and real.

He felt a ridiculous, stupid flutter somewhere behind his ribs.

"Oh," he muttered under his breath. "I'm in trouble."

She glowed. Like actually glowed. He checked if his brightness had auto-adjusted. Dylan exhaled. "Okay... wow."

Thumb hovered. Hesitated. Hovered again.

"God, what am I doing?" he whispered to his empty apartment before tapping Message.

He expected a polite, two-line exchange and then the familiar ghosting fade-out.

Instead: Claire replied in under a minute.

What began as a cautious "Hey, I'm Dylan. So, uh... are you really bad at parking, or is that modesty?" escalated quickly into chaotic, delightful chatter.
GIFs. Sarcastic hypotheticals. Ridiculous questions like: "Fave desert island cereal?" "Favorite minor character on The Office?" And the important one:"Would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses?"

She fired back:  <<I could take both. And you. With one arm tied behind my back.>>

He snorted into his coffee.

"That strong, huh?" he typed.

Her reply came with suspicious speed:

<<Well, I did say I was into fitness.>>

[GrowingBull89]

Excited to see what develops between the pair

[taoschild]

Muscle for Christmas 2, is now out at all major bookstores. The novella, Dating App: Muscle, headlines the anthology. Here is another section to wet your appetite. You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login
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He laughed. He liked this girl. She was smart, quick, funny, and he didn't want to assume, but probably reasonably fit. Then again online everybody was, right?

He had no idea that "into fitness" meant "could probably squat him like a kettlebell and then carry him up a flight of stairs without breaking a sweat."

But he'd learn.

Oh, he'd learn.

What mattered first was that they clicked—not in the vague, optimistic "maybe there's chemistry if I squint" way, but in the natural way, the oh... I could talk to this person for hours without wanting to hurl my phone way.

The banter came easily, like catching up with a friend he hadn't met yet. And then came the voice memos.

At first, tiny ones.  Her: 0:04 voice memo. The moment he pressed play, he froze.

Her voice was deeper than he expected—not masculine, not rough, just... low, velvety, with a warm, gravelly lilt at the edges. It gave him the notion of someone whose body worked at full throttle often enough that even her voice carried the echo of it.

God help him, it stirred something in him he would never, ever admit out loud.

"Okay, answer fast—favorite cereal. Go," she said.

He replayed that four-second memo more times than he would ever confess to another human being. There was something about that warm gravel, like honey poured over rocks, twisted straight through his spine.

It wasn't butch. Just... lived-in. He knew without seeing her she owned a body pushed hard enough that even her vocal cords carried some of the mileage. He cleared his throat before replying, even though she couldn't hear his thoughts unraveling.

Him: 0:07 voice memo.  "Bold of you to assume I don't have a spreadsheet ranking cereals already."  (A lie. But he said it confidently.)

Her: 0:03 voice memo. "I need the real answer."

His: 0:06 voice memo. He tried to sound casual. Really, he did.  "Uh—Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Obviously. I mean, if that's not your answer we may need to break up before we even start." He heard the wobble in his own voice and winced. Smooth, Dylan. Really smooth.

Her response came seconds later.

Her: 0:03 voice memo.  A low, amused hum—God, that hum— "Mmm. Bold choice. Correct choice. You may live another day."

He had to sit down.

Then another ping.

Her: 0:08 voice memo. "You know, you kinda sound nervous. Are you intimidated already? Because if that's the case, I should probably warn you—I can leg press a small sedan."

The tease was light. The undertone was not. He laughed out loud, because what else do you do when a woman casually mentions she can handle several hundred pounds and sounds like she means it?

His: 0:05 voice memo. "Not intimidated. Just... mentally preparing. You know. For impact." He regretted the wording immediately.

Her: 0:04 voice memo. A soft huff of laughter, deeper than it should've been, brushing the line between feminine and feral. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm the gentle type."

He nearly swallowed his tongue. Because he knew instantly and intuitively that "gentle" was relative. And that he very much wanted to find out relative to what.

A few days later, after a midnight meme exchange and a very serious debate over the merits of pineapple on pizza (Dylan, of course, knew it didn't belong), she sent:
Okay. So. Want to test whether we're this charming in person?

Who says I think you're charming?" He joked back. "I'm just keeping you around as a punching bag to build my self-esteem.

Ouch, I'll remember that when I'm using you for the same purpose in person. Seriously though. Are we going to take the plunge or not?

He stared at the message longer than he needed to. Then typed back: Only if I can parallel park us into a nice coffee shop.