Muscle Maturity Ch. 02

Obviously this was not a serious contest of strength, in our unequal positions and with our differing levels of fatigue, but I was not about to press the point.

And suddenly, she stiffened, and arched her back a little. A few spasms ran through her. Then her elbows bent as she bent over a little and leaned down. Before I knew what was what, her teeth were sinking into my upper right pectoral.

"Oof," I gasped, with mingled pain and surprise. But she stayed like that for some long moments, almost half a minute, slightly hunched and curled, clutching my shoulders hard, pressing and grinding her crotch against mine, trembling all over. My own arousal grew as she rode out her orgasm.

At last, she lifted her flushed face to mine, and planted a smooch on my cheek. "That was a good long one," she sighed happily. "I'll give you yours in a minute. Need to catch my breath."

"No hurry," I said with a smile, cupping the back of her head. "The winner gets to dictate whatever pace she likes."

"Winner, huh? Do you prefer being dominated, then?"

"Mmm... I'd say half and half, frankly. As the mood takes me."

"Same here. Sometimes it can feel good to take charge."

"Oh, for sure. Or to be taken charge of."

"Mm-hmm." She drew herself up again, thrusting her chest out proudly, and put her hands on her hips.

"Next week, let's try some of those chest exercises you've mentioned, and all those bicep curl variations you've been telling me about too. I guess you'll see these guns getting properly pumped up," she said, and performed a double-biceps pose.

Still perched atop my pelvis, she began grinding again, with slow sensuous movements, while doing the alternate chest bounce she'd just learned. In no time at all I was hard and throbbing, and ready to shoot my load. Obligingly, Judith pulled down the top of my pants, and reached down with her left hand. With a firm grip, she began to jerk me off, while she kept her right arm flexed. Then she began to growl, and grunt, savagely, like a cavewoman or jungle babe. And all the time, she was showing off her muscle control -- pulsing her right chest and biceps alternately.

The combined effect of all that was simply too much. I think my eyes rolled back into my head a little with the force of my orgasm.

And when it was over, she looked down with satisfaction at the splotch of white on her abdomen. "Yep," she said, almost in an undertone to herself, "chest and biceps it is."

**

Over the next few weeks, she assiduously followed the revised training plan I drew up for her.

Inclined dumbbell presses were better than the flat bench for building muscle mass, I had learned. Thick, fleshy pecs were what she (and I) wanted, so she performed those, straining to complete 4 sets of 12 reps per workout. Towards the end of the six-week program, she had hit 35lbs per hand, and was even keeping her chest and shoulder muscles under continuous tension by limiting the range of movement, i.e. not locking out her arms at the top.

As a counterpoint to the pushing movement, I got her doing one-arm dumbbell rows on a bench. She was only somewhat familiar with those, so we went online to search for instructional videos -- I could demonstrate and I did, but I too wanted a little more confirmation that I was doing them right.

We both sat watching the video on my screen, as a huge woman -- very well-known in lifting circles -- demonstrated the particular kind of dumbbell rows she had in fact pioneered.

"She's amazing," Judith breathed. I simply nodded.

That woman was lifting practically my entire body weight in one hand, possibly more: 200lbs, give or take. Such heavy dumbbells didn't actually exist as such, so she had taken a short barbell and loaded up enough plates to make the weight. She had to use lifting straps just to grip the bar, but when in position she was pumping out the rows 20, 25 at a time, making sure that the plates touched her ribs with every rep.

"I mean this is just incredible. This is probably the pinnacle of what humans are physically capable of," Judith commented. "I don't think I'll ever hit this kind of strength. Not that I'm bothered by that, of course, but, seriously, if I could even hit half the weight she's doing, I'd consider myself a winner." She laughed. "I'd give myself that particular trophy!"

"And that would be more than I could do!" I said, not without a touch of envy myself. That woman really was fantastically strong.

"In any case, as you can see, the idea behind these rows is to go high weight, and high volume. And there's a little sacrifice of form -- you see the way she's jerking with every rep? I don't think that's particularly safe, but with that kind of weight I suppose it's inevitable."

"Mm, yes, I see. I've only ever seen a few beginners do those in the gym, and the dumbbells were tiny."

What she was describing, of course, was an all-too common sight in most commercial gyms, and a rather deplorable one, to my mind. Many male personal trainers give their female clients next to no basic respect, especially if the women in question are neophytes. They put the women to doing all kinds of pointless and ineffectual activities, while paying them scant attention. And if they do allow the women to perform any exercises with weights, they invariably limit the women to the tiniest dumbbells available, while doing certain "functional" movements with sloppy form that the trainer doesn't bother to correct.

It was almost physically painful for both Judith and me to pass by a commercial gym, sneak a peek in the free weights section, and see an insouciant trainer blatantly giving substandard service to a female client.

"They'd get more benefit from carrying groceries," Judith lamented, after we'd seen just such a lamentable sight. We were out at the local mall, on a shopping trip.

"Couldn't agree more. Really pains me to see irresponsible trainers like that," I said, with a touch of anger in my tone. "They should at least have some basic human decency, if professionalism is a little too much to ask for. Women go in there, wanting to get fit, and... and that's the kind of nonsense they have to put up with. It's a crock of bullshit."

"I'm glad our school's sports teams are decently trained, at least. Ever since we began training together I've looked at their activities with new eyes. Better-informed eyes, I must say, thanks to you," Judith chuckled. "They have got coaches telling them good things, it seems."

"Oh. Well, that's good to hear. One of my nieces once told me how her high school coach told her a deadlift was basically the same as a squat, only you held the weight in front instead of putting it on your shoulders."

"That's poisonous rubbish." Judith was aghast.

"Indeed. Very well-chosen word, my dear -- poisonous, indeed. It was all I could do not to march down to that school and speak some sense to that man. Well, not that it would've accomplished much, anyhow. I'm not that kind of doctor," I quipped, "so who'd listen to me? All I could do was tell my niece a little of what I know, and hope that she could at least get the basics down so she could have a better foundation for safer lifting in future."

"Mmm. Hard to see how you could do any more than that."

"Still, a man could wish."

**

Judith wasn't exactly pulling the weight of a man with a single arm, but her lats were growing visibly. By the end of six weeks, when she performed a front lat spread, I could truthfully say that her torso was more tapered than ever, and her back had noticeably grown broader and thicker.

And of course, the way her small natural breasts sat on her increasingly muscular chest was an absolute delight to behold.

Her routine also included seated dumbbell shoulder presses. She took pains to keep her posture tight and upright as she pressed the 15lb dumbbells up, for 4 or 5 sets of 10. This progressed eventually to 20lbs, and 12 reps. As I'd pointed out before, she was already genetically gifted in the shoulders -- these well-performed shoulder presses twice a week brought out her potential even more fully. There were clear lines now, between her deltoids and upper arm muscles. She could look proudly in the mirror as she turned from side to side, admiring her increased mass and definition. And I was right there admiring her too, of course. Front-row seat, as it were.

During one of our typical steamy workouts, she set herself up on the inclined bench -- feet firmly planted, good arch in lower back, shoulder-blades pressed into the bench, strong arms holding up the dumbbells above her. She was topless, as usual -- the sweat glistened on her bare torso.

The weights were light, for her -- 15lbs in each hand. She looked at me smokily, and said, "Jay, would you... spot me?"

When she said it that particular way, I knew she wasn't really asking for assistance. It was a cue. And by then I knew her well enough to pick up on all the hints.

I positioned myself -- not behind her, but in front of her. She smiled naughtily, and began lowering the dumbbells to either side. I crouched, with my hands on her thighs, mesmerized by the sight of her pectorals slowly stretching out. Her breasts flattened out as well, across the breadth of her chest. Her nipples jutted out, swelling up before my eyes.

I gulped -- my throat was dry -- and reached out as if in a daze, to take hold of those big, pink nubs in my fingers. She moaned at my touch, and quivered a bit. I began using my thumbs to stroke her areolae in circles, right at the base of her nipples. She moaned again, more loudly and urgently.

Then she pressed the weights up slowly, and from what I could feel underneath my hands, she was applying the mind-muscle connection -- being hyper-aware of which muscles one was using for making movements, and concentrating the effort in the desired muscle groups. She was really focusing on contracting her pectorals, as hard as she could. I could practically feel her pecs humming with the power she was generating. Power at my fingertips.

Again and again, she pumped out the reps. Her chest mounds rose, and fell. Rose, and fell. Bulged, flattened, bulged again. I began to fondle her breasts, then to squeeze. Then I began to dig my fingers into the soft flesh of her chest, to feel the hardness underneath. She bore it all stoically. Her increasingly defined abdomen undulated with each rasping breath she took. Her sweat trickled down the crevices of muscle definition.

She let the dumbbells fall onto the floor -- she had performed more than a dozen reps by then, but I couldn't tell for sure; I'd stopped counting a while ago. Her arms hung limply by her sides as I straddled her hips. I could see the veins standing out, running from her upper chest through her front shoulders down the length of her upper arms, across the inner crook of her elbows and eventually fading somewhere along her forearms. That was the most vascularity I had ever seen on her.

Worshipfully, I stroked her arms, running my thumbs along her veins. Obligingly, she tensed her fatigued muscles again, trying to make them protrude a little more.

"I have veins," she said, wonderingly.

"Oh yes you do."

She looked down. "So do you," she said, huskily, and before I could react she had yanked down the front of my training shorts, liberating my fully-erect cock.

It was true -- I had veins up and down my shaft. I was as excited and aroused as I had ever been.

She looked up at me then, her eyes glittering with intensity. "It's time. Take off my bottoms for me."

"You sure? Don't we need... should I go get..."

"No, it's fine. I know you're healthy. I'll take pills after," she said. "Go ahead. Do it."

This was a big, big step forward in our relationship. But with her eyes, and her hands, and her warm, pulsing vaginal walls, and in a hundred other little ways, Judith was showing me it was what she wanted, where she wanted us to go.

It was only the work of a moment for me to shed my bottoms as well. Then it took a little maneuvering, but soon I was inside her, feeling her squeeze me with her pussy. She had swung her legs up and hooked her ankles together behind my back, clamping my waist with her thighs. I leaned forward slightly, to find a good angle, and she raised her arms and flexed them. So naturally, I put my hands right on top of her biceps, and gripped them for support. She was rock-solid, sturdy as a boulder. I experimentally put a little more weight on her, and she didn't budge, but her chest and shoulder muscles flexed a little harder with the effort of keeping me propped upright.

"Looks like we have a winner," she said, smiling through her strain. "New workout position."

We began moving in tandem, and she felt warm, wet, wonderful... and she allowed me to spend myself in her, until I had finished my gasping and shuddering. Then I slumped, right on top of her, our slick torsos pressed together as we rested after our exertions.

Her arms encircled my rib cage. "Ooh, I'm shaky," she chuckled. "I'm going to be so sore tomorrow."

"That can be good," I murmured into her ear. My hands were at her hips, caressing them gently.

"Not if I can't lift a bunch of textbooks or a box of classroom supplies."

"I could take a day off and go around with you, as your personal porter."

"Aren't you the perfect gentleman."

Then she whispered into my ear, "I've gotten thicker around the torso, haven't I?"

I was still broader than her, of course... but I realized she was right. Her lats had thickened, and so had her chest.

"Soon I'll be ready for our rematch, don't you think?"

"I'm looking forward to it, my dear."