Girl Friday - Part Three
A story by Dreamspinner about muscular woman romance
published at Muscles of Dee Kay with kind permission of the author
Girl Friday - Part Three
My doorbell rang precisely at 5:00. Helen Montague, what does this evening hold? I had hopes, but no real expectations. If she wants nothing more than conversation, that will be fine. It will be finer still, though, if she wants more.
I opened the door. She wouldn't meet my gaze. "Helen," I began. "Please don't be ashamed about last night."
I pulled her gently by the arm. "Please, come in. Forget about it. Let's sit on the veranda and relax. Would you like…" I hesitated. "A soft drink?"
She smiled easily. "Ginger ale if you have it."
"Dinner's ready. Make yourself comfortable. I'll serve."
"Let me help."
"No. You're my guest."
The setting sun pinked the snow on the mountains to the east of Albuquerque. Helen shook her head. "Its beautiful here, David. Almost beyond imagining."
"I fell in love with the place years ago when I came for a conference. It was then I decided I'd move here when I could."
"Liz told me when she returned she had lunch with you during the break." I wonder what else she told you. "Did you have an affair with her?"
I smiled my 'That's none of your business' smile. "Why do you ask?"
Helen laughed. She wouldn't have been capable of smiling, let alone laughing, when I first met her. Ms. 'Willing and Able' had taken Ms. Prim and Proper's place. "Oh, I was just curious. Something about the way she sounded when she mentioned your name made me think you might have been more than just colleagues." Clever girl!
Time to test the waters. "Do you remember breaking down that night?"
She didn't miss a beat. Liz had done her work well. "Yes. I was afraid you would know what my secret was if I asked you if you liked girls whose bodies looked like those of the dancers we saw that night."
"Tell me, then. Why did you break down?"
She took a sip of after-dinner coffee, long since gone cold. "It's a long story."
"I'm sure it is."
"I'll tell you, but before I do, I have two questions."
I was silent.
"As my analysis with Liz Rosen progressed, I found myself wanting to know more about the man who had referred me to her. So, I began reading the articles you published."
"And which one stayed with you?"
"The one entitled, The Development and Function of the Sexual Template."
I remembered that one. It had been greeted with skepticism. Not that I minded-I was convinced that the concept was valid, but I was impatient with questions from those who hadn't carefully thought it through. And nowhere was that more apparent than in my class in human sexuality. It was the fall of 1982, but the recollection was as vivid as if it had all happened yesterday.
"Professor Anderson", began the first-year graduate student on the first row, "would you mind explaining…or defining, what you mean by a 'sexual template'?"
"Have you read my article?"
"Of course", he said, defensively crossing his arms.
"If you have," I said, coming over to stand in front of him, "then I expect you have given a lot of thought to elucidating the parameters that define yours." The others in the class laughed nervously.
"I-I-I don't know exactly what you mean," he stammered.
"Well," I said, stepping back. I took a piece of chalk from my pocket. I sketched a humanoid shape on the blackboard, and spoke as I drew. "A template, generally speaking, is a 'pattern', but it can also be used to make comparisons." I turned to face the class. A range of expressions met my gaze; some interested, some puzzled, some quite anxious, including the graduate student who had asked me for an explanation.
I put the chalk back in my pocket. "It is my belief that all of us, including me, have a pattern in our minds against which we compare potential partners we encounter. Furthermore, I believe we do this automatically and unconsciously."
Questions flew from the mouths of my students. "How do you know?" "Why do you think so?" "What proof do you have?" And then, finally, "Do you have a template, Professor?"
I just smiled. I turned back to the blackboard and pointed to the shape I had drawn. "Imagine a human-shaped hole through which only an ideal match can pass perfectly."
"Where is this hole? In our heads?" were the impertinent questions from the back row. "Are you saying we have holes in our heads?" The class laughed.
So did I. "In a sense, yes, that's exactly what I'm saying."
An expression of enlightenment crossed the face of a student in the front row. "Sometimes, when I'm walking across campus", he said, "and I'm checking out the girls, its like there's a little voice saying 'yes', or 'no', and 'yes'. Is that what this is all about? When that happens, am I deciding whether they fit my template?"
"What do you think?"
"I think I am."
"I think you are, too."
He hesitated. "So, is there a way this can be quantified?"
"I'm glad you asked, because that's the assignment I was going to give all of you." There was a storm of protest. "No!" "It's too personal!"
"Yes," I said. "It is personal, so I'm not going to ask you to share anything about your template. A just keep note of exactly what it is about potential partners that rules some of them in and rules others out. It'll be a kind of checklist that will prove to be very helpful in the mate selection process you will all eventually face."
One student hadn't wanted to let me off the hook. "Do you know what's on your checklist?"
I nodded. "Yes."
The student was bold. "Well, professor?"
"It's none of your business." The class roared with laughter. "Just as what is on your checklist is none of mine."
"David?" Helen had her hand on my arm.
"Sorry. I was thinking about something that happened in one of my classes. It was a long time ago, Helen." I shuddered. "Longer than I care to remember, really." I shook my head.
"Do you still believe we all have a 'sexual template'?"
"OK. Here's the first of my questions." She paused. You've managed to maneuver me right where you want me, you minx! "What are the parameters that define yours?"
The mountains to the east were now blood red. The sky behind them was azure. There had been no movement in the air all day until that moment, when a sudden southwesterly breeze stirred in the branches of the Ponderosa pines that grew around my house. I sat up and folded my hands on the table.
"To begin with, I must tell you that since the time I wrote that article, my thinking on the subject has changed somewhat." Helen frowned. "Not substantively, but significantly, nonetheless."
"Back then, I believed a 'sexual template' was merely a checklist of physical attributes. Now I realize psychological compatibility is as important, if not more important, than the shape of a potential partner's body…if you follow me."
"I do. But tell me, David, what physical attributes are on your 'checklist'?" Her thumb and forefinger began to stroke the stem of her water glass.
I leaned back and closed my eyes. "I'm conjuring her image now, Helen." I heard her chuckle once. "She's five-eight, a hundred forty-seven pounds," I began, half-murmuring as if in a trance. She is slender, yet broad shouldered, and especially full of calf-like a ballerina. C-cup. Defined, in the manner of a gymnast. A high rump, tight waist-six-pack. Bifurcated biceps, yes, she has bifurcated biceps. And heavily veined forearms and hands. A fine, small head framed by dark tresses. Full, pouty lips. The shape of her face betrays her French ancestry." I opened my eyes. Beads of sweat had broken out on Helen's forehead. "Shall I go on, dear?"
"No. You know, don't you?"
"Yes. You broke down because a man who liked those dancers' bodies would like your body as well. That was a terrifying idea for you then. You were torn between wanting to be admired in the flesh, but at the same time, you wanted to be-perhaps more than anything."
She was crying. "How ironic," she said finally. "I wanted you to tell me you liked the way those dancers looked. I wanted to grab you by the shirt-front and scream, 'Say you like a woman whose muscles ripple! Tell me you like my muscles and tell me you want to fuck my brains out!', but instead, I wept." She had been staring at the fading mountains as if addressing their stony red countenances. Then she turned to me. "But you, David Anderson, man of honor…you gave me Liz Rosen's number." She shook her head. "I would have been putty in your hands that night."
"That's why I gave you her number."
Helen Montague's lithe body was as enchanting in the morning light as it had been heaving beneath me to candlelight the evening before. I set the tray down and tapped her on the shoulder. "Would you like coffee?"
"Mmm-hmm." She rolled over on her back and flexed her elbows, her biceps quivering as she stretched. "Kiss me." Helen Montague's heavily-veined forearms reached for me. I bent forward and tasted her full, pouty, morning lips.
"You were beyond imagining last night."
She blushed. "I never dreamed I could have shown off like that; flexing my muscles in front of a real audience," she said. She looked at my penis, engorging again. "Especially such an appreciative one." Her smile was absolutely radiant, freely-given. There wasn't an ounce of guilt in her. I must call Liz soon!
"I'm so glad you called, Helen. And I'm so glad you came."
She laughed. "Which time?" We both laughed.
We sat next to each other in my bed, sipping our coffees. "David?"
"If you don't mind me asking, which of my muscles is your favorite?"
"I can't decide if I like your calves best, or your biceps."
"I like my ass. I think I could crack walnuts with it."
"I have some, would you like to try?" We both laughed hysterically, full of satisfaction, free from guilt, free from shame, free, free, free.
She drew near, putting her chin on my shoulder. "Now, for my second question."
"Regarding your template idea, don't you think there's more to it than a person's looks?"
"I do. That's what I was alluding to last night when I said my thinking about the template idea had changed. If a person has all the physical attributes, but there's no emotional connection, then the whole thing falls flat. If, on the other hand, the physical attributes are there, and there is an emotional connection as well, then the physical attraction nourishes the emotional connection."
"Hmm. Sounds as if you're speaking hypothetically, David. It's too abstract."
"I agree. You are right, Helen. Until now, my sexual template has been nothing more than an abstraction. But at this moment, sitting here in my bed with your muscles on the morning after, I feel as if all my hypothesizing has been validated."
"I've fucked a lot of women, Helen, but I never made love until last night. Of course it's your body-in part anyway-I don't deny it. But there's more, Helen, much more." I feel you passing through that human-shaped hole in my mind.
I felt a sudden wetness on my shoulder and knew she had found her template as well.