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NEW FMG Novel: Muscle Therapy

Dec 26, 2018 - permalink
Hello All.  I've decided to post the first few pages of my new book here.  I will post more soon and the entire novel  should be out in early January.  The jacket cover (rough draft) is as follows: Following being outed at work and to his fiancee as a man with a muscle fetish, Kyle goes on a quest to understand what he wants and needs out of a relationship with a woman. After hiding his love of muscle all his adult life, he finds ways to explore it.  Therapy leads him to consider not settling for what society says he should want, but what he really desires. In the fashion of any journey of self discovery, he meets people along the way who help him understand this part of himself. Each brings their own experience with the world of muscle and helps Kyle as he explores sexual highs and lows as well as the introspection and emotions that finally lead him to accept himself.

If you like the segment below please consider checking out my first book which can be found here  ;D:

   I had hid my affliction, my curse, and my joy my entire life. After successfully concealing my fetish from my mom, my girlfriend, and my fiancée for years, the truth had finally come out and with it, my life had come crashing down. A career as a successful college professor was in jeopardy and public ridicule was not far behind. In some ways I was relieved that decades of concealment was finally over. For years I had considered coming out. That’s what it was to me, coming out. It wasn’t that I was homosexual, but that I craved something in women that society considered unacceptable—muscle. Not just a little muscle, but downright big, sculpted women who were proud of their size.
   Though part of me desired to end my charade, come forward and admit my obsession, the voice inside my head that feared the consequences was much louder. I had worked my way up over the years into the position of a tenured professor at the University of New Mexico. I had written three well reviewed books on the origins of the Great War and more importantly, was consistently rated amongst the best teachers in the school. Now with one stupid mistake I had jeopardized everything. I had opened my laptop in my office at school and it had revealed the site I’d been on the night before when I couldn’t sleep. I’d gone out to the family room and spent many hours in a chat room on a site called Girls With Muscle discussing and viewing muscular women. Though I rarely went to the site, I had found the discussion that night revealing and entertaining. Of course, some of the pictures and discussion had been titillating too. A new picture of Valentina Mishina had led me down the primrose path toward sexual gratification. Here was a sensual picture of a beautiful, and probably unnaturally built, Russian woman who spurred engaging and sometimes humorous discussion between a group of muscle admirers, almost all of them male. Though there was general agreement that she was probably using steroids, yet few of us cared.
   The picture of her wearing a black tank top and boy shorts and grimacing while doing a leg extension was beyond words. Her black hair was pulled back in a loose bun, like she didn’t care about the way she looked because she was focusing on the huge stack of weights at hand. Her dark brown eyes, framed by black mascara and deep eye liner looked off in the distance, unaffected by anyone else. I loved it. Whatever she was doing to build her muscles, it was working. Her traps were engaged and the shoulder facing the camera was so big it looked like she had a muscle on top of another shoulder muscle and both of them were lined with cuts. Her bicep was enormous. Trained by now to be able to judge the size of women’s arms, I knew her bicep had to be at least 16 inches and an enormous vein engorged with blood looked barely contained by her thin skin on top. The vein went into her forearm where it forked into a small stream of veins and capillaries which fanned out across her arm. As an arms guy, it took me a while to leave the focus on the incredible muscularity of her arms, but when it came to Valentina, that was just the start. Her pec muscles were so pronounced that the picture looked 3d. The chasm in her chest was something I longed to rub my finger across. Instead, my hand found my member and began to stroke myself softly.
   The deep cut down the middle of her chest fanned out into rows of striations. I’d seem more than my share of muscular women over the years, but nothing like her chest. The line down the center continued into her abs. While not as cut as some women I’d seen, they were muscular and attractive nonetheless. Her legs looked like an anatomy lesson. A varying series of V’s either upside down or right side up framed her legs and smaller cuts went across her teardrop muscle. I zoomed in to see the intricacies on her legs and studied them furiously like I’d be tested on them the next day and needed to memorize the lines. She looked so big, cut, and powerful I was beginning to hyperventilate a bit just by viewing her picture. Eventually, I couldn’t stand the rising stimulation anymore and I leaned back and took care of my urges. Afterward I had closed the laptop lid and gone to sleep.

Dec 31, 2018 - permalink
So after he is suspended from his job and his fiancee dumps him due to his love of muscular women the story continues in the 2nd chapter below:

Leaving the restaurant I sought out a bar. I needed a drink. No several, in the worst way. I had almost been fired, lost my fiancée, why not screw things up a bit more by getting embarrassingly drunk and making a scene? Bad things come in three’s. Right? Why not have all three out of the way in one day. A text in all caps from Elaine confirmed my worst fears and made my decision to screw it and go to the bar seem an easy one. It read, DONT COME BACK TO THE APARTMENT TONIGHT. Briefly, I entertained the idea of going back home and trying to reason with her. But what did I really have to say that I hadn’t already said? Nothing. Instead I found a cheap hotel near a bar and drank my sorrows away. A dimly lit bar with a sticky floor and dollar bills taped to the wall was the place for a deviant like me.

    Five shots and a beer later my phone lit up. It was Elaine. Hours earlier until I dropped my bombshell about liking muscular women, she had been my fiancée.  I quickly stumbled out of the bar and answered. I was so drunk I feared she might smell the alcohol through the phone. Any chance I had left at salvaging things resided in this phone call and I was absolutely shit faced. All night I had been thinking of what I could say to escape my predicament but I had come up empty. As the evening continued, the ideas had gotten wilder but none held any more promise. The genie was out of the bottle and there was no way to put it back in. As I picked up the phone I blurted out.

   “I’ll go to therapy.”

   She ignored me and spoke so fast that in my inebriated state I had to decipher what she’d said after she finished speaking. “Kyle, I’m leaving and I’ve already packed. The key is next to the toaster.”

   She hung up and I called back immediately but it went right to voice mail. I stumbled back to the hotel, fumbled with the key to unlock the door, and fell asleep on the bed face down without taking my clothes or shoes off.

   Five hours later I awakened to the sound of a lawnmower. I stared at the clock in disbelief. 7:00 am. I couldn’t buy a break. My head was exploding, I smelled and I had a severe case of cottonmouth. My face was glued to an ugly gold bed spread and I tried to dispel memories of the ABC documentary I’d watched on hotel bedspreads and dried semen. I got up, grabbed my things, walked out and drove home. At least I could take a shower and feel almost human again. When I arrived at the apartment, it felt cold and empty. She had cleared all of her stuff out in a few short hours to be rid of the freak she was living with, me.

   I knew what I was going to do. Why hide it anymore? I had buried these urges for over two decades and it had gotten me an empty apartment without company. I hated being alone. Fuck it, why not just go all in?  Who was I hiding these urges from anyway? I had nobody. Perhaps exploring my true feelings would be healthy and provide me some new clues to my sexual proclivity. I turned on the computer and went looking for muscle porn. Previously, I hadn’t sought nude muscular women on the internet, but now it sounded like a good idea. This was the new me. Into the search bar I wrote female muscle nude and clicked return. I scoured the internet and watched a few videos that were exciting to me, but for the most part I hated hard porn. Still, by the time I checked the clock it had been over two hours so I must have enjoyed it to a certain extent.

Later that evening I popped back on the web and went to a site that I had never visited before, herbiceps.com. I had discussed the site with others on Girls with Muscle, but had never signed up because you had to use your credit card to fund the site.

   With Elaine around becoming a member on a muscle site would have been unthinkable. Now that she was gone, presto. I signed up, put in my credit card number and tooled around figuring it out a bit. I popped into a few of the muscle girls chat rooms and observed the mechanics. Apparently you bought credits which were paid out per minute. Girls would select different settings and you would pay by the setting. There were a number that were in the free rooms, but I quickly discovered that the higher tiered rooms offered women much readier to shed clothing and flex for their money.

Suddenly MuscleBod appeared. I knew her better as Oana, a frequent national competitor. She had striations on top of cuts which was all made possible by the sheer enormity of her muscles. I joined the chat and watched her strip and flex her thick tight muscles. Yes, it turned me on a lot, but I soon figured out that beating off in front of a computer, even if the woman on the other side was real and responding to my clicks and texts, wasn’t going to fill my need. I logged off and went to sleep. 

   I woke up the next morning preparing to continue counting the ways I would benefit from not having Elaine in the house. Number one, walking around in my underwear in a totally slovenly fashion.  A second benefit of course, was drinking milk right out of the carton. And finally, flipping the computer on to watch porn without having someone looking over your shoulder. I sat reading the paper eating my cereal with porn on in the background. Yep, I had it great. I was miserable.

   As I read the paper my concentration strayed to the topic I was trying not to think about because I had no solution. But then it dawned on me, a muscle worship session. I had long regretted not doing a muscle worship session. What was stopping me now?

      These hour long sessions featured muscular women and bodybuilders wrestling, arm wrestling, massaging, and lifting and carrying men. Sessions varied but they were always sexual in nature and you could pick out different women, of course, for a price. It seemed to border on prostitution, but the lack of expectation of sex was the main difference, at least that is what I told myself. Of course all of the reviews had labels next to them which I eventually figured out. FS equaled full sex while happy ending revealed hand job. Honestly though, despite my hesitation, I knew I needed to do this if I was ever going to figure out my true attraction for muscular women.
Jan 01, 2019 - permalink
I love it so far
Jan 02, 2019 - permalink
Thanks Brian :)  Its nice to get some feedback.  Story Continues below:

I prepared in great detail for the sessions. I decided to coincide my session with a visit to Las Vegas to watch a bodybuilding competition. That way I could knock out two birds with one stone. It wasn’t often that a sessionette traveled to New Mexico anyway, so travel was necessary. In addition, I was scheduled to begin therapy soon after my trip. A muscle worship session after I began therapy might not be the best way to handle my ‘problem.’ 

   My research had led me to the conclusion that I should experience a session with a really big girl and a more fit and cut one like a physique competitor. That way I could really explore how much muscle I liked on a woman when I was up close and personal, so to speak.

   I started at WB270.com to get an idea of what wrestlers and muscle worship sessions would be available in Las Vegas when I was there. Next, I went to forum saradas to read the countless reviews of different performers. I was focused and finally felt I was accomplishing something for the first time in a days. For the first session I decided to go with an absolutely enormous woman, in terms of muscle. Cosette was just 5’1” but her weight varied between 145 and 200 pounds. Various reports said that her biceps were between 17 and 19 inches. Her pecs were so enormous that her sheets of muscle rivaled a regular sized woman in terms of pure mass in the chest area. There were videos of her taking a hammer and slamming it against her chest with no effect. Fortunately, she would be traveling to the bodybuilding contest in Vegas at the perfect time for an appointment with her. The reviews were so good that I would pay a little extra to see her rather than some of the locals. I sent the email.

   The other woman, I took a risk with. She was a local from Las Vegas, and she had no reviews. When I asked people on various forums about her, nobody knew anything. However, the pictures associated with her account were just stunning both in terms of her muscularity and her shape, even though her face was somewhat in the shadows or photoshopped out altogether. Something about her profile led me to want to roll the dice on her, and it wasn’t just her sculpted muscularity which screamed incredible beauty.
   My excitement for the trip finally gave way to the plane landing in the Vegas sun. My agenda, attending the summer bodybuilding contest and two muscle worship sessions. I had set them up long in advance and together the sessions would cost $700. One of the women would let me take pictures too. I planned to look at them often to remind me of what I hoped would be a life altering experience. When I arrived I checked in at the hotel closest to where the contest was being held, that still contained a good weight room. With millions of people in Vegas, I held no illusions that muscular women would be filing past me, but why not give it my best shot. I was pleasantly surprised with my room and the pool and lobby. My initial expectations proved mistaken as dozens of ripped, muscular men and women paraded around showing off their bodies.

     Unfortunately, many of the women were wearing sweats and baggier clothing but my muscle radar was on high alert. I always had the ability to pick out the most muscular woman in the room within a few seconds. I called it my mudar. One of the teachers I was friends with at school who was gay told me that he had something called gadar. He could tell who in the room was gay when he scanned the room and I didn’t believe him but he proved it at lunch one day. After picking out all the gay men, we went up to them, struck up a conversation and proved he was right. Though my mudar was less impressive, it was still effective. It was on high alert in the Hard Rock Hotel that week.

   I checked in and quickly changed into my swimsuit and went to the hotel pool to scout out female bodybuilders. There were many muscular people there, some doubtlessly contestants but most of them were probably fans like me. I was stronger than the average guy and fairly athletic so I normally felt no hesitation sunbathing with my shirt off. Overwhelmed by the display of extreme fitness surrounding me by the pool that day, I balked at removing my tank. I was in the baking Vegas sun, so keeping my clothes on was probably a good idea anyway. I sat back and hidden behind my reflective sunglasses, scanned the pool area for muscular women. Yah, I felt a little scummy for sure, but I felt few qualms in looking given the years I had trained myself to ignore my true desires. 

   As I sat there, I thought it might be smart to confirm the appointment tonight. I pulled out the phone and it said 2:04 pm on the front. It was less than three hours till our scheduled appointment.

   I texted, Hi this is Kyle. 5:00 pm tonight at the Travelodge right?  What room number?

   I could see the bars indicating she was typing back.  Yes, room 301. Do you have any requests?

   Full sex was my real interest. I wanted to know what it felt like with a bodybuilder, but I thought if I asked up front it would be straight up prostitution. Instead, I responded, Well, I wouldn’t mind some kind of role-play.

   That sounds fun.  What would you like me to be?  I have a number of costumes.

   Other than a school girl, I had no idea of potential costumes. Finally, I threw out.  How about a French Maid?  Elaine had been that a couple of Halloweens ago. It would be interesting to see the contrast.

   Sounds perfect.

   I decided to be a bit playful in my last text, hoping it wouldn’t come off badly. The master will see his maid at 5:00 pm sharp.


   Okay, it had gone over well. Two and a half hours to wait. What now?
Jan 02, 2019 - permalink
It's great, BUT. Two things.

1. I'm having difficulty with the concept that a Fiancee would leave their partner over finding out they had the hots for muscle women. They might have a bit of a wtf moment if they don't understand the fetish, but you would have to be a special type of cretin to leave your Fiancee over it.

2. I wouldn't use real character names from HBC and I certainly wouldn't name them. You're pretty much daring people to sue you. If you make them up, no one outside muscle fetishists will know and I can assure you we won't care.

The story is great, those things just stood out for me.
Jan 02, 2019 - permalink
Good advice - thank you. I tried to answer the first question by a long dialogue which wont be in the book.  I will/have already worked on your 2nd point.
Jan 07, 2019 - permalink
The book is now live on smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/916673  and will be up on Amazon soon.  Below is the continuation:

Far too early to go get ready but I couldn’t think of anything else to do I was so amped up. Being unable to focus on what to do with the beautiful array of fitness women around me was kind of amazing. Duh, sit there and gawk. But my excitement about the upcoming session overwhelmed me. Finally, I was so antsy that I got up and headed up to the room. Lucky, I did, because when I hopped in the shower I discovered that I already had a slight sun burn. Two hours to a different world, I thought. Tonight, I hoped, would be a game changer.

   When I arrived at the low-budget hotel I was all nerves. My nervous excitement even overcame my disgust at the level of cleanliness of the hotel. Off handedly, I worried that the place would have bedbugs, but I had to try and push that horrifying thought aside and focus on what would soon be before me, the most incredibly muscular woman I’d ever seen in person.

   I knocked at the door softly. The die was cast, I was in this for real now. Whether this was prostitution or experimentation I didn’t know for sure, but I had to know my own feelings toward muscle. When the door opened, a hugely muscular woman came in to view, but somehow, I noticed her hair first. She had tight curls pulled back into pigtails, wrapped with pink bows. As I asked, she had worn a French maid outfit and in her hand, she grasped a little dust mop. Though she was French, her deeply tanned skin and light brown hair gave her the appearance of being somehow more Middle Eastern. Without either direction or introduction she began play acting. “Hello Sir,” she said in a heavy French accent. “Your room is ready cleaned especially nice for you. Do you have the money?”  I handed her the four crisp $100 bills that I pulled out of my account before I left home. She took the money with the most striated forearms I’d ever seen. Cords and veins crisscrossed her thickly muscled forearms where the skin seemed so thin, it appeared her muscle would inevitably burst through. “Very good sir. Come on in, I will prepare the bed for you.” She walked over to the bed and pulled back the blanket and patted on the bed as if expecting me to come over. “Sir you’ve had such a hard day, please take off your clothes and come get in bed. I’ll take care of you,” she whispered sexily.

   Somewhat sheepishly I stripped in front of her down to my underwear and climbed in the bed waiting for further instructions. She pulled the sheet over me and then said, “Sir I want to thank you for the way you’ve treated me with your raises and the nice salary. I want to show you firsthand what your money has made for me.” I ignored the difficulty she had with the English language and instead dropped my jaw in awe at her mind-blowing muscularity. She put her hands over her head and gracefully, as if she were on stage, hit a front double bicep pose which must have rivaled some male bodybuilders. Her striated pecs had a thickness I’d never seen on a woman and her biceps were abnormally short-bellied with a peak on top of another peak. An angry vein ran along the top, throbbing with the gush of blood she brought to her arms.

   “Sir, all the money that you put in to taking care of me builds these and as you can see, you’ve given me a lot of money.” I nodded in amazement and it dawned on me that I hadn’t said a single word since I’d entered the room, except for maybe a couple of grunts of lust. After a solid 20 to 30 seconds of flexing she placed one of her hands on the sheets where my manhood throbbed.  My erection was in full force and her arm, which was lined with veins, grabbed me. I have to say that even her capillaries appeared oversized and thrust on top of her muscles just under her skin.  She smiled and said, “I can see you like my work."

   “You are magnificent,” was all I could manage to say in return.

   “Would you like to see more?”

   I was finally able to recover my wits enough to give her a thoughtful statement in return, “Was that a hypothetical question? Of course. Please proceed my beautiful maid.”

   “I’m not sure I want to be call dat anymore,” she mused. “But we’ll talk about that later when I’m done showing you my power.” She continued to flex over and over again switching from different amazing poses, one after another. By this point I was grabbing myself. Since she hadn’t told me I couldn’t touch myself, I went to work.

   By the time she finished her routine, probably 10 minutes later, pre-seminal fluid was flowing over the tip of my penis and I was ready to cum.

   “Stop touching yourself sir, now,” she said now much louder. “It’s much too early for you to go. I have some things to test on you first. Get up and come over to this table.” She motioned to the rickety table across the room. “The testing is going to commencer now.”

        As I was instructed, I moved across the room and sat down in the chair next to the table. She sat down and put her right hand out. Her bicep thickness and peak was simply unfathomable. I whispered softly, “How big is it?” There was a split down the middle of her bicep that I’ve never seen before on anyone. Later I found out that she tore her muscle and the way it had regrown had given her a unique split inner bicep that separated her from all others.

        “Right now, I’m not at my peak. It’s just over 17 inches.”

   “Only?” I responded. “Mine is only…” I said the word loud and with a tone of question “16 inches and I’ve got to be at least a foot taller than you and my bones have to be much thicker.”

   “Yes sir,” she responded. Her voice was now much louder, like she was more confident, “I told you that your money was helping me put my work in. I’ve done a lot of it and it’s time to test if I’m stronger than my master.”

   Everything about her was intriguing. She weighed nearly as much as I did but was at least a foot shorter than I was. The amount of dense musculature on her body left me speechless. Her French accent also was attractive and hid the true reason for her deep voice.

   “Let’s do this” I said bereft of any true confidence as I put my own right arm out.  “3-2-1.” We began. I was amazed that my arm didn’t hit the table top in seconds.  I was giving full effort and it looked like we were nearly even. Then I looked up at her face and knew better. Grimacing, I eked out the words, haltingly, “Are you even trying?"

   She laughed musically, “I want you to feel that you are doing well, before I beat you,” she responded.

   “Try as hard as you can. You can see I am doing that."

   Seconds later my hand slammed on the desktop. “Oops, it looks like I’m stronger than I thought,” she said with false innocence, putting three fingers over her mouth.
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