Tuesday, 17 December 2013

Inspired by... Her Legs His Obsession

It's always nice to know that someone is reading my musings, and even nicer when they actually bother to share their thoughts and/or reach out a mutually female muscle appreciating hand. So, this week on FMS, for some of the lovely readers who have been in touch (whether by email or the comment box), a whole post inspired by them as a way of saying thank you for supporting the blog.

I hope they, and you, will enjoy them.

The reader who inspired today's post got in touch to tell me about his epic experience of multiple encounters with a muscular female runner in June of this year. His story, which if you haven't read yet, you probably should, was recounted on FMS as Her Legs His Obsession, posted during Legs Month (August).

He says, 'I love to hear about muscular sightings in the UK as in my head, all muscular women are in the US or Canada!' I know that feeling. However, (and I can only apologise to him for sitting on this for so long, I just haven't got round to emailing) I DO, finally, have a decent sighting to relate. My own true story.

Let's call it...


The second time I saw her it took me a while to realise it was her. She came into the coffee shop with another woman and a guy, and they sat by the window right in my line of vision. She certainly made me look up from my broccoli and stilton soup, but it wasn't until she'd taken off her jacket and walked right past me as she went up to the counter to order that my heart turned a somersault and I knew that it was indeed her. In that white vest she had on, there was absolutely no mistaking those shoulders.

I'd seen her for the first time back at the end of August. One of those moments that is over almost before it begins but sears itself into your memory.

I was on a break, and as I took a stroll in the late autumn sunshine (I doubt I'm the only female muscle head who never misses a chance to mingle with the crowds when the sun's out, just because you never know...) I was calling back a rather important client when the female muscle radar went truly ballistic.

She was running up the hill towards where I was, wearing a black vest and leggings. And she was running fast. Suddenly, what my client was saying to me on the other end of the line was utterly irrelevant as I focused every iota of my being onto her. There was nothing else in the world that mattered more than taking her in.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear the beat inside my ears. She wasn't huge by any means, but as she got closer I could see just how incredibly lean she was. Her arms, my God her shoulders! The definition was AMAZING! I had never seen such a ripped woman before. It was intoxicating. I honestly think I actually kind of swooned as she ran past, my heart attempting to leave my body and follow her.

Follow her! The thought actually crossed my mind. I'm sure I would have looked truly ridiculous, trying to keep pace with her in my work clothes with the phone still pressed to my ear as she sprinted ever further away. It's a good job that I didn't try!

So all too quickly it was over. She was gone, and as quickly as I'd tuned him out, I tuned into my client's voice again and did my best to pick up the conversation. But my heart was still pounding (and would continue to do so for some time afterwards), making it impossible to concentrate. I made my excuses - something had just come up - and promised to call him back as soon as I could.

Later, I reflected on what I had seen. I closed my eyes and pictured the definition of her shoulders and arms, and it was enough to get the heart racing again, but more than that it was the aura of power she had had that I sensed. Her stride, her speed, her look of determination all told of that power. Power that made my head spin. I lay back on the bed in my hotel room and swooned once more.

imagebam.com imagebam.com

I didn't work in the same place again until the beginning of November. As I drove there I thought about whether I might see her, but experience told me I shouldn't hold out too much hope. All I was expecting to do was a couple of days' work, and there would be little free time. Nevertheless, like some pilgrim revisiting a shrine, the evening I arrived I went and stood where I had been when she had run past. What was I expecting, some sort of miracle? If I was, it didn't happen, but somehow it did feel good to be standing in that place again.

And now she was standing right behind me at the counter. I could hear her voice. In a moment she would walk back past me and sit down with her friends again. I would have a perfect view of her, of her in a vest no less.

With my heart thudding into my chest, I watched as she took her seat again. She was sitting with her back to me, and with her table at the window, I could watch at will. Every movement she made set muscle in motion. Her bicep as she ran her hand through her hair, her shoulders as she took her plate from the waitress, whatever she did caused subtle changes in the shape of her muscles.

I was transfixed, hypnotised. What a treat to be able to enjoy, at leisure, the sight of such a sculpted female body - well, the parts of the sculpture I could see anyway. And enjoy it I did, drinking in every beautiful curve, every single bit of definition, every striation revealed by the slightest twitch.

Minutes passed. She became quite animated in her conversation, and the visual overload created by her arm movements brought me close to letting out an audible moan. I became aware my hand was shaking when my spoon started to rattle against my bowl. The spell was broken briefly as I put it down, and I realised my face was hot, flushed. And then there was the erection. Full, throbbing, verging on painful.

I looked around me. No one seemed to be paying me any attention. I sat forward and got back to business, enjoying her muscles. Her tricep exploded as she reached down and rubbed her calf, and this time I'm pretty sure I did moan out loud.

"Shall I take that for you?"

If you can look casual after you have been so startled that your right knee has shot up and hit the underside of the table you are sitting at, causing everything on it to jump and then fall with a crash; if you can look casual while aware that there is a veritable tent pole in your crotch, and that if you sit back the waiter is going to get an eyeful of it; then I looked casual right then. Really casual.

He started to clear the table. "Can I get you anything else?"

Oh, sure. You see that woman by the window. I'd like her on a platter, please. A bottle of oil, maybe some strawberries and cream. And some privacy. Oh, and if you can organise a few scented candles and a bit of mood music, that would be great.


"A double espresso, thanks." Like that was going to help my heart rate!

By the time the coffee came, I'd run through some 'normal' single guy having lunch in a coffee shop activities, like checking the phone (and as I did wondering whether I could get away with a couple of snapshots or even a bit of video - wisely, I think, I decided it wasn't a good idea). Seeing the time brought me back to reality, telling me as it did that I was already ten minutes late. This knowledge had a dampening effect that gradually eased my trouser problem, even though, as I sipped my espresso, I grabbed some precious final looks at her magnificent muscles in motion.

It would be fair to say that that afternoon was not my finest hour, professionally-speaking. I was, to put it mildly, a little distracted. I was OK as long as I was talking, but somehow whenever anybody else opened their mouth, what they were saying seemed a lot less important than thinking about what I had just been through, thinking about her. Nor was the next morning representative of me at my most focused. At lunchtime you can probably guess where I went, and yes, of course, there was no sign of her. I drove back home that evening, after another less than glorious performance during the afternoon, my thoughts still full of her.

And so it remained for some days afterwards. I would piece her together in my head. Short, no taller than 5'2" or 5'3", her hair was shortish, frizzy, strawberry blond. In her thirties, definitely, but beyond that I couldn't say. Blue eyes? Green maybe? I hadn't had a chance to see for sure. Her waist, tiny. Her shoulders, broad. Those shoulders! And the definition in her arms and across her back! I closed my eyes and remembered every line, every curve of her musculature. And quietly, to myself, I'd moan.

I'm due to go back there late February, early March. Fortunately I've done enough in the past for those clients that my questionable behaviour last time around doesn't seem to have mattered too much. Late February, early March. I might see her again. And she has no idea. No idea of the power she wields. Or perhaps she does.

No comments:

Post a Comment