The (Mis)Adventures of C. Moore Glootz IV

We left my good self residing at Her Majesty's Pleasure.

No sleep that first night I lay awake expecting to be buggered at any moment, I really did. "Indecent exposure", my friends, gets you a shared cell in the wing reserved for others who offences are of a sexual nature, any of them. I didn't know what my cellmate was in for - when I asked he didn't say, which hardly calmed my nerves. I tried again and again to conjure up some comforting gloot-based images. None came to me, and so I lay there, imagining bad bad things, staring at the ceiling, clutching my rough blanket to my chest as if it were a protective cloak. Longest night of C. Moore's life.



Freedom, denied.

Group therapy, compulsory.

"If I could only show you what I'm talking about..."

The laughter. Even our therapist couldn't resist a smile.

What was it exactly about me that they found so funny? I was here to co-operate. That first night had scared the bejesus out of me. I wanted out asap. Sooner than that even.

Slowly, the laughter subsided.

A hand went up.

"Yes, John?"

"I was just wondering, Miss, maybe we should see some pictures of these women he's on about," he started to air jack. "You know, see for ourselves how f***ing irresistible..." He cracked up the room followed. I was surrounded by fools.



I got a pal to print and send some adornments for the cell.

My cellmate - not as scary as I'd imagined - didn't object.

"Not my cup of tea, mate, but it's live and let live, innit."



He even gave me a bit of alone time in exchange for a few quid.

"Yeah, knock yerself out, mate. Mind yer mess though."



Group improved as well. They'd stopped laughing anyway.

Still, it was far from pleasant first few weeks.

Time seemed to stand still. How C. Moore yearned to have unlimited internet access again, and how I despaired at all those brand new muscle butt images I was missing out on. How I longed to go out to the streets and search for new, tight and toned targets.

"Am I making good progress, would you say?"

I collared the therapist, our "Miss", after session one morning.

"Are you...?" She looked genuinely shocked. Was I standing too close? I'd seen others talk privately to her, surely I wasn't breaking any rules... She composed herself.

"Take a seat, will you?"

The next thirty minutes or so were the second most life-changing minutes I have ever experienced. She spelt it out, and - I now realise - for the first time since that big lock in that big door had gone "click", and what's more probably for the first time for many many years - C. Moore listened, really listened. And I learned.



I hadn't actually made any progress at all, she told me. As long as I continued trying to blame the women for my predicament, without even a hint of responsibility for my own actions, no progress would be made. "If you actually listened to the others in the group," she said, "you'd know that already. They've been where you are, blaming their victims. Sooner or later you have to realise it's your fault and you have to change."



C. Moore spent that night lying awake. And the next, and the one after that.



I lay awake and imagined a different life. A number of them in fact. A life without muscle butts, cold turkey, total abstinence, would be, I knew, a life not worth living.

If I was to change, that was not an option...



And so I began the private, hermit-like existence I live now. Occasionally I do have to venture out, and I'd be lying if I said there haven't been a couple of moments when certain urges have had to be resisted, but so far, so good. The memory of my period at Her Majesty's Pleasure with just 18 images, just 36 glorious glootz for company has proved the ultimate deterrent. I've even found some (albeit temporary) employment!



Private worship only. I'm with the majority now.



It feels more comfortable than I ever thought it would.

C. Moore's MOST WANTED, an 18-month 2018-19 calendar containing all 18 images that kept our anti-hero company in his cell through those long dark nights of the soul is available now or postal order from FMS. Send a SAE and a cheque for £25.00 payable to FMS, Inc. to the usual address. Hurry while stocks last!

Fan-tasy: Desperately Seeking

Our final Fan-tasy comes from an anonymous author - he didn't even wish his internet alias to be given out, for reasons which may become clear as you read on. Many thanks to him for sharing his experiences, and for all his hard work putting together this post.



I am living the dream.

This is my fourth session with her, but although the previous three were the best three I have ever had - and I have had a few - nothing about them made me think that my ultimate fantasy was about to come true. I was quite unprepared for what was going to happen next as I, dry-mouthed with anticipation, knocked on the hotel room door.



It opens. I smile. Hey! How...?

She pulls me inside with such incredible force I have to grab her rock hard arms to steady myself. At once her mouth is on mine, her tongue exploring, her breath heavy and passionate. Before I know it she has my jacket off. Buttons fly as she rips open my shirt and her mouth moves onto my chest, sucking on my left then my right nipple.



My head spins as she expertly opens my fly and I feel her hand clamp tight onto my crotch and that force is working again, pushing me round, pushing me back until I hit the bed and am thrown backwards onto it. Whoosh! She has removed my trousers and pants with one mighty tug. I lift my head and see her slipping effortlessly out of her slip of a leopard-print dress, her eyes fixed on my hard, throbbing cock.



She'd competed the week before - I had made damn sure of the booking as soon as I knew she was definitely competing - and her naked body was a truly orgasmic sight. Muscles refilled but much of her contest definition was still there. I wanted to tell her she should have won, it had been part of my pre-prepared opening patter for the session (along with "I couldn't wait to see you again" and "Don't you look stunning?"), a line I had practised over and over in front of the mirror. Small talk, it was clear to me now, was not going to be necessary, but there was a voice, a voice inside my head saying "Remember her now, remember her now..." over and over and over.



I do. I can close my eyes and the image of her standing there comes back to me in stunning clarity. Her bronzed skin, her abs contracting as she inhaled, the veins and striations exploding all over her upper body, which seemed to dounle in size as she hit a most muscular and let out what I would describe as the growl of a tigress in heat.



And without any warning I felt myself cumming.

Not the usual spurt-spurt-spurt, it just poured out in one continuous gush.

I think I may well have writhed around a bit, but it's all something of a blur. I think my head went back into the bed as I arched my back. I definitely yelled out though - nothing intelligible, not a word or anything like that; just a loud, sustained yell.

If the session had stopped right there, perhaps five minutes in, I would have felt it was worth every single penny, but she wasn't finished with me yet, not nearly.



Over the next couple of hours she rode my cock forwards and backwards. She flexed as I felt her up. She climaxed as she felt herself up. She stood over me and squatted onto my face as I licked and sucked her truly magnificent clitoris, and she lay back on the bed and forced my face between her legs and climaxed again and again. She clamped my cock between her forearm and bicep and made both pop. She forced my face into her hard pecs until I couldn't breathe then relaxed them for a moment before forcing me back into them again. And when I really was about to pass out, she released me, went over to the mirror and masturbated to the sight of her own body. I watched her, voice in my head again - "Remember her now, remember her now..."



I wondered afterwards why. Why me? Why with such total abandon? Surely this goddess didn't actually fancy me that much. I'm no pig, but I'm no Adonis either. So, why? A fourth session bonus for all her clients perhaps? Had I just got lucky and arrived after a guy who had started the engine but not ridden off on the bike?



I've seen her since. Twice. Same result, but nothing like the forcefulness or the wordlessness. I'm lucky my fantasy has come true, but now it's come true more than once I have realised nothing will ever beat that first time. Diminishing returns.

I needed a new fantasy. And I got one.



It's very similar to the first, but now there is another woman there. Not another female bodybuilder, this other woman has come with me. We are a couple, and we share the same fantasy. These sessions have become (one of) our regular date-nights.

We both get muscle f***ed.



I guess it's not a lonely hearts ad that stands to get a lot of replies - M4fitW to share workout tips, good food, good conversation, off-the-beaten-track travel and mutual sessions with top Female Bodybuilder. Must be non-smoker. But you never know...

Fan-tasy: At Her Service

"GymSlave" (no relation!) is the second of our fantasists to share his deepest desire.


Art by Drew Jones

I think I saw the images maybe ten or more years ago, on Awefilms.

I'm not the biggest fan of female muscle "art" in general, but these really got me. It wasn't so much the drawing itself, but the artist's expression of a fantasy that until then I didn't know I had. I too wanted to be a sex slave to a dominant muscle babe in the gym. Serving her (or perhaps "servicing" is a better word!) as she pumps iron.



I grew up in the so-called "Magazine Years", so the vast majority of images I saw and jerked off to then were those pictorials of FBBs working out. I guess a shrink might say that my brain connected gyms with sex or something, and I freely admit that ever since I joined a gym (at 16), I have found them sexually arousing places to be.



The sound of plates against plates, of weights being dropped, the smell of sweat on the benches, the grunts, and best of all the sight of women lifting or casually checking their bodies out in the mirror all combine to make the time I spend there very erotic time indeed. Just being on my way to the gym can give me a raging hard-on.















I'm not the most or the least well-endowed, others will have to find their own comfort zone, but experience has taught me the tightest pair of undershorts I can get into is my best bet for keeping it in check. Doubling up adds security and self-confidence and, touch wood, so far my throbbing stiffies have never been noticed (or at least never called out) by fellow gymgoers - and I am constantly hard when I'm at the gym.




I don't kid myself that my fantasy will ever come true, but I get a special thrill watching those SheMuscle clips filmed in that kind of "dungeon gym" with all the old equipment. I imagine myself there with a tanned, naked Lisa Cross (who I also imagine would be totally up for letting me service her as her muscles - and big juicy FBB clit - swell) or Brandi Mae Akers or Lindsay Mulinazzi (again, both totally up for it I imagine). Only the naughtiest types with the most insatiable sex drives.



My absolute go-to clip is Tazzie Colomb, huge and sweaty and although she begins with a little top on, it doesn't last long. That gorgeous deep and sexy Southern accent, and lots of arrogant flexing to camera and for herself in the mirror. Towards the end of the clip she bench presses some serious weight for 20 reps (as I recall), topless, her pumping pecs glistening with sweat and swelling bigger and bigger. That would be the ultimate - to be there, hard and ready to do her bidding, to get my face between her legs and lap away, to be muscle f***ed unconscious as she rises from the bench totally fired up, dripping wet and ready to destroy the first hard cock she sees...



And that just happens to be mine!

Thanks to "GymSlave" for sharing. There'll be another Fan-tasy next week.

Top Tip #2

Get a good camera. And a good long lens.

And that's pretty much it.

Chances are, if you're a Brit like C. Moore, you've had your fun trying to sneak a pic or two at a Bodybuilding event. Hope you had better luck than me. Would be quicker to tell you the federations that will still let me into the venue than those that won't. It's made C. Moore become a master of disguise, but that's a story for another day.

So, where you going to go to get your female muscle fix?

Sporting events is where.



C. Moore told all about his early athletics fascination the other day. And I still reserve most of my rare forays into the outside world for track meets (as you Americans like to call them). I'm mobile, schedule in hand. End of the back straight for the start of the 200m, right behind the start of the long jump/triple jump run, as close to the pole vault as I can get etc. - wherever the best chance of a glootage filled frame is.



It don't have to be track & field (we call it athletics, you know). Pick your sport, and take your camera. Gymnastics, tennis, beach volleyball (I know that's a popular and gloot-filled one), we have Crossfit events now, swimming used to be good (those body suits are the devil's work) but diving is still a winner... Check your local listings.







Sure, you are probably not going to see any of these top names, but consider this - once upon a time at local track & field events the Papoutsaki bum was on display; once upon a time Chelsea Coleman was on the floor at a state gymnastics competition; once upon a time Heather Watson was grunting at a county level tennis match.

But it doesn't end there.



Soon you realise you've got to take it everywhere. In these increasingly female-muscle-filled times you might pass potential memories every day. Summer and temptation may be around every corner. Winter perhaps not so much, but you won't forgive yourself if you're at the mall and spot some definition and don't have your equipment. Get used to lugging it around. The more it becomes part of you, the more like a real photographer you will feel, and the more genuine you'll seem to others.



And take it to the beach.

Take all the necessary precautions to make sure you don't fug it up by getting sand everywhere by finding a spot just off and putting that long lens to work. Seriously, it's a day out like no other, even if you don't see any great female beef, the prospect that you might will keep you going. And once in a while my friends, once in a while...



And then maybe once in a lifetime...



C. Moore recommends the Sigma 150-600mm Sport.

Though if Aleesha's hubby had invested, we might all be blind by now.