Perfect Love Martin Kane, martin_s_kane@yahoo.co.uk A sweet romance. Though the course of true love never does run smooth. --- Author's note: First the standard blub on copyright, which is mine. I'd be flattered if anyone wanted to use this tale elsewhere, but please seek permission before copying, altering, posting etc. Secondly, I invite anyone to send their comments, suggestions, thoughts or suspicions should they care to. Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters merely the products of an overwrought imagination I'll abstain from the adult content warning, if you've got this far, you're certain to know what kind of thing to expect anyway. --- She once asked me: "What is it about this that does it for you?" I shrugged and she giggled. She poked me in the ribs, her firm finger jamming painfully against my naked flesh. "Why are you so turned on by it?" "I dunno," I told her honestly. "I’m just wired that way I guess." We lay tangled in the sheets, the bed still damp from the love we’d made. Tara looked fantastic, cool and perfect as she lay flat on her back. She blew a slow plume of smoke from pursed lips and watched as the blue curls hung and slowly dissipated. I eyed her perfect physique while she stared absently into space. In her current position, her breasts were most obviously noticeable. They were small, conical points of flesh, jutting straight out and up. They were too modest and too firm to be affected by gravity and topped by dark kissed nipples. My eyes wandered, awed and lustful. Her stomach was incredible - a series of hard layers, as solid and smooth as slate. Her soft breathing rippled the wicked definition in gentle waves, creating a wonderfully appealing cascading effect. The super-toned ridges of her belly stepped down to the black pubic triangle of hot, entising flesh. She was devastatingly beautiful. Her model-perfect face highly angular and smooth with the kind of cool confidence of the utterly assured. She looked like a statue - not only the perfection of her strong features but also the indifference and aloofness. Her raven hair was cropped short, the sort of semi-butch look only the extremely beautiful can get away with. She reached across then, stubbing out her cigarette. The motion sent shudders of activity throughout her upper arm. The biceps muscle twitched, revealing just a teasing hint of the definition she really possessed. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, the exertion hardening her arms. Muscles tightened and stood out in sharp contrast, totally blatant beneath her skin. She saw me watching her intently and she laughed. "You see?" she exclaimed. "Even after all we’ve done tonight, you’re still after cheap thrills." She raised one arm out to her side. I knew what was coming and I felt my heart thumping hard. Despite the exhausting session she had inflicted upon me, I felt an erection stirring. She pumped the arm, flexing her gorgeous biceps into a hard curve of smooth, female muscle. It peaked with a sweet, round bulge, perfectly shaped and totally solid. I knew from experience that it was firm - totally unyielding to my fingers as I had squeezed that lump. My cock was stiff now, her hardness making me hard. Tara grinned at the ease with which she was able to excite me. "Tell me why muscle makes you horny," she insisted. "What can I say?" I asked her, laughing at her stubbornness. "It just does. I’ve always got off on strong women." She climbed on top of me, sitting herself on my thighs, grasping my wrists deliciously tight and pinning them down to the side of my shoulders. "Tell me, or I’ll hurt you," she threatened. Her voice took on a stern, ironic tone. I laughed at this. "What sort of threat is that?" I asked her. "Considering." She shrugged and grinned at me. "Tell me or I won’t hurt you," she amended. She lowered her body slightly, just enough to brush my excited cock with her hard belly. She tensed her stomach, squeezing those beautiful abdominals into a tight bunch. By flexing her muscles she created a rippling effect that hardened my erection until it throbbed painfully. Easing herself up again she regarded me curiously. "I guess some men just go for it," I told her. "Some men like big tits, some are leg-men. It doesn’t mean that it’s the only part of the female anatomy that does it for them, it’s just a favourite. I happen to be a guy who likes muscles." "I suppose," Tara agreed suddenly. With unexpected decisiveness she rolled off of me and curled semi-foetal, her back to me. "Hey," I protested. "I thought you were playful." "Na, I’m tired," she lied, her tone just a little too convincing for comfort. "Goodnight." "You get me all excited and ready to go and now suddenly decide to sleep?" "Yeah, try to wank quietly." I laughed, then hooked my hand around her torso. I found her breast and covered it with my palm. Her nipple was still as sharp as a chip of rock. She gasped silently as I manipulated it gently. Her body arched in response as I curved myself against her, my tongue beginning a tender play from her neck around to her lips. She rolled onto her back, closer to me and under me. She began to respond in earnest and my heartbeat began to pound again. I had met Tara on a blind date. A friend, Lucy, who I’d known for years, told me about a girl she thought was perfect for me. A customarily playful cupid, she’d neglected to either tell me of Tara’s athleticism or Tara of my affinity for such. We met and went to the cinema. The idea being, if we didn’t hit it off, at least we’d have something to chat about. "Do you know what it’s about?" I’d asked Tara when she suggested we see ‘Bound’. The poster, two women in a semi-embrace looking out towards the camera suggested the lesbian aspect quite blatantly. "Yeah," she assured me. "Why? Don’t you want to see it?" She grinned at me, seeing from my expression what the answer to that was. Discussion over. And we both sat and watched, enthralled. It wasn’t because of the sexual aspect, it was a fantastic film. "Which one did you prefer?" Tara asked me as we shared a pizza afterwards, sitting opposite one another in the booth. "What, the two women?" "Yeah." "Guess," I challenged. One was a butch dyke, the other more feminine but with an annoyingly squeaky voice. She shrugged. "Dunno," she said, apparently not wanting to put her cards on the table. Looking back, I think she wanted an honest answer, rather than a guy just telling her bullshit to try and chat her up. "Corky," I told her. Tara smiled. I shrugged to myself and jumped in with both feet. "I think it was the tattoos and biceps," I added. I palmed it off as an off-hand remark, but kept it sincere. "Really?" she asked. Her voice was a little surprised, but not shocked. I smiled and nodded. "She looked good - really cute. It’s the moody smouldering that she’s got down perfect. She looks like Elvis or a young Brando. I’ve seen her in other stuff but she’s worked out a bit since then." "What is it about the butch look that appeals to you?" "I dunno," I told her. "But the real trouble with being attracted to cute looking butch types is that they tend to actually be dykes." She laughed. "I hope you’re not referring to me," she said, sternly. She grasped the trailing length of her luscious black hair, as if forming a ponytail. "But how do you think I’d look with a bob?" "You’d look gorgeous whatever you did," I assured her. "You can’t help it, I think it must be ingrained into your very essence." "Seriously," she insisted. "Seriously, you would look good. To pull off a look like that you need to have sharp good looks, utterly perfect bone structure. You certainly possess that." She smiled, happily accepting the compliment. "You liked all the lesbian stuff then?" she smiled, teasingly. "Yeah," I admitted. "Didn’t you?" She was shocked by the suggestion. "No," she insisted, screwing her face in semi-mock horror. "What makes you think I would?" "Nothing," I said. "I just wondered." "What is it about guys and lesbians?" "I dunno," I admitted, actually stopping to ponder the question. "Voyeurism maybe, or just the sensuality of it. Because it’s so different from what it’s like when a man has sex." "OK," she said accepting this. Then she seemed to come to a decision. "Actually I want to show you something," she smiled, mysteriously. I was silent as she slid her denim jacket off of her shoulders. I didn’t dare anticipate, but my heart had still began a jungle beat in my throat. She wore a black vest-top beneath. It was sleeveless, ideal for showing off biceps. Which is exactly what she was doing. She flexed, revealing muscles that can only have developed through hitting some serious poundage in the gym. She wasn’t up to the standard of a bodybuilder, but the size and definition was beyond that of an average aerobics bimbo. It was enough to make people in the street do a double-take and more than enough for my jaw to drop and my eyes to bulge in awe and surprise. Satisfied with my shocked reaction, Tara stood and grinned. Acting like it was nothing, she swept her coat back on and headed out. "Come on," she said, calling me back down to Earth. "Let’s go get a drink." Silently I followed. It was later that night and Tara was sitting opposite me again. This time a pub table was between us. She was leaning forward to hear what I was saying, her elbows up on the table. She played with the beer bottle, her fingers picking at the label. Every movement of her arms sent a shuddering flex, a tightening bulge and relax to the muscles on her upper arms. Each time it happened it sent a shiver through my whole body. I felt hot and numb at the same time, my erection throbbing with my heartbeat. It was a reaction to being so turned on for such an extended period of time. If Tara noticed the scrutiny I paid her physique, she didn’t mention it. But then, for someone who was unaware of the effect her muscles were having on me, she did seem to be ‘unwittingly’ flexing them an awful lot. We had entered the pub several units of alcohol earlier. I had gone to the bar and returned to find her sitting at a table, the denim jacket cast aside. She had both hands pressed down flat against the smooth polished wood of the table. As soon as I came into sight, she squeezed, tightening her muscles into hard, multi-layered curves. Her eyes locked onto mine, a playful grin on her face as she dared me to break free of her piercing gaze to peek at those arms. In my peripheral vision I could see her twitching her biceps, inviting my gawping lechery. Somehow I passed the test, keeping my eyes level with hers, despite the almost uncontrollable impulse to glance down at her toned arms. She saw this and grinned up at me, reaching for her beer. I sat across from her and made myself comfortable, tossing my jacket to one side. "So, Pervert," she began, her tone affectionate in its mocking. "Do you make a habit of taking girls to lesbian movies?" "No," I admitted. "This was the first." She lifted her bottle to her mouth, knowing the move would send her lean arm into a tight flexed pose. She held the position far longer than was necessary, squeezing her biceps into a hard little pump. My pulse was racing like a dance rhythm. She smiled to herself, evidentially perfectly aware of the affect she had on me. If she held any reservations about putting herself into the position of fantasy figure, she certainly didn’t show them. She sat up, straightening herself on the chair. I immediately noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bra. The evidence was the diamond bullets of her nipples jutting against her black top. However turned on I was before that point suddenly became exponentially multiplied. Not only for the erotic appeal of the sight but the evidence it offered. It amplified the charge of sexual energy between us. We must have both been giving off so many pheromones that the air itself was charged to combustion point. The discourse between us was implicit and loaded with the sweet flirtation that makes meeting someone for the first time so unrepeatable. She was smart and sharp, her wit and intelligence complementing the perfection of her physique. More importantly, she actually appreciated my own unique brand of off-the-wall charm (or ‘annoying git’, as my friends like to label it.) We just clicked, something I thank my Gods for repeatedly: the most physically stunning woman I ever luck to chance into not only turns out to have a full and wonderful CV for a personality, she also seems perfectly suited to me and I to her. We talked about all manner of things, from the ridiculous to the sublime. She told me about her tattoo, twisting herself around, to show off a beautiful rose etched into her shoulder. She also told me she had had another done but coyly refused to elaborate, changing the subject every time I asked. (It’s a butterfly, high up on the inside of her thigh - and oh so kissable.) When I asked how she got into working out she lied, telling me that her first exercise machine was a wrist strengthener. "It’s like two handles," she explained, "with this heavy duty spring pushing them apart. Just squeeze and release." She mimed the action, tightening her hand around air. This still provoked a flex and ripple along her forearm, making the biceps leap and harden. The mime was unnecessary, she was simply taking every opportunity to show her muscle off to me. I wasn’t about to stop her. "Friend of mine was into squash, he gave it to me. I was working as a typist back then so I perfected the art of typing one handed while I pumped away on the other. Swap, repeat." "And all this training was in aid of?" I knew a punch-line was coming, I could hear it in her voice. "All the slimy guys in the office that used to try and hit on me. I would go to shake their hands and only let go of them when they actually admitted how much it hurts. You’d be surprised how much pain a guy can withstand rather than admit that a woman is hurting him. I did get a couple of screams." I laughed. "And that’s a true story?" I asked, dubiously. "If I’d have thought of it back then, it would have been. But seriously I have crushed guys’ hands before. Purely through spite you understand - there was no justification in the motive." "You like being the tough girl?" "Oh yeah." She grinned, deliberately flexing her arm. "I love being strong. It’s useful, carrying shopping, opening heavy doors, beating up guys. Of course the karate helps with that too." "Karate?" I asked, her sex appeal rising to an all-time high. "You really are the tough girl." "In truth, I started lifting weights because I was a fitness fanatic and it was the next step. I just love the way it looks." She looked down at the smooth curved peak, a sweet little nugget of flesh, a toned bump beneath the skin. "So do I," I assured her, my voice dreamy as if lost in lustful wanderings, my gaze locked onto her pumped arm. A few hours and several units of alcohol later, the stories we were exchanging had become more intimate and risque. She was still sitting opposite me, still sporadically flexing those sweet muscles in a teasing kind of way. We were both having more trouble speaking, eloquence failing a little as the beer buzz grew in strength and dominance. She seemed further gone than I felt but we were still coherent to each other - both inhabiting the same fuzzy plain. She rolled the bottle in her hands, the label shredded by her constantly active fingers. Occasionally she’d lift it to her mouth but currently seemed more intent on balancing it on an ashtray. "Go on," she prompted insistently. "Tell me." "It was a hot night," I began, putting on my best storyteller voice. She giggled appreciatively. Somehow, a giggle from her didn’t sound the least bit girlish or immature. Or maybe that was just the beer filter. "It was late but I didn’t feel like sleep. I was just slumped on the sofa watching late night TV. There was nothing on but I didn’t have the energy or inclination to actually get up to put a video on so I was just channel hopping through every cable channel. Nothing on." "I recognise that scene," she assured me. "I’m at a loose end but really can’t be fucked to actually do anything. So I keep hopping channels and stumble across some music awards show. Sheryl Crow was playing - definitely something worth watching at last. Unfortunately it was the last fifteen seconds of the song. "Then it ends and she goes over to this podium to collect some award: ‘most gorgeous, talented mega-babe’ probably. And the camera gets close in on her. She’s wearing a pink top but I instantly forgave her that. The neckline was high, literally touching her throat, but it was cut-off below her bust. Her stomach was bare. The sleeves were short, barely off the shoulder and cut tight to her arm. In short, the kind of top that you would look fantastic in, even if it is pink." "Fuck the flattery," she insisted. "Get on with the story." Then she smiled sweetly and added: "thank you anyway." "Where was I?" I asked her, more for a teasing delay in the story than for actually losing my place. "Ogling Sheryl Crow," Tara reminded me helpfully. "I knew she was fit," I admitted. "I knew she had muscle tone. Until this point, I just didn’t know how well developed her muscles really were. She was holding this award trophy type thing and sort of half lifting it absently while she’s giving her acceptance speech, and her biceps are tightening and relaxing on her arm. You could clearly see the definition and the point where the muscle began just above her elbow. Her shoulders were fabulous and accentuated by the sleeves cutting across them, that’s how short they were. But it wasn’t her arms that got my attention - it was her fucking stomach. I couldn’t believe it, her belly is so hard and flat. That six-pack definition. When she breathed you could clearly see the ridges stand out then relax, this gorgeous wavelike motion. She has got such wicked separations. I just lay there totally stunned. I was so turned on - and so quickly turned on. I went from total bored indifference to pulse throbbing intensity in a matter of seconds. "Sweat just stuck my clothes to me, I could feel the heat my body pumped out. Sheryl Crow has always turned me on - the woman is sexy to the extreme, but this, I just couldn’t control myself. My dick was just hard, like a rock, totally desperate. I didn’t even unzip, I just grabbed my erection through my jeans and did the necessary. It was strange, I was so turned on it barely took a moment. A few seconds ago I was bored and apathetic. Then, moments later and I’m orgasmic. "Those acceptance speeches are literally only seconds long. Even a minute would be edited, this is MTV attention span we’re talking. Despite that, before she’d finished speaking, I’d already come. I shot off, there and then, into my jeans." "That’s not the type of tale you should tell a potential suitor," she warned. "You might think the ability to come in ten seconds is a benefit..." she didn’t finish, interrupting herself with laughter. "Come on then..." I didn’t realise what I’d said until she erupted into another fit of giggles. "OK, I’m embarrassed enough. Your turn." "Nothing so intense or immediate," she apologised, "but shocking none the less." "Go on," I prompted, wanting to hear this. "I’m in the same position as you: bored, a little hot and bothered - it’s that kind of day. I’m stuck on a train. Visiting relatives up North. So I’m sitting next to some old guy and opposite a middle- aged bald git who’s trying to chat me up. There was a table between us, at least. I started off polite but he didn’t take the hint until I blanked him out. "Anyway, I’ve got this long journey and some crappy woman’s magazine that I would never normally read. I want to try and sleep, just like the guy next to me, who is snoring like a fucking motor. But I can’t so I actually read this magazine which is just complete crap. This guy opposite keeps staring at me whenever I look across and his eyes just sort of dart away like he wasn’t looking at me. And this happens all the time, too much for coincidence. "I want to kill time and I’m just restless. I can’t read the magazine. Not just because it’s shit but I can’t concentrate on anything. It a woman’s mag so of course it’s full of articles on sex and I thought yeah, that’s what I need, a little distraction. A little something to take my mind off the journey, relax me a little. "So I did it, sitting there, next to some old bloke and opposite a creep." "How did you masturbate without them knowing?" I asked, amazed at her daring and shamelessness. "Same as you, I did it through my jeans. I’ve got really strong muscles so it was just a matter of squeezing in the right place. An innocent hand on my thigh. No one can see what it’s doing under the table. The old guy’s asleep. I just made an effort to keep my expression from betraying me. Course I’m sweating by the time I’ve finished and the smell is obvious to me, but I may have been paranoid." "So you wanked off in public?" I was impressed. She seemed embarrassed and proud in equal measures. "I’ve never told anybody that," she suddenly realised. "And now some pervo creep who’s plied me with alcohol, knows something that no one else does about me." "Well I might be a pervo creep," I admitted, "but I’m a nice pervo creep. No one will ever find out from me." "They better not," she warned me sternly. "Or I’ll beat you up." I grinned back at her stern expression, then twisted my face into ironic fear. She was still flirting but her words were more slurred. The beer buzz was beginning to overwhelm me too. She was still playing with her bottle. She’d placed her arm flat on the table, the elbow bent to ninety degrees. Her beer bottle was balanced on the curve of her biceps, one finger curled down to steady it. Her eyes met mine to ensure I was watching (needless to say, I was fascinated.) She squeezed the muscle, tightening her arm into a flex coil, pumping the biceps up into their expanded bulge. The motion made the bottle lurch violently. She kept it balanced with her fingers but it spat forth an excited access of foam. "Shake it up, baby," she sang, rhythmically repeating the trick. It slipped and fell to the table, spilling foam and beer across the table. "Oops," she exclaimed, mopping the mess with a tissue. "Let’s try that again," she suggested, grabbing my beer out of my hand. She’d got as far as balancing it on her now sopping wet arm before I managed to snatch it back. "Hey!" "I think it’s time we headed off," I suggested. I only realised how hard the drink had hit me when I tried to stand. I steadied myself and took a breath. I was OK, I reassured myself. Tara however, looked worse for ware. When she stood, she swayed a little. "Ow," she exclaimed, sitting down again quickly. "Head-rush." "You gonna be OK?" I asked. She looked uncertain. Slowly, she nodded. She was serious suddenly, party spirit having been replaced by reality. "Just get me home." "Any idea where that is?" Without looking up she pointed towards the door. I shrugged. "It’s a start," I muttered and helped her stand again. I really hadn’t realised just how badly the drink had got to me until I stepped outside. The cold air was a harsh slap to my senses. I took a moment to focus while Tara experimented with standing up straight. She managed it and then decided leaning on me was easier. I was offered the trusted and pleasurable duty of supporting her. Given this level of faith in my sobriety I redoubled my efforts to keep a steady head and we began heading down the street. Fortunately she lived fairly close by. The journey itself I don’t remember much of, I think we chatted a little. I do remember her arm stretched across my shoulders, her weight pressed sweetly against me. I remember her breast firm and hot, crushed against the side of my chest every time she stumbled against me and the unselfconscious way she maintained that position while she regained her equilibrium. I remember the hard swell of her muscles moving in sync with her motions, even beneath the layers of both our clothes. I also remember her stumbling into her flat, leaving me on the doorstep while her flatmate, surprised but obviously amused, stood at the door assessing the situation. I was able to make a polite greeting but that was about it. It wasn’t until a later date that I met her more formally and actually learned her name: Susan. Then, as I was turning to leave, my boy-scout duties performed, Tara seemed to remember me again. She squealed something incoherent, leaping back towards the door. I turned in time to receive her arms, flung around my neck, lips hard and hot, thrust against my face. She was standing inside, the step higher than the pavement, so she leant down into me, her weight pressing against me. All the weight and uninhibited passion pressed hard against me, I was barely able to contain my equilibrium. We kissed sweetly but happily and deeply. I had called her the day after. A fuzzy headed, hung-over Saturday afternoon. I had got up at midday but couldn’t even remotely function until about two. That was when I phoned her. Her phone number was neatly printed on the back of a beer-mat, her name drawn in block letters with a simple outline of a feminine arm flexing a swollen biceps muscle, just to reinforce the point. I laughed on seeing it, honestly not remembering the drawing the previous night. She was just as delicate as I was but we still chatted happily for over an hour before hanging up. If I was in any doubt before, I now knew for a fact that I was totally smitten. Being in a sexual relationship with Tara was my fantasy come true. She was utterly exhausting but irresistible. My ceaseless lust was all that kept me able to match her endless energy and stamina. I knew I could never maintain such a frenetic pace and that before too long she would drain my reserves to nothing - suck me completely dry. However, if she was going to kill me, I couldn’t think of any way I’d rather go. She wasn’t always demanding and dominant, liking to play with sex and keep a hold of that spontaneity and random playfulness. On occasion she could be sweet and feminine, almost girly, and other times she’d go to the other extreme, playing the evil queen bitch, inflicting as much pain as pleasure, demanding utter satisfaction. Her muscles often played a part in our lovemaking, their fetishtic appeal to me equivalent to a breast man screwing a woman with E-cups. They also turned her on. Not just the knowledge of the effect they have on me, in turn making her feel as sexy and desirable as I constantly told her she was, but also the practical use. It turned her on that she was so much stronger than me, that she could be so powerful and mighty. Add to this equation the fact that we were both utterly smitten. Not having had enough time for true love to take hold, we were in that stage of infatuation where the other person is all each of us could think about. We craved each other like a drug - I was incomplete without her. Sex was an emotional need as much as a physical one. At this point in our relationship it was the quickest and most intense way to get as intimate and close to her as possible. I was totally hooked. I remember the first time I saw her Karate suit. I’d gone to her flat after her lesson and she was still dressed in that pure white, thick cotton robe. Her flatmate, Susan let me in and I went into the living room. She went and called Tara, I overheard as she rapped on the door, calling: "Abby, lover-boy’s here." Tara came in, dressed in the Karate suit. Her golden skin dark against that bleached white plain of cotton. Then the jet black hair a stark contrast. She looked pretty, her hair tied into a neat ponytail, high up behind her skull. The belt was as black as her hair. I can’t describe why, there was just something so sweet and feminine about the way she stood in the suit, bare feet against the smooth wooden floor. I went up to her and we kissed hello, hands exchanging happy, intimate delvings around each other. I felt her body press up against me, through the cotton. My hands curved around to her fantastic bum, feeling those granite buttocks through the suit. "Are you naked beneath that?" I asked, my voice betraying my lust. "Am I naked without my clothes on?" she asked, grinning. "I’m serious," I laughed. She stepped back and gave me a quick flash. I saw black underwear, a sports bra. Boxer shorts which, by this time, I knew she habitually wore. She raised her arm in a biceps pump, flexing. Despite the heavy thickness of the suit, I could swear I saw the material twitch, the peaked contour of her shapely arm visible through the sleeve. I reached out to squeeze the evidence. She kept her arm flexed hard while my fingers gripped tightly over the bulge. I could clearly feel the hard lump of muscle beneath the heavy karate suit. I moaned in appreciative lust and she giggled. She dropped the pose. "Behave mister," she warned sternly. "Careful madam," I responded, my voice matching hers. "I may not be pushed about as easily as you think." I grasped the open lapels of her suit as I imagine a judo throw might go. Amused but very much unafraid, Tara stood passively and simply watched me. I made to try and throw her to the ground but she braced herself against my efforts, remaining quite stable. She was steady as a rock, her strength and balance easily cancelling out my feeble attack. Her instinctive skill and physical power compensated against each throw and jerk I made. Without warning I changed tactics, opening the suit to pull it back off of her shoulders, then wrapping the loose sides around her upper arms. The suit tightened just above her elbows, cutting across the outer sides of her biceps, pinning her arms against her sides. I dragged the material as hard as I could across her chest, holding her trapped within the cotton. She looked down at my efforts, trying to feign an impressed expression. She didn’t try to break free but I still held tight, knowing her strength. If she truly struggled I don’t know how long I could actually hold her. "OK," she agreed, still passive. "Now you’ve got me what are you going to do with me?" I answered a stupid question as sweetly as I could think to, leaning forward to kiss her. That was how we were when Susan return. "Coffee," she announced, unabashed, finally distracting us from each other. She distributed three cups around the table. I released Tara and she closed the robe but didn’t bother to secure the belt, letting the sides flap happily open. She was totally comfortable with this. "Why did you call her ‘Abby’?" I had to ask. Susan smiled, laughing to herself. She hadn’t even realised that she’d done it or that I’d think it strange. "It’s a nickname," Tara explained, her tone assuring me that that was only half the explanation. My confused expression requested the elaboration that Susan offered by standing and walking over to where Tara sat, perched on the edge of the sofa. Susan unabashedly flipped Tara’s suit open, knocking on her flat stomach with a tight fist. Tara obligingly rippled the separations. They stood out like cobblestones. Hard and flat and smooth as a slab of concrete only far more strokable. "I call her ‘Abby’," Susan explained, pressing her palm flat over that rippling washboard, "because she is very, very abby." I laughed and reached over, wanting a turn. Tara happily obliged, flexing like a pro. I adore every inch of her body but I have a special thing about abdominals. (And biceps of course.) I felt that motion, hardening and relaxing muscles moving beneath my fingers like a rolling wave. And so solid - hard as rock. I’d been so turned on by the karate suit that she’d put it on again that night. I lay back on her huge king-sized double, naked and sinking into the sponge of a quilt. She climbed over me, the suit the only thing separating our flesh. I began embracing her through that thick material. Manipulating her flesh and trying to discern muscles through the heavy cotton. She asked me what I wanted to do. I answered silently by taking the belt off, sliding it out of the loops. I slowly tied one end around one of her wrists. The soft material eased into a hard little knot, tight enough to restrain her without actually hurting her wrist. Well, no more than applicable. She smiled knowingly as I did this, mocking me gently. "I see," she muttered wryly, "you want to try and be the dominant one for a change?" I didn’t answer, concentrating all my attention on securing the knot. I tried to slide a finger under the band but there was no space. Any tighter and it would seriously cut off circulation. "Now what are you going to do?" she asked. She was still lying over me, the loose belt tied about her left wrist. I wrapped an arm about her waist and turned her over on her back. She rolled easily, her eyes looking up at me. I could see the anticipation in her face. Despite the careless banter, she was excited. I threaded the belt behind the furthest post on the headboard, trailing it behind the width of the bed then back through the other side. Before I bound her other hand, I slid her free arm out of the karate suit, flipping it open to ease it off of her body. She still wore the black underwear, her bullet nipples sharp and pointing insistently at me like accusing fingers. She lay on the suit, as close to wearing it as she could with one arm out. Then came the hard part. I grasped her right wrist, the left-hand side of the bed. Her arm was by her side but when I tried to lift it to the headboard, Tara decided to remind me which of us had the muscle. She fought me, keeping her arm down at waist level. I grasped her wrist with both hands and tried in vain to wrench it further up the bed. Even levering and angling my body, I couldn’t shift her any way she wasn’t prepared to agree to. Tara grinned up at me, watching my hopeless efforts to overpower her. Her face expressed all innocence as if she was unaware of what I was trying to do and all conflict on her part was completely unwitting. Eventually she stopped teasing me, letting me force her arm upwards. She still made me struggle but once I had her hand above her head, she left it there. She pursed her lips in a kiss and cooed in false awe. I tied her down, the belt loose enough to give her some movement but the ends biting into her wrists. The most natural position for her to lie bound was on her back, her arms apart. The white suit, so pure and soft, half covered her left side. Where her right arm was out of the sleeve, her bra and shoulder were exposed. "You got me," she agreed. "Now what are you going to do?" I still hadn’t spoken a word to her since she took me into her bedroom. As if to answer her, I grasped my naked erection. I sat myself astride her chest, aiming my dick at her face and jerking it in a threatening manner. Tara immediately began squealing in horror. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut twisting her head as far out of my range as she could, exploding in a fit of giggles. "Don’t you dare," she gasped, laughing. "Cancel, cancel!" I took her head in my hand, signifying my capitulation by leaning down to tenderly kiss her on the lips. A slow, sweet kiss - no tongue and absolutely no malevolence. She opened her eyes again and grinned. "Bastard," she murmured. ‘Cancel’ was our safe-word. If you’re playing any sort of sexual game then you should always use a safe-word. It was Tara who insisted, not willing to talk about it, just stating that unless we used a safe-word, she wouldn’t participate in any games. I had asked her about it but she refused to elaborate, just getting moody and changing the subject. She looked up at me, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "You feel safe with me tied down?" she asked, still all innocence. I should have guessed she was up to something then "Which is your favourite Bond movie?" Foolishly I didn’t clock until the moment she acted. By then it was already too late to respond. Without further warning, she ripped her legs out. She bent her knees and pulled her calves hard up, sliding them between the gap between my own legs. Then she threw her legs out and wrapped them around me, her ankles locking together behind my back. It was a complex and precise motion, freeing herself from me and then trapping me so neatly, but she performed the action like a seasoned Bond-girl. Then she began to squeeze. Tara was strong - her muscles were testament to that. But the real proof, I discovered, was to be trapped between thighs that could crack my spine with the slightest spasm. First she made it painful, and then, after that, she made it excruciating. Iron muscles bit so hard into my sides that it felt like my body would collapse under the assault. I tried to fight her, despite the obvious futility of the act. In fact, it’s because of that that I fought her. What turned me on was the undeniable truth, proven here, that I was helpless against her far superior strength and physical prowess. I pressed my hand against those steely thighs, trying to get a purchase on her slick musculature. I might as well have clawed a rock-face, her legs were solid. No matter how hard I tried to force her knees apart, whatever levering of efforts I made, she easily kept me trapped, tight within that vice. Then she reminded me again of my position, squeezing hard. I gasped, shocked and genuinely pained. Her thighs were slowly crushing me and I was left in absolutely no doubt that, if she wanted, she could pulverise me. And it was clear that it would take her as much effort as crushing a beer-can. She giggled, apparently amused by my stubborn resistance against her obviously unsurpassable strength. I knew that there was only one way that I was going to escape her python grip. And it only took one more vicious squeeze of her legs to persuade me. "Give it up," she insisted. She eased her legs together, grinding my spine so that it felt like it was cutting my stomach in two. The pain was as great as I could stand it and I finally gave in. "OK, cancel," I gasped, whining with pain. Tara laughed and parted her legs, freeing my tortured body. I collapsed on top of her, gasping for breath and sweating profusely. My face was down against her neck and after a few moments of listening to me sigh and pant she lent her face down to mine. She kissed my cheek lightly, following it with a tender little lick, her tongue pointy and rough. "Didn’t hurt you, did I my love?" Her voice was a slow, breathy moan. It turned me on almost as much as her fantastic body. "Only in a good way," I assured her, pushing myself up to lean above her. I kissed her back, running my tongue down to her mouth but refusing to conclude at her lips, instead, teasing her. I grasped her face and kissed around her mouth, sliding one hand over her eyes to cover them. Then it got rougher. I pressed down over her eyes hard, blocking her sight and keeping her head trapped against the pillow. I probed her mouth with my tongue then slid down further, her neck, the cleft of her collarbone. To go further I needed to pull the karate suit aside so that’s just what I did, violently pulling the garment from her body. It tangled against the arm that still sat inside the sleeve, the left. The rubble of cloth added to her containment, its weight a mess around her limbs. With one hand still covering her eyes I lay sideways to reach her chest with my mouth. My other hand laying the path that my tongue and lips followed. I reached her still clothed breasts, biting the enlarged nipples through the tight black bra before removing it in an excited fumble of fingers and teeth. I heard her gasping - a near inaudible moaning sound that she was unaware of making. I continued my happy task, giving her back her sight, wanting to put my other hand to more pleasurable uses. I replaced it by throwing a loose fold of the karate suit across her face, covering her from the nose up, only a wild mat of hair visible above. I settled against her solid slab of belly - that awesome blanket of hardened abdominal muscles. Her gasping shudders made them ripple in delicious waves of rolling musculature. I began playing my tongue in the deep grooves between each separate tennis-ball ab. I clawed at her wicked belly, totally hard and unyielding to my assault. Her stomach looked like two neat rows of round, even stones - hard and perfect. I alternated my attention, never wanting to pause at one spectacular muscle group too long - with so much more to explore and play upon. Tara, never one to be bashful about guiding me around her body, dutifully managed to restrain her regular narration, in keeping with the fantasy scenario we played out. However, silent though she may have been, her responses were more than vocal enough as I worked with her inciting body. I knew her well enough by this point to respond positively to every twitch and shudder she made. Even though the roles we played denied her consent or pleasure on the surface, the reality was far more relevant and prevalent. And there was no way her responses could be anything other than genuine. By the time I had got to her boxer shorts they were wet. Not only from her own pleasure but from my tongue, excited and desperate for glory. I tugged then down, along her powerful thighs, and cast then aside, finally gaining access to her gorgeous cunt. When the moment came to end foreplay and make good on every promise our bodies had thus far made each other, I suddenly remembered the scenario we were playing out. Without warning I grasped her shoulder and roughly spun her over, twisting her body to press facedown into the quilt. Her bound arms needed to cross to allow the movement. It caught up all available slack, making her arms taught in their bindings. Her forearms formed an X above her head. The symbol was smothered by her mane of black hair. I slid myself inside her body from behind, lying over her back. It felt so good inside, to finally enter her fantastic body. The sob of delight she let out as I penetrated was the most erotic sound I’d ever heard and I eased in as fully as I could. As I worked away within her, my hands slid around her, feeling her taut muscles working in synchronisation with my own movements. I felt her stomach, like rippling waves. My hands ran smooth across sweat-soaked flesh, hot and pulsing. I felt my way up her powerful back, muscles bunched and relaxed in rhythmic crescendo. Her shoulders, round and sweet. And then down the back of her arms, settling to grip around the hard triceps. And that’s where they stayed until I came. My hands gripping those solid upper arms, muscles made of wood. I opened my eyes to watch her as I allowed my orgasm to approach, having already had to fend it off repeatedly. I watched her hands gripping the rope belt, her face buried in the pillow, stifling all her sounds of pleasure. She half turned her face for comfort against her pillow, eyes still shut tight. And the sight of her sweet face contorted into the extremes of sensual pleasure was too much for my control and I found myself heading towards the inevitable. I angled for the final climax and built to make the most of it I could. Tara arched her body into the motion like an experienced athlete. She threw her head back, shoving her full weight against me. And with a final shudder I came gushing forth. Ten minutes later we were pressed against each other in a loose embrace, side by side. We were in the traditional position, watching cigarette smoke curl slowly up towards the ceiling. "Babe," she began, her voice slow and thoughtful. "Uh-huh?" I responded, still exhausted. She didn’t continue at first, her face seeming a little troubled. She took another awkward drag from her cigarette. "You know," she began with a half laugh, "at first I thought you were going to bugger me," she remarked finally. I let this hang in the air a few moments, as still and unruptured as the curls of smoke. "Would you have let me?" I asked her. She shrugged - or at least as close to as she could from her position next to me. "Maybe I would in certain circumstances. But not like that, not so suddenly." I nodded, knowing her use of the safe-word would cut me short just as short as it had her. "You’ve felt that, haven’t you?" she finally said. It was a question she asked but we both knew she already knew the answer. It was just a way of introducing the subject. "Yeah," I told her. "My ex had a strap-on, she used it on me." Tara laughed gently at this. Maybe because of the visual image it conjured up for her. I guess it does look a little absurd pictured in the mind’s eye. "What was that like?" "It was fun to try," I told her. "A little painful and awkward but she was careful enough so as to be able to make the best use with it." "Have you ever been with a guy?" "No," I told her. "I've wondered what it’d be like on occasion, but it’s not something I really want to explore." She was quiet. We both let the silence hang a while. "You ever have queer thoughts?" I asked carelessly. Again a slow silence. "Yeah," she admitted eventually. "Sometimes I do. I wonder what it would be like with a girl. I think about some pretty, girly type girl. All sweet and lovely with big boobs and long hair." This was a major admission for Tara. I think it was a testament to our relationship that she could tell it to me. I remember at a later date - much later; years in fact - looking back to that point in time and knowing how close we were at that moment. I hate to admit it but all my actual thoughts at that moment, as it occurred, were to do with the visual picture she had just place in my head. Tara saw my erection stirring, the thought of her and a girly girl with big boobs and long hair. "Hey," she called, her voice pitched to annoyance though it was cut with her usual irony. "I’m getting all confessional and you’re getting off on it?" I shrugged. "Sorry. You turn me on. What can I say?" She let it go, rolling her eyes in a ‘typical man’ kind of way. "You know I always insist on using a safe-word," she began. Her voice was nervous. It seemed unnatural, coming from one who was normally so self-assured. "Yeah," I said, waiting. "There’s a reason for that." She took another drag of her cigarette, finishing it. I stubbed it out for her as she began to tell me. "My ex and I also used to play around like this. Dominance games, wrestling. You know." I nodded. I knew. "He was like you," she said. "He liked to be overpowered. One time we were play-fighting. We were getting rough. He’d got a strangle hold from behind which I’d managed to break and I threw him over my shoulder. Then I jumped on his back, knee to the spine, his arm twisted up behind him. "He was squirming like crazy, wriggling beneath me. His face was muffled by the pillow but I could hear him, groaning with effort and pain. I just twisted his arm up hard, showing him who was boss, kind of thing. I knew I was hurting him, but that didn’t stop me. I mean, a little pain is just a part of the game, right? "Even though the pillow was muffling him, I could hear that he was yelling out in pain, I knew he was shouting for me to stop. But there’s ‘no’ and then there’s ‘no’. Whenever I was hurting him a little he acted all scared like it wasn’t turning him on, that’s just a part of the fun." She was silent here, her eyes miles away, perhaps re-living the moment. "But he meant it?" I suggested. "Yeah, he meant it," she agreed. "There was this crack and his arm just gave in my grip. When I realised what I’d done I leapt off of him like I’d been electrocuted. But it was too late, the humerus had snapped." She was silent, as if expecting a reaction from me. I didn’t offer any. Truth be told, I didn’t know what to say to her. "The worst thing was in the hospital. First to hear him lie about how he got the injury. I felt more guilty at that point than I had as I’d done it. And then, when I tried to take his hand and hold it, he shook me off. That was so painful, I think it’s the worst I’ve ever felt in my life. At that moment I realised that we were over, that he’d never be able to forgive me." "Accidents happen," I offered, hating the fact that there was nothing better I could think of to say. "That’s the thing," she said, her voice so calm and so measured that I thought it would crack. "I think a part of me knew what I was doing. I was getting off on the game, really getting into it. I love that feeling of power, to have him so helpless beneath me. And on some level I knew I was really hurting him but it’s like I chose not to hold back, not to let him go. I wanted to push myself further, to see how far I could go. And as I felt his bone breaking, just for a moment until I realised what I was doing, it felt so good - better than anything else ever has." "And that’s what made you feel guilty?" "Yeah. I placed one moment of pleasure above my feelings for my boyfriend. For that instant gratification, I was willing to hurt him so savagely." Again there was nothing I could say, so we both lay in silence. "I just wanted you to know," she said eventually. "I doesn't change anything between us," I assured her. "Sure." Again, a drawn out silence as we both stared at the ceiling, deep in thought. Eventually she broke it. "Babe?" "Uh-huh?" "You wanna untie me?" She looked across at me, twisting her bound wrists to attract my attention to them. I grinned. "Soon," I promised. I reached for her remote and turned on the TV at the far side of her room. Channel hopping I managed to find a football game. I'm not even particularly into football but the point was that Tara hated it. She watched me do this, her expression moving between incredulous, amused and utterly pissed. I knew she'd make me regret it when she got free, but then, that was just part of the fun.