The Secret Fetish Pt. 02

I couldn't get Felicity out of my head. Long suppressed feelings surged through me clouding my judgment and giving me a single-minded focus. My internet searches in my off-hours were strictly for muscular women. I cleared half of the floor of all other personnel and moved her desk right outside my glass office window and treated myself to an almost voyeuristic fantasy display as I watched her work. Sometimes, I have to admit, my hand would find its way beneath my pants while I watched her.

When she reached up and fiddled with her hair while she was thinking, her bicep peaks bulged, radiating a sense of power that delivered electric shocks throughout my frame. Everything about her was near perfect. Tanned to perfection, she almost seemed photoshopped, to a level of beauty no human could attain. I was literally consumed by her muscles and over the months she continued to grow.

Each day after lunch she'd return drenched in sweat, causing the Lycra of her sports bra to cling to her mighty chest, pecs full D-cups of solid unyielding muscles pulse, and her back swell outward. Her dress code was entirely unacceptable for the workplace but for me with Felicity, less was more. If not in a tank top or t-back her workout clothes covered her muscular arms like a second skin. Her attire allowed me nearly unfettered viewing of the exquisite, jagged lines of her muscularity. Fewer clothes provided better viewing of her deeply tanned skin and the way her tendons moved under her skin; the way veins pumped blood into the thick muscle.

When we became more personal and friendly it was both arousing and alarming. Try as I might to steer the conversation from her physique, what she was wearing, or how each other looked, somehow, she'd bring it back. My body's reaction was like clockwork, I'd feel my cheeks heat, breath catch, and then become more ragged, and my cock would come to attention.

"Hey, boss," she smiled after she returned from another grueling workout looking as if she would at any second explode through the material that precariously clung to her body. "Still wearing those uncomfortable stuffed shirt clothes? Don't you own this place? Why don't you do 'dress-down Friday' every day?"

"Got to set an example," I said. "See, it obviously works on you." I smiled, my eyes finding her proud melons of muscle that protruded from her chest. Beads of sweat still clung to her frame as if she'd sprayed herself intentionally for a photo shoot before she returned to her desk. The teal workout top and cut-off jeans looked more appropriate for an 80s film than a professional office setting, but other than joking with her about it I wouldn't have it any other way. Beneath the frayed jean cut-offs, thick striated thighs which would have been impressive on a male bodybuilder swept outward and down into mighty teardrops. Her hamstrings were striated so that each individual muscle was clearly defined. The great channels that crisscrossed her legs looked like fissures in the earth itself.

"It's not my fault," she laughed. I couldn't fit my thighs into the jeans anymore, so I had to cut them."

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"Well, you could wear something more professional like a skirt." I posited.

"Am I being dress coded?" She laughed. "It feels like middle school all over again." Did you have these legs in middle school? Your poor teachers.

"No, I'm just kidding. Wear what you want." The less the better.

My long hiatus from muscular women had ended with a bang and I was hooked and sucked into the rabbit hole of arousal. When I could muster the confidence, I'd go outside and ask her a question about a client or something. Anything to be near the work of art that was her body. Everything about her from her aroma to her beefy mounds of muscle oozed sex.

Even though I was her boss, I shook in her presence like a naughty schoolboy confronting a strict professor. My pep talks before I saw her were washed away in the aura of her power and beauty. I chalked my behavior up to the years of denial of my secret, but even as I got to know her better my paralysis in her presence seemed to grow worse. Perhaps it was because she was growing too. She announced each major accomplishment with pride, unaware of the visceral way in which it affected my body.

"My biceps have gained two inches in the past eight months!" Explosions went off in my brain and I found myself wobbling on my feet.

"Really?" I gulped.

"Yeah, from sixteen to eighteen inches. I'm up with the big girls now. They'd better watch out at the Universe this year, Felicity be a-comin' to win and she's not going to take any prisoners," she laughed in a throaty way. Could you take me as a prisoner? I'd go willingly.

"It certainly looks like it." I nodded. She kneaded her bicep lovingly in a fashion that set me off. Casually, I crossed my legs to hide my growing erection. Her words alone inflamed me now, but her vibrant, powerful muscles and the way she caressed them was just too much.

Everything about her looked bigger and stronger, and even the way she moved seemed lither. It was as if she were becoming a superior species altogether. She's going to smash the competition. Unfortunately, even as I was cheering her and congratulating her in my head, somehow my thoughts would always stray.

Around her I was a complete voyeur, hornier than ever, imagining what she'd be like in bed. Pushing me down, gloating over her superiority, having her way with me, and deciding on how I could best pleasure her. Riding me until she was satisfied. I'd heard stories about how female bodybuilders were VERY horny women because they had such high testosterone levels. Would she do me twice or would that be just hors d'oeuvres for her amazing body?