From: wilma@stage.com
Subject: Lesbian bodybuilder
Date: Thu, 02 Jun 94 04:05:09 -0800
Organization: [ The STAGE - "Your Community Center" ]

                       Rachel, Part 1 of 3
                            by Wilma

            in which I submit to a female bodybuilder

     I had rented a nice little house right on the campus of
Florence Doolittle College for Women when I got the job as a
custodian.  My neighbors were mostly new faculty members and
graduate students.  The complex was more like an exclusive
village than a housing project and usually bustled with
interesting folks to chat with.  Usually.  But the college was on
spring break this week, and the village was stricken with peace.

     The only exciting thing happening in the complex was
watching the new neighbor empty her U-Haul.  I had met Rachel the
previous evening when she first drove up.  She was a new phys ed
teacher at Florence Doolittle and looked like she practiced what
she taught.  Rachel was a lovely brunette who had won several
bodybuilding competitions.  A startlingly beautiful face, tall,
gracefully proportioned with a body she had shaped and refined to
feminine perfection, there was nothing grotesque about her
anywhere.  Here was Woman, Woman at her best.  An exquisite
warrior goddess from Olympus was she, and I had blushed and
averted my eyes as we chatted in her driveway.

     I watched her toss boxes and equipment around like feathers,
her powerful young body sweating and flexing and collecting dirt. 
I realized after a while that I was awfully busy going back and
forth to the window and doing nothing else.  I felt silly, but I
couldn't seem to stop watching her.  Her tanktop soaked with
perspiration, her rippling stomach, long legs that could crush a
skull, her white shorts contrasting with her tanned, fabulous
body and legs . . . and smudges of dirt . . . dirty legs . . .
the clean dirt of physical exertion . . . she was dirty without
being nasty, a beautiful woman . . . strong . . . dirty . . ..

     She hoisted a box onto her shoulder and carried it into the
house.  My denial system straining under persistent libidinous
sensations that seemed to originate in my throat and breasts and
radiate downward, I watched and waited for her to come out again. 
I craned my neck and widened my eyes as though by heightened
vigilance I could hasten her return.
     Is there a force in Nature more impatient, more insistent,
more preoccupying, more compelling of behavior than a woman's
lust?  It gives only gentle hints at first, mildly distracting
impulses one can enjoy briefly and then ignore if inconvenient. 
Even its progression to benevolent prompting still leaves a woman
the option of moving on to deliberate sensuality or returning
gracefully to a more nearly neutral state of mind and body.  But
sometimes . . . oh, yes, sometimes . . . sometimes it conscripts
a woman into a cathexis of relentless and irresistible longing.

     Somewhere between stages two and three in the course lust
takes, well beyond easy return but not altogether over the edge,
I decided a neighborly thing to do would be to see if I could
help Rachel out in any way.  Turned out there was.

     She was moving boxes of books from the living room into her
den.  I reached for a box and lifted.  It didn't move.  I tried
another.  It didn't move either.  I scooted boxes from room to
room while Rachel picked up boxes and carried them.  We chatted
as we worked, about bodybuilding and food preparation, teaching
and janitoring, of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages
and kings, of why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have
wings.  She went about her task with not the slightest sign of
tiring, padding to and fro in bare feet and unaware of how her
calf muscles flexed and the way her thighs moved.

     Then came the moment.  I leaned over a banana box full of
books to rest at the precise moment Rachel, her back to me, bent
over to pick a rag up from the floor without bending her knees. 
Advancing to the precipice of Stage 3 lust, I swooned audibly and
dropped my head down to keep from passing out.
     "Here," she said, misinterpreting my moan, "don't hurt
yourself on that box.  Let me get it."
     I raised my head.  Tanned, beautiful, well-developed legs
approached my crossing eyes.  She stood astride the other end of
the long box to pick it up.  I couldn't move.  Those legs.  Those
legs were in leaning distance.  I crossed the threshold into
Stage 3 with a pitiable little whine and leaned forward.  My open
mouth went into the indentation beside her kneecap, and I lost
all sense of decorum in my abject surrender to arrant lust.  I
rubbed my face down to her calf and halfway up on her inner
thigh, mindless concupiscence banishing prudence and caution.
     The feel of it, the taste of her, the salt and sweat and
dirt from the flesh of her gorgeous leg took from me any
semblance of dignity and enslaved me inescapably in a worship
service of pure salaciousness that blotted out all awareness
beyond Rachel.

     "Well, well," she said.  "Look what we have here."
     I looked up at her, mortified and bewildered at what I had
done, wishing I could become invisible and unable to believe it
had actually happened.   My visage distorted itself into a
tormented plea for forgiveness, but neither words nor magic could
dispel the deed.
     "Do it again," she said, towering above me and accepting
with seeming ease this bizarre scene beyond my credulity.  "Do it
again," she said more sternly.

     A trembling moan escaped my throat, and I succumbed once
more to the perversity I could no more fathom than resist.  I
slid my face and open mouth over every inch of leg I could reach
until my unfaithful arms betrayed me and I collapsed across the
box between her legs.
     Rachel stepped back and stood in front of me.  She modelled
her legs near my face.  Bodybuilder poses, I guess.  I was able
to twist my head up far enough to peer into the crotch of her
shorts just above face level and now out of range.  I eased
myself off the box and sat like a dog looking up at her.
     She was studying me now, curiosity momentarily displacing
erotic recreation.  I waited to see where she wanted to go with
this.  Had her playful sprite caught her offguard and made her
frolic impulsively?  Had her good and decent sense now restored
her to adulthood, that wet-blanket condition wherein reason
spurns childlike spontaneity and assesses consequences?

     "You're a masochist, aren't you?  And a lesbian."

     Right out loud!  She said the words right out loud!  I had
learned them as a child in my search for validation through
language.  I sometimes sat and stared at them in the dictionary
as though at holy writ.  I had a label, an identity I could
whisper to myself.  And now my code words had been pronounced
aloud by a gorgeous educator.

     I could barely hear myself when I answered:  "Yes . . .
masochist . . . lesbian . . .."


Rachel, Part 2 of 3, by Wilma

     "My goodness sakes, I am a lucky woman!" she said brightly. 
She moved to me and looked down at me.  I bowed my head.  In a
moment, I felt her hand in my hair, tugging slightly, more like a
signal than an attempt to inflict pain.  Her movement told me
what to do, and I crawled behind her as she led me by my hair
leash into a back room full of boxes and trash.

     "Do you like my dirty legs?"
     She certainly picked up fast on things, I'll say that for
her, and she didn't seem to need much warm-up time before
entering what had to be a strange situation for her.  Her legs
were twin towers of power above me.  I drooled at the sight. 
Rachel's words made my pussy hiccup.  Secret words my innermost
self spoke in whispers were being said in a normal voice as
though this were an ordinary colloquy.  God, I love normal women.

     "Talk, Wilma.  Say my name and answer me."
     "Rachel.  Yes, Rachel.  Dirty legs.  Your beautiful dirty
legs."
     "Clean them.  If you do a good job, maybe I'll take my
shorts off."
     What we were doing in that back room full of boxes and trash
was exquisitely humiliating and dirty.  Two young women in a
dirty back room full of trash.  Dirty.  One woman dominant over
the other.  A merely pretty woman kneeling to a warrior goddess,
submissive to her, doing dirty things, things she would be
ashamed of if anybody knew.
     "Lick my legs clean, Wilma."

     I didn't quite finish before Rachel could put off no longer
her need for sexual release.  I watched in eager fascination as
she removed her shirt and her shorts.  She vamped and did
bodybuilder poses for a while, but she was too heated up to
continue for very long.
     She moved gracefully into my face.
     "Suck me," she breathed.
     Images of my high school coach dashed through my mind.  The
past gentled and repeated itself, more sensually than the last
time I had been fucked in the mouth by a coach.  Rachel's pussy
was soft and salty like Coach Wanda's was, but Rachel didn't
pound me as Wanda Woman had.  My lips would not be blue
afterward.  I relaxed and stop anticipating the slamming I had
assumed I would get.
     Gentle but firm undulations allowed me to feel Rachel's
powerful legs leisurely and keep my tongue inside her as I sucked
at her sex.  It was algolagnic Shangri-la.  Nothing in my best
fantasies could compare with this reality.  Rachel McCloud,
gorgeous and sensual, pussyfucking my slobbering mouth and
getting juicier and juicier between her sweaty, dirty legs.
     She was pulling on the back of my head with both hands now,
and I had found her rhythm.  She quivered without losing it when
the stirring inside her produced an oozing secretion that leaked
into my mouth.  It's a distinctive taste, tart from a young woman 
and pudding-like in consistency.  There is nothing else like it
in the universe.  She secreted in my mouth, slow drippings from
her vagina, oozing, pulsing.  I savored her female exudate and
the scene itself.  I was drinking womanfuck from inside her
precious organs, on my knees to a woman hunching in my face.

     She sighed as she released me.  I gazed up the length of her
fantastic body, the dirt on her stomach smudged and streaked with
sweat, to her becalmed face.  A bodybuilder not stripped of
adipose as they are in competition is a heart-stopping wonder to
gaze upon, especially naked and especially from down where I was.
     "What do we do for you, now," she wondered aloud.  "Would
you like to suck my ass and masturbate?"
     I nodded and swooned, dreamy-eyed and sloppy-faced.
     Rachel McCloud did not do the expected.  She did not turn
around to let me suck ass.  She pushed me down farther beneath
her and got on my face.  I nudged my way up into her and sucked
her asshole with my face in her wet, sticky, dripping female
crotch.  I popped like a firecracker.

     That was my mid morning snack.  I went back for a late lunch
and she had me suck her off again after she had showered and made
herself silky soft and sweet-smelling.
     That evening, we went out for dinner and then to a movie. 
She let me feel her leg in the movie, and I even kissed her
passionately on the thigh while she looked around to make sure
nobody could see us.  She made me stop when some folks sat near
us, but she didn't pull her dress down, and I sat there dopey
with lust ogling her leg like I'd never seen one before.

     By the time we got back to her house, I could have hung wall
paper.  She made me take a shower and get my act together before
letting me cuddle up against her on the sofa to watch Casablanca
and suck titty.  Held in her strong arms, looking up at her
lovely face, I nursed like a contented baby and fell irrevocably,
devotedly, heart and soul in love with her.  She caressed my face
as I sucked gently on her breast, and she watched me with a soft
tenderness reserved by a good heaven for saintly mothers.
     She kissed my forehead and my eyes.  Tilting my face up to
hers, she kissed me on the lips lovingly and sweetly.  My body
tingled with inexpressible sensations as the kiss deepened.  Our
mouths chewed and our tongues wallowed.  Our saliva commingled
and our beings communed with each other.  We were profoundly and
spiritually bonded at some ageless depth beyond time and space, a
mythopoeic union of female souls destined by feminine forces in
eternity past to meld one with the other.

     Rachel had no trouble whatsoever standing to her feet with
me in her strong arms.  I cuddled against her and caressed her
biceps as she carried me to the bedroom.  She was a beautiful
warrior woman carrying her lovedoll to a chamber of lust, there
to pleasure herself on a maiden aswoon in concupiscible surrender
to her.  Enraptured by her consummate domination and by her
physical prowess, my very selfhood unreservedly dedicated in its
subordination to her desires, I was unable to do else but
relinquish my will to hers and provide my body for her use.  She
was Athena, she was Venus, she was Woman!


Rachel, Part 3 of 3, by Wilma
     
     She laid me on the bed and got on top of me, the weight of
her nakedness pressing me beneath her perfect female body.  We
locked ourselves together in the matchless embrace of tribady,
naked woman to naked woman, flesh to flesh, warrior goddess to
submissive mortal.  Our mouths chewed sensuously, and our bodies
communed with each other in supernal synchrony.  I felt her with
my hands and with my arms, I caressed her with my legs and with
my feet, I embraced her with my body and with my spirit.  Her
powerful back, her muscular arms, her weight, her strong legs,
her breasts and stomach rubbing on mine, her belly sliding on my
belly, Rachel moving on Wilma . . ..
     She brought me to the brink of dementia before shifting on
top of me and pushing her taut thigh between my legs.  I gasped
and screamed immediately in ecstatic release under her.  She saw
me through my orgasm and, at my urging, crawled up my trembling
body and straddled my face.  My orgasm renewed itself as she
settled into my mouth.  She reached back and grabbed me and
brought me a second time through the peaks and valleys of
glorious delirium, fucking my mouth all the while and pressing
those wondrous legs against my face.
     When, finally, I twitched no more and could be relied upon
to service her without interruption, she took my face and head in
her powerful hands and fucked me in my mouth with deliberation
and singularity of purpose.  I listened to her little gasps and
grunts and moans and found the pulse of her lewd hunching.  I
sensed the stirring deep within her and tasted the teasing first
drool of her vagina, that exciting harbinger of full deliverance
when Bartholin's bath is the only balm appeasing the relentless
imps and sprites driving the female genitalia toward madness.
     Perhaps because it was her third in twelve hours, her orgasm
gave her brain leave to enjoy the experience, and she held me
tight as she secreted in my mouth and vibrated to fulfillment. 
She slumped over me until her quivering and jerking subsided,
then unsaddled my face and stretched out beside me.  We gazed
into each other's eyes with appreciation and gratitude until at
last sleep settled peacefully upon us, two women who had loved
each other in one day with an intensity the short hours could not
measure.

     -- end of story --
     -- Wilma --

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