Muscle Mommy

You’d been going to the gym pretty consistently for a month—long enough to start to recognize (and crush on) the regulars, not long enough to really see any results. There was one regular in particular who caught your eye: a woman who looked like she could pick you up with one hand. You’d be lying if running into her wasn’t the best motivation you had for going to the gym.

On impulse, you decided to approach her one day. You were nervous, palms sweating even though you hadn’t even begun your workout yet. Why were you so nervous? You were just going to ask her for tips. Maybe see if she would be willing to be your workout buddy. You could use the help, after all. You were a bit of a marshmallow, with no real muscle to speak of. The best you could say about yourself was that you weren’t fat.

As you walked up, she was doing pull-ups with an ease that left you a little awed. She was hardly breaking a sweat, though you could see the muscles in her arms straining against the tight sleeves of her cropped t-shirt. A few moments later when she dropped back down to the floor, you told her how impressed you were. “I’m hoping I can do that someday, but for now I’m stuck with noodle arms.” That made her laugh. Her laugh was deep and charming, and you could feel yourself losing your cool a bit (if you’d had any around her to begin with).

You chatted a bit longer, and mentioned you wished you had a gym buddy to help keep you motivated, and did she know anyone who might be looking for the same? “Well, I think we’re both here around the same time, right?” You tried not to think too hard about what it meant that she’d paid enough attention to you to know that. “I’d be happy to help out with your gains.” Her arms were crossed, and she had a smile on her face you couldn’t quite read—almost a smirk, but not unkind.

For the next hour, she put off her own workout to be your personal trainer. She was very nice the whole time, but seemed a little amused by how much you were struggling. You’d figured a month of regular gym visits would’ve left you in better condition, but clearly you’d been training all wrong. You were just glad your overexertion hid how embarrassed you were about barely managing four push-ups, and, later, that the layer of pudge on your belly made it so difficult for you to do a sit-up that she told you, “Maybe we should modify with crunches instead?” The modification helped, but you still struggled, flopping back onto the gym mat after just a handful while she did her best to be encouraging.

Mor. Ti. Fying. You almost regretted ever approaching her. You’d wrangled this poor woman into helping you, and by the end of it all you were pretty sure you might be beyond help. It was such a poor showing you briefly considered switching gyms to escape the humiliation. But as she finally helped you off the mat after another round of brutal bodyweight exercises, her hand firmly wrapping around yours as she pulled you up, she told you you’d done a good job. Being kind of a sucker for praise, you stood there with arms akimbo, sucking in air as you asked, “Did I?”

“We all start somewhere. You’ve got a solid base, though.” She walked toward the locker rooms with you. “I need to finish up here, but I definitely worked up an appetite. Do you wanna go get something to eat?”

You must’ve looked so flabbergasted that she immediately added, “I’d love to talk more about your gym goals. Maybe help you plan a weekly routine? And I’m starving,” she added, patting her flat stomach. God, she even had abs. Even a novice like you knew how hard it was to maintain visible abs. You couldn’t even imagine being that fit.

But maybe if you accepted her invitation, someday you would be. You could dream, right? So you told her you’d go get cleaned up and then wait until she was done. You tried not to sound giddy at the thought of sitting down to a meal with her. It wasn’t a date, after all. Just something you did when you had a gym buddy. (Though, it did feel a little counterproductive to eat out right after exercising. Maybe you’d both just get salads?)

Which was how you wound up sitting in a booth at a chain restaurant known more for their massive burgers and racks of ribs than their salads. She ordered up a storm—more food than you figured someone as fit as her would eat in one sitting, until she explained how much she had to eat just to maintain her physique, and something about protein and “macros.” You’d have to look that up later. Your stomach growled loudly as you looked at the menu. You were (unfortunately, in your mind) quite hungry after your workout and everything looked beyond tempting.

“Order whatever you want. My treat,” she told you. “Besides, you gotta think about upping your calorie intake if you really want to build muscle. It takes a lot of practice to be able to eat this much.” She laughed, but you realized she was serious. Apparently this was her fourth meal of the day.

That made your order—a mere full rack of ribs with a side of fries—seem much more reasonable. The onion ring tower appetizer also seemed like an excellent choice; you could share it, especially since she’d mentioned she was so hungry.

Her first entree—a massive salad packed with chicken breast—and the onion rings arrived at the same time. She tucked into her salad happily, and ate so eagerly you couldn’t help but join her, half the tower of deep-fried onion disappearing into your stomach before you could even really think about it. You offered her some onion rings, and she did eat one, but was otherwise content with her own food. You told yourself you could always have the rest packed up to take home—but they were very tasty, and you were hungry, and a little distracted by the good company.

Your ribs arrived so quickly you didn’t have much time to consider that maybe you were already full. The waiter set down a massive slab of a steak and an overflowing plate of fries in front of your dining partner, once again lulling you into the sense that what you’d ordered was reasonable for the amount of effort you’d put in that day. Between bites of her steak, she asked you more about why you were going to the gym, and what you were hoping to get out of it.

It felt a little ridiculous to talk about how you wanted to get fit in between decadent bites of barbecued rib and mouthfuls of french fries, but that was still true. “I mean, in an ideal world, I would love a body like yours. That was part of why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Aww, that’s so cute. I’ve never been someone’s muscle mommy before.”

You nearly choked at that. You were fairly certain your definition of “muscle mommy” was a little different. (Yours was more along the lines of the phrase “break my back like a glow stick, mommy,” and less “oh my god, you’re such a fitness inspiration! Would you be my muscle mommy?”) You thought you saw a bit of a sly look in her eye, but figured maybe you were imagining it. Trick of the dim restaurant lighting.

“Well, I could definitely use a mentor, as you clearly saw tonight.” You were halfway done with your ribs, and you wished you had only ordered a half rack. You’d eaten so many fries and you’d barely made a dent. But she was still eating, and the food was good, so you ate a few more fries, one more rib, and then another… until finally you were sitting back and stifling a belch, greasy barbecue and fried food resting heavily inside you, your plate clean except for bones. Even worse, she’d put her fries in the middle of the table, saying she was happy to share if you were still hungry. Mindlessly, you’d kept eating, even though you reminded yourself you were so full you felt a little sick, and that you definitely didn’t need the extra calories, and that still eating was probably making you look like a complete pig in front of a very pretty woman you’d once hoped to impress.

When the waiter came around again and asked if either of you would like dessert, she replied with an enthusiastic yes, ordering a big brownie sundae for herself. “The chocolate lava cake is pretty good. Definitely worth it, and it’d be nice to celebrate our new gym partnership.” Which made it seem like if you didn’t order dessert (even though you felt like you might need to be rolled to your car, and like you might pop on the way) she’d consider it rude. You took her suggestion, and ordered the lava cake.

When your desserts arrived, you were surprised by how large they were. Each was clearly meant to be shared between at least two people, and honestly would’ve easily satisfied three or four people. But she dug in with gusto, which meant you needed to do the same. Your gut ached. You ate slowly, trying to focus on the conversation and not your t-shirt riding up your stomach the tiniest bit, forcing you to keep tugging it down. You’d never felt this stuffed before. Your little squishy belly—usually small enough that you could hide it behind a couple layers—was bowed out in a hard curve, hot to the touch.

You finished your whole cake, plus the additional scoops of ice cream. If you could’ve taken a deep breath then, you would have, entirely because you were so grateful you didn’t have to eat any more.

Then she pushed her dessert across the table, and your stomach rumbled, already protesting as if it knew what she was about to suggest. “Do you want to polish this off? I think I’m tapped out for the night.” She patted her abs. You almost wanted to laugh. “I mean, it’s fine if you don’t—there just isn’t much left, so I figured it was better for it to get eaten now instead of get all soggy in my fridge at home.” She nudged the massive bowl a half inch closer to you with her fingertip. “You worked so hard tonight, I know you worked up an appetite.”

Something in her voice was… unexpected. Was she flirting? No, there was no way. She was just being nice. So nice you were actually thinking about eating the rest of her dessert, which you were sure had enough calories to feed you for an entire day. You definitely couldn’t eat it anyway. You’d glutted yourself so completely there was no way you could even get a bite down.

And yet, moments later, you’d picked up your spoon once again and started eating, ploughing through fudgy brownie and caramel sauce and ice cream. Soon, it was all gone, swirling in the churn of your overfed gut.

Walking out to the parking lot was more of a trial than the workout had been. You were out of breath, mostly because your diaphragm couldn’t expand properly with how packed full of food you were. She walked you to your car, saying what a good time she’d had, and that she’d definitely like to do this again. As you said your goodbyes, she had a big, beautiful smile on her face that almost put you down on your knees right there on the asphalt. “I’m really looking forward to helping you with your gains.” You could almost swear you saw her bite her lip for a second.

“I’m looking forward to it, too,” you told her with a final wave.

***

It took another two months for you to finally get it.

She was true to her word and kept training you at the gym, building up your strength and teaching you new skills day by day. You could tell you were getting stronger, though the progress was slow and… well, honestly a little hard to see.

Because at the same time, she’d also been taking you out to eat at least once a week. Not every meal was a blowout like that first one, but you started to get comfortable with feeling uncomfortably stuffed. You were eating a little too much on your own, too—serving yourself bigger portions, eating seconds and sometimes thirds. You started drinking protein shakes, because your cursory online searches had told you that eating extra protein was integral to building muscle. All that meant you had a little extra fluff around the middle, and elsewhere. Just enough that your clothes were getting a little too tight and showing more skin than you wanted them to. Just enough that if you lifted your arms, the soft roll of your belly was exposed.

You knew you were putting on weight, but told yourself it would balance out soon. Somehow.

The whole time, she’d been nothing but nice to you. Entirely friendly. Except those rare times when she seemed into you. You were sure you were imagining it. Someone like her definitely couldn’t be interested in someone like you. She was pretty and strong and knowledgeable and strong, and did you mention that she could absolutely pick you up with zero effort even though you were starting to get a little pudgy?

Not that you thought about her picking you up. Especially not when she nudged extra food across a table to you at dinner one night and told you just how well you did during your workout, and how you’d definitely earned a treat, and you replied, “I think I might’ve had a few too many treats lately,” and you swore that made her blush.

Another night, you overdid it again. Really overdid it. You gave yourself hiccups, you were so stuffed. And she kept ordering things, not even pretending they were to share. You both knew you’d eat every bite. And why was that, exactly? The first time, it was because you hadn’t wanted to be rude. Now, you had to admit you liked it. You liked eating not only everything you wanted, but everything she wanted, too. She was pushing you, just like she pushed you at the gym. Only this felt different. Sure, her telling you to struggle your way through another minute on the treadmill was kind of hot, in a way. You liked doing what she told you. But being told to glut yourself like this? It felt so illicit. Deliciously wrong. You’d never considered yourself a particularly kinky person, but eating like this, at her urging, pushed every button you had.

You waddled out of the restaurant with her, food-drunk and beyond turned on, and still unsure she was really doing any of this on purpose.

And then she had you pressed up against the door of your car, her leg wedged between yours and teasing you with the friction, her arms on either side of your head, caging you in. You were both breathing fast. She pressed up against you, her abs meeting your bloated belly. “God, you’re killing me with that appetite,” she hissed. “I kind of figured a softie like you might like to eat, but I never could’ve expected this.”

You whimpered as she dropped her hands to your stomach, then squeaked as she pulled your shirt up a little. “We’re in public!”

“That didn’t seem to matter so much while you were stuffing your face for everyone to see.” She pinched at one of the love handles that appeared in the last couple months, your nerves lighting up. “I’m more than happy to take you home for some privacy, though.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”

Her tongue flicked out to wet her bottom lip. “I’d like to.” She lifted your shirt up even more, exposing your whole belly to the cool night air. You squirmed with embarrassment, but you didn’t want her to stop. “Let me take you home and appreciate all your hard work.”

You smirked. “All my gains?”

She smiled back. “Every pound of ‘em.”