A Peculiar Christmas Card

I started this little story around Christmas time, but never quite finished it.  If enough people like it, I may just continue.

At first I thought someone was playing a prank on me - this kind of Christmas card was not something you’d find in your local Spencer’s or specialty shop.  It almost had to be edited - except I do photo editing myself and couldn’t find any of the tell-tale signs: no differences in tone or texture, no distortions or odd discrepancies along the edges, even the angles of light were all perfect.  I was embarrassed, confused, and turned on all at the same time.

You see it was from a place I visit all the time, a little guilty pleasure of mine - a bar in one of the seedier parts of  Saint Louis.  The bar was called Gino’s, and it fell into the category of legal “titty-bars”, where no-one was technically naked, but the clothing ranged from light body paint to transparent lingerie.  There are four or five places in the same cluster of blocks that use the same basic gimmick - but of them this one’s the best.  Gino’s used to be owned by a mafia entertainer, but even after he retired and gave the place to his son, cops and politicians were the primary guests.  It helps that many of the chefs are five star, and the food is delicious - but the food could be lousy and it would still be packed with guys all day long.  It was a running joke that all the waitresses were retired strippers who work out like crazy to stay looking young - but you could see where people would get the idea.  Every one of these girls was a middle-aged hard body with implants ranging from D’s to sizes that probably require a flight out of country because they violate U.S. health codes.  Usually it was difficult to get in, but when you have an oddball schedule like mine my off days ironically coincide with the few times that they are slow - Monday and Tuesday mornings.  

So before you accuse me of despising women for visiting a place like this, let me remind you first that this is a VERY guilty pleasure.  Secondly, I’d have to point out that really, in many respects, the guys were being taken every bit as much as the girls.  Take Helen (I’d love to) - she actually had a masters degree, but found that she got paid literally THREE times as much here as she would have in her own field, and between the bouncers and Krav-Magda training, she was pretty much guaranteed that the worst she had to deal with was leering eyes (lets face it, these girls would get that wherever they went).   She could actually apply gratuities on the checks as she pleased (again, legally questionable but par the course here) and never made less than twenty five percent - many of the customers tipped her one hundred percent or more just because she knew how to rotate between teasing you and scaring the crap out of you in just the right combination. That being said, I still tried to treat these girls with respect - although I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t have to concentrate in order to look them in the eyes when I talked to them (maybe if you prefer butts or legs it would be easier, but when you’re a breast man and a woman with a pair of water-filled basketballs bends over with a  gelatinous wobble and her nipples are thick enough to poke your drinks while she’s setting them down, you’ve got at least a dozen bodily reactions distracting your amygdala before your cerebrum can even realize “oh crap, rotate eyes up”, ) - but spending nine hours in heels and being looked at like a hooker (or even the lustful stares I try so hard to minimize) when its obvious they chose NOT to be has got to be taxing.  Combine that with the fact that I usually come in when they are slow, I’ve actually had the chance to sit and talk with all of them long enough to get to know them as people.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s how they got my address.  You see, Helen asked me to do a set of portraits of her family, and asked me to mail it to her when she was out of town.  I guess she used the return address.

Still, did she give it to the new owner ?  Why the Christmas card?  More significantly for me and the issue at hand - how did they know about my second fetish?  Yes, these girls are hard bodies, hard by the standards of the rest of the world - every one of them has clean, tight, muscular curves (many of them are in their forties and have had several children, muscle is pretty much the only way to look as young as these girls do after that) but I fantasize about women that are more muscular than any man, and constantly getting bigger.  It’s as much a guilty pleasure as visiting Gino’s, but one that’s even harder to communicate without being accused of being homosexual or whatnot.  Did they just catch my eyes studying their arms when a surprisingly peaked bicep popped, or the pectoral muscles twitching under those huge breasts whenever they were using the lemon juicer - possibly so, but even then they couldn’t have known how far my imagination takes it.

Whoever edited this - and it had to be an edit, even if it’s the best I’ve ever seen - knows exactly what my fetishes are.  The women on this Christmas card  are wider than they are tall, rippling masses of muscle that almost defy anatomical reality.  Their calves alone were so swollen over their high heels that they resembled prize winning pumpkins pushing their legs apart, their quads rising up above their waists and thrusting out like overhead washing machines casting their tiny feet into dark shadows.  I could almost picture vibrating pleasurably on those rippling quads as my eyes continued up.  There was luscious variety to their abs, ranging from an irregular mass of six bowling balls, to what resembled an actual twelve pack of malt liquor thrusting  in cylinders of bare fiber from her stomach.  Excessive, freakish, I’m sure those would have been the average person’s response, but to me they were glorious. Their pecs and shoulders were so swollen you could hardly see their faces, just eyes peering over massive vein ridden slabs topped with breast that ranged from two to four feet around, but still looked like small addendums cut by rampant striations of beef on all that muscle.  But those breasts!  Creamy jizz inducing mounds of wobbling tit that had to be enhanced but, only two of them looked it - their shapes ranging from perfect teardrops to thrusting torpedoes,  massive orbs, or  even colossal Hershey’s kisses. Their arms were even more insane if that was possible.  Each girl had forearms as wide around as a beer keg turned on its side, but they looked like tiny tyrannosaurus arms compared to the massive pulley system of their biceps and triceps.  I think if one of them flexed that bicep would be taller than the rest of their body by quite a large margin.  And she was the smallest one . . .   The extremity of the morph alone was staggering.  They were all wearing snowflake pasties on their nipples and over their vaginas, and the rest of their bodies were painted with glittering white and silver snowflakes. Five impossibly proportioned girls essentially naked on a snowfield with ribbon letters saying “A Little Nice gets a Lot of Naughty”.  The inside of the card was signed by all the regular girls, with a little winking smiley face saying “May all your Christmas Wishes come true!”.  It took me a minute to actually recognize them all on the card, so much of their faces were hidden by their massive physiques.

I suppose in retrospect what I did afterwards was crazy - but what I received was crazy to begin with, and raised so many questions that I just had to have answered.  So on Christmas Eve, when everything was closed and the metro system was barely running, I went out in ankle deep snow to a restaurant that was closed for the holidays without even knowing if I’d be able to get back home.

When I got there the door was open.

At first entering  Gino’s was an odd experience.  It looked like snow was falling IN the restaurant, but none of it was accumulating and it felt, well warm to the touch.  It was quiet, eerily so.  All of the girls were there at the bar, but they appeared frozen.  Cards hung from their necks, but I had to get close to read them. The first one I approached was Mesha.  She was usually the greeter, a pretty black girl with a full natural afro and a penchant for gold and purple Egyptian style clothing (which often barely covered her breasts, in this case she was wearing a pair of cat head pasties)- Her card said “Squeeze Please”.  I hesitated as I approached, not sure what to make of the situation.  It seems she woke up as soon as I got close.  Immediately I was embarrassed, but she gave me a sly wink as she took my hands and smilingly lead them up to her breasts.  My hand touched her pasty, her areolae were so huge that you could see the dark edge of them around the paper plate sized covering, I could feel a hardening nipple push against my palm.  “See honey, the more you play with these” with that she winked and started curling arms that were rapidly pumping with muscle “The bigger I pump these . . . “

Normally, Mesha's arms were noticeably fit - somewhere between the average cross-fitter and some lightweight female body-builders.  But even a few curls accomplished something that my imagination, even in this bizzare circumstances, couldn't have tricked me into seeing - her peaks were swollen like somebody had pumped grapefruits under her skin, layers of thick snaking veins texturing her mahogany skin.  Her boobs were probably average in Gino's, but anywhere else they would have been mindblowing - I had never actually felt a single breast that overloaded my hand - much less one that  would have a gap of over a foot between both thumbs if I tried to squeeze it it with both hands, she moaned as I squeezed, then tried to jiggle her weighty breasts - they must have weighed a good thirty pounds each, but were still amazingly soft and pliable.  Those simple squeezes made her moan and growl, pumping her muscles first to the size of a heavyweight male bodybuilder, then immediately to scales that would be cartoonish if I didn't see the insane mass and detail as muscles stretched her skin