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STORM (Ep 10. Descending on Ascension [2/2])

C-Day -3, 0305 Zulu; Surrounds of the Task Force Officers’ Quarters, Cat Hill.

Shattering rocks with toes and crushing cement with bare soles are well described by the invulnerable strongwoman’s playbook. Yet there’s another very good reason why your everyday superwoman should wear her full uniform out of doors and especially footwear. Jenna thought hard about that in the early hours of C-Day minus 3; she’d woken at about midnight and after a couple hours of tossing and turning decided to dress and fix the problem with the turbine’s rotor blades encroaching on parts of the base’s access road. Strong fingers worked at rivets and joints, at first attempting to treat the mechanism as salvageable, however, it soon became obvious a coterie of superhuman femmes had put their intoxicated brawn to work on parts of the nacelle and its components achieving nothing more than irreparable damage.

“So much for the curfew,” she groaned aloud and once she’d resolved that this turbine would be sold for scrap, it all became too easy. The rotors torn away from their mountings and stacked neatly next to the tower which Jenna also moved closer to the base perimeter; the moonlight illuminated much around her, certainly allowing her to see all she wanted to and some things she didn’t. On the return to quarters she almost stepped upon a condom fully loaded from recent use and discarded uncomfortably close to the front steps.

“So much for non-fraternisation,” she groaned again and her eyes caught evidence of a different kind; the end balustrade – a thick piece of steel maybe four inches in diameter – had been warped out of alignment. The way it bent suggested pressure suddenly exerted from diagonally below, perhaps by a hand pressing upwards and out and perhaps the work of one superhuman femme experiencing that much anticipated moment. Without a sign of malicious intent or even misadventure it signalled to Jenna the British C.O. was probably right. Maybe the night before was merely an unfortunate event, nothing more.

Opening the door, Jenna heard a distinctive sound flood over her. The breathless groans of a twenty year old superwoman for her cousin’s room adjoined the entry area and turning to close the door behind her also meant facing in that direction. Wide open and privacy abandoned; Zoe standing on the toes of her left foot, her head arched back, the ball of her right foot balanced on a side table; behind and below was the thrusting form of Emile Elmarouche, his left hand clutching her about the silky white left breast more for balance than lust; the contrast of their skin made more stark by the way the moonlight illuminated Zoe’s rigid torso, only those incredible sculptured abs tensing and pulsing to the rhythm of his beat.

Jenna averted her eyes, embarrassed she could dwell on such an intimate scene, when Zoe’s groans turned to a higher pitch and as if on auto Jenna’s head swung back to view an extraordinary sight. She knew it to be impossible to move a superhuman if she chose to stay rooted to the spot but now Zoe had lifted that leg foot into the air; now in stationary flight that incredible body appeared as immovable as it had been seconds before; everything Jenna knew about Newtonian physics said this couldn’t happen and yet there it was. And as Jenna again tried to move away she noticed the glistening juices covering Emile’s thick sheathed member reflect the moonlight as sure as the body eagerly accepting it; his piston-like precision so perfectly primed Zoe announced her pleasure with a house-waking shriek. It wasn’t all though. Now she allowed herself to be repositioned, his strong arms cradling her 183 lbs of muscle with ease; laying her ass on that small table and superhuman legs spreading to lock around his kidneys and lift his body, his feet a foot from the ground; she leaned back onto hands that gripped the table edge and hockey puck sized triceps swelled into the skin of each upper arm; her effortless control caused his violent thrusts to oscillate so much quicker, harder. Jenna remained transfixed, watching through that inevitable final gasping exclamation and his shudders of approval, those omnipotent legs lowering him and peeling away to invite a slow withdrawal; and finally Zoe’s expert fingers slipping off the sodden rubber to flick it with a dead-eye aim into the small waste bin next to the bed.

The dark-haired commander exhaled hard through her nose and decided nothing remained of the night. Walking to the third door that opened off the living area she tapped gently upon it and waiting a second for an unheard answer, opened it wide to find an unsurprising sight. Lyn and Caitlin entwined in a perfectly synchronous and symmetrical sixty-nine; Caitlin’s blonde head to Jenna’s left and Lyn’s to her right; neither stirring from their passion at the sound of the door hinges squeaking open.

“Playtime’s over, ladies.”

This did no good either, if anything, encouraging the lust-filled duo into more feverish action. It didn’t fool Jenna.

“I know you well enough, Caitlin, to know you’re not even close. So stop fuckin’ about and get into the shower.”

This had the desired effect. The short and sweaty blonde hair craned back and Lyn took the hint, lifting her own dank black mop stained with Caitlin’s love juices and signalled by a tap of her fingers for strong muscular arms to release so each could flop onto their broad backs and stare bemused at the thick bodied commander who had taken the opportunity to negotiate the narrow doorway and glare back with hands on hips.

“Do you ‘copy’, Sergeant Major?”

Caitlin sat and slowly stood and took a stride to hesitate in front of Jenna at an oblique angle; she grabbed the taller woman’s right wrist and held the fingers to her nose, “You had a strong, hulkin’ muscle babe laid on right here if you wanted; instead you choose a glossy mag full of skinny girlies pumpin’ twenty pound dumbbells.”

“They’re attractive women.”

“I seem to remember when you said that ‘bout me,” and giving her commander an insolent wink slowly walked toward the Jack and Jill bathroom shared with Jenna’s closed room. At the threshold Caitlin stopped and putting her hands up to feel the top of the wooden lintel in the manner of doing chin ups, tensed her arms and back muscles and flexed a rear double biceps pose, holding it just long enough to make her point then moving into the darkened space before turning on the light and becoming centre of attention.

“I’ll leave the door open. In case someone wants to join me that is,” and she disappeared from view to the sound of running water. Lyn rose from the bed and finding her cigarettes looked about for the lighter. Jenna cut her no slack.

“Looks like a scene from some twisted Woody Allen movie, doesn’t it? The older bride fuckin’ the much younger mother-in-law.”

Lyn threw the silver case onto her carry bag and considered her kin with a hard stare.

“You shouldn’t let her get to you.”

“She hasn’t. Caitlin’s the one who’s carrying the flame.”

“I’m speaking of the late Judge Walters,” Lyn’s eyes continued to dart about in forlorn hope and a growing nicotine urge, “She got into your mind, Jenna.”

“I couldn’t care less for her.”

“It’s about what she said. She called you a lousy lover, made you doubt yourself and tried to drive a wedge between you and your man.”

“Someone’s been sellin’ you a whole truck load of horse shit.”

They stayed silent for a long minute, waiting for the pouring, scalding water to turn off before Lyn spoke the next words, “She’s been screwing people over for years. Believe me when I say it, there’s no way she’d ever go through with a divorce. I mean she’d agree, yes, but always find a reason never to sign the papers.”

“Fortunately, we’re never gonna know.”

“She’d bad form, Jenna,” Caitlin had emerged from the steam not bothering to dry a trickle from her body before finding her camo trousers and joining the conversation, “I warned you ‘bout playin’ with her.”

“And it’s your business because?”

“Okay, so I’m pissed you go ‘n’ choose that flabby armed bitch over a body bulgin’ with the biggest, hardest muscle you ever had the pleasure to cum on.”

“For your information, Gabi had been back in serious training … fuck, why am I botherin’ to say this? You ‘n’ me were just a one off, Caitlin; nothing more, nothing less.”

“Keep sayin’ it and one day I’ll believe it,” Caitlin sneered half to herself while pushing those 24 inch upper arms into the sleeves of the ultra-tight khaki tee-shirt; under the guise of an admonishing stare, Jenna considered the sight of that garment clinging to every damp bulge for another long minute, feeling a deep tingle of lust and trying to convince herself, for all it was worth, that her last sentence wasn’t a lie. Yet watching the way that tee shirt turned to a dark green, Jenna was certain this was all a stunt, an exercise in nothing more than attention seeking of the most blatant kind.

Jenna swung those shoulders toward the naked and nicotine deprived Lyn, “I want you outside in ten minutes, Agent Steele, so if you’re gonna shower …” and turning away for the final time, leaving the muscular duo to their silent preparations, Jenna had to readjust to the dark of the living area and only noticed at the very last second the spectre-like form of the Belgian Colonel quickly decamping through the door to the outside; Zoe appeared from her room in the same moment, fully dressed in her fresh MARPAT green with the subdued insignia of a first lieutenant on the lapel, her commander noting that the blonde hair, gelled and tied back only minutes before, now hung around her shoulders, soaked and ungroomed.

“You are gonna do something with that hair?”

“Grandma, err, Agent Steele, has a dryer in her room,” Zoe answered and despite her post-orgasmic euphoria tried to sound sombre, “there was an incident in the NCO’s mess, err, while you were moving that pylon.”

“A discarded condom was all the proof I needed the non-fraternisation order was ignored. I can promise you the senior NCO will be held accountable at the end of the tour.”

“No it’s not that, err, or just that. I needed to know about the grip … and yeah, I upset a couple of the girls and they, well, one, reacted by trying it on me.”

“Only to fail … if there was any doubt.”

“I broke her arm.”

Jenna swore and looked to the heavens for inspiration; Zoe wasn’t through with the confession.

“The girl who killed the officer, err, the one they call ‘Chyna’, I … I sprained her wrist too … pretty bad.”

“Shit! I’m gonna need her strength, Zoe.”

“She’ll be fine – they both will – it’s just … she was hitting on this guy, the most muscular on the base I think; it was like she wanted to prove something. Something bad.”

“I worked this out with the British commander and he believes there’s no evidence of foul play. So that’s where we leave it. Period.”

Zoe’s voice lowered and eyes narrowed, “No. I heard them talk; they’ve got suspicions and want a proper autopsy to work out how he died. They know 'bout Chyna I reckon.”

“And I think that time in El Paso has swamped your brain with conspiracy theories.”

Caitlin appeared from the lit room, her MARPAT tunic unfastened and open sufficiently so that her hardened nipples and ever harder pecs and abs clung against the wet tee-shirt, “How was he, Zoe?”

“Great!” the blonde gushed into a total mood swing; Jenna huffed.

“Sergeant Major, return to your own quarters and make sure you reappear appropriately dressed. The next time I see you I want the task force formed into single file ready to board our transport.”

“Aye aye, Commander,” and Caitlin strode purposefully to the rear of Jenna, allowing a strong errant shoulder to smack the tall brunette in the thick upper back with a menace that would shatter the body of a lesser mortal. The effort failed to move its victim more than an inch and Jenna didn’t intend being drawn on such an adolescent attempt to garner a reaction. Zoe let the strong steps reach the doorway before returning her gaze to Jenna.

“Caitlin said you ‘n’ her were once a thing …”

“One night in the jungle and six months in her dreams. And you and me know that if my Jackson was here all hot ‘n’ horny I’d have cum three times in the last half hour.”

Zoe giggled, “Then I’d still be one up.”

Jenna struggled to think of a sharp comeback and gave it away as being in need of a sudden caffeine boost; Zoe wasn’t going to dwell on the recent past, however, and Jenna watched in curiosity as the blonde head craned skyward and eyes narrowed as if to focus.


“Thanks, ‘Radar’.”


Jenna smirked at her cousin’s po-faced ignorance of pop-culture and told her to get ready to ship out. No more lifting wind turbines, no more talk of Gabrielle Walters and no more crazy theories. At least now the 22 year old superhuman could concentrate her mind on the job she'd been sent here to do.

Conquer a nation.

The Strong Woman's Almanac (s 3 ep 10 [2/2])
WARNING: Some strong depictions of sexual activity.

Mature Content

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STORM (Ep 10. Descending on Ascension [1/2])

C-Day -4, 1145 Zulu; RAF Ascension Island (Wideawake Airfield)

“She walks funny.”

“She’s not like us, darling,” Lyn said before taking a long backdraught on her cigarette, exhaling and then explaining, “she doesn’t control her strength as we do. With every step she worries the power of her legs will shatter the tarmac. And if she does, she’ll also tear those boots apart. It’s double trouble for sure.”

“I always wondered how you could lift a boat in one hand while wearing those thin stiletto heels.”

“Not a ‘boat’, darling, a ‘ship’. And it was no problem at all provided one concentrates and lets all the muscles do their work. Jenna’s not like that,” Lyn paused for another quick puff, “She’s lazy. She only uses her hands and arms and shoulders. Heaven knows, she might’ve carried that whole mountain in one hand if she’d bothered to think about it more. Instead she just makes one hell of a mess and wipes out half a native village.”

Zoe thought back to Jenna’s momentous feat earlier in the year. Four or five billion tons of granite, or so the musclebound Texan reckoned, among which contained a jihadist facility where the Mogar 2.0 code was being deciphered and manipulated to create a race of superhuman Somali warriors intent on wreaking damage the great terror networks of the world could only dream about. This extraordinary effort destroyed the terrorist operation - and confirmed in Jenna’s mind that she was the strongest human ever; the blonde ‘Supergirl’ actress happy to vacate the field and allow her cousin a deserved place in the pantheon of humankind’s greatest heroes.

“I remember when I was five I think and I worked out I could make a great big sandpit out of a cement slab. Hours of fun for about five seconds effort.”

“Your father wouldn’t have been too impressed.”

“He was impressed. He just wasn’t too happy with the need to buy more concrete. Or so he keeps reminding me.”

“Then you wouldn’t be surprised how much money Susan had to hand over to Jenna’s school for repairs and the like. And guess what? She’s now the A-list celebrity and they hang a large photo of her in the school hall. It should bear the inscription: ‘This is Commander Jenna Rozlyn McAdam who spent grades four through six lifting teachers’ cars with one hand to stand them against the old oak tree and while tormenting only one at a time, the local crane operator made his fortune thanks to her persistence.’

Zoe laughed not at what Lyn said as much as knowing that Jenna would be so pissed with her saying it; the magnificently muscled woman herself, close enough to hear her cousin’s high pitched giggle, naturally assumed they were talking about her and eyes narrowed on approach. Although only Zoe knew it. Notwithstanding the heavy overcast sky, the C-O maintained her aviator’s sunglasses in place, the common marine battle uniform in MARPAT woodland worn over the black of the familiar body armor which she directed all task force crew to wear under the battle dress; the subdued black insignia on her collar attracting Lyn’s attention as much as Jenna’s choice of headwear; and Jenna equally attracted to Lyn’s vice of habit.

“Smoking is prohibited in this area, Agent Steele.”

Lyn said nothing, pressing the red glowing butt into the palm of her hand before dropping it to the asphalt to be compressed into nothingness by the strength exerted through those familiar shiny black high heels; Jenna did bother to watch the little show, rather her attention turned to the tall young blonde she hadn’t immediately recognised due to the choice of sunglasses and the familiar billowing hair being gelled and pulled tight into a rear knot unseen under the round brim of her camo bush hat.

“And what are you doing in that uniform?”

Lyn spoke first, “Flying Officer McGerrity is an operational reservist with the Royal Australian Air Force.”

“What? When did this happen?”

“I’ve been doing this on and off for a couple of years,” Zoe answered, “and before you ask ‘why’ remember you said how it could be a much better use of my talents than flying through fake walls in some Hollywood movie.”

Jenna grimaced, “Alright … but if you’re going to be part of this team you’ll have to wear the same uniform … report to Sergeant Major Caitlin Addams.”

“Where is the newly promoted musclewoman?” Lyn asked and Jenna pointed toward a group of enlisted personnel about two-fifty yards to the north using the Air Auxiliary’s fire trucks as weights for bench presses and squats. Caitlin was the standout among the group, not due to any particular feat of strength but rather she stood aside, hands on hips, wearing a khaki training shirt much too small for her muscular torso and arms. This contrasted with the other soldiers who were dressed identical to Jenna – except they each wore garrison caps – and Caitlin’s casual approach to dress grated with her commanding officer; Lyn continued, “I see those marvellous twenty four inch arms are on show … unlike your own bulging peaks, Commander … why the sudden change to tight clothing?”

“Discipline,” Jenna began and nodded toward the superstrong cohort, “if I start parading about like The Rock they’ll be spending all their time flexing and comparing …”

“Instead of now? Look … they’re simply testing each other’s strength.” Lyn spoke with nine parts sarcasm to one part observation and began to walk toward the group. Jenna contemplated her again for a long moment. Lyn wore a typical white blouse unbuttoned to the diaphragm allowing the expansive deep and tanned cleavage to show and a sober charcoal skirt to knee length, tight about the tiny butt as was her custom. From the broad, subtly bulging shoulders and muscular, heart shaped calves of her great grandmother, Jenna’s eyes re-focused on the happenings among the fire trucks. The strongest of the twenty eight graduates of Operation Hercules, Staff Sergeant Wilma Ellen Winslow – known as ‘Chyna’ among the group for the bodybuilding effects of her training had left her looking akin to a taller version of the WWE diva Joanie Laurer at her muscular best – was performing a behind the neck military press with twelve tons of fire truck quickly rising and slowly falling for six reps: the last undertaken with four of the cohort ‘spotting’ to take the engine from her and lower it to the ground amid the applause of the others. Winslow was two or three times as strong as any of the remaining twenty seven and five times the strength of the most muscular of the Hercules graduates, Caitlin Addams. What worried Jenna, though, this 6’ 5” dark haired behemoth was a contemporary of the delinquent Vanessa Mandom. And from what she’d seen so far, there was every reason to think they had more than timing in common.

“That beret you’re wearing, Jen, why the purple?”

“It’s amethyst … and while we’re on active duty please refer to me as ‘Commander’ or ‘Miss McAdam’.”

“In company sure but …”

“No ‘buts’, it’s about discipline.”

They said nothing more, watching instead as Lyn and Caitlin hugged in a lustful way and on breaking the hold laughed about something that caused Zoe to “tsk” with disbelief.

“What is it?” Jenna asked.

“If you’re wanting discipline, this won’t be on the menu.”

Jenna didn’t have time to ask further for Lyn had walked to the fire engines and with seven decades of practice had one held aloft in each hand before Jenna could swear in frustration. She manoeuvred them to her liking and soon had the trucks by their tail bars, standing upright from outstretched hands and dwarfing her and the other ‘strength-ettes’. Then it began. Lyn’s left hand tossed the fire engine high into the air – forty feet or more it climbed – and transferring the other engine to her left threw that as high as the first began its descent to be caught by her right; up and around they went, slowly at first and then picking up speed. But Zoe saw it first.

‘Chyna’ Winslow and two others lifted the third fire engine and Hercules’ finest tossed it toward the juggling superwoman. If they’d intended menace they failed for Lyn stooped effortlessly to collect the twelve ton missive with her left hand and beginning with it, threw each a little higher, taking each in her right with the same ease and before anyone could say ‘Barnum and Bailey’, this former circus Strength Queen was juggling nearly forty tons of the island’s firefighting hardware.

“This’s gone on …”

“Wait, Jen, err, Commander,” and Jenna stopped in mid stride and by hard look invited Zoe to make her point, “There was a death on the base last night; a British officer, err, an older guy, ‘bout fifty. They said he died of a heart attack during, err, conjugals, you know,” Zoe paused for Jenna to acknowledge she understood; the commander shook her head.

“It’s no great surprise if the guy is pumped full of Viagra.”

“No. This was nothing like that.”

“So why should I care?”

“Because it wasn’t anything to do with Viagra or consent for that matter,” Zoe’s voice deepened and she spoke fast so Jenna couldn’t interrupt, “a group of the women met with some of the British in a bar off base and this guy took a fancy to one of them and went outside for a cigarette where she joined him and gave him Hobson’s choice …”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Remember what I told you of El Paso? How those women would convince men they should give into their wishes or find out just how strong they really could be?”

“That’s not what you told me.”

“You’ll remember I told you this. The grip Van Mandom used, the one which crushes that carotid thingie and makes them have a heart attack, well, that’s what happened to this officer dude. The woman used her strength to get her way then finished it off because ‘dead men tell no tales’.”

“You think or you know?”

Zoe was unimpressed, “You doubt my abilities after how I helped you crack that assignment?”

“Alright. Thanks for the heads up. But for now could you impose some discipline into this never-ending sideshow?”

Jenna felt the rush of wind and almost immediately the fire trucks returned to their usual positions on the apron of the tarmac: faster than the eye could see Zoe had collected the three at the one time and replaced them, leaving Lyn standing alone and slightly relieved. The McAdam Family matron didn’t have long to wait before Jenna’s strong legs had jogged her next to her – not caring about the cracks the thump of booted feet left spidering through the asphalt – and a loud voice in her ear.

“You got ‘em up okay but didn’t know how to set ‘em down,” Jenna’s words dripped with schadenfreude; Lyn’s voice cold.

“Let’s say it’s been a few years.”

Jenna’s smile gave way to the matters at hand, “We need to get to the U.S. Base for a final briefing.”

“Arrangements already made to meet at the R-A-F base up the hill.”

“Why?” Jenna asked, curious to learn why her plan was changed.

“The C-I-A has brought in a Belgian military intelligence operative ...” Lyn began, pausing for Jenna to join the dots. This she did but refused to cut the elder superwoman any slack, “They’re the former colonial dominion in central Africa,”

“I know that,” Jenna growled.

“It’s no secret we’re on the island but no one is too sure about him. Rest assured our friends in Brussels don’t want it known that they’re actively assisting us to fight these particular jihadists.”

The commander’s impatience let Lyn score the play, “Yes, yes. We’ll do it however they want,” and called out to Caitlin, “Sergeant Major, ready yourself. We’re heading to R-A-F Traveller’s Hill for the briefing.”

Caitlin didn’t react to the change of plan leaving Jenna to guess it was because she’d already known what was going on. Which also suggested to a cynical mind that the friendly greeting given a few minutes before was more for show than fact. Lyn and Zoe were meant to meet Jenna on base more than a day before let left it to the last possible moment – an initiative of Lyn, of that Jenna was certain. At the same time, the commander had no doubt Caitlin knew exactly what was going on and Jenna’s  growing disquiet with Caitlin’s attitude since the task force came together a month back only added to her displeasure. The promotion to task force sergeant major seemed to make Caitlin less rather than more focused on her duties, if that was possible, and if this death is investigated as a homicide it will be the lack of supervision by the senior NCO that will be investigated in the first instance. A negative outcome would justify a thorough review of JTF Storm command in toto. No. That wouldn’t do. Jenna had to shut this down quick.


C-Day -4, 1225 Zulu; RAF Base, Travellers Hill.

He cleared his throat and spoke in a strong French-sounding accent.

“This is not the sort of operation you think it is.”

“That presumes to know what I think.”

It wasn’t the best start Jenna could hope for. The svelte, firm bodied and dark skinned Belgian stood glaring back at her for a long moment; Jenna accentuating her disapproval of his demeanour by crossing her arms and looking to the World as though the biceps bulging as large as his head meant him menace. In truth it was the furthest thought from her mind but wanted to make the point. She’s in charge.

He continued unabashed. Emile Elmarouche, a Colonel in the GISS (to use its Anglicised anagram), claimed his African experience began as a raw sub-lieutenant in the peacekeeping force sent to Rwanda during the 1994 genocide; familial roots that stretched from Morocco and Marseille to Beirut and Bruges he looked to Jenna as strangely generic in a very politically incorrect way. Perhaps it was his thin Errol-Flynn-like moustache, perhaps his arrogant self-assuredness, perhaps the way his own pair of strong looking upper arms filled out the sweat stained jungle camo shirt, but listening to the words tumble quickly from his mouth Jenna had to admit to herself she found his Gallic-mix-Levantine manner strangely irritating. She would need to grin and bear it.

“And this is what I mean when I say the operation ‘is not what you think’ …” he paused and Jenna felt the deadly stare of the others on the back of her brunette scalp – only figuratively in Zoe’s case, fortunately – and after his hubris passed the Colonel plunged into a prepared monologue.

“This is not about religion or ideology or jihad or whatever else your governments had you believe Bashkir al-Aswad stood for. It is about political power that’s all. You see, the regime that controls Kinshasa has the attention of the World but not the attention of all the Congolese people. Rather the country is broken into disparate factions controlled by their own warrior leader. Al-Aswad has his base here … on the shores of Lake Albert,” and the Colonel pointed to a large monitor displaying a map of the country, “his strength lies in the north and east,” and appropriately enough to Lyn’s mind used his finger to outline a crescent shape on the screen, “over here in the north west is another warlord – a communist from the Mobutu days - who has strong historic connections with the Russians … and here in the south is another, one who is aligned with the French. The Kabila government controls the west and centre of the country with the support of the military. However, all this is about to change. Not because of rabid hordes of black-flag waving insurgents pushing through the jungle and terrorising towns into submission but rather by the more simple and even more successful means. Can you guess what that is?”

Jenna thought he was being rhetorical and let the question hang; it was Lyn who chose to answer.


“Exactly!” he agreed with overemphasis, “Or in this case, diamonds.”

“That’s why we call his followers the ‘Cult of Almas’,” Lyn continued, encouraged; standing and walking slowly to the monitor, “the ‘Diamond Cutters’ is what they’re called by the Congolese military. They pay off their enemies to create peace, to gain land, to spread influence and then to take political control. This is what has happened here,” she pointed to the north west of the country, “Al-Aswad has paid off these Russian backed warlords with enough blood money for them to mobilize their mercenaries on his account. They have advanced to here,” she pointed to a spot on the map where the Congo and Ubangi rivers met, “on the outskirts of the city of Mbandaka, err, some five hundred kilometres upriver from Kinshasa. The city is garrisoned by a large contingent of the loyal Congolese army, a force of over twenty five thousand men, well equipped and supported by the few attack helicopters the moribund air force can get off the ground. To date both sides refuse to cross the river so apart from long distance artillery duelling, the result is stalemate. However, M-I-6 has identified communications from the government of the Republic of the Congo agreeing to allow – for a price –the rebels’ mercenaries to slip across the Ubangi and attack Kinshasa via Brazzaville. Of course, if the President’s loyal forces learn of this plan and move across the border to cut it off …”

“Africa goes hot and the Joint Chiefs of Staff are lining up to kick my tight, muscled ass.”

“Thank you, Commander,” the Belgian saw his chance to reassert control, “and the Nguesso regime is more than happy to bring that about under the ‘Unite the Congo, Unite Africa’ banner which has much support in his own senior military ranks. Faced with this prospect, President Kabila has grown increasingly conciliatory towards al-Aswad. And there is little doubt in our governments’ collective minds what will happen next. Kabila will be paid a King’s ransom to allow al-Aswad a place at the table of power. In the meantime he will consolidate his forces and with the loyal military sidelined he can turn his attention to the south where the rebel leader has made it clear no amount of money will ever be enough. When the time is right we expect Kabila will disappear into exile and live happily ever after off a multi-million dollar Swiss bank account. For the people of Zaire, a secular Islamic state will be proclaimed in the heart of Africa and a new rule of law imposed at the end of the rifle barrel, as it has been done for the past fifty years. No doubt great impetus will be gained by the jihadists operating in Nigeria, Cameroon and the Central African Republic.”

“Not to mention financial and military backing,” Lyn added.

Jenna was sceptical, “You said this had nothing to do with religion and radical fundamentalism.”

The Colonel’s manner equivocal, “Al-Aswad is not so inclined. But what can we say of his followers?”

“I understood we were sent here as one small part of the War on Terror to stop this happening. So enough of the politics and let’s talk about strategy.”

“Yes, Commander,” the Belgian continued, “our strategy is to replace the current President with a leader who can control the country in terms of a military response to this insurgency and who will not subjugate the proper process of government to personal interest.”

“Regime change.”


Jenna exhaled hard and silently swore a string of oaths. Her Pentagon briefings, the Vice President’s national security advisers, all had been vague about the operation’s precise objectives stating they were ‘classified’ until the task force had been deployed. It was obvious why.

“Colonel, if you could be more specific,” the higher pitched and slightly nasal tones of Zoe interrupted the exchange between Jenna and the operative. There seemed a collective relief that she’d done so.

“Our plan is to rendezvous with the forces in the south and neutralise the Presidential loyalists in and about Kinshasa. Once the military action is complete and Kaliba replaced with a more accommodating individual, allied governments in Washington and Europe will recognise her as the new president.”

“Her?” gasped Caitlin, struggling to keep up with the train of thought.

“Forget that,” said Jenna impatiently, “What if Brazzaville and the other insurgents don’t share the same view? What if all hell breaks loose?”

“We will destroy them.”

“Good luck with that,” she said and noisily pushing away her chair, stood and strode toward the stand of refreshments at the back of the small interior room lit by three thin fluorescent tubes in a line above. The Colonel considered the massive back of the woman making a silent statement and marvelled at the way the muscles pushed out every crease and fold of that custom-sized garment. And reckoned that it was all put on for his benefit.

“I am told that the four of you are each a thousand times stronger than the average man; that you possess incredible speed and agility and other powers we mere mortals need to watch on our television screens to believe. And there are twenty seven more in your Amazonian cohort. How can we not succeed with such odds in our favor?”

Jenna poured herself a coffee and turning about saw the eyes of three superhumans and one ever-so self-assured operative staring at her. It was obvious what she was expected to say. So she said it.

“Those who ignore their history are condemned to relive it, Colonel.”

“Meaning?” he said with a touch of anger.

“I was in Afghanistan. Twice. I know how we tried to hold back the insurgents long enough to get the locals trained to do the job themselves. And the outcome? We’re still there. Just like the British and the Soviets …”

Enough!” Lyn shouted, “Do I need to remind you you’re a soldier, Commander? You don’t get a say on national policy. Rather you – and all of us – have been ordered here on a mission. And it’s our solemn duty to carry out those orders.”

“You’re right. I don’t get a say,” and paused while she skolled the scalding coffee, “Not yet.”

Jenna threw the cup at the overflowing waste bin and walked out of the room.


C-Day -4, 1825 Zulu; Ascension Auxiliary (US) Air Base, Cat Hill.

They were prepared for this.

Lyn wore a Royal Navy uniform of white shirt and navy skirt with matching hose and shoes – plus a typically non-regulation heel; three gold stripes of a commander worn high upon broad and strong shoulders forming into hills and mounds either side of her perfect, smooth neck; the shirt modestly buttoned to an open neck with only a hint of pectoral muscle on show. Not so the arms for typical with off-the-rack garments, the short sleeves bit about the prominent biceps not least due to being caught in the last shower of rain before the tropical weather changed as quickly as it so often does. Her reputation preceded her, or at least that’s what Jenna guessed may be the case, for the British C.O. looked to be touching Lyn’s muscular back with a purpose that might inform him whether she wore a bra. Jenna would put her pension on him garnering false encouragement from such a disingenuous method of inquiry. And whether Lyn would act upon his findings, Jenna doubted. The musclebound American knew her great grandmother had a near-enough-to superman at home. No need to look for a pot-bellied substitute on a small island in the middle of the Atlantic.

“The sky is clearing, Commander. I’m guessin’ this means you won’t be waitin’ about our shores for very much longer.”

Jenna chose to ponder the words spoken loudly by the USAF Major while considering the scene from the large window at a gable end of the mess building and hesitated a little before responding.

“It’s no state secret to say we lift off at 0430. We’ll be aboard the Wasp before the sun can push above the horizon and get in the chopper pilots’ eyes.”

“Are you at liberty to disclose your destination?”

Jenna turned from the comforting scene and considered the much shorter and much smaller bodied man. She smiled in a sad way, “I’m sorry, Major.”

“I understand. Well, good luck with it.”

He turned to leave and seeing she had resumed looking in the direction of the island’s five wind turbines decided he would press his luck.

“It was like a small tremor we had a few months back. That one on the end, near the edge, the soil crumbled under the base.”

“Explains the guide lines,” she agreed.

“The thing weighs seven hundred thousand pounds so there’s nothing on the island. It’ll cost close to a year’s appropriation …”

“I can help.”

The Major looked down and nodded, “Yes, yes, Commander, we … we know about the little performance today. Okay, these women of yours are all classified, I know, but if they go tossin’ fire trucks around …”

“No, Major. They can’t solve your problem. I can.”

“They can’t? You can?” he seemed suddenly disbelieving.

“It’s classified, sure. But let’s just say – off the record – that seven hundred thousand pounds or even seven hundred thousand tons means nothing to me.”

He half-laughed and half-spluttered, “Tons.” It was all he could say.

“If you want to save the thing from falling into the ocean I’m your hired help. Otherwise, it’s not my problem.”

With an agility belying the enormity of her physique, Jenna whisked away from his spluttering incoherency and weaved purposively through the assembled crowd toward Flying Officer McGerrity and Colonel Elmarouche ensconced in deep conversation at a lonely place near the bar. It was a meet-cute if there ever was one and dressed in her perfectly fitting RAAF sky blue tunic and grey-blue skirt Zoe looked more like a uniformed Goldilocks than a member of the bear-bodied McAdam family. The Colonel found excuse to fidget at a grey epaulette with the single sky blue stripe before his hand fell from her shoulder to squeeze at the subtle musculature which only filled her sleeve when she willed it. And she willed it right now.

“Miss McGerrity,” Jenna began, surprising them both, “if you could assist me with a quick look-in at the NCO’s mess. I gave orders for all to be present and accounted for at 1900 and thereafter to remain in quarters pending further order.”

“Struggling to keep control of the muscle pumping platoon of superhumans?” the Colonel said with mischief, “confining them to quarters at such an early hour like, err, errant children perhaps?”

Jenna ignored him.

“Discipline is what this is about, Zoe.”

The lust-struck blonde agreed with a reluctant tone and with eyes darting to and from the Colonel, Jenna cut her some slack.

“And I have no objection if you take an observer to, umm, yeah … observe.”

The pretence given away, the Colonel and Flying Officer exchanged smiles and slipped through the crowd. Jenna thought of the same until joined in a sudden rush by the British C.O.

“Ah, Commander McAdam, I was hoping to catch you … before …”

“Before my self-imposed curfew, Wing Commander?”

“Yes, umm, I heard from Miss Steele. You’ve confined your task force …”

“We’re on the move, sir. Reveille will be at 0400.”

“It’s just that our men … we … we don’t see many women on this base.”

“Even the musclebound sort who bench press four thousand pounds just for fun?”

He became testy and his voice dropped, “You know what I mean, Commander. This business … the death last night … I need to show to the men that it was an accident that … that the rumours are nothing …”

“You mean the rumor some anonymous superwoman choked the life out of a reluctant lover?”

A tall chap, the C.O. leaned close to her ear, “He was a smoker, you know. A forty-fag-a-day man. Much too much to maintain his fitness with that sort of habit. Little wonder these things happen with a sudden rise in blood pressure, if you follow my drift.”

Jenna smiled, “You’re telling me that there was a dalliance and the evidence shows it to be entirely consensual.”

“Unfortunately,” he sighed and paused, “I have to be discreet how I inform the family. But, yes. He initiated contact or so I’m led to believe … it seems he got a little more than he bargained for.”

“Can you vouch that your medical examiner will be signing off on a cardiac arrest, sir? I don’t want any … questions … left unanswered.”

“Yes. And looking at this in a holistic way, Commander, a non-fraternisation order may send the very worst of messages to both our commands.”

“I’ll take it on board, sir,” and she saw the Major trying to get her attention, “If you’ll excuse me, I have a three hundred and fifty ton wind turbine to shift.”

She left him spluttering about not having a purpose-built crane and realising she didn’t pretend to need one shook his head with stunned awe. It made her laugh.

Jenna anticipated a protracted stay on the island and expected she would need some form of official dress. She chose her summer whites for they served as tropical attire. What she hadn’t considered was the fabric had either shrunk or even more extraordinary, she’d expanded in size in the four or five months since last worn. To most observers her upper arms and shoulders and traps and pecs and lats fitted so snugly within the white garment that one could imagine it having been painted onto her. The chest was the biggest concern for unlike Lyn, Jenna considered the need for her custom bra despite the discomfort and the further strain such artificial and unnecessary support placed on the regulation white shirt. Walking carefully along the trail to the wind farm she heard a shuffling and wheezing from behind and slowed to allow the U.S. Base C.O. to catch up and, panting, asked if he could do anything to assist.

“Yes, thank you. If you could take my shoes.”

For the second time in ten minutes he gave her that flabbergasted look of disbelief; Jenna removed her 14EEE whites and handed them to him. “It gives me a certain freedom,” she told him with a wink and a wide smile; as if the proof was needed extended her leg and rested her toes on a rock ledge abutting the pathway. Without showing the faintest sign of flex or effort the basalt crumbled away from under them like chalk. The Major gasped and cooed; and lifting her head to see above his, it was apparent news of an intended super-feat had spread like fire through the reception and a small crowd spilled from the mess to follow in her sizeable steps toward the wind towers.

“I better put on a show,” she said to no one in particular and swung quickly on the ball of her left foot and strode away; the Major half-chasing and half-trotting, trying to keep up and trying not to look too keen to do so.

Before reaching the problem tower, Jenna could see she needed to keep the sight-seers far enough back along the path to not risk harm if the foundation gave away altogether. There was a genuine chance of that with the remedial work to the foundation already starting to wear and crumble; at least the tower was off the grid to avoid a risk of explosion or fire. It meant this would be a routine extraction. Like a tooth. Or a Band-aid.

Straight off.

Or more accurately straight out and up.

About eighteen feet in diameter at the base, Jenna guessed that the conical tower would continue to widen below her so pulling it vertical from the foundation would probably collapse the ground underneath. With her fingers digging into the thick metal coat she thrust her hands forward causing the earth and rock face around her to shimmer and soil and stones and cement to spray seaward from the edge and away from the gathering clan of onlookers who in turn ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ as the strong hands held the one hundred and fifty foot tower about sixty degrees off the vertical; her strong legs positioned precariously on the new cliff edge scoured into the hillside.

This wasn’t optimum, she decided, for to move this oversized magic wand she needed to straighten the thing first then get her hands on the base of the conical structure and to do all that she would have to put Lyn’s little circus act into the shade. The crowd’s light applause suddenly turned to squeals of horror at the sight of those giant blades rising slowly toward the darkening sky – and then inevitably falling. Jenna knew what she needed to do. She stepped back eight then ten paces and with eyes set upon the descending structure made sure a large right hand caught it at its lowest point, the tower still about ten degrees off the y-axis, the firmer ground ensuring she and tower didn’t tumble down the cliff and out of sight. Jenna gave away any hope her uniform would remain a pristine white and laid the tower against a massive right shoulder before carefully manoeuvring the contraption toward the trail back to the main area.

Jenna recalled the fictional John Matrix and his effort with the tree trunk and laughed at the thought she hadn’t the slightest clue of being able to pick three hundred and fifty pounds from three hundred and fifty tons. And that involuntary shudder through her body caused by her laugh had a completely unforeseen outcome as the awful sound of tearing fabric flooded around her; the cool of the evening so apparent on her back; the sudden freedom in the upper arm holding the tower.

“Goddamn these muscles,” she swore under her breath, trying at the same time to keep composure for the dozens of phones recording her every step; vids that would last only seconds online before Homeland’s ‘Mary Jack Armstrong’ software shut them down but otherwise would remain on a USB stick to prove the stories grandparents tell their grandchildren about the day one huge superwoman carried a wind turbine with the ease most people reserved for an ordinary garden shovel.

The crowd dispersed as Jenna approached. Like those on the fictional field in New Jersey witnessing Orson Welles’s Martians landing in 1938, they didn’t want to get too close to this strange phenom lest she suddenly unleash some unnatural power upon them. It was for the best for Jenna could no longer trust the integrity of the torn shirt and didn’t want to compromise her position as task force commander by appearing in straining underwear. The tower was laid down in a vacant area in front of the base, blades up, unconcerned that the tips blocked an access road in two places. Her job was done.

She ignored the applause and with the congratulation of the base commanders and retrieving her shoes withdrew to quarters. Tearing the remaining threads from her she unhooked the bra and cursed at the way it distorted her clothing causing strain where there need not be any. Pulling away her briefs she lay on her undersized bed and stared at the reflection of faint gold light on the wall and patiently longed for all around her to turn black. She wished Jackson was there, with her, feeling her. She feeling him. She was horny from the exertion, such as it was. A women’s muscle mag sat at the bottom of her kit, its presence on this tour and her thoughts of Jackson testament to a confusion of mind made more acute by Gabrielle Walters’s harsh judgment on her carnal abilities. The moon just past full and already high in the east shone through a different window than the setting sun and would provide all the light she required. Flicking slowly through the pages, she knew this way she was certain to get to sleep.


C-Day -4, 1850 Zulu; AAF NCO’s Mess, Cat Hill.

The commander’s non-fraternisation order had been ignored. This was meant to be a ‘JTF Storm Personnel Only’ evening and the mess staff played host to twenty seven hulking women who appeared in tight clothing of various shades of green, each intent on showing off varying amounts of musculature and some taking it further by flexing the bulges of vein covered arms and lifting shirt hems to reveal deeply sculptured abs. They had a willing audience in the form of twenty or so American airmen, mostly male, and all varying in size, shape and their own degrees of musculature. Many had begun to break into interest groups of even numbers - including those women from the base interested in the muscle-bearing variety of their own gender. No questions asked, no answers given.

The only exceptions to this scene surrounded the genuine superhuman form of Staff Sergeant Winslow. ‘Chyna’ had been displaying her superior strength at a heavy wooden table ideal for arm wrestling. The women she’d enjoyed beating; the men she was kind to and even surprised that one showed a hint of resistance. The strongest around, she reckoned, and gave him a lusty feel of approval by way of a squeeze of his tight, hard butt with an unsubtle and oft-used invitation about spending ‘a night in Chyna’. He’d heard the rumors around town and wasn’t so sure. It was at this point of the standoff the task force X-O made her way on board.

Zoe had not the slightest intention of interfering with the happenings among the crew yet was left in little doubt her presence was neither required nor welcome.

“Hey look, the skinny chick’s here!” said one.

“Yeah, and she brought a friend,” said a second.

“Aww, aren’t they so cute,” said the first to the collective laughter of the room.

Elmarouche was incensed at such professional discourtesy; typically Zoe couldn’t care less. It was that casual, smiling disregard that served only to attract more attention. This time from Chyna.

“Hey, Miss McGerrity … over here. Would yah feel like a bit of an arm wrestle?”

Zoe didn’t hesitate - “Sure” - and quickly found herself mocked by the sniggers and loud put downs circling the group.

Chyna’s return to the heavy table allowed the strong-dude to escape her attention and all eyes focused on the strong American as she took Zoe’s smaller hand in her own.

“Okay, Ozzie, start pushin’.”

Zoe took it slow, watching Chyna’s eyes narrow as the pressure built; all about them seeing the grip begin to vibrate with the evidence of their effort. Zoe’s smile widened in direct proportion to the exertion showing on Chyna’s face and deciding to finish with a bang rather than a whimper, expended a fraction more effort and in a blink the table exploded into a hundred pieces of kindling and the massive form of Chyna Winslow lay spreadeagled among the shattered timber.

“You lose,” Zoe told her and stood to walk away.

Amid the sounds of shock and awe came a loud and sulky whine from the mouth of the defeated superwoman.

“Me fucken arm’s broken!”

Zoe stopped and turned about, “Not broken; the wrist is sprained. That’s all,” and on turning to walk again saw two thick muscular torsos appear on her intended route.

“We reckon y’all need to apologise, Ozzie,” said the blonde on the left, almost a muscle-for-muscle twin of the mousy-haired one on the right.

“I think you need to move out of my way,” and the two suddenly flew off their feet in different directions, Zoe’s gentle push with her left hand slightly better than with her right for the blonde crashed to the deck a full second after her companion. Their compadres broke from their groups and surged forward to surround the tall blonde; the Colonel, allowing chivalry to take the place of commonsense, moved to intervene only to be stopped in mid-step by a strong feminine hand grabbing onto his shirt front and lifting him high off the ground to await the advice of a mezzo-soprano voice dripping with venom.

“Don’t try ‘n’ be brave, little man.”

Seeing the Colonel in trouble focused Zoe’s mind. She leaped over rather than through the contracting crowd and took a hold of the thick muscular forearm attached to the shirtfront and gave it a quick squeeze. The woman shrieked with pain and the Colonel’s feet cluttered back to the hard tile flooring.

“Now that is a broken arm,” Zoe said with laconic understatement.

Red faced with anger and pain, the Marine corporal used her stronger natural hand to grip Zoe about the throat in exactly the way the tall blonde had anticipated. It was all Zoe could do not to mock her attacker with laughter for the effort inflicted was far more benign than anything served up by Van and Max.

“Unless you want this one broken …” Zoe began in the same moment someone had enough presence of mind to know this was heading south at rate of knots.

“Hey, c’mon, guys. This here’s an officer!” and the circuit broke; the gentle grip released; the small crowd shuffled back into groupings; orderlies scurried about to remove the broken table; and the wounded duo left for attention at the base infirmary.

The tall blonde officer turned away from the group for the last time and corralled the Colonel out of the mess.

“Should I thank you for saving me from certain injury, Zoe?”

“It was me they wanted to scare, Emile. Fortunately no one told ‘em about my powers.”

“Yes, your powers …” and let the sentence hang as they walked up a slight slope and onto the broad grass verge from where they could see a crowd gathered further along and its attention directed seaward.

“What do you think is going on?” he asked correctly guessing that Zoe would know the answer.

“Jenna, err, Commander McAdam is doing a little strength feat with a wind turbine.”

“A wind turbine? It must be at least two hundred tonne … no … more … much more.”

Zoe gushed her praise, “It could be two million. It still wouldn’t make much difference to our Jenna.”

This caused him to guffaw and shake his head, “Ah, you superwomen! Is there nothing you are not so super at doing?”

Zoe bent slightly and carefully kissed the shorter man on the mouth.

“If you wanna find out how awesome a supergirl can be you’re gonna have to buy her dinner first.”

They laughed together and arms stretched about flint hard, muscular torsos. They walked slowly toward the officer’s mess and a three course meal. And whatever might transpire beyond it.

Mature Content

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STORM (Ep 9. It Hurts To Be In Love 2.0)


November 21, 2014, Office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

The three star naval officer read the addendum to the document headed ‘JOINT TASK FORCE STORM–Operation QUIET ACHIEVER-Situational Briefing-CinC’ and exhaled heavily.

Commanding Officer: Jenna Rozlyn MCADAM

DOB: 22 June 1992

Rank and Grade: Lieutenant Commander O-4

Date Appointed: 5 November 2014

Height: 6ft 3in (190cm)

Weight: 352lbs (160kg)

Eyes: Brown

Hair: Brunette

Marital Status: Not married

Distinguishing features: None

Other Matters: Great-granddaughter of the superhuman MI6 operative Jacklyn Steele (alias Heidi McAdam; Evelyn Carmetti). Controversial Issue: See note (4) below.

(4) Ministry of Defence (UK) requests Ms Steele be assigned to JTFS for observational duties during Operation Quiet Achiever.

Looking up at the boyish Army captain standing on the other side of her desk, the admiral tapped on the words ‘Lieutenant Commander’.

“This won’t do.”


“The M-o-D will be aware the C-O for this tour is an O-4; if Jacklyn Steele joins the operation – and before you mention it, Xander, we don’t have a choice – she’ll be demanding to head the J-T-F because she holds the honorary rank of ‘commander’ in the Royal Navy.”

“Like James Bond, ma’am.”

“More like Jaime Summers.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Goggle it.”

“Yes, ma’am, but umm, can’t we designate this operation to be U.S. personnel only?”

“And offend our ally? No. And it’s more than just some diplomatic courtesy. Remember what President Johnson once said about J. Edgar Hoover: ‘It’s better to have the bastard inside the tent pissin’ out than outside pissin’ in’ or words to that effect. After the little coup she staged in the Azores we can’t afford to allow her any slack.”

“Notwithstanding our own rather unique team, admiral?”

“Jacklyn Steele is a hundred, no, a thousand, times more powerful than anything the late Major General Andrade produced for posterity in his little laboratory in Fayetteville and what’s worse, the task force’s senior NCO, Caitlin Addams, is completely beguiled by her. No. It’ll be up to our new girl to keep things on the straight and narrow. And on that – I want you to delete any reference to her ancestry. If the President wants to know specifics he can ask directly.

“Noted, ma’am. And the admiral will note that I’ve made no reference to Commander McAdam’s alleged strength.”

The older woman sniggered. “Nothing alleged about it. However … it might be wise to make to some quantification of her muscularity under the heading ‘distinguishing features’.

The captain looked at his electronic notebook, “Biceps 29 inches; calves 24; forearms same; shoulder span, err, 72 … that’s six foot, ma’am, I mean, that’s one mighty set of shoulders.”

“She’s one mighty woman, Xander. Yes, include that information … it’ll help the President identify her if she suddenly appears before him in a small corridor.”

“I think he’ll be the one ‘bracing’,” the captain mumbled.

“God forbid. Now, this issue of appropriate grade … umm, Xander, we still have that vacancy in J-1?”

“At O-5? Err, yes, ma’am, but I understood Colonel Torigaya hoped to have that filled …”

“It will be. Thank you, Captain. If you can attend to those matters and advise the good Colonel that the Joint Chiefs are about to act on his vacancy.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

She watched the round shouldered, olive wearing officer depart and close the door behind him; she picked up the receiver to the desk line and pressing a button requested her personal assistant place a call. In a few seconds she heard a buzzing sound, picked up the receiver again and spoke.

“Commander McAdam? Good morning. This is Vice Admiral Miriam Laidler, I am the Assistant to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff … oh, you’ve heard of me, I’m glad for I wanted to let you know the Chairman has asked me to act as your professional mentor, err, during Operation Quiet Achiever and beyond, umm, encompassing your time as commanding officer of Joint Task Force Storm … correct … first of all, I’ve advised the Joint Chiefs the suitable occupant of this command must be an oh-five so arrangements will be made for you to act at the grade pending substantive appointment. The second thing is uniform costs will be borne from my appropriation so, to put it bluntly, give me the base measurements for your service coat, umm, I need to make certain you’re properly attired when meeting the President … good … excellent … thank you, Commander, my aide will be in touch.”

She terminated the call and pressed three further digits, “Cathy? Yes, in the way we discussed,” the admiral studied her own writing for a moment, “umm, hips 37; waist 28, chest, err, 79 … that’s what I said, 79 inches or two hundred centimetres if you want to talk metric: caused by the expansive back and pectoral muscles F-Y-I. The which? Oh, yes … 78GG. Thank you, Cathy, you know the drill.”

Miriam Laidler hung the receiver on its cradle and broad, gym-built shoulders slumped against the back of her executive chair; steepling and interlocking her fingers, she rested them on her lips, the middle fingers touching the point of her nose. All her protégés had performed with distinction in the senior command roles awarded after time in her tutelage. So why did the Navy’s second highest ranking woman feel so nervous about this one?


June, 2009, the Gulf Coast, TX.

Damn IPod.

Jenna was walking along the road towards the meeting place. Quarter to four. Plenty of time. Trying to listen to her music. It wasn’t working, she didn’t know why.

Maybe it was her nerves. She wanted him to be there. She wanted him. Period.

Changing at school, she wore a modest blue denim dress, the hem to mid-thigh and uncertain of the protocol at the base a mega-size pullover over the regulation polo and slung about her shoulders. Invulnerability meant she’d become lazy about footwear but today she wore size 14 sneakers and ankle socks. Typically, nothing needed under the skirt and shirt for only Cy and her would know she was without underwear (read ‘she fully intended for him to find out’).

Around the corner and she could see him. Navy working uniform, blue patterned. Standing near his parked car. Looking seaward toward a horizon thick with cloud. He was here! He turned up!

Jenna smiled. She quickened her pace - running speed for most humans, a brisk walk for her - Cy heard her shoes hit the gravel and turned with a broad smile, tilting his head at the sight of the small puffs of dirt sent up as pebbles to sand under the soles. She responded with a wave of her own; she was elated. This would be the best weekend of her life.

“Hello, Cy, great to see you,” she gushed while stopping almost on top of him.

“Really, really good to see you Jen. You’re looking so great,” Cy put his hand on the ridge of muscle to the left of Jen’s neck; she tensed, forcing his fingers to rise near to her ear.

“Y’all looking real great too, Cy, umm, we’re both a bit early, so, umm...”

“It’s a drive so we should get on the road.”

“No. Umm, I mean, look, maybe I should drop off my pack, at home, umm, school gear ‘n’ such.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant so agreed with a lazy shrug and Jenna hopped into the back seat of his car – long gone were the days when two could share the front with her ginormous shoulders – and like cab driver and passenger she directed him into the drive of 6 Bluebonnet Avenue.

“That’s our truck up yonder. Yah see, my Mom and Gran do removals.”

“So is your grandmother as strong as Susie?”

“Pretty much. I’m told it runs back a coupla generations.”

In the drive, Jen exited the car and walked up to the truck, turned back to him and, without looking at where she placed her hand, lifted the Pantech so that its sixteen wheels were over seven foot off the concrete.

“See?” Jen called back to him, “This here’s what I was lookin’ for the other day, Cy. A quick, ten ton overhead hoist to prove how strong I can be.”

Without a hint of effort, she returned the truck to terra firma and began to walk toward him.

“Not that ten ton means much to me at all. Without wantin’ to show off, I’m sayin’ it’s much the same as carryin’ ‘round a cardboard shoe box.”

He laughed, “You trying to, err, get me a little excited, Jenna, I mean, with all this strength and muscle on display.”

She sauntered close and placed hands on hips in a suggestive pose.

“So … did it work?”

Standing eye to eye, toe to toe, Cy’s fingers felt for the hem of her oversized polo shirt and began to push his hands up the inside of the garment; she giggled at the feel of his palms pressing into her abs and breathed in sharply as his fingers found her breasts for the first time, the nipples growing to his gentle tease.

“This answerin’ the question, Jen?”

“Let’s go inside, lover.”

He dropped his hands and she led the way until on opening the front door pointed to a set of stairs that rose in the half-light ahead of them.

“Far room, darlin’; I’m gonna make myself all pretty.”

There was something she wanted to do, always dreamed of doing, and leaving her clothes in a trail behind her, entered the bathroom and found the cologne her grandmother would always wear when she had a planned liaison. Under the arms, under the neck, under the breasts and along each groin. On arrival in her room she found a naked Cy leaning against the dresser; arms folded and everything else looking ready for serious business. She moved to him and swooned.

“They’re great arms, Cy,” she whispered.

“Nothin’ like yours, baby.”

They folded together and kissed, long and slow; Cy struggling at first to overcome the thickness of her pecs to reach a comfortable stance. Soon they were confident enough to allow hands to explore each other’s torso. Cy decided no more time need be spent on reaching home base and pulling her hips a little toward him pressed the head of his cock against her lower lips; Jen broke the embrace slightly and told him she wanted to use the bed. But sure wasn’t prepared for how he intended to get her there.

Cy grabbed her hips tight and for a second she resisted then let herself go with movement; his weight and strength lifted her and cast her away from him so that her muscular three-fifty pounds landed first in the middle of the double bed until momentum and the spring of the mattress took effect and she bounced a second time near the far edge - and kept going.


“Oh shit! Jen, I’m sorry! Are yah okay?”

She sat silent and a little stunned for a few seconds and laughed. No one had ever tried to take on her strength before. No one had ever physically thrown her before. It was a turn on. Big time.

“Yah can’t hurt me, Cy. I’m just surprised yah might wanna toss ‘round a girl who, well, let’s be honest, is a few hundred thousand times stronger than you.”

Jen stood and walked to him, a feeling of overpowering lust swept through her. Cy tried to explain.

“I, err, I just really get a bit physical with my way of foreplay … I guess.”

“You want foreplay?” she was a little bewildered, “I thought foreplay was kissin’ each other down among the muff, not throwin’ a muscle girl ‘bout the room.”

He moved to her and tried a repeat. This time she maintained the token resistance which he couldn’t overcome.

“Try again,” she ordered.

He tried, with some effort; she resisted again before letting him have his way. With a huge grunt he lifted her a foot off the ground and hurled her with all his might. She missed the bed this time, hitting the floor, breaking a floor board and crashing down the lamp on the side table at the same time. He apologised for the damage. She smiled at him - a wicked, lusty, smile - and stood; she eyed that hard appendage and walking toward him, rubbed long fingers inside the damp vaginal lips, smearing hot juices across the tips and flicked them at him. She paused for a second before him, her voice low and demanding.

“Foreplay’s over.”

“So now …”

“Now the World’s-Strongest-Ever calls the shots.”

She turned her back on him and knelt facing the head of the bed, her ass stuck high in blunt invitation. Needing no more explanation, Cy positioned himself behind and pushed himself inside; a place more tight and more damp than he’d ever imagined. She sighed quietly and relaxed herself so he could find a position of comfort and balance. It was then he began to pace himself, forward and back; forward and back.

Closing her eyes, she thought of his cock, feeling it as more thick than long; in the future he’d tell her it was about five and a half inches and much the same around. Not that size mattered all that much to the McAdams. Magnificent pelvic muscles would accommodate anything a man might offer – even a straw or pencil could be held with the force of a hydraulic vice. But from this inexpert teen’s view, his girth and the choice of position would prove strongly in her preference. With growing confidence his thrusts began to collect speed; he picked the right moment to surprise her with an unexpected use of the index finger and hearing her encouragement more carefully brought a second into play; the thrusts moving with steady oscillation.

Time became a stranger to them – until Cy wanted a change.

“No, no!” she cried through gentle pants, “Go quicker … harder!”

As with that second throw, Cy focused all his thought on performance and effort of thrust: only the one thing to think of now, he was giving it his all. Almost immediately she began to moan loud which in turn inspired him. He began to push with his feet, really pressing into her, Jen gave out a guttural grunting noise amidst the panting and general encouragement. He reckoned she had to be getting close.

Jen was face down on her pillows, her arms wide holding the mattress; in the moment Cy announced his inability to hold the pace Jen raised her head and began to swear then exhale aloud.

“Awww … thankyou. Yeah!!”

The tsunami of her orgasm washed him from her and sat him on his ass three feet from the bed. The mattress and sheets drenched, Jen buried her head amid the pillows. For seconds, maybe a minute he watched her until the damp, unkempt dark hair rose and that massive muscular physique began to twist. She was flushed. She seemed a little bewildered.

“Oh, Cy … that was … soo … freakin’ awesome!”

“So are you, baby … So … Are … You.”

“I’ve never … not with such intensity,” she said, still panting.

He laughed and stood, walking toward the bed, “Washed me right out. More of a tidal wave than … well, some women … don’t even …”

“Did you cum, Cy?”

“Umm, yeah, I’m fine,” he reached out to feel her arms and breasts; his cock still hard, she took his movement toward her as imprimatur to lick at the glans and decide for herself.

“No you haven’t!” she protested, “All I can taste is me!” and she pulled him next to her so that he lay across the bed, one massive, tree trunk sized leg rose and as it descended, she eased downward riding him front-on cowgirl. Cy’s face looked up with determined intent.

“Grip me baby, be tight. Real tight.”

She remembered the Gamer Guy and with teeth gritted concentrated on getting the right feel; he mimed a quiet ‘Oooo’ with his lips and closed his eyes; she lay forward, breasts flailing in front of his chest and face with their own momentum, her bulging arms either side of his torso. Jen wanted a quick result.

“Yah gotta grip me, Jenna! Hard, like yah mean it!”

“I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Do it … please!

She tightened to a feel beyond the grip which made Jay scream; she feared killing the golden goose but no. Cy tensed his face as it determined to fight against her. ‘This is insane,’ she thought, ‘he thinks he can beat me.’

And then he began to breathe heavier; beads of sweat ran on his crimson face; groaning louder; tears began to well in his eyes.

“Once more, Jenna! One more squeeze!!”

She complied and closed her eyes not wanting to watch his pain. And there it was; she felt his body quake and jerk and felt his cock pump into her. She relaxed and Cy breathed out then panted hard. It was weird that at the moment of his release, he said nothing; lying completely silent.

“All okay, Cy?” she asked with genuine concern.

“I’m good,” he panted, his eyes still closed; Jenna considered the tears and sweat stained cheeks and with tender care ran her fingers through his sweaty hair, “That was so epic!” he gasped.

Jen eased herself off him and considered the damp, flaccid squib that had seemed so virile and manly only half a minute before; a ghastly purplish-red; she’d done physical harm. Of that she was certain.

There they remained for a long moment in anxious silence; Jen uncertain what to say; until Cy showed her could be the mature one.

“Probably a bit late to Falstaff now, Jen, umm, three hour round trip.”

She was at least relieved his voice, his face, had returned to normal; she smiled and readily agreed, “I reckon there’s a storm comin’ in so we’re better stayin’ indoors.”

“Yeah, if you can put up with me,” he winked with mischief.

She pinched his arm and thought it deserved a reaction. Nothing. Within seconds a blood blister was starting to form.

“Cy, how much can I, err, hurt you?”

“During sex? As much as you like.”

“Umm, it’s just that there was this gamer dude I saw once …

“Not all guys like what I like, err, don’t take this the wrong way, Jen, but not all guys like chicks with biceps and muscles …”

She giggled, “Yeah, I’m cool with that, it’s just that he had this tragic little winky and, umm, well, cuttin’ to the chase I hurt him pretty bad I think … perhaps I should show yah what I’m gettin’ at,” and in a blink Cy’s body was trampolining as Jen moved to the side, retrieved a shiny silver phallic-shaped object from under the bed; he trampolined more as she leaned over him and waved it in his face.

“This is my Mom’s. Eight ‘n’ a half inches length, five ‘n’ a half round; solid titanium; weighin’ four pounds.”

“Now I’m the one feelin’ tragic …”

“Watch this,” she said in a whisper and with her eyes on his inserted it with oft-practised skill; she grunted; he felt the bed tremor for a half-second and she showed him what was left.

“Fuck, Jen! That looks exactly like a steel file! Shit! One side is completely flat!”

It was a good description for the striations in Jenna’s vaginal muscles had closely grooved both sides of the titanium plane. She laughed at the sight and threw it on the floor with a thud.

“Just so you know yah playin’ with fire, darlin’.”

She leaned and kissed him hard on the mouth, so hard he winced; they groped for a minute, entwining tongues, until Jenna broke the embrace and told him there was some tapas and cheese in the fridge. She left the bedroom and he wondered whether to follow as he was or put on his shorts. He decided “when in Rome” and went with the flow.

Downstairs he watched her prepare a plate of food; the vision amazed him. In the waning sunlight filtering through the window onto Jenna’s naked form, her tan looked so even, so extraordinary, a deep brown or even a mahogany; her head ducked just enough for the musculature of her upper back and shoulders to rise and obscure her scalp together; and amidst all that muscle was that small ass, Cy marvelling at how the glutes concaved at the sides to give them this tight ) I ( appearance before her body expanded again at the thighs. If he wasn’t feeling so sore right now he thought he’d like to start something afresh. But the truth was he’d already shown something of himself that he quickly learned to regret.

“Really great tan wearin’ there, Jen.”

“Thanks,” she said with a nod around toward him, “I’ve always liked the sun and so does Mom and Gran; with these finals comin’ up there’s not much else for me to do ‘cept for study ‘n’ some sun ‘n’ some more study. Err, wanna beer?”

“Are yah havin’ one with me?”

“Prob’ly not.”

“No bother then … I’m cool.”

Cy had a chance to look around at some of the folders and workbooks she’d left in the living/study area; her chemistry and physics homework. He was mightily impressed. After a few minutes of silence Jenna thought it best to see what was going on.

“I got more stuff on the laptop if yah wanna correct anything.”

“No need for that. This is pretty high standard work.”

“If that’s the physics and chemistry it’s coz I’m pretty much into those subjects.”

“Did yah say somethin’ ‘bout startin’ at U-T Austin in the Fall?”

“Umm, no … I haven’t applied … haven’t decided for sure.”

“Won’t be doin’ anythin’ until next year then.”

Jenna shrugged in that familiar way, not moving her shoulders, just tensing her muscles, “Don’t worry me. I reckon I got time to catch up.”

“Honest, Jen. Give some thought ‘bout joinin’ up.”

“The Navy?” she asked rhetorically, more than a little unimpressed, “I think I answered that last time.”

“What I’m sayin’ is it doesn’t have to be the Navy but if you begin trainin’ now and start a course yah can get credits towards the college degree.”

This interested her and she walked closer; Cy could see this beautifully muscular naked nymph moving to stand directly in front of him and struggled to maintain a line of thought, “Yeah, umm, they signed me up at seventeen. I was a specialist recruit because I’d starting doing undergraduate hydrography courses when I was still in school.”

“Which makes you somethin’ special,” she gushed, her mind getting bored with academic talk and straying back to the personal.

“And Jenna McAdam isn’t? Been tellin’ me since we met how y’all the one of a kind.”

“Maybe,” she said, turning away to collect her plate of food, “want some tapas?”

“Umm, there’s somethin’ else to need to know too.”

She reached for his cock and abandoning all care held it tight, “If my guy is tellin’ me he don’t like my food he might get to feel some serious strength.”

He gave off a nervous laugh, “No, umm, it’s just that the Navy has this device, umm, it’s meant to measure the effect of displacement, err, y’see, I can unofficially-like use it for assessing mass up to a hundred thousand tons. But with command approval I can use it to its maximum extent.”

Jenna nodded and let him go, a little disappointed that in those seconds of attention his libido showed no response whatsoever to her feel. “This’s what we’re gonna be doin’ right now if we kept drivin’ and not stopped off here first?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Why ‘maybe’?”

He hesitated and forced a week smile, “Because it’s classified ‘service eyes only’. What I’m sayin’ is …”

Jenna’s eyes narrowed and her body seemed to swell in front of him, “What yah sayin’ is that it was all some bullshit to get me to sign up.”

“No, Jen. It was a plan, sure. But it was a plan to get, err, allow, the strongest human being ever born to display her true abilities … to push it to the max!”

She warmed to the idea, “Tell me. What’s the ‘max’?”

“999,999 tons.”

“Fuck! A million tons!”

“And I’m bettin’ yah can do it too!”

With a pained expression, her hands on hips; the fact that they were both naked meant nothing anymore. “The thang is this. I’m fixin’ on graduatin’ and goin’ to college whether it be Austin or wherever. I wanna advance myself.”

“That’ll happen, they’ll arrange all that. In fact they’ll want you to go to college and get a degree. Everyone wins, yah see. They get a superstrong young woman with a sharp trained brain and you get education without student loans.”

Jenna swept some food from the plate into her mouth and contemplated her immediate future.

“No student loans?”

“The Government pays you to study, Jen.”

“Do I get a uniform?”

“Sure. In fact, if we do this all proper, you could make ‘ensign’ the day yah turn nineteen.”

“An officer?”

“That’s right, Jen. We’ll put you on the path to greatness,” and he looked at the tapas plate. Most was gone. “Hey, yah ate all the ‘Mex’!”

She placed two fingers on a muscled shoulder and began to push him to his knees, he protested and she told him to “hush now”.

“I’ll go ‘long with my guy’s plans, if for no other reason then I wanna challenge myself with that number yah gave me – one million.”

He smiled wide, “That’s my girl … but … why’d yah push me down here?”

“As yah said, darlin’, it’s time to eat. And this mighty muscle babe wants yah doin’ some dinin’ down at the ‘Y’.”

Lieutenant Cyrus Weatherby didn’t need any more persuading. And neither did Jenna. She liked the idea of being able to lift a million tons – even if it was only some machine that was telling her that she was doing it – and she liked the idea of being a military officer too, with a uniform and all the trappings. She reckoned it could be fun.


December 1, 2014, 0705; an apartment near Lincoln Park, DC.

Jenna sat on the lower half of their queen size bed; cross legged and naked. She watched the man of her life return to her from the shower, hands feverishly massaging a towel onto his dark haired scalp; he stood nearby for a moment and she contemplated his strong shoulders, firm torso and flat stomach. But most of all, her eyes rested on his dormant member. It was a handsome beast, she reckoned, and even as it hung flaccid marvelled at the size – longer, thicker than most men at their peak of performance.

“What are you looking at?” he asked in a fake-Boston baritone, her own well-practised mid-Atlantic elocution mocking him.

“What I’m missing out on.”


“’Meaning’ this is the first morning together that we haven’t, you know … fucked.

Jackson sounded hurt, “Aww, Jenna-babe. I told you. I’ve a meeting with the incoming Senate Majority Leader at eight sharp. And anyhow, we did it twice last evening.”

“Once. You didn’t cum the second time.”

“Yes I did,” he said without conviction; there was no fooling Jenna on matters of this sort.

“You didn’t. I know you, Jackson Walters; you have little tell-tale signs,” Jenna’s voice evolved to a melancholy tone, “now Gabrielle … there was someone I couldn’t pick …”

“Gabrielle was all about herself. Believe me. If you didn’t satisfy her she’d leave you with little doubt of the fact.”

Jenna hadn’t told him about the conversation Zoe had heard spoken between Max and Gabrielle or the coldness Gabrielle displayed when she left Jenna in this very room that Saturday morning; Jenna thought he might be plastering over the cracks in his emotions; and maybe there were some unspoken issues of her own. She pushed a wide smile of contrition and spoke.

“Sorry, darling. Let’s not go there.”

He had this habit of dressing in shirt and tie and then adding cufflinks while still naked from the hips down. Jenna thought it such a sexy thing, almost like he was so reluctant to force his big ‘friend’ to hide from her view. All the same, it felt so weird to be talking of his late wife while enjoying this erotic little show.

“I’m the one who feels the guilt, Jen,” and he saw her shake that mop of unkempt dark hair in a way inviting explanation, “I told her the coke would mess up her mind, make her do something we’d both regret.”

He stepped closer to her and laid out his right wrist, conceding by gesture his inability to secure the cufflink with his left hand, “She was always so selfish, you know, it made me despise her just that little bit more.”

Jenna loved the way he included her in his dressing ritual; and while his words seemed harsh they were spoken with a lawyer’s casual analysis, as though any residual malice had floated away with her ashes.


He kept his hand outreached and kneaded gently at the escarpment of trap muscle on the left side of her neck, “When do you meet your new mentor?”

“Not sure,” she said with a wide smile, happy he was showing her hulking body some reassuring physical attention, “It was meant to happen Tuesday last week, now tomorrow has been cancelled. I might be finished this operation and reassigned before I set eyes on her.”

“Funny how she was so interested in your coat measurements though.”

“Maybe she didn’t believe I have seventy two inch shoulders.”

“Or double G-cup breasts,” he said with a snigger and lowered that cufflink wearing sleeve to give a melon-ripe left breast a firm squeeze; Jenna acknowledged his welcome touch with a giggle.

“Do you want me to do the other one?”

“All fine,” he said attending to it.

Taking advantage of his distraction, Jenna bowed her head and in a blink her tongue was circumnavigating the smooth crimson peak of his cock in a clockwise direction; she heard him gush and sigh and offer meek surprise; the glans slid between her lips, between her teeth, the tongue making room as it began to stiffen and quickly fill the space.

“No … no … Jenna-babe, please … I got this meeting …”

She thought his protests so lame – he didn’t make any attempt to step away – and true to his usual standard he grew hard and mighty with only a modicum of effort on her part. He wanted her, she knew that, but Jenna had to respect his spoken wishes, particularly as he was trying to feebly intervene by holding her slowly thrusting skull in the one place. Not that he had a realistic hope of resisting anything she wanted to do.

“Jen … Jenna! Please! I can’t do this … not today …”

She pushed herself forward to feel the eye press on the back of her throat and to slowly withdraw; he grunted at the unintended strength of a mouth widened to its max and still not quite wide enough; it gave her a wicked idea and in the last moment contracted her lips a fraction and waited to hear his yell of pain. Her response began with wide eyed surprise.

“Ah, sorry! My bad!”

“Shit, Jenna! That hurt!”

“I don’t know my own strength sometimes,” she cooed in a coy way and offered him a cheeky smile. Jackson glared back and moved quickly to pull light blue briefs over his knees.

“You know exactly what you did,” he huffed, “you know the power of every muscle on your body,” not that Jenna was paying attention; even in its waning state, his manhood was enough to distort his tight briefs, the saliva she’d left about the head had formed a prominent dark crescent.

“I thought you liked it,” she sulked in the manner of an admonished teen.

He sighed, “Holy hell, Jenna-babe, you know I’m so hot for what you do … it’s … well, sometimes that strength of yours sure adds another dimension to everything.”

The mischief had returned, “Okay then … remember it next time you try ‘n’ stop me doing what I lerve doing.”

The words stayed around them while he composed himself and secured the belt of his trousers. In Jenna’s mind playtime was over. The working day had begun.

“I’ll text you to say how it went,” he said at last while tying the second of his shoes, “and I’ll get a coffee on the way … so …”

“You’re leaving me all horny and naked and bulging with big girl muscle.”

“You have your own busy schedule to attend to Commander McAdam.”

Acting Commander,” she retorted.

The suit jacket and charcoal overcoat pulled on, Jackson bent at the waist and kissed her on the incredibly strong lips that he would be feeling for some hours to come, “I’ll see you later, my darling. Love you.”

“Bye then … love you, too.”

Hearing the latch to the door she sat there a moment and thought about last evening. How strange it was that she mentioned Cyrus Weatherby for the first time in years, telling Jackson how Weatherby was this ‘wonder boy’ the top brass used to persuade (read ‘con’) Jenna into joining the military. She still grimaced at the thought. Jackson comforted her in his usual way, the way that always ended with the same outcome. Twice, the first giving into spontaneity in the living room, the second a less frantic and more routine occurrence after they’d stripped for bed. But it was etched in her emotional KPIs that she had to make her man cum – on every occasion, spontaneous or routine. Thinking back to Weatherby, he only ever had one shot in the chamber; nothing she could do would ever get him up twice in the same evening. Spontaneous or routine. One or the other. For never the twain would meet. Jackson was nothing of the sort yet she’d failed to get him over the line last night, well, the second time last night. Maybe it was just that he was such a considerate and caring lover, that he put her needs above his own. She wasn’t used to that in a man. Certainly that wasn’t Cy Weatherby.

And it certainly wasn’t Gabrielle Walters.

Lying on the dresser, her phone began to vibrate with an incoming call and as was her habit at home she put it on speaker. Vice Admiral Laidler. Operation Quiet Achiever has been green-lit by the National Security Council. “No need to meet with the President,” the admiral said, “and our own meeting can wait until a more convenient time. Your team will deploy to Ascension Auxiliary Airfield within forty eight hours. There after you’ll receive classified orders relating to the rendezvous with USS Wasp. Good luck, Commander.”

Jenna pressed the red tab and thought for a moment, “At least we won’t have a problem loading our own gear,” she said aloud. The cell came alive for a second time. Laidler. Again.

“I’m sorry, Jenna, I should tell you this myself. I have a new aide on an exchange arrangement with the Royal Australian Air Force and she’ll be liaising with you on Ascension. Make sure she feels part of the team.”

“Aye aye, ma’am.”

“Her rank is Flying Officer so she can act as your second in command if you require …”

Jenna was deadpan, “How does she feel about commanding twenty eight muscular women with phenomenal strength and apparent invulnerability? If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am.”

“Her primary role will be to act as an adjutant to your other distinguished passenger. The indomitable Miss Jacklyn Steele. So your questions may well be moot.”

Jenna sighed loud and then regretted her lack of professionalism.

“Is this all satisfactory, Commander?”

“Aye, ma’am. Err, I look forward to working with Miss Steele and her adjutant to fulfil our objectives … ma’am.”

“Very good, Jenna.”

This time Jenna switched the phone off. Twenty eight graduates of Operation Hercules are assigned to this operation, some who’ve never seen combat and the rest are veterans of the now infamous ‘Azores Incident’; Jacklyn Steele, the agent whose superhuman abilities ensured the success of that little coup – for British interests only; Caitlin Addams, the superhuman ex-lover of both Jenna and Jacklyn and recently promoted to task force sergeant-major, the senior enlisted person aboard; and now this inexperienced exchange officer as an ‘adjutant’. Could this assignment get any better?


0810; the Pentagon.

The tall, blonde woman in the blue-grey dress uniform of the RAAF strode purposefully into Miriam Laidler’s office and standing to attention reeled off a snappy salute.

“As you were, Flying Officer,” spoke Laidler’s husky voice; standing, acknowledging the salute and shaking hands, the admiral smiling at this thin, attractive woman’s firm grip.

“I’m pleased to be here,” the Australian offered in that distinctive, vowel-crushing accent.

“It won’t be for long. You’re up to speed on Operation Quiet Achiever so I won’t presume to waste time with courtesies. The British operative Miss Jacklyn Steele will be leaving for Ascension shortly – I mean within a matter of hours – and I want you to be with her on the flight.”

“If I might, ma’am. I’ve taken the liberty of discussing this issue with Miss Steele and she’ll be accompanying me – within the hour, ma’am.”

The admiral looked a little surprised and studied the smiling junior officer a bit more closely, “Of course if that’s satisfactory to both of you as time is important but, umm, I don’t see any wings on your uniform.”

“An administrative oversight, ma’am. You can be assured I’m very experienced with aerodynamics, even before I joined the service.”

“Glad to hear it. The task force will be arriving at Ascension Island no later than Thursday 1900 Zulu. Make sure you two are ready to meet them. Miss Steele knows the task force C-O, err, Commander Jenna McAdam.”

“I do too, ma’am.”

The admiral nodded, “Yes, her fame precedes her; she’s certainly one unique woman.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s all for now. Good luck and good flying.”

The young officer braced herself, gave forth another stiff salute and once acknowledged turned and strode toward the door; the admiral watched her leave, marvelling at the muscle tone displayed by the calves pumping with each step, “Are you a bodybuilder?” she called out. The blonde officer stopped, turned and smiled, Laidler continued, “a physique or fitness competitor?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t really work out … at all.”

“I competed once myself, err, golly, I sure wish I had those genes,” the older woman stood quickly and moved around from her desk, “but your hair … it is much too, umm, dense and unstyled for an assignment of this type.”

“I’m sorry, I know that but … but there’s a problem, you see … it can’t be cut.”

Laidler returned to her desk and removed a large pair of scissors, “I keep these because I meet a few young officers who claim to favor fashion before protocol,” and returning to the taller ‘Flog Off’, picked at the wavy locks below the cap and attempted to cut off a handful and on failing tried a smaller sample only to fail again - and to blame her tool.

“If I might, ma’am,” and taking the scissors from the admiral, the Aussie-Air-Girl clamped them hard on a thick section of blonde, “they’re not blunt … look.”

The scissors had separated into their two original parts, the fastener giving up the ghost before a strand of hair could be injured. Laidler took the broken pieces, smiled and suggested this extraordinary woman should “make use of some gel.” Dismissing her aide for the second time, the admiral returned to the desk and picked up the receiver of her land line and pressed four digits.

“Good morning, Fiona, Miriam Laidler. Regarding your request to assign the exchange officer to Operation Quiet Achiever. Through trial and much error, I’ve discovered her hair is resistant to cutting … yes, that’s right, I tried to cut it … for one it’s too long and unstyled and for two I’m a three star admiral and if I want to cut an aide’s hair I will … thank you, now, before I can confirm her deployment, I want you to tell me how I could break my best pair of scissors in the act … yes … tell me everything you know about your Miss Zoe McGerrity, Fiona. And I mean everything.”

The Strong Woman's Almanac (s 3 ep 9)
WARNING: Depictions of sexual activity; erotic scenes.

The second part is a redux of ch 20 Strength in Numbers Pt 1 first published on All participants of legal age.

Mature Content

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STORM (Ep 8. Laws of Relativity [2/2])

Jenna did not see her mother and grandmother the following morning. She didn’t particularly care. She again abandoned thoughts of the school bus but set out earlier than usual as she decided to go the longer route around the shore before cutting across the shopping mall car park. Humidity was high and the sun burnt off last night’s cloud. The pools of rain water would evaporate soon enough.

Her mother’s tale of lifting forty five thousand tons had made Jen a little envious. She scanned the horizon for something big to lift but saw only water. She turned to thoughts of Jay, then decided he wasn’t really worth thinking about. Abi said he was a bit of a dud. Just wants you on top and lays there. One more try with him and that’s it.

The road turned away from the Gulf. Almost as soon as she hit the bend turning inland she saw a car parked on her side of the road with a uniformed man peering over the bonnet. Instinctively she walked toward him. He was tall - very tall - broad, lean, maybe even muscular. He looked up. She saw his face, his dark hair, he wore glasses, looked real cute. And young. Couldn’t be more than twenty two.

The guy saw her and waved, Jen smiled and waved back. He beckoned her. As she got close she could see the two silver bars of a captain on his khaki collar. But he wasn’t army.

“G’mornin’, Miss, err, I wonder if you can help, umm, I’m a little lost.”

“Sure … where y’all headed?”

“I need to be here.”

Jen walked to the bonnet; he was tall alright, a little more than her in his shoes. He pointed to a spot on the map but she could feel his eyes on every piece of muscled flesh not hidden by the polo shirt or skirt - and some that was. It augured well.

“Yeah … umm … here ... see it?”

What he saw was the nail at the end of Jen’s long and thick right index finger pointing to the bend in the road.

“Oh, right, well, I’m a bit out now, I guess.”

“Just a bit,” she said and smiled.

“D’ya mind if I ask you somethin’?”

“No, sir. I don’t work out; this here’s all natural Texan girl muscle. And I’m really strong,” she tensed her left forearm into a strata of muscled layers and pushed it toward his face, “Twenty plus inches ‘bout the peak; bigger than most guy’s biceps.”

The way her huge body swelled when she flexed or tensed amazed him, “Well, yeah, that’s right,” he said trying to get saliva into his mouth, “Umm, you’re not … Susan McAdam … are you?”

“Nooo,” Jen giggled, “she’s my mom. I’m Jenna … ‘n’ most guys call me ‘Jen’; ‘specially the cute ones.”

Smiling at her little flirt, the officer extended his hand and with surprise found it dwarfed by Jen’s right.

“Hi, err, I’m Cy Weatherby … Lieutenant, US Navy.”

“So why yah know my mom, Lieutenant?”

“I understand … umm, I don’t know if y’all know, that, err, it is alleged Susan McAdam lifted forty five thousand tons of salvaged barge yesterday. Herself. Unaided.”

“Yeah, that’s right. She told me she did it.”

“Oh … so … it’s ... not ... unusual?

“Well, yeah, sure it’s unusual only coz there ain’t forty five thousand tons lying ‘round to lift … I mean, I wouldn’t mind knockin’ up fifty kilotons m’self right now, but where am I gonna find that?”

He was flabbergasted, “You ... can ...”

To Jen his disbelief was increasing; since she was standing next to the front driver’s wheel rim, the only thing to do was prove her credentials.

“No! NO! Please, stop!”

As she had done dozens of times before, Jen effortlessly grabbed the car one handed at the top of the wheel rim and began to hoist it over her head. The Lieutenant’s protests stopped her in mid-lift with his vehicle three feet off the ground. Very gently she placed it back down.

He sighed hard, “I’m sorry, I should explain,” He raced to the back of his car and opened the trunk; Jen followed him; there were a lot of tubes and metal and cylinders and electronic meters. “I’m an oceanographer, although my doctorate is in hydro-physics. I wanted to take same readin’s of the area your mother, err, worked at, yesterday.”

Jen found his activities suspect, “Yah know, my mom is really that strong. It ain’t some trick.”

“No, I’m not sayin’ that; it’s just all about some of the principles of buoyancy and displacement, I’ve been workin’ on a theory involving geophysical fluid dynamics that within certain thermal maritime events the vessel may even seem heavier in water than lighter. This has important implications, umm, I won’t bore you with that.”

“If yah believe my mom ‘n’ me can handle fifty thousand tons, well, that’s good, coz that’s the thang we can do best. Honest to God.”

“And I think you’re right, Jen, your mom picked up fifty thousand yesterday. I want to check some readings.”

The Lieutenant saw the teen’s quizzical look and walked up to her placing his hand on the top of a massive ridge of trapezoid muscle.

“Jen, I think I can prove that some weights in water vary in different circumstances. Sometimes lighter, sometimes heavier. That’s all. I know you and your mom have superhuman strength. I’m cool with all that. I’m not from the Government, just plain ol’ USS Falstaff.”

Feeling reassured, Jen’s spirits climbed and she smiled at the handsome young guy gently squeezing one of her uniquely sized muscles. And wished she found him yesterday.

“Umm, y’all a doctor, right?”

“I’m a scientist.”

“And yah gotta know Ned Beaumont?”

“Sure do, the Master Chief and I’ve worked together since he resumed active duty.”

“But he’s retired now; he’s in salvage. That right?”

“Oh yeah … look, he’s a hundred per cent. I know you don’t know him or me very well, but believe me, it’s not a conspiracy,” the officer reached to give Jen a reassuring squeeze and then thought better of it. For her part, Jen decided she was trying to analyse too much information. She wanted to get back to basics. And moved a little closer to him, dropping her voice a sultry octave.

“So, err, can y’all help me find somethin’ heavy to lift?”

“Umm, I’d like to, really, but … but the only thing I have is back at Falstaff, that’s three hours round trip.”

She struggled to hide a teen’s disappointment, “’kay … I gotta get to school.”

“Senior year is it, Jen?”

“Yeah. And before yah ask, the uniform thang is mom’s idea. She reckons if I have it my own way I’d be wearin’ muscle shirts and leavin’ my arms all bulgin’ and tits hangin’ out all over the place.”

For the first time he looked to the ground and gave a nervous laugh; she pulled up her left sleeve and flexed the bicep to its full twenty eight inches; his hand drawn to the bulge on top of the mound like an ant to sugar; her voice softened again and she spoke as he felt her.

“Y’all seein’ someone, Lieutenant?”

His hand jumped away and found a place pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Err, no, no … single at the moment.”

Her voice lowered, “Yah know, I’m happy to let yah feel every muscle on this here body,” and took a step closer to him, “... they’re all big ...” and she leaned her breasts onto his firm chest, “... they’re all hard ...” she could feel excited nipples pressing into him, “... and they’re all very … very … strong.”

Now she could feel something of his growing against her massive right thigh; she began to reach for it … and stopped. She had to think longer term.

“Okay … Cy … how ‘bout this for a plan? We catch up Friday; I wanna go back to yah base and, err, yah know, lift somethin’ real heavy. All for science, of course.”

Jen giggled at her last sentence; Cy smiled and nodded. She was pleased it wasn’t the nervous twitter of a few seconds before. This was a guy who wanted to get his way big time, she reckoned, and she liked the idea of it. Just the thought was getting her horny.

“Sure, Jen. It’s a date then. But y’all gotta promise me to get Susan’s permission, okay? I’ll take you to Flagstaff after school and bring you back the same night. And I’ll check direct with her too. I don’t want the State police chasin’ me for abduction.”

“I’m all legal,” she said a little hurt; he laughed in a manly way. She got the joke.

“Not gonna josh me ‘bout yah cell now?”

They exchanged numbers; Jen told him to text her, it was easiest. They agreed to meet at the same place at “1600”; Jen telling him she knew that meant “four on the dot.”

“What d’ya plan doin’ after your finals?” he asked; she shrugged by a simple flex of traps and shoulders.

“U-T Austin wants to talk.”

“Ever thought about joinin’ the military?”


“Y’all be a great asset to your country, Jen.”

She shook her dark mop of hair; taking the hint, he smiled and retrieved the map from the bonnet.

Life after her finals was the distant future to her at that moment. What she cared most about was that this Cy Weatherby had a great set of shoulders; a tight ass. By Saturday morning she wanted to know those shoulders and ass real well. But most of all she wanted to know his cock: length, girth, shape, taste.

She had not the slightest doubt she’d get what she wanted. After all she was the strongest, most muscular human ever born. No way could he resist her.


Jenna sat on a small chair in front of a bedroom window open notwithstanding the cool night air she reckoned not much above forty degrees in the old scale; her back to the breeze, she faced the room’s half open doorway, cell phone in hand. She had spent the last five minutes texting Jackson – oh, how she missed him – and giggled girlishly at his messages. One of Jackson’s Assistant US Attorneys was getting married and he was invited. He told Jenna it was their chance to ‘out’ themselves as a couple, particularly since they were ‘unofficially’ engaged. Jenna would quibble with the ‘unofficial’ tag while at the same time feeling adrenaline surge with the excitement of the thought. What made Jenna’s night, though, was learning the identity of the betrothed couple. Jay Della Rosa and June Hayes; Jay ‘the Gamer Guy’, aged 23, and ‘Aunty’ Summer Haze, aged 68, former Aquarius-era model and a top class escort who made her fortune working the old money of South Texas and Louisiana. Obviously he satisfied her or she’d had so much variety over the years she could no longer tell wheat from chaff. Jenna would never be in that league and remembering Jay as her first also recalled him as her worst. Five years later and through trial and a lot of error she’d found the best. This one she wanted to keep.

It just made her so frustrated that she needed to do what she needed to do to get the Intel on the money trail from the operation in El Paso. Since being rescued from certain death at the strong hands of Vanessa Mandom and the three hundred ton freight train she would have slowly yet surely pushed along the rail she had affixed him to, Trenton Wessler had squatted in her living room making increasingly unsubtle and indiscreet suggestions on the conditions upon which he would give, or rather trade, the information she desperately wanted. Tonight, the night of the Monday she was meant to be beginning her part of the operation, Wessler dropped the final veil of pretence. If she wanted the key data she would have to fuck him for it. Her initial reaction was to hand him over to Fiona Moore and allow the morality-free superwoman to extract what she desired by a means that would make waterboarding look like smacking a naughty child’s bum. But there was one very important reason she couldn’t go down that track and it had everything to do with Zoe and Eric and their role in this whole sordid affair. Who knows what Wessler will tell Moore about them? Who knows what shit will fly back at Jenna once Moore discovers the operative Millislade had been kept under wraps all this time: with some justification Jenna feared becoming the shortest oak-leaf wearing officer in military history.

The door pushed open and Zoe entered, quickly latching it behind her. Jenna wore only her too-small kimono her grandmother gave her some years before; sitting down she didn’t bother to keep it fastened across her breasts and abdomen and thighs; and quickly saw that Zoe was little different for she wore only a tight white tee-shirt reaching lower than the navel. None of this a surprise to either. They’d known each other all their lives; had slept in the same bed as infants; swum without bathers in the McAdam pool as teens; and as adults shared a shower when both in a hurry to make do. Cousins de jure and sisters de facto. What they knew most of all was they’d always be friends.

“Don’t go askin’ anything of Easson,” Zoe said in a voice dripping with concern.

“It’s okay. I’ve got Jackson’s imprimatur – he trusts me coz he loves me – and I gotta condom I stole from Eric’s carry bag. If you don’t mind me sayin’ …”

“I don’t … It’s just that this is all so unnecessary,” Zoe walked to the bed and sat down, they were at touching distance, “He’ll only lie to you anyway.”

Jenna smiled and was about to say something flippant when the intensity written on Zoe’s face steeled her.

“You heard ‘em talking.”

Zoe grimaced and looked at her painted nails, “It’s not only that … they … expect me to be listening. It’s like they know what we want and are,” she sighed, “deliberately deceiving us.”

Jenna could feel her hurt, “I’m sorry … it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t … like … you.”

“I have this,” and from her tight sleeve fighting for a place between stretched polyester and a gentle ridge of triceps – her Ozarks compared to Jenna’s Himalayas - Zoe retrieved a piece of paper folded flat eight times and handed it to her cousin.

“Time and again I watched Easson type this code into his – what do they call it, the black screen thing – and then everything sorta came to life. This is where he did the work to move the money, Jen. I’m sure of it.”

A series of numbers, commands, prompts, letters. Jenna held an undergraduate degree in oceanography and meteorology, complex scientific formulae were as familiar to her as equations and fractions might be to most of the population but no way could she make sense of the techno-dribble her barely-death-defying house guests excelled in.

“I’m amazed you managed to write all this stuff down in the time you had …”

“Easy,” Zoe smiled, “I’m an actor, remember? I make sure I know my lines …” and with the monotone of an adding machine Zoe began to recite each bracket, number, letter and punctuation verbatim. For Jenna this was something beyond normal recall, it was the stuff of savants. Zoe could see her cousin’s disbelief and explained, “You gotta know how often I watched him do this. It wasn’t just some Rain Man redux. I remembered and watched him and wrote it down and checked. I may not be the perfect spy but I’m nothin’ if not persistent.”

Jenna reckoned she was the perfect spy. At least in the moment.

“And there’s one other thing you have to know …” Zoe paused long for effect, “the sex thing. It’s their way of messin’ with you, Jen.”

“What does that mean?”

“They said it … and I’m sure they didn’t think about me listenin’ in. Your weakness is your, umm, mind … so they say.”

A huge sigh from a huge woman, “That’s where the trade for sex comes in doesn’t it?”

“I think so.”

 “They think I’m fragile?”

“I guess.”

Jenna’s voice turned dark, “Someone’s been talkin’.”


Jenna thought for a moment; Zoe, though, didn’t doubt how it manifested, “It was you and Andrade in that bunker,” the blonde continued, “you showed somethin’ of yourself. Splittin’ apart that body armour by flexin’ your thigh, umm, I mean, it looked … it didn’t look good. Fiona knew you were teasin’.”

“Okay, I copy that. But I gotta be brutal now, Zoe. From tomorrow Easson and Millislade belong to that super-bitch. No more hide ‘n’ go seek, no more bullshit. If you and Eric want to pursue …”

“No, sis. We’re not a couple.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be … but you, Jen. Your career.”

The big girl smiled, “I got your piece of paper, sis. I trust in it more than I trust anything else in this goddamn shit of an assignment.”

Zoe turned to walk to the door; Jenna stood allowing the kimono to drop away from seventy two inches of shoulder and traps; turning back the covers of her bed, “If yah could switch the light I’d be grateful,” she spoke in her native accent, more high pitched to signal all was well, “G’night.”

The room turned dark and the crease of dull silver through the door widened then narrowed.

“Jen … d’ya mind if I spend the night … like … we used to.”

“Sure can,” and the covers of the other side flew back; the tee shirt dispensed with, Zoe slid onto the clean, cool side of a queen sized mattress Jenna reserved for the men who stayed over. Not that one had ever spent a minute in this bed.

“There’s somethin’ … there’s somethin’ I wanna tell you, Jen.”

Strong arms wrapped about strong bodies; their noses not more than an inch apart, each could feel the other’s breath as they spoke.

“I remember you telling me about your first boyfriend … Cyrus … was that him?”


“Me and Eric. I sorta knew. When we met in the field … after I could’ve saved … well, when we met I knew we’d be together.”

“Just like me, I s’pose … I knew right ‘way.”

“That’s what you said; you said the first time you met you wanted to, like then and there, and you also said, you warned me, the feeling can change …”

“It happens.”

Zoe sighed and turned away, Jenna moved a thick, muscled arm onto her and spooned together. They lay silent for a few seconds before Zoe spoke.

“Like when we were little kids.”

“I always liked it when Carragh and you came to visit.”

“You’re my big sister, Jen. When I lay in that bed and you put that strong arm around me. I knew you were protectin’ me.”

“You’ve always been strong ‘n’ invulnerable like me … no protection required.”

“It’s more than that. It’s, like, when we’re at your place and you’re so serious about how I had to use my strength and you marched me ‘round the yard and down through the neighbourhood showin’ ‘n’ tellin’ me what I can lift ‘n’ what I can’t … I mean, what I shouldn’t.”

“Move only things that can move; leave things that don’t.”

“Great advice for a four year old.”

Jenna sniggered, “I can’t believe you’d remember.”

“I can’t believe you were that aware.”

“Put it down to experience – even back then. Mom told me stuff but she never told me buildings break when you try movin’ ‘em. All the fuckin’ time.”

Zoe giggled, “Yeah, they do.”

They lay silent for a long while until Zoe spoke.

“It’ll all be over tomorrow, Jen.”

“As I said, we’ll be payin’ Fiona a visit.”

“No … it’s more … it’ll all be over.”

“Whatever you say, little sister. G’night.”

Zoe snuggled so that some part of her diamond hard body from heel to scalp pressed against Jenna and drifted into a long, deep sleep. The best sleep she had since entering that bunker a month before.


Naked and sweating to central heating turned to eighty degrees, Max bent over the small table, bending from the waist her feet well apart, and with the small inhaling device in a nostril quickly attended to three small lines of white powder on a table; she half stood and shook her head wildly, exhaling hard and humming with excitement.

“Shit yeah … that is so, so like magic dust!”

“Hold still,” called the blonde woman squatting about six feet behind; a camera being aimed and an image recorded.

“Y’all can do that anytime. Right now … right now this ‘supergirl’ wants her piece of candy …”

Max stood fully and turned about and lurching for the woman, took her by the shoulders and pushed a strong, saliva strewn mouth onto the equally naked and sweat speckled older woman who allowed the camera to drop to the carpet in the passion of the moment. Max broke the hold and hollered “aww, yeah, I’m da Queen o’ Mean.”

“So you’ll do it then?” the woman asked.

“I’ll do it, yeah … for another kilo of this stuff I’ll fuckin’ kill every ex-husband yah ever had …” and Max staggered into the living area and pressed ‘play’ on the CD machine. Green Day blared through the speakers, the music as loud as the house was hot. In the kitchen, the tall blonde prepared another couple of lines for her own consumption.

“What’d yah say his name was again?” Max asked by yelling over the thump of the beat.

“Walters … Jackson Lee Walters. And he’s been screwin’ around on me … him and his musclebound princess of a girlfriend.”

“She got a body like this?” Max flexed a double biceps pose in full knowledge of the answer.

“Nothin’ like you, lover,” and the tall blonde ran a lustful hand over the bulging peaks of Max’s shoulders and traps and biceps, “Thinks she’s the original fuckin’ porn star experience. Let me tell you, honey, she gives the worst head. Period.”

“Might let her try and redeem herself … before I crush her like a watermelon.”

“You’ll be disappointed,” she began, inhaled, arched and shook her head and swore, “Fuck me … that’s good gear.”

“Yah musta did some hard suckin’ to get a payload like this.”

“I got it from the top lawyer in Baltimore … his client … put it this way, I found a loop hole that let his appeal get through and I’m sure he wanted to show his appreciation.”

Max looked with disbelief, “Y’all some sorta judge?”

“Hey, enough questions, okay? I’m here to eat muscle pussy; what about you?”

“Yeah, cool!” Max leaned back on the table in a pose that gave no doubt what she expected; Gabrielle knelled before her and wrapped gym-worked arms around two enormous trunks of thighs; an expert tongue met eager lips and as Max emitted the first deep moan of appreciation when the house went suddenly silent, the music cut off in mid beat.

“What happened then?” Max growled and Gabrielle sprang to her feet and turned. In the doorway stood the woman Max knew as ‘Fiona’, barefoot and wearing a common beige trench coat buttoned to the neck; and behind her a CD player smoked and sparked, its metallic and molten plastic front dripping onto a scorched carpet.

“Fuck! Fiona what the fuck did yah do that for?”

There was a second’s pause before this ‘Fiona’ spoke, “American Idiot. How appropriate.”

The fuelled up Gabrielle lurched toward ‘Fiona’, “Hey, honey, forget ‘bout that, what ‘bout strippin’ off and joinin’ the party …” and reaching she grabbed ‘Fiona’ by the upper arm, “fuck … it’s like … you’re marble …”

Max saw ‘Fiona’ purse her lips and a torrent of wind gusted around them like a tornado: the dope, chairs, crockery, appliances and Gabrielle flew about in a centrifuge until crashing into the ceiling and returning to the floor with an awful thump. It had taken less than two seconds and Max was certain of Gabrielle’s state of health.

“Oh … my … God … why did yah kill her? All we did was fuck a few times!”

“It’s over, Max,” ‘Fiona’ continued in that same flat monotone.

“What is? Yah mean ‘us’? I’d say yah got that fuckin’ right … what … what’s happenin’ to yah eyes … they is turnin’ aqua …”


On the street outside the old weatherboard cottage, two boys rode their bikes in long, elliptical rotations, veering anticlockwise. There was no explosion, just an expression of incredibly bright light before the rush of heated air reddened pale faces. In quiet awe they stopped riding and watched the old place disappear in flame – and then witnessed the most amazing sight.

A tall, blonde woman emerged from the flames; even from where they were over thirty yards away the heat was intense. Pieces of clothing were burning on her body but otherwise she looked unhurt and unconcerned at the fire. Then they saw it. She wore a blue ‘supergirl’ top and small pleated skirt underneath the clothing that had burnt away and this top and skirt were as unharmed by the heat and flame as she. The boys were far enough into adolescence to know that this chick was stunning in looks and physique and, well, sheer cool. She walked toward them, slowly, one long perfect leg in front of the other. And stopped.

“Hi guys,” they heard her call out and watched as she began to float and rise and go higher and faster and suddenly they couldn’t see her anymore.

The police blamed the CD system as the cause of the fire yet couldn’t explain its intensity or how it took hold so fast. Only one body could be found; a female, white, twenty five to forty five years, so badly burned DNA and dental records would be required for identification. She remained ‘Jane Doe’ for a few days until an anonymous tip caused arrangements to be put in place that identified the victim as the missing appeals court judge, Gabrielle Walters.

The parents of the two boys grounded them for a month for insisting on some incredible story about a beautiful young blonde superwoman who walked out of the flames and flew away. They were the only witnesses to come forward.

The Strong Woman's Almanac (s 3 ep 8 [2/2])
WARNING: Violence. WARNING: Suggestive sexual conduct. WARNING: Illicit drug use.

The first part is a redux of Strength in Numbers Part 1 Chapter 15 'Dazzled by Science' first uploaded to

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STORM (Ep 8. Laws of Relativity [1/2])

The Pentagon, Wednesday, 0755. Sitting at the laptop on his modest work station and attending to the overnight email, Brandan Mara heard the unmistakable heavy steps of his musclebound superior approach from behind. It was a familiar sound; so predictable was she that he awaited the Doppler effect of her passing, the gust of air, her friendly “howdy” and knowing she’d be wearing a skirt with hem above the knee, a good view of heaving calves: always tense, heart-shaped and twenty four inches around, irrespective the size of heel.

Today was different.

The gentle tremors created by those glorious muscled legs stopped; his nostrils picked up a whiff of body cologne and within that same second three long, immeasurably strong fingers had gripped him about the jaw and raised him from the seat, his skull pushed hard onto the unyielding inner wall. If he had a chance to think about it he’d reckon she held him so that his toes were over fifteen inches off the ground. But he didn’t have the chance.

“You screwed me over.”

He hadn’t heard her talk like this before; the accent, the eyes, the hair. All the way they were before he arrived, before she arrived, on this assignment.

“You didn’t fuckin’ expunge me from the ‘net at all. If the truth be known, you tried to set up a little cookie trail takin’ people to a porn site with bulgin’, naked girl muscles all over it – includin’ mine!”

She squeezed a fraction to emphasise those last two words and Brandan let out a high pitched squeal, his mind racing with the thought he was only seconds away from eating through a straw.

“Put him down, Lieutenant.”

Jenna knew that voice and had no plans to offer disagreement. She let him slide along the wall onto his feet - not that they could sustain him, though. He continued to descend until he sat crouched with his knees high against his chest; face flushed and puffed; eyes filled with tears.

That familiar voice continued, “Your office. Now.”

Jenna moved quickly to her left, carefully through the doorway and waited for Assistant Deputy Director Moore to follow her into the office, the older woman attempting to close the door behind them only to find the metal frames pressed out of alignment.

“I’d heard you’d been a little careless down here, Jenna, but this is beyond that. I’d say you’d been showing off … relentlessly.”

“With respect,” she hesitated, “ma’am … these hatches are way too small for a woman with my muscles … as you might notice; I’m not exactly some skinny blonde.”

The skinny blonde chuckled with sarcasm, “Ah yes, those big, big muscles … of course, they explain much about you, don’t they?”

Fiona Moore gave Jenna a dismissive glance before making herself comfortable in the office’s only chair, the subordinate standing ill at ease and growing more pissed by the second.

“Agent Mara was simply following my orders, Lieutenant. If you have any issues …”

“I do. The way my ‘legend’ was created. I’ve been informed by a reliable source …”

“Agent Wessler no doubt.”

“I’ve been informed by a reliable source - other than Mr Wessler – that the trail created by the ‘Jessica Beaumont’ character would lead anyone familiar with covert research straight to material in the deep web identifying me. In truth, it could only be …”

“A set up. Yes, Jenna, you’re right,” Fiona spoke in a lighthearted way, smiling as she did so. “Face up to this simple fact: you were a diversion. And that was your whole purpose in this assignment, to let Malstrom know that you – the most muscular, strongest human being ever born – you were on your way to El Paso and would be joining this little coterie of aspirant superhumans. They couldn’t handle that, of course. Malstrom’s extraordinary ego and contempt for authority had caused her expulsion from Operation Hercules in the first place. But she also knew her limitations.”

“I was the bait.”

“They knew of me and you but they didn’t know of the other. It empowered Miss McGerrity to finish the job in her own particular way.”

“A civilian – an amateur - whose only attribute was her ability to fly and to give forth with one freakin’ almighty death ray … if I might be so candid, ma’am.”

“That’s actually two. And you’re right. The entire purpose of my little exhibition in that Mexican bunker was to show to you – and to Miss McGerrity – that the proper exercise of our talents always trumps the brutish strength of those freakish behemoths chemistry created in Operation Hercules. No offence meant to you, Jenna. You’re as God intended.”

“None taken,” Jenna said with a sigh. As the red mist rolled from her eyes she paid more attention to how Fiona appeared. Her dress sense professional and close fitting, as was her style, yet in the month or so since they’d last met the older woman seemed to have aged maybe five years; her face more sullen, more pallid, the eyes more shrunken and withdrawn into the skull, the skin around the neck and chin more creased and sagging. A cruel blow might be to call her ‘plain ugly’, not that Jenna had any intention of acting on the thought.

“And I’m pleased to say I’m also the bringer of other news,” Fiona continued, “You’re moving on. This is your last day in the Pentagon. From tomorrow you’re back in uniform.”

“I’m returning to Fort Bragg. Sure, that’s fine by me. I’m happy to get back onto General Andrade’s staff,” and giggled at a double meaning she knew Fiona wouldn’t understand.

“You’re not returning to Fort Bragg. There’s no place for you there now.”

By widening large brown eyes and a shake of dark brown hair – dyed to her natural color so she didn’t need to watch the blonde grow out - Jenna intimated she didn’t understand. Fiona allowed a long pause, watched those eyes grow anxious, and spoke.

“An order was signed by the Secretary at 2310 last evening appointing you as commanding officer of Joint Task Force Storm. Collaterally, the Chief of Naval Operations has exempted you from time in service and time in grade requirements for promotion. Congratulations, Lieutenant … Commander … McAdam.”

Fiona lifted herself easily from her seat and breezing past the stunned muscle-woman stopped briefly to hand her a creased paper retrieved from the inside pocket of her jacket. There were no more words said between them, Fiona exiting the office and roughly closing the ill-hung door behind her; Jenna studying the document that was her orders to report to the Chief of Staff to the Vice-President for she’d been seconded to that office and temporarily appointed as commander of this ad hoc JTF. She moved behind the desk and slumped into her chair – and discomforted by finding it warm from its previous occupant – placed her legs on the desk, allowed the hem of her skirt to rise over her thighs; her eyes looked up and down those mounds of muscle yet her mind had returned to the conversation of only minutes before. Thinking more about it, she recalled Lyn’s analysis of Fiona and thought it so convenient that, with the benefit of 20-20 hindsight, the El Paso mission turned out the way it had. Zoe had told her that she could’ve saved the lives of a dozen agents had Fiona given her the all clear and from what they now knew there seemed no point in Moore continuing to allow the assignment to meander as it did, that is, continue without intervention until the delinquent quartet had each reached superhuman proportions for it only meant more avoidable death. The ‘Mogar’ code had not been retrieved, if in fact there had been anything to gain by doing so, and as far as she knew no one had interdicted the money trail. Her own analysis pointed to this so-called super-agent simply winging it and explaining the outcome in a way that placed her and the agencies in the positive light. If twenty or thirty good citizens happened to die along the way, well, that was the price that had to be paid. In Fiona’s mind anyway. Jenna could understand why Carragh felt the way she did. Who knows what else this regressing superhuman has done; who else has been her patsy. For Jenna it only made her more suspicious of those who occupy positions of power within the civilian agencies.

And while she had no idea what this task force was designed to do, she smiled at the realisation she’d reached a position of command. Rubbing her fingers in the grooves separating the muscles of her thigh her mind returned to Brandan. She’d been unduly harsh on him and now felt bad; she was also surprised that he hadn’t sensed all this leg muscle was on show, that he’d find some excuse to appear at the door and gasp and gawk at the extraordinary sight she’d put on offer.

“Y’all still there, Brandan?” she called.

There was no answer and curious about this unnatural quiet, she stood and left her office to check for herself. His desk cleared, the lap top gone and chair left abandoned in the middle of the thoroughfare; and she sighed with the heavy feeling of guilt. Had Fiona not intervened she would surely have turned his jaw to chalk dust such was the intensity of that white hot anger. She wished she could make it up, but how? In reality she knew what the future held: she would never set eyes on him again.


Raul Andrade had doubts about Fiona Moore’s judgment. Grave doubts. He had disagreed with her decision to interpose this raw untested superhuman in place of the disciplined strength of Jenna McAdam; doubt in his mind that this short, aggressive teenager would even survive the exercise.

“That’s the point, General,” Moore had told him, “It permits us to solve two problems. You unleash your supermen with impunity. And if the experiment succeeds as it should, I am rid of another problem your Operation Hercules has created for us.”

That problem stood in the enclosed arena of the bunker, swinging huge arms clad in the matte black body armor alloy of albanon and adamantium; unlike the suit worn by Andrade’s adjutant a few weeks before, the humungous legs of Maxine Garn could never hope to fit in anything other than one built for purpose. Bare legged and barefooted, the muscles of her lower body flexed and pumped. Andrade would normally revel in such a show but not here and not today. For one he found the muscle growth on the five foot tall blonde to be so extreme it was asymmetrical; his mind’s eye so accustomed to the proportional size of Jacklyn Steele and Jenna McAdam that he found nothing arousing in this more freakish derivation.

His guest observer had not the build of his superhuman subject yet her cold demeanour worried him just the same. Zoe had been only a thick concrete wall away from the terse conversation between Andrade and Fiona, the General’s description of the young superwoman as a “super-bimbo” and an actress “better qualified for two bit porn than real work” only outraged her. Even now she thought of placing a finger under his coarsely shaven chin, elevate his feet from the decking and without any apparent effort send him flying across the bunker just for fun. Not that it was her way. Rather she chose to appear today in style: four inch stiletto heels allowing her to stand as statuesquely tall as her musclebound cousin; a long red coat that sat around her shoulders like a cape – shoulders made to look wider by both the padding of the coat and the narrowness of her waist; the white blouse underneath was too small for her breast size; the buttons unfastened to the diaphragm due to the gentle spread of her elite-swimmer lats which in turn allowed the modest canyon of cleavage to escape the confine of fabric so sheer that the most disinterested eyes could see how the rose bisque areola contrasted with the light peach of the skin; the payoff being the way the blouse hugged the muscles about the waist, so much so that the washboard mounds of her concaving abs were apparent. The charcoal micro skirt was borderline appropriate, its hem only four fingers’ width below the lowest crease point of those small, granite-hard butt cheeks, the garment hugging those glutes with the love a mother would show a frightened child. And from the skirt came those long, long, bare legs; the muscles of the thighs and calves reacting to the size of heel and her own desire to flex them modestly; the femuscle-lusting Andrade enduring a dilemma of whether to give into the tease and allow Zoe to titillate him as would a Jacklyn or Jenna in the forlorn hope that something more might follow or maintain the po-faced professional sourness he reserved for undeserving civilians who by the luck of birth have (quite literally) flown way above their level of incompetence.

Andrade would choose the latter. Which was just as well.

“These men should be wearing helmets,” Zoe said from her observatory position three strides behind Andrade’s station; he hesitated to answer – undecided whether she had asked a question or made a statement – and when he spoke kept facing the monitor to the front and knowing full well she could hear him irrespective of basic courtesies.

“Like the female graduates of Operation Hercules these men are practically invulnerable. They don’t require protection.”

“’Practically’ means?”

“That is one of the reasons we are here, Miss McGerrity.”

She walked closer to him and without turning he could feel those deadly eyes staring at the thinning gray hair of his scalp, “The assault team which staged a coup on the Azores. Each woman was a graduate of your Hercules program – all but one. And they wore this same body armor alloy – just like the blue ‘superchick’ uniforms you had made for me and my mother, Carragh Simms.”

“What would you know about that,” he said half to himself and in an instant the back of his neck had been gripped by an index finger and thumb and these superstrong pincers raised him so his ear came adjacent to her mouth.

“Miss Moore told me my role is to ask questions, General, and she told you … what exactly?”

Accepting his nodding as feeble acquiescence Zoe allowed his feet to return to the metal deck and released her grip which in turn caused him to rub at a thumb spot already showing a bruise. After an uncomfortable pause he made as if clearing his throat and forced an assertive tone, “The team that was deployed to ensure the protection of American personnel and civilians on the Azores were undertaking the initial assignment as a group …”

“I get it. Your tests couldn’t tell just how much gun fire ‘n’ explosions each soldier could withstand so you frocked all of ‘em up in these million dollar body suits for extra care.”

“Affirmative,” he grumbled and took the chance of the pause to lean forward and gruffly gave the order “proceed.”

From an unseen door entered a tall, lean man who carried what looked like a spear, seven foot long and three or four inches in diameter. From her hand gestures it was obvious Max wanted him to attack and he didn’t intend to disappoint. From a distance of ten feet he hurled the spear with an action so fast and at a pace so great that Andrade couldn’t comprehend suddenly how it came to be lying on the deck in front of the intended victim, its sharpened head compressed by six inches in a concertinaed way.

“He struck the armor,” the General gasped.

“It hit her cheek,” Zoe said coldly, “not quite ‘faster than a speeding bullet’ but in the zone.”

Events in the arena overtook the need for further explanation. The so-called ‘superman’ moved for the spear and fulfilling a need to prove his alleged strength, bent it in half and then over again and threw it aside. For this whole time Max had been balancing on the balls of her feet and shuffling to and fro like a boxer; he began to approach her cautiously and then rushed; and with another move faster than the normal eye could behind, Max had taken his arm and swung him into the furthest wall of the arena. The bunker shook to the impact and like some cartoon, the soldier pulled himself from a body-shaped crater in the thick bulkhead.

“We call him ‘Omega’ for he’s the weakest of our squad,” Andrade began, “Hundreds of times superior to the average man, however. In case you have any doubt.”

Zoe had no doubt Max would destroy him and this she did with her next move. He rushed her for a second time; she stepped aside at the last moment and tripped him; hitting the deck he lay still for a second too long and Max was literally upon him, her thighs locking about his lower ribs; leaning away she twisted his spine into a crescent and then applied the pressure. The outcome devastating. Andrade turned away, his eyes sickened to the sight; Zoe fascinated at how those incredible suits held everything into place yet the metal had contracted so that his cadaver appeared like some weird Bugs Bunny cartoon: Max’s legs having compressed his lower thoracic region to the thickness of a pizza tray.

“This is what happens when you take a candle to a flamethrower fight,” Zoe said offhand; Andrade flushed crimson and pressed a button on his station, his voice giving up his anger.

“Delta, Epsilon. Full force.”

Two men; heavy ordnance and the willingness to use it. The room, already bright with fluorescent light, became difficult to watch as thousands of rounds of high calibre bullets fired, struck, sparked, shattered or ricochets off bodies and suits more impervious to injury than the titanium steel walls. Zoe was unimpressed.

“These guys are meant to be ‘more powerful than a locomotive’? Not.”

If intended as a question, Andrade dismissed it, instead focusing on the way this super-teen pounced toward the firing men, grabbing for and crushing the weapons in effortless fashion. They were each shorter than the deceased ‘Omega’ and seeing her chance, Max gripped each about the throat, applying a pressure that would make golf balls out of shot puts – not that it made an ounce of difference to these supermen. They used their strength to break free and try to attack her from different directions. Attack is the best form of defence, all present would agree, but the attack must also be made from a position of fundamental superiority. And what Max possessed these men didn’t: incredible leg speed and even more incredible leg strength.

Again she had both men on the deck and again she had their bodies close enough to use the power of her legs upon them. This time, though, it was something different. She had leaned back onto her hands and her entire body was off the deck and facing upwards; her legs wrapped about the men so their necks were in the crook of each knee. That was when she brought her calves into play. They were the new weapon of choice, crushing into the windpipe and jugular; the squirming, kicking supermen unable to pry themselves free of these muscular trunks ten or maybe twenty times more powerful than anything they’d known.

“How can this be possible?” Andrade gasped, not soliciting an answer yet he got one.

“You know the answer, General. You told it to me a minute ago when you said these men are identified by ability, or rather, weakness.”

“What?” he spat.

“Strength is relative.”

“Intra-gender, yes, but this woman …”

“This woman has always possessed extraordinary leg strength. What she did to your Omega and what she’s doing now, well, she was killing grown men in exactly that way at fourteen … and sixteen and seventeen. Now she’s moved on to being a super-woman who kills super-men. It’s that simple.”

As Zoe spoke the other three rushed into the room unordered. It was too late to save the purple faced men who’d had the life slowly crushed from them by expanding, flexed calves more powerful than a thousand locomotives. They set upon Max; hands and fists to be found as wanting as her own strikes in reply. The only difference between them was the power in her legs. She understood that now for Andrade and Zoe could see how Max’s approach to combat evolved to an unorthodox ‘kickbox’ style; three men had taken her on and with roundhouse and sidekicks she was putting them off balance, her sweeps knocking them to the deck where knees could be used. It was sheer brutality. One against three - and the one was winning.

“This show’s over,” Andrade growled; his hand moved to the ‘abort’ alarm and in a blink the entire console collapsed in front of him, the blonde superwoman merely swatting it away like some errant bug; hundreds of thousands spent on state-of-the-art materiel lay fractured, sparking and smoking in a four by four foot area. Zoe guffawed at the sight; Andrade’s chest heaved as if asthma had taken hold, “An … another display of brute force … destructive, murderous strength … nothing more …”

Zoe moved into his line of sight and folded her arms, “Strength, General? I’ll tell you about strength … I’ll tell you how I could move North America a little closer to Europe. And do you think for a second I can’t do that? If you do then think again. It’s only the knowledge that half of California will fall into the ocean that’s stopping me cutting flight times to London by an hour.”

Andrade’s chest heaved with breathless anger and sarcasm, “Maybe you could start with South America …”

“You’re not a geo-scientist are you? If you were you’d know that’s precisely what I’ve done.”

She swung so hard on her heels the cape billowed and slapped across his face in a manner suggesting that even her clothes were mocking him; and leaned back on one long, bare leg, her blonde hair nodding at the vision of the arena, “It’s finished.”

His view obstructed, Andrade had to stagger a few feet to see for himself. Maxine Garn stood at the edge of the visual area, eyes wide and glaring at the fallen, silent bodies. Big girls’ playtime over. Zoe considered the emotionally shattered Andrade, his pale face turning ashen, his pudgy frame looking as if his entire physique was shrinking before her eyes. His project was doomed all because of a lack of Intel and a baseless belief that a superman would always defeat a superwoman. He knows the truth now. And it has destroyed him.

Zoe saw Maxine waving at the camera indicating she wanted to be released from the arena; with the locking controls nothing but smoking pieces of copper and silicon, Zoe turned her head and lazily caused a crimson beam to sunder a vertical slit in the bulkhead separating them, no more than five feet high. If Maxine needed any more Zoe reckoned she could do it herself and soon enough the height-deprived superteen burst through the incision without bothering to push the thick steel apart before her. It was an awesome sight.

“Hey, I feel so freakin’ alive!” Max shouted, stopped and flexed a double biceps pose in that exaggerated way that athletes do when they’ve won an event.

“Is there any point in calling the paramedics?” Zoe enquired in her best faux-professional voice.

“I dunno,” and spying the wrecked console, “what sorta shit’s been goin’ down out here?”

Zoe ignored her, deciding instead to turn away and retrieving her cell from a pocket of her coat/cape, prepared to send a text; Max turned her attention to Andrade.

“Hey, Colonel, what happened ‘ere? Did y’all tell Zoe she’s not hot ‘nough for yah? She ain’t got ‘nough muscle?” and watched as the sickly Andrade began to turn away, only serving to antagonise the superhuman murderess even more, “Hey, I’m talkin’ to yah! Y’all didn’t act so shy when I was suckin’ all the jizz outta that little pecka of yours,” and taking him by the throat in the all-too-familiar way, “I said I’m talkin’ to yah!”

Whether Andrade heard or not no one will ever know for his eyes rolled back and his legs gave way; Max’s grip was atypically lax and his body tumbled to the deck where it lay and Zoe found Max staring with bewilderment.

“I didn’t do nothin’ to him. Honest.”

There was a beep from her phone and Zoe checked the message before continuing, “A coroner’s arriving with paramedics and Andrade’s adjutant. I don’t intend answerin’ questions.”

“They’d know it’s us.”

“To them ‘Fiona Moore’ is in an office three miles away. No need for anyone to know the truth.”

Zoe strode to that exact spot in the bunker wall where the genuine Fiona had pushed her way through that day a little while before. With an airy sweep of her right hand every bit as casual as the slap down of the console, fifteen cubic feet of nuclear-resistant metal folded away and the glare of the midmorning sun shone upon them.

“That looked easy,” Max mumbled.

“Because it was … remember? What I told you ‘bout the laws of relativity? You might be a million times stronger than that dead guy over there, but there’s always someone who’s got a million times more power again.”

“Meaning you.”

“Want to test me?”

“No way.”

Preparing for a rapid ascent into the clear November sky, Zoe grabbed Max tight and … hesitated.

“Did you say you … did it with … him?”

“Arghh, don’t remind me! It was purely a commercial transaction, okay? And pure is the word coz a hun’ed grams of top notch Bogota Bullion is sure worth a mouthful of some old guy’s junk any day o’ the week.”

Zoe looked Max in the eyes and nodded, a wide smile spreading across her face. Max assumed she wanted to share – but nothing could be further from the truth.

“Why’s you wearin’ that coat as a cape anyway?”


Zoe heard a noise in the adjacent hall and in another half second they were ten thousand feet above the bunker, levelling off, heading toward Manassas. Max would never understand how that coat could defy the simple forces of physics and like Zoe and simple humanity, it would always remain a complete mystery to her.


June, 2009, along the Texas Gulf Coast, south west of Galveston. A teenager with incredible muscularity, superhuman strength and apparent invulnerability has had an eventful morning … and her desire to take that final leap into womanhood has completely overtaken her sensibilities.

The substation had warning signs ‘100,000 volts Keep Out’ and the like. There were two fences, an outer wire fence and an inner metal bar fence. Jen McAdam thought she should be responsible and not damage the fences and then couldn’t be bothered. She walked through the first which snapped away at her body’s pressure. The metal bars were two inches thick, spaced every six inches. Jen raised her right hand and swept away five of the bars, four landing inside the small yard, the other being hopelessly bent out of shape but still attached to a railing. She’d climbed through the gap and walking around the yard looking for a private place to change into her school gear when she felt a tingling sensation. The blue all-too-tiny ‘supergirl’ shirt she wore began to smoke and small burn holes appeared. She threw her back pack on the ground and went back to grab a fractured metal bar.

“This’ll be fun.”

She touched a transformer cable with the metal bar. Instantly she was a whitish/bluish glow. The supergirl outfit, including a small pleated micro-skirt, simply disintegrated. The hundred thousand volts coursing through Jen was like a vibration to her. It seemed to massage her all over. She liked it, but moved the bar in the wrong direction and

*Zap* *Kapow* *Boom*

The substation simply shorted out and blew up. Jen was engulfed in the initial explosion, thereafter searching for and finding her school pack slightly scorched. She ran through the two fences, metal crashing and snapping as she went. She was naked and needed to get away from the scene of her crime.

There was a small gully fifty yards away up the road. She sprinted there which took no more than a couple of seconds. She panted from fear and anxiety. Pulling from the back pack her school uniform of mid-blue polo with school crest (men’s size 6XL and still too small) and black, green and gray pleated skirt (too short thanks to her bulging thighs) she put it on sitting down then waited a minute while she composed herself. How could something that felt so great turn on her so quickly? Even nature seemed against her at this moment.

Jen could hear sirens now. They would arrive and ask questions; she did not want to be there. It was another hundred and fifty yards to the main street. She jumped up and sprinted, passing two pedestrians transfixed by the substation fire. They hardly noticed her, but then she gave them little time to. On reaching the street, she stood and collected her thoughts. She would go this way, slightly longer, but less traffic.

She kept to the footpath, the occasional stare of a passer-by being par for the course in downtown. Up ahead was a young guy stacking crates on a wheel trolley. He disappeared into a house. As Jen came close he re-emerged. He was cute; a little under average height; thin but with a bit of bulk around the chest and shoulders; a head of springlike curls. He recognised her. She didn’t know why.

“Hey Jen, what yah doin’ ‘round here?”

“Howdy, umm, on my way to school. Had some frees.”

“Yeah, good to see yah.”

He left his trolley and came over to Jen who stood on the pavement behind the open trunk of his car.

“I’m taking in stuff for my aunt. You remember me don’t you? I used to go with Abi?”

Penny still didn’t quite drop.

“Yeah, maybe, that was what, last month?”

“We split up last month, we’re still good friends, yah know.”

“Are yah ‘Jake the Gamer Guy’?”

“Jay, yeah that’s me. Abi used to come ’round; we’d play a few games and see how it went.”

Jen remembered now. Abi had said she fucked him a few times.

“Sure … well, umm, Abi’s doin’ okay, wants to study hard for her finals and that so … yeah, there yah have it, I guess.”

“Hang on, I’ll just get rid of these last two...” he placed the crates on the trolley “... I guess yah’d be strong enough to carry ‘em all in at once. I wish I’d all that strength.”

‘Nice,’ she thought. “Yeah, sure, I’ll wait ‘round.”

“Okay, be back soon.”

He got to the top of the steps then turned and smiled. Jen smiled back. When inside she walked up to his back kerb side wheel, stuck her fingernail in the tire and walked back to where she’d stood. Jay came back out and walked up to her. Quite close. She still towered over him, even in her bare feet.

“So what y’all doin’ today?” he asked.

“Aww, gotta get to school sometime.”

“I can run yah over there, umm, m’aunty’s ‘bout to go out but I gotta few minutes.”

“Not with that car; the back tire’s flat.”

Jen pointed to the flattened tire.

“Aw, fuck. Aunty’ll kill me. Fuck, fuck! I don’t have a decent jack. I’m fucked!”

“Hey, it’s cool, I’ll do it for yah. Got a spare haven’t yah?”

 “Yeah, yeah … umm, I’ll get it out.”

Jen squatted at the wheel rim; pushing up and holding the car with her left hand while loosening the nuts with her right then pulling the flat from the wheel.

“Where’s the spare, darlin’?”

A couple of passers-by had bumped into each other while watching Jen’s strength show. Jay glared at them as he handed Jen the spare. The size of her hand allowed her to grab the tyre around the tread and just fit it on the wheelbase. Nuts tightened she let the car down.


“Oh, Jen! You … Are … Such … A … Life … Save-err!”

She stood in front of him; over him.

“Well nothin’ like a little ol’ supergirl to help out.”

“Yeah ‘n’ y’all got great muscles too, Jen. Always thought that.”

Jay stepped close and felt the upper sleeve of Jen’s tight fitting polo top; she tensed; the increase in the bicep – not only upward but outward - sprung his hand away as it stretched the garment to the point of splitting. She laughed and spoke.

“Ohh, sorry … forget how big I can get now I’m all grown up.”

“It’s such a great muscle.”

“I got lots more … umm, we can go inside if yah want and I’ll, err, tell yah more ‘bout ‘em.”

Jen raised her arm to rub his back at the same moment as Jay attempted to rub the other arm, this meant she had to move unexpectedly and he felt her braless left breast instead.

“Oh shit, Jen! Sorry, err, didn’t mean to do that.”

“Yah didn’t? Aw, now that’s a shame. Here ...” she gently took his hand and placed it on her right breast “... go on, Jay. Be my guest.”

Jay had a reassured fondle. His touch felt good. Jen felt horny. Jay stopped and spoke.

“We’d better go inside, Aunty’ll want the car.”

Jen found her pack and followed him in. Jay immediately called out.

“Aunty, the car’s ready.”

Jay asked Jen if she’d like a drink. She thought he meant water so asked for plenty of ice if he had it. She stood admiring the portraits, photos and other memorabilia of the lady’s living room. Returning with a triple nip of scotch in each of two glasses filled with ice, Jay offered one to Jen and then took a swig of his own resurfacing with a wide grin of satisfaction. He sat on a two seater couch, perched on the edge; Jen stood in front of him and tensed her quads.

‘Scotch? Good grief,’ she thought, considered the glass then took a gulp. ‘Yuck. Why do people drink this stuff? Maybe it’s like boy cum, yah gotta get a taste for it.’ She skolled the remaining contents of the glass and twirled the ice around. He was impressed.

“Wow, yah got rid of that quick … like another?”

“No. I’m fine.”

She handed him the glass of ice and rocked forward onto her toes, causing all her leg muscles to tense. Jay stood up allowing her to push her breasts at his face as he reached full height. A voice from behind her pierced Jen’s moment.

“Howdy there”

“Hey, Aunty. I’d like you to meet Jen. She’s a friend of Abi’s.”

Jen turned toward the voice; a tall, 6 foot maybe, honey blonde woman with striking looks stood before her. She had a beaming smile on a face that Jen guessed must have seen 50 or more summers, but the body looked superb. She was willowy thin, wearing a classy white jacket buttoned to the left, covering her from neck to waist. A small white mini skirt topped long, brown shapely, superb legs standing on high heels: bringing Aunty almost to Jen’s height. The older woman held out a hand.

“Great to meet you, Jen,” this woman’s smile was magnetic, “I’m June, welcome to my home.”

“Thank you.”

Jen was a little transfixed by June’s presence but noticed one thing straight away. As they spoke about the day, the weather, the blackout caused by the substation fire, the flat, June either lent on Jay’s shoulder or touched his arm, touched his back, touched Jen’s arm – and lingered on the twenty one inch forearm – and even, after they all enjoyed a little laugh about nothing, seemed to rub Jay’s ass.

“Well, kids, I have to get on to Galveston. I have a booking so I mustn’t be late. Maybe I’ll see y’all later on.”

“Bye, Aunty.”

“Bye, June, nice to meet you.”

“And you, honey.”

June gave Jen’s triceps a rub then turned and gave Jay a kiss - open mouth direct on the lips - a feeling of passion crackling around the room. She was very much a tactile lady. Fortunately for Jen the feeling remained after the front door slammed shut.

“So … honey … what ‘bout showin’ me these games of yours.”

“Oh, you interested in gaming, Jen?”

“No. I’m interested in sex, but unless I get into yah room, I’m not gonna get any!”

“Oh, umm, Jen, Aunty said I can use her room when she’s out. It has a really big bed and it’s real comfortable. Come on I’ll show yah.”

‘This is gettin’ weirder,’ she thought, ‘but at least we’re headin’ in the right direction.’

The room was like something out of an old southern estate; lacy curtains, queen size bed with antique bed head, beautiful old furniture with ceramic and cut glass items on top. The dressing settee had a full length mirror.

The bed turned down, beautiful crisp linen – that would take some ironing even for a supermom like her own - Jen shut the door. She stooped to kiss her man; her first. It was passionate in a way, they sucked on tongues and saliva. He reached wide to feel her shoulders and arms; pressing around her thick torso and lats to the back. Jen could see how many girls would be turned on – overcome – by all this. But she wasn’t. She was horny; she wanted the business done. The cherry popped.

With her two huge hands on his hips, Jay rose above Jen’s eye level. She kissed him from that position for a few moments then pressed him outward toward the bed. She took a couple of paces and lay him down upon it, standing over him and began to remove to peel off her shirt. Slowly.

“Y’all say yah like my muscles … so I’m gonna give yah somethin’ of a show.”

Once naked, Jen began to perform a variety of bodybuilding poses. She had practised her routine many times as a young teen, never thinking of how it would now be used. She knew Jay would be hard and he needed no more encouragement to strip himself while still lying on the bed. His clothes, shoes, now strewn about the room.

Uncut, five to six inches, thinnish; Jen was nonchalant about his cock. She decided to get to know it anyway and kneeling on a bed that noisily sagged under her three-fifty pounds of muscle, cradled it in her hand as she hovered over it and began to kiss and lick at the head.

“Ahh, no … no, Jen … don’t, aww …”

She thought he was about to cum; he didn’t and she seemed confused as to why he resisted.

“What d’ya want, Jay? Tell me … I’ll do it for yah …”

“Hop on top, baby … ride me … please.”

Jen hadn’t really envisaged this as a starting position, she would have preferred him to give her a doggie. Reluctantly she complied, easing herself onto him. Used to Susie’s larger dildo, she found him a little loose and moved to tighten the grip. It got an unexpected reaction.

“Oh, shit! Ahh, fuck.”

“Shit, sorry … umm, sorry, are you alright?”

Her vaginal squeeze was a little more powerful than planned; Jay had a grimace on his face but replied that all was well. Jen began to move slowly up and down on his cock, her powerful legs doing the work.

‘So this was sex. Mark it off the list of things to do before I die.’

Jay was enjoying it and breathing hard. Jen was enjoying it too and glad the scotch was helping her to relax; she began to pick up pace, now more comfortable with how he felt to her. He started to moan yet Jen was still a bit of a way off shore; she thought of a way to slow him down.

“Can we do a doggie, Jay? I’ll move down the end.”

“No, no Jen, keep goin’, I’m almost there.”

She said nothing but began to pick up the pace in the hope it would get her to the same destination. She grabbed his hands, but trying to move them to her breasts caused him to slip free. She changed around to reverse cowgirl, the best compromise she would give; he seemed a better fit too. She sulked a little in her mind about not getting her wish for a doggie; another minute, that’s all it would take. In any event her estimate proved almost perfect and for the first time she felt the pulse of a cock as cum flooded into her. He began to moan his thanks when she decided to give him one more little squeeze.

“Argghh! Shit! That, like, really hurt … why did yah do that?”

Her hidden smile said it all, ‘Because I like to’. Half looking over a bulging shoulder, she tried to sound contrite.

“Sorry Jay, couldn’t help it.”

She raised herself from him and moved to the side of the bed. His cock, half hard, appeared red raw, the second squeeze a little more brutal than the first, she reckoned. He grabbed his cock to inspect the damage and then looked at Jen like a puppy admonished for pissing in the house.

“Sorry, darlin’ … just sometimes a super strong girl just can’t keep every muscle in control. It’s a problem yah sorta gotta get used to if yah wanna fuck me.”

“I really like yah, Jen … and I would like to see y’all again. Maybe next time we can move into the positions yah like, umm, maybe it might be better … for us both.”

That smile returned, ‘That’s right. It’ll be better. For me. You might still get hurt.’

“Thank you, darlin’,” Jen leaned to kiss him but he moved aside and sat up looking for his clothes. She took the hint, even if it was unintended; easing herself backwards from the bed she found her shirt and searched for her skirt. They both dressed in silence. Jen gathered her back pack and thought maybe the time was right.

“Jay, it’s been really great. Umm, maybe we could catch up,” Jen spoke as she watched him messing with his shoe laces, her impatience simmering.

“Umm, look … tomorrow after half three would be real good if yah can make it … I dunno what Aunty’s doin’ though, umm, no, don’t worry … y’all can come ‘round and we can, err, yah know what, make out in my room.”

His sudden show of manly determination surprised her.

“Okay, yeah, let’s make a date … say four? I’ll be hangin’ out for it, lover,” her voice still too flat, she pressed it an octave upwards, “And I really wanna show yah how a strong girl can suck cock too.”

She sounded so fake.

Jay said nothing and didn’t react; upon reaching the door he grabbed Jen around the waist trying to pull her close and reached up for a goodbye kiss. He failed to move her at first and when Jen realised what he was doing tried her best to oblige. The spark wasn’t there; perhaps smouldering but not quite alight. She left thinking that at least the next time would be her second; and for sure it would be the first time he made her cum.

And if he didn’t? Then Jay the Gamer Guy would find out just how strong that special squeeze of hers could be.

The Strong Woman's Almanac (s 3 ep 8 [1/2])
WARNING: Graphic sexual depiction; WARNING: Some violence and gore. 

The last part of this story is a lightly edited reproduction of Strength in Numbers Pt 1 chapter 13 'The Big Day Out III: Cross One Off the List' as originally uploaded to



In Australian politics, party leaders invariably respond to ideological disagreements as symptomatic of their followers being a ‘broad church’ of different ideas and opinions. I often think of my watchers and regular readers as much the same and one reason why I like to depict a variety of characters with varying degrees of muscularity, strength, eroticism, good and plain ol’ fashion evil. It wasn’t always like this as the first part old Strength in Numbers story (written 2009-10) would show.

The seventy chapters of S in N as published on in 2011 was my first foray into the McAdam-verse. Since the Brawna site went down I’ve been pondering what to do with my old (first) draft I’ve kept on a disc. Should I republish, redux or something different? I’ve weaved a few stories into The Strong Woman’s Almanac; in particular I rewrote and republished a chapter (as s 2 ep 2) and there have been prequels to the Brawna story (examples, s 1 epp 4,5,7,8; s 2 ep 10).

While writing my next instalment of series 3 I had a thought. Instead of simply republishing the old S in N pending Brawna’s return, what if I include some chapters in the storyline in the manner of characters recalling their past? In the current example it is a Jenna story. But this again asks a question, for previous polling suggests a greater interest in Jenna, Lyn, Carragh and Zoe storylines as opposed to Susie and Roz; in the early S in N chapters I treated the three McAdams pretty much equally.

So here’s the thing. Looking ahead to a 2017 release of series 4 of TSWA, should this be the basis of my approach – a redux of the old Strength in Numbers Part 1 told in hindsight with Roz, Susie and (teenage) Jenna at centre stage or continue with my established TSWA storyline with flashbacks told from the perspective of Jenna and Lyn characters?

I’ve put up a poll and knowing there’s no real hurry will give watchers and visitors plenty of time to consider their response. Thanks for reading.


Journal History

In Series 4 of The Strong Woman’s Almanac should there be 

9 deviants said A continuation of the established TSWA storyline with flashbacks told from the perspective of the Jenna and Lyn characters?
4 deviants said A redux of the Strength in Numbers Pt 1 told in hindsight with Roz, Susie and (teenage) Jenna McAdam as central characters?


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MATL Featured By Owner Aug 2, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the points ;)
ArchiveSW Featured By Owner Edited Jul 28, 2016
Thank you for the fave my friend !
cchjcj Featured By Owner Jun 19, 2016
Good to see the McAdams back!
HardnStrong Featured By Owner Jun 19, 2016
Thank you ... and all this hi-jinks with the superteens is but a warm-up for a lot more mayhem to come!
Ambruno Featured By Owner May 28, 2016  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the llama Toilet Paper 
Charlierock2 Featured By Owner May 27, 2016  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the :llama:
HardnStrong Featured By Owner May 27, 2016
TNoire Featured By Owner May 24, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Spideypool - Llama 
Gideon020 Featured By Owner May 18, 2016
Happy Birthday.
HardnStrong Featured By Owner May 18, 2016
Thanks very much, mate!
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