She Wore an Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Pink Polka Dot Bikini (Short Story)

She Wore an Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Pink Polka Dot Bikini

Written by SteeleBlazer

It’s summer—and that means it’s time for me to strut around the beach and show off my magnificent beach body. It’s what I work on all the other three seasons of the year, just so that when summertime comes, me and my muscles can shine in the sun. And baby, it’s finally time for them to shine, and I just can’t wait for some beach babe beauty to oil up my muscles into a lustrous sheen. It’s really something to be seen—and believe me, I steal the scene and everyone’s attention when I’m at the beach, thanks to my obscenely large muscles and the bevy of bikini-clad floozies feeling, touching, and oiling my muscles as I flex for them—and everyone else—over and over again, each flex bigger than the last.

Now, I know what you're thinking—I sound arrogant. But arrogance is only a problem if you can’t back it up. And no man on the beach has bigger, harder muscles than mine. I’ve got the biggest biceps, the widest shoulders, the most massive chest, and the hunkiest six-pack this side of the equator. I strut, I flex, I bask not just in the sun’s glow but in my own ego. I absolutely love strutting about, watching all the girls fawn over me and feeling the jealous eyes of every guy who wishes he had my beach body. I'm the undisputed king of the beach—what can I say? It’s good to be the king! And every day, I look forward to finding a new queen.

Today was no different—until I saw her.

She wore an itsy bitsy, teeny weenie pink polka dot bikini, and on her bodacious body, that bikini looked even smaller than you'd think... but not for the reasons you might be thinking. It wasn’t because she was just stacked or statuesque—though yeah, she looked like a statue carved from stone, or molded from bronze to be more apt. Only this wasn’t some delicate Venus de Milo with missing skinny and weak arms—this Venus was jacked!  Those girly guns of hers were more like bazookas, that’s how big and bad and buff her biceps were. She had great big muscles—muscles so enormous and yet gorgeous that they made that bikini look even tinier.

But her muscles didn’t just make the bikini look small; next to her, even my manly muscles looked tiny. I’m a titan of a man—but next to her, I was just tiny. Yeah, you heard me right. I’m tiny next to her and that sleek, unbelievable physique. I know it all sounds so unbelievable—but you better believe it, just like you better believe that I was—or rather, am—the biggest, strongest man on the beach. No man was bigger or stronger. And I guess that’s still true. But never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be dethroned as king of the beach... by a woman!

The more I looked at her, the more I saw how the sun kissed and caressed her bronzed, burnished skin. Her muscles glistened and rippled in ways I'd never seen—rippling with the strength and majesty of endless waves rolling across the ocean. I’d never seen anything more beautiful. And believe me, I’ve spent long, hard hours admiring myself in the mirror—every sculpted sinew, every steely striation. I used to think I was God’s gift to women. But standing there, with my muscles so close, mere inches separating us, I could see the many more inches that separated us—as her muscles were so, so many inches bigger... with those silky smooth, strong, steely feminine sinews—she wasn’t just a woman. She was a muscle queen. A muscle goddess. And next to her, my so-called gift felt like a meager paltry little offering.

But still, I offered it. Eagerly. Happily. Just hoping to catch her attention. Hoping to catch her stare... the way she so effortlessly and powerfully controlled mine.

I’d never felt such a powerful attraction—no, it was more than attraction. And I’m not talking about love at first sight, either. Those muscles of hers pulled me in closer and closer, like they had their own gravitational field—like her sheer muscular mass was so immense, it generated its own gravitational pull.

And me? I orbited her like a lovesick little moron... I mean moon! Yeah, you could say I was so caught up in her tide I didn’t care if I was swept up in it.

Now, I know how crazy all this sounds—not just that a macho man like myself would go gaga over a musclebound woman. A woman who had bigger, but also stronger and harder muscles than my own.

Well, it’s not gaga. It’s the truth.

How do I know that? Well, it’s because I challenged her to an arm-wrestling match. I had to know just how strong she was. Those muscles were teasing me with how big and buff they were, and I wanted to make sure they weren’t just a bluff. And I wanted to make sure she noticed me—and my stuff.

So, standing there on that sandy bluff, I challenged her—and called out her buff bluff.

Only next to her strength, it was me—and my so-called buff muscles—that were the bluff. Because let me tell you, I never had a chance.

Let’s just say—she accepted. And then, let me just say—my arm wasn’t just pinned, it was planted. And before I knew it, my face was faceplanted in the sand too. My hand got buried, my pride got buried, and the sour taste of defeat was only made worse by the literal mouthful of beach I got served. But you won’t hear me beachin’... I mean, bitching!

She beat me fair and square, and it really was my fault I dared doubt the strength of those hunky muscles of hers.

Still, she didn’t mock me. She didn’t kick sand on me, didn’t call me a weakling, or even tell me to pound sand—though, considering she slammed my arm and face into it, I guess she kinda did. I’d be coughing it up for a while—along with any lame excuses I might try to come up with for losing. But the truth was simple: I was just weaker than her. And she knew it. And there was no bully for it—just as she was no bully. She just giggled... and told me I was strong... for a man.

And maybe a smaller man would’ve taken offense. But not me. I’m a big, strong, strapping man. She just happens to be bigger, stronger, strappier. And I wasn’t about to get defensive—especially when she let me touch those biceps of hers.

Those victory-flexed girly guns? They weren’t just bigger—they were a whole new caliber. And touching them... well, I’d never felt anything harder. Except for what was suddenly stirring in my swim trunks—if you catch my drift.

And hey, as a booby prize, she let me oil her up. I'm not just talking about those majestic biceps and triceps, but her silky smooth, rock-hard abdominals, sleek quads, softball-sized calves—which had absolutely nothing soft about them—and those glutes! If there ever was a gluteus maximus, hers was it. Her broad, brawny back and shoulders alone might've taken half the bottle of tanning oil. Even her pecs—yes, her pecs—were bigger and harder than mine, no ifs, ands, or buts. Well, except for one muscle I still had that was bigger and harder—and growing bigger and harder the more I touched those rock-hard hardbody muscles of hers.

As I gazed at her, if it wasn't love, it was definitely lust—muscle lust. After all these years as king of the beach, I'd finally found my queen.

Sure, she dethroned me—but you know the saying: the king is dead, long live the king!

In this case, long live the queen and I had no trouble pledging my fealty to her, especially since she allowed me to touch and oil those amazing muscles of hers. She wasn't just a girl, but a woman with mighty female muscles. And yeah, it was strange for me. I'd grown accustomed to women fawning over and oiling up my muscles, yet here I was, doing it for a hardbody woman. It didn’t feel so hard to accept the reversal of the roles, in fact it felt so natural, as if things were meant to be this way.

Because nothing—and I mean nothing—felt as good to touch as those muscles of hers: silky, smooth, hard, bulging, swelling, pulsing, throbbing. I’ve never felt the like of it, and yet words alone fail to describe the beauty and power of what I felt in my hands. Those biceps of hers, so big, so rock-hard, were too big for my own hands to wrap around. They were the size of beach balls, and I never had so much fun playing on the beach as I did with her muscular, beach-ball-sized biceps. To quote a bad pun—I was having a ball. And to be more lewd and crude, the more I stroked and stirred those beach-ball-sized biceps of hers, the more I felt a stirring in my own—well, you know where.

There was just something about touching those great big girly guns that left me locked and cocked, and I didn’t even really try hiding my excitement. And I’m not just talking about my exuberance for oiling up her tanned, bronzed, built, buff, beach body. As studs like me like to say: suns out, guns out—and you better believe she wasn’t the only one flexing.

I won’t lie—I worried briefly she might be out of my league. She outclassed and outmuscled me in ways I never dreamed possible. Mainly because I never thought a woman could have such a heavenly, hunky, huge muscular dreambody—a body that, you better believe, I wanted. But I could only dream of having muscles as large and hard as hers, just as I was dreaming and hoping that I could be with a girl like her... that I would be able to pick her up.

And do you want to know what happened?

She picked me up.

Literally!

Pressed me overhead like I was a big, dumb dumbbell—only I didn’t feel dumb, but lucky. Lucky beyond belief. I loved each and every moment. I even started counting out her reps, and I got to thirty before she stopped repping me. But she didn’t set me down—no, she took me into those bronzed, brawny arms of hers and hugged me in the biggest, hardest, strongest bear hug I’d ever felt in my life. Then she gave me the biggest, strongest, most passionate kiss I’ve ever had—and it’s not hyperbole to say that her hypertrophic muscular hug and kiss left me breathless.

And it wasn’t just because she squeezed the air outta my lungs.

Never—and I mean ever—could I have imagined that a woman would be the one picking me up. Let alone imagined that any woman could or would ever be able to pick me up and lift me overhead—for many, many reps!

And that kiss... I wasn’t just kissing a buff beach babe, or my muscle queen, or my muscle goddess.

I was kissing goodbye to my male muscular superiority.

Because in that moment, I knew—without a shadow of a doubt—that I was no longer the stronger sex.

I was now the weaker.

But the day wasn’t over—and she still wanted to reign and rule the beach from sunrise to sunset.

Only now... I hoped she would reign over me for many, many more sunrises and sunsets to come.

And so, with me now as her loyal servant, I bowed down to her and pledged my love, my devotion, and my fealty—not so much with words, but with my hands. With the way they traced, worshiped, and admired her mighty female muscles.

And she just smiled down at me, picked me up again, and set me down upon her muscular shoulders.

And I couldn’t help but think how I used to lift and carry women on my shoulders just like this...

Only now? I enjoyed being carried and lifted by her—and her queen-sized muscles—so much better.

Because there ain’t no throne more regal than the broad, powerful shoulders of your muscle queen.

And sure—I wasn’t ruling this kingdom anymore.

It was a queendom now.

And I was just a loyal subject—a lowly serf—pledging my heart, my pride, and my feeble fealty to her divine, delicious, devastating muscle majesty... As we sat together and watched the surf roll in.

And I felt itty-bitty and teeny-weeny upon her shoulders—almost as small and itsy-bitsy as that white-and-pink polka-dot bikini she was wearing.

And she wore—or rather, bore—me on her shoulders all the way to sunset, and the smiles of hers and mine stretched out as wide as her shoulders, maybe even as wide as the beach itself, because there was nothing itsy-bitsy about her muscles or our love.