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The time, six months ago. The scene, the local YMCA.

There I was, a 6 foot, 265 pound blob of 40 year old insecurity and bruised ego, struggling to keep up with the rest of the aerobics class. Sweat stung my eyes and pain radiated from my bad knee — neither sensation was particularly noticeable compared to the pounding of my heart and the gasping sounds of my labored breathing. Pride was the only thing which kept me on my feet and moving.

I could tell that the instructor was watching me, waiting for me to collapse — or perhaps trying to figure out what I was doing in her class. It wasn’t an advanced aerobics class, but it was more than what a beginner like me should have been in. I signed up knowing only that I needed some structured exercise — no one told me what I was getting into, or, more probably, I wasn’t paying attention. Now, I was too proud to admit that I was in a little over my head. Yes, the instructor, a rather nicely put together brunette who appeared to be about 19 or 20, was definitely looking at me.

Locking down my newly discovered determination (developed after months of intense therapy — more on that later if it becomes relevant), I compromised slightly by not doing quite as much as my classmates and eventually made it through the session without a myocardial infarction.

After we finished, the instructor, Lisa, walked right up to me as I was headed for the showers.

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I first met Bonnie two years ago in a health club to which we both belonged, and I was immediately struck by her strength, beauty and femininity. An inch taller than my own 5’9″ and with a powerful, muscular, yet shapely body that outweighed my own by a good ten pounds, I was fascinated at the way she could outlift most of the men at the club and struck up a conversation with her. When she invited me to come home with her I accepted eagerly.

However, I soon discovered what she had in mind for me. Quickly changing into sensuous black tights that revealed every muscle and curve of her fantastic body, she challenged me to a friendly wrestling match. Almost drooling at the prospect of physical contact with this gorgeous Amazon, I readily agreed, and before I realized it she had me downstairs on a wrestling mat in her gameroom. We closed, locking hands, and I held my own for a moment or two while she tested my strength, but after that I never had a chance. She was stronger and faster than I and knew every trick in the book. She put me through a dozen holds in as many minutes, maintaining each hold just long enough to ensure that I couldn’t escape and then moving into the next one. She finished me off by getting behind me, wrapping her powerful arms around my chest, pinning my arms to my sides and lifting me completely off the mat in a crushing bear hug that I thought would cave in my ribs until I was completely limp with exhaustion. Then she put me across her shoulders and gave me an airplane spin that left my mind reeling. She finally ended the contest–if you could call it that–by gripping my neck and buttocks and heaving me up over her head, her arms fully extended, to hold me there, seemingly ten feet in the air, my nose inches from the ceiling, while I struggled feebly to escape her grip, and then tossing me on my back, straddling my chest and pinning my shoulders to the mat with her knees.

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