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Ursula Parkheart, P.I. : The Flexing Detective in
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
FROM THE AMAZONS ARENA BBS 714.840.1145
© WIG, LTD 1993
Ursula Parkheart, P.I. :
The Flexing Detective
in
"The Adventure of the Amorous Amazon"
by
Forrest Curran
Chapter One: Sighing Like Susan Sarandon
Ursula had spent the morning in her office, behind the locked
door with the frosted glass window that read:
Ursula Parkheart,
Private Investigations
She hadn't made a sound since staggering into the small third-
floor office at nine-thirty, a full hour and a half after I had
let myself in and set the office up for the business of the day.
Coffee was made, mail was read, and I had opened the two windows
in her private office to air it out; the room got awfully stale
and dingy-smelling in the heat, like a cheap bookstore on a rainy
day. A rainy day like today.
It had been threatening to rain since early this morning, the
grey clouds hovering over the city, waiting to explode in their
own good time; and the sky had opened up and had begun a
torrential downpour minutes before Ursula had arrived; having
forgotten her umbrella, my bosslady had gotten soaked walking the
half-block from where she had parked. It was the sort of thing
that seemed to be happening to her these days. I knew her step
as it came down the hall and had a cup of coffee at the ready for
her when she came in, all damp hanging hair and downcast face;
her long trenchcoat was dripping but she didn't seem to care, and
she took the coffee and kept walking, slamming the inner door
behind her, the glass-pane insert shaking as she did. It re-
opened a crack for just a moment, long enough for her to say, in
a voice even huskier and, to me, sultrier than was usual for her,
"I'm not in, JT. If I get a call, take a message and tell 'em
I'll call back...."
These days there were few.
It had been that way ever since the breakup. She had been
engaged to some guy I had never even met, but had heard alot
about; all bad; but a guy she was crazy about, to be sure; even
now, she was still carrying a torch and was trying to drown it
out with Old Forrester. It was starting to take it's toll on her
appearance; she was skipping her daily workouts at Silver's
Amazonia, a gym for, well, women like her...
And that was a shame, too, because how many women as beautiful as
my dark-haired boss could also boast of standing six foot three
in her fishnet-stockinged feet, with a physique so muscular and
big and hot and buxom and zoftig that...?
Okay, so you get the picture. I had a thing for my big bosslady.
It was the oldest story in the world. A secretary falling for
the boss. But with a twist.
It was hard, back in the dark days of the closing years of the
twentieth century, before muscular women became the norm as they
are now; today, women have taken the bull by the horns; tired of
years of abuse, of being afraid for their safety as they walked
the streets at night and realizing their men could not always
protect them; tired, too, of being patronized as being "just a
gal"; they had all wised up; and biceps sprouted prodigously on
women throughout the world as the millenia approached. Females en
masse sprouted daring deltoids made thick and broad in the gym;
it was only a matter of time before the world of haute couteur
caught on, and musclefashion became prevalent; high, high heels
showed off calves and strong bare thighs everywhere one turned;
husbands did not like seeing their once-demure little wives strut
about in micro-miniskirts and punishing spike-heels, displaying a
whole new kind of attribute; the kind that flexed as well as
jiggled. They did not like knowing that their upper hand was now
largely gone; their wives could equal them in strength. There
was a return to the days of "yes, ma'am" and "no, ma'am", from
strangers; respect had become commonplace once again, and with
many women, was simply mandatory. And they did not like knowing,
either, that many of these wives and girlfriends had found their
freedom, sexual and otherwise; Women became strong and confident
and powerful, and had elected one of their own as president in
the last election. Her picture would one day look down from the
wall over my boss's desk.
But all this did little to help me in the early years of the
nineteen-ninties. I was in head over heels in love with the
abundantly muscular woman, whom I and I alone could call Sally;
the woman I worked for, who kept me trotting back and forth not
for kisses and pledges of love, but for files and phone calls.
To her, I was just good old JT, always faithful and at the ready.
"Coffee, JT" or "Fetch me some lunch from the Health Food Store,
JT"; I made sure she knew I was available, should she ever want
to turn her muscle-packed charms on her assistant; I tried more
than once, as I sat on her desk taking a memo, to break that
invisible barrier between employer and employee without risking
the steady paycheck that had enabled me to pay off my college
loans and get a small apartment not far from hers. I would
mention a weekend spent quietly, or a dateless New Year's Eve; I
was pretty sure she knew what I was trying to do, and she let me
do it. I think it amused her; and I'd get a pat on the head and
a playful smack on the rump as I ran to fetch a file; that was
all the feedback I ever got from the beautiful Ursula Parkheart.
Before this downturn in her private and professional life, we had
a great relationship, full of laughter in the occasional empty
moments that happen every so often in all businesses; and full of
efficent co-operation whenever she worked on a case. Not
infrequently, I would go with her on a job, serving as a sort of
operative; my average looks and slightly diminutive height helped
me avoid notice; something that was difficult for a muscular
amazon like my boss.
And so many a morning she would usher me into her inner office to
take care of some bit of office minutiae; she would smile as I
eyed her powerful limbs, thick and brown, veined and taunting,
bared by a revealing tank-top stretched to bursting by her big
breasts. Robust calves flexed and unflexed as she would cross
her long killer legs; and a smile would cross those exotic
features that combined equatorial sensuality and european
nobility so uniquely; she would smile quietly and shake her head
as even now, after being with her all this time, I would sigh at
a particularly huge flex of angry and engorged bare bicep; the
equally massive triceps would meet it's challenge and bulge
correspondingly. I would watch the show, as the molten
muscularity held me spellbound. An erect nipple making itself
visible on the perfect breast, through sheer cloth, was for me a
cause for celebration; a slice of panty creeping out from under a
short skirt was an epiphany.
She would tease me about it; when I had first gone to work for
her those massive flexings would befuddle me so profoundly I
could not walk a straight line in her office; and I had, stunned
at her sights, dropped countless cups of coffee in my first two
weeks with her until she had had to go buy a whole new set of
mugs, and I had received a polite but stern admonition that any
more chipped crockery would come out of my salary.
I wasn't aware of it, but when those thick arms would make their
muscles dance and pulse, she was doing it on half on purpose,
enjoying the effect it had on her new assistant; and she chuckled
quietly when I walked into her office one morning to see her
facing the window that overlooked that treeless drab street; she
was humming aloud and pulling a haltertop over her broad and
powerful torso, and a back, thick and broad and chiseled with
muscle from waist to neck, exposed itself to me for just a
second, until the curtain of cloth came down and called an end to
her operatic muscleshow.
"Oh, my...", I had whispered, another coffee cup teetering. I was
unaware I was speaking at all.
Ursula had loved that; an unguarded moment of pure adoration,
lust and excitement inspired by her huge body in the heart of her
new employee. She had teased me later, on a Friday evening when
she had taken me out for a drink---a reward to an employee for a
hard week's work---that it reminded her of the jelly-kneed and
breathy "Oh, my!" sigh Susan Sarandon had issued in the film
"Bull Durham". Whenever my longings for my MuscleBossLady got to
intense, when I seemed to be hovering needlessly yet hopefully
around her desk like a fly near sugar, she would flex the latest
developments and mimic that cinematic shivering.
And chastened, I would go back to my typewriter.
I was hers, body and mind, heart and soul.
And she found that endearing; but only in the way an adult might
find the crush of a teenybopper; something to be tolerated,
nothing more.
She was out of my league. Or so I supposed.
But she felt she was my friend notwithstanding my schoolboy
crush, and as she so often would say at the end of a hectic day,
"You keep things so neat and organized for me, JT. Where would I
be without you?..."
That is, before that hot, hunkin' package of stacked female
animal would saunter out for the evening, dressed in the shortest
of off-the-shoulder miniskirts revealing a huge and rock-hard
upper body, and leaving a trail of wicked perfume behind her that
left me breathless and shaking as I took care of the last-minute
office affairs of the day. Running to the window, I would see
the tall, broad-shouldered lady detective strut down the street
to the stunned looks of passers-by.
And I knew I was in love with my muscular bosslady. Hopelessly.
I loved the cool way she sauntered, rather than walked---her hips
rolling like a panther-woman, predatory and dangerous; but too
beautiful to turn away from; risking whatever fate might befall
those who stare for too long. In those days, lots of women who
were gifted with superior genetics, who were tall and strong and
muscular, were made to feel like outcasts in a world of much
smaller women and hostile men; and would stoop low as though to
deny their stature; and conceal ripe hot muscles in long sleeves,
loose pants, and high-necked blouses.
But not Ursula.
She was proud of what she had; every inch of height a thing to
enjoy; every thick bit of hard-won muscle showing in matter-of-
fact, take-me-or-leave-me grandeur.
And she would glide through life just this way; unafraid of her
body's sexual power, and unconcerned with what the consequences
might be; even for her assistant, who stood hovering with bated
breath.
She could take care of herself.
And take care of herself she did. She would be calm and in-
control as she dispatched her own brand of justice; would have no
problems bending the law if she felt it was in the cause of a
greater good; and displayed the patience of a virgin saint as she
staked out a miscreant; she would hold her pistol rock-steady in
a muscle-thick arm; the barrel gleamed in the dim light, as she
brought a felon to meet his fate under the law of the land.
She was all woman. A new kind of woman, definitely. Commanding
the ship of her own destiny, riding life like a horny pumped-up
cowgirl showing up the boys as she tamed a wild bucking bronco; a
heroine for her own time. She would one day be a legend, I was
sure.
And, as I said, I loved her like a Goddess.
But then two things happened.
First, her engagement broke off, and she was launched into a
bitter and teary depression. Then secondly, crime took a turn
for the better. Or in our case, for the worse. The fewer
crimes, the less work for Ursula Parkheart Investigations.
Business had been slow, and combined with the heartbreak she
seemed to be enduring, she had begun eschewing not just the gym
but the health food store as well; boredom, maybe even despair
had set in, and she had sent me out more than once to get her a
lunch of Big Macs and fries. Her protein shakes were nowhere to
be seen, replaced by the kind with a straw and a clown's face on
the top. In the last week, I had watched as her short skirts had
gotten even tighter than they were designed to be; her stomach,
while still flat, had begun to lose the chiseled muscularity on
her abs, beginning to fade from view under the thin layer of flab
that booze and fatburgers can create almost instantly on even the
finest physiques. It wasn't like I hadn't tried to be helpful
either; I had tried to give her some encouragement wordlessly,
and had gotten my hands on a photo only several years old, of
Ursula as she stood on stage at the Ms. Amazonia contest; her
huge, muscular body ripe and shining and brown in a white string
bikini whose top was as always stretched to bursting by her
magnificent breasts, her long black hair radiant and lustrous and
loosely flowing down her back as she received the award for
Heavyweight and Overall Winner. I had it enlarged and put in her
office, on the wall.
She had ignored it.
The next day, when I got in to set up the office, it was gone.
Boy, it was hot in here. And humid, too. Even my desk had the
clammy, damp feel that comes from mugginess like this. It had
settled on the city firmly, and wasn't letting go. Having a good
deal of Latin blood gave Ursula a natural tolerance for heat, she
explained to me; something she had accrued while she grew up in
her native Cuba; the child of a Cuban woman and a visiting
Englishman. What were comfortable temperatures for her was
broiling hot; oven-like for me; she would be elegant and dry even
as I slid in a puddle of my own sweat...
But she had refused my request for an air-conditioner all the
same. Easy for her. She frequently traipsed around in next-to-
nothing, to the delight and satisfaction of my active fantasy
life; if only she knew what she and I were doing together, at
night, in my dreams...
I clawed at the back of my shirt, as it stuck to my skin in a wet
pool of sweat and starched white cloth.
The morning had passed quietly; there were no calls. Only an
order, from behind the frosted glass, around 11:30, to get her
some ice. I knew what that meant; and no sooner had I brought it
into her, where she sat in her high-backed leather chair with
those killer legs bared save for fishnet stockings and crossed
under the short skirt as she stared out into the rain-whipped
street, than she had grabbed it from me with thick muscular arms,
and sent me out.
But before leaving, I noticed her trenchcoat hanging, soaked and
limp, on her rack; it had created another small puddle on the
floor beneath it; Ursula didn't seem to care. Shaking my head, I
---
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