FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

Author's Note: This is a rewrite of a six-year-old story. I was working on starting a third story for this character, and realized the first two have been lost to the digital abyss. This was the first half to two-thirds of Flowing Like a River, written in response to the first Myle Hai story, Working Out.

Myle Hai is owned by Brahma Minotaur, and used with permission.

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Priming the Pump

You'd never have known it by looking at me, but I work out a lot. A whole lot. I've been called obsessive, neurotic, addicted, and a whole host of other things. When I get depressed, I work out to cheer up. If I get angry, I burn off the aggression in a workout. Happy? Reward myself with a workout.

Get the picture?

So it comes as no surprise that at the end of a very crappy day, I was at Myle's gym, getting ready for a weight session. It was a Thursday, and that meant upper body strength training, which meant starting up with a light bench press and working my way up to the heavy lifting.

The gym was fairly packed, so I decided to leave the heavy and light weights for others, and slid a couple of fifty pound plates on each end of the bar. Two hundred, plus a fifty pound steel bar to hold it all - no sweat. Nothing even resembling a sweat.

Of course, that's when I started hearing the snickers. Some of the people laughing were cool - they knew about me, how much I could lift despite appearances. Others, however, thought they were about to witness some poor slob embarrassing him or herself by trying to show off. I tried to shrug it off. It's only words, I told myself. They can't bother you.

As I got myself into position, trying to shake off my funk, I overheard someone calling out to Myle. "Check the guy on the free weights," he said, stifling a laugh. "Should someone stop him before he hurts himself?"

Well, I told myself, at least he's concerned.

Myle looked over at me and smiled knowingly. "Hey, Jo," she said. "Don't worry about Jordan," she told the new guy. "Shi'll be fine." Still, she padded over to me and took a look. "Light set, huh?" Myle at least understands me.

Myle is my idol. She's everything I'm not: tall, powerfully built, beautiful, well endowed, confident. It would be fair to say I worship the ground she walks on, but please don't do so in her presence, it'd probably embarrass her.

As for myself, the one thing I had in my favor was my strength. Though I didn't look it, at 5'3" and 100 lbs., I could bench press maybe five hundred pounds. That's a full set, by the way, not my absolute limit. Since then, I've gotten even stronger. But at the time, well... let me paint you a picture.

I'm a brown bear, but at, as I said, five and a quarter feet tall, I'm short for a bear. I'm also rail thin. There's some muscle there, lean, but you'd have to be generous to call it anything like a physique. I'm a hermaphrodite, but to look at me, you'd be hard pressed to tell what gender I am. I look like either a somewhat boyish young woman, or a fairly effeminate young man.

I've got no bustline at all, no physique... I don't even have a scrotum, my testes being nestled somewhere up by my ovaries. I got concerned once, as anyone with a penis does, about whether or not I was sterile. The doctors tell me that I am, quite remarkably, fertile. In fact, I've been told that since I'm fertile despite my testes being damn near center body mass and surrounded by blood, muscle, and other tissue, I'm quite remarkably fertile. (If you ever decide to have sex with a hermaphrodite, use protection, or be prepared for ensuing pregnancy.)

Myle looked me over for a moment, which was kind of embarrassing - last thing I wanted was to get turned on in her presence, at least while wearing the spandex bicycle shorts I used for gym shorts. "Hey, Jordan, are you smuggling fruit, or is that an ice pack for a groin injury, or what?"

I blinked, nonplussed for a moment, before looking down at the area she indicated. Because some people have problems with people of my gender (or lack thereof, according to some) I've taken to what we hermaphrodites call "passing." Given my tastes and preferred style of dress, not to mention my total lack of boobs, I find it's often easier to pass for male than female, which means sometimes I, um... stuff my shorts.

I use a custom prosthetic I ordered off of a specialty website - one of those sites, yes - which I just sewed into a jockstrap to make things easier. I usually only wear it for special occasions - family reunions until I severed all ties with my parents, for example.

"Oh," I said. "I, uh, had a job interview. Sorry, I forgot I left it in."

Myle nodded. "So? How'd it go?"

I grimaced.

"That bad, huh?"

I'd been trying to keep from unloading on her, but there aren't many people I'd consider good enough friends to listen to me, and all of them were her friends anyway, so she'd find out. "Oh, the interview went great. Up until the subject of bathrooms came up."

Myle rolled her eyes. "That really sucks." Myle is one of the few people I know who understand how awkward it can be to be a hermaphrodite. I never really asked how she knows, it's just a part of her overall awesomeness. Myle actually converted one of the accessible bathrooms in the gym to an "others" bathroom, just for me. Well, just for me so far.

Myle smiled down at me. "Well, you look like you need to work off some pent-up aggression, so I won't keep you from it." She padded off towards the boom box, and I wrapped my paws around the bar.

Like a lot of gyms, there's always a bit of friendly arguing about workout music. To settle the arguments once and for all, Myle has provided, for our listening pleasure, a number of mix CDs that she either put together herself, or had others put together for her. Every one of the discs is Myle Hai approved, and any of them can be put in at any time. With one exception.

Mix CD number three, the only one without a name on it, is set aside specifically for when Myle is pissed off. It's full of very angry metal, some rap, a lot of hardcore stuff. If the disc had a name, it would be the title of the first track: Fuck the World.

I'd been bottling my anger up for hours - weeks, really, since this wasn't the first job I'd had fly away at the merest hint of my gender. I burned through my first set of fifteen reps, probably faster than I should have, but it felt good to work out some of that anger. The music helped, and I made a mental note to thank Myle after my workout while I sang along to the chorus.

By the time the song finished, I'd made it through I don't know how many sets, and decided that strength training could wait until I was in a better mood for it, and headed over to the heavy bags.

I'm not a fighter, but I've had some self defense classes - Dad insisted, in light of my small size and "the fact you're a freak doesn't help either." As I started in on the bags, all of the horrible things he and others have said about me started pounding through my head. It wasn't until about halfway through the second song on the disc that I realized they were coming out of my mouth, too. Crying, snarling the words out, I let the bags have it: right cross, left straight, jab, jab, roundhouse kick, body blow. "Freak." Wham. "Fag." Wham. "Dyke." Wham. "Slut." Wham. "Mugwump." Wham. "Runt." On and on it went, like draining pus from a wound.

I wasn't feeling better, though, I was feeling worse, and I wore myself out, screaming and crying as my controlled assault on the heavy bag got harder and faster, and, though I didn't know it, my tirade of verbal abuse against myself got louder and louder. Eventually, I collapsed, crying myself nearly sick.

The damn balls didn't help, I decided. They never helped. Disgusted with them, and disgusted with myself for buying them, I slid a hand into my shorts and ripped them out. The thread holding them in place made a loud tearing sound as it gave way, and when I threw them aside, all hell broke loose.

"Don't worry," Myle reassured the crowd that had gathered around to watch my breakdown in horrified fascination, "they're not real." I looked up and saw that the crowd consisted of everyone in the gym. Only a few had come over from their stations, but everyone had stopped and stared. A handful had pulled out cel phones, presumably to call 9-1-1.

"Put up those phones," Myle shouted, "shi's fine!"

I snorted with disgust at myself and the situation. Yeah, I'm fine, I thought. Absolutely fine. I'm an emotional wreck, a freak, a complete waste of space, but I'm fine. Nothing more to see here. Move along. These are not the balls you're looking for. I giggled hysterically at that last phrase, the already unhinged tone made even more so by the rasping gasps for air I was making after my crying binge.

A few people hesitantly moved to step forward, but Myle didn't miss a beat: she simply came up to me, collected me in her arms, and guided me into a private room. Her office, as it turns out.

I don't think Myle is particularly maternal, so it must have been awkward for her, holding me in those powerful arms while I cried all my pain out into her chest. "Shh," she told me, "it's okay, let it out..." I didn't really have a choice, it was all coming out whether I wanted it to or not. I tried to tell her, but all that came out was a strangled laugh and more tears.

I don't know how long we sat like that, me bawling, her patting me on the back and telling me it would be all right, but eventually it subsided. "Oh, man," I moaned, "I got snot all over your shirt."

"Screw it," she said, "I've got more."

"Geez," I said. "How long have we been in here? People are gonna think we're--"

She put a finger on my muzzle, shutting me up. "Fuck 'em if they're that puerile," she growled.

I laughed. "No thanks."

Myle grinned at my weak joke and stood up. "Well, if you're feeling good enough to laugh," she said, "do you mind if I head back out and make sure nobody's run off with the till?"

I nodded. "Is... do you mind if I stay back here for a bit? I don't think I can face..."

Myle nodded. "Sure," she said, "take all the time you need," and looked down at herself. "Wow, you're right, this shirt is a mess." Without hesitation, she peeled it off.

Don't stare at her boobs, I told myself. Don't stare at her boobs. It took effort - her breasts are large, firm, and beautiful - but I managed to keep from staring. Instead, I found myself entranced by the most incredible physique I'd ever seen. White fur with cream-colored shadows outlined her steel-hard abdominal muscles. The orange with black stripes only served to enhance her obliques. Flaring out on either side as she raised her arms, her latissimus dorsi had the classic "V" shape that many bodybuilders, myself included, spent years striving to achieve. Her pectoral muscles, powerful though they were, were overshadowed by...

I'd forgotten my earlier vow not to stare at her breasts, now that I was faced with them. They were glorious - wonderfully firm and large. Given her phenomenal musculature, they were well supported, and virtually defied gravity. At that moment, I didn't know if I wanted to be her or fuck her.

But the moment passed, as she turned away to fish out a spare shirt from her desk. I shook my head, trying to clear my mind of the image seared into it, of a topless Myle Hai looming over me. She grinned and gave me a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. "Chin up, Jo," she said. "You'll figure something out soon." And with that, she was gone, back out to the weight room, either oblivious to my prior stares, or, oh, impossible dream, not minding them.

It took me another fifteen minutes or so to get ahold of myself. The desperate fear and anger were gone, the self-loathing back down to its normal, manageable level, and I was even able to rein in my spur-of-the-moment fantasies about Myle.

I would go out, finish my workout, and get ready to pound the pavement for jobs again in the morning. With that resolution, I stood up and made my way out to the weight room. The angry music CD had been swapped out for some disco, which suited me fine. A lot of people don't like the stuff, but I think it's great for any sort of exercise - what you really need is a good, danceable rhythm to help you along.

So, to refrains of "That's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it," I breezed through my usual upper body strength training regimen. Given my total lack of results in actual body building, I pondered losing the other workouts in favor of pure strength training, but they made for a good variety of routines at the very least.

By the time the disc finished, the gym was practically empty. Sasha and Lynda, as usual, were the last to leave. Unlike usual, my routine had been delayed, and I was a half hour late getting out the door. After the wolf and hyena pair spent a moment talking to Myle, they departed, and then it was just the two of us, just as I finished my last cool-down exercises.

Thinking back on it, I have no doubts the three of them planned it that way. I headed off to the accessible bathroom to shower and change, still humming. A part of me was angry that I was cheerful. Hadn't I just had the worst day ever? Fuck that, I told the pessimistic voice, I got to see Myle topless today.

When I came out, Myle was waiting by the door, ready to lock up after I left. "Hey, kid, got a moment?"

I shrugged. "For you, Myle, sure." She hadn't called me "kid" in almost a year. "What's up?"

"You, apparently," she said with a grin. I glanced down, worried my earlier thoughts about Myle were showing, but there was no telltale bulge. Of course, the glance might have been a bit of a giveaway, too. "I haven't seen you this chipper since you hit 500 on the bench last month."

I grinned back. "Well, I figure if I can do that, I can do anything, right?" To prove my point, I flexed a bicep - what little was visible. Some days I wondered how such small muscles could hold so much strength, and others, I just rolled with it.

Myle nodded. "Including coaching," she said.

"Coaching? What, little league? Is there a Myle Hai softball team I don't know about?"

Myle laughed. "No, but that's not a bad idea. I bet you'd hit the ball a mile, too." She looked thoughtful about that, then shook her head to clear the image. "No, I'm talking about being a weightlifting coach. You sure as hell know your stuff, you're a good judge of peoples' abilities and how to best help them meet their goals. I saw you helping that otter out last week, don't think I didn't."

I shrugged. "She was going to hurt herself, trying too much too soon. It's nothing anybody else wouldn't have done."

Myle tilted her head. "Well, yes and no. I'm sure about a dozen people in the gym saw where she was messing up - I know I heard enough comments from 'em - but you're the only one who came up and explained to her how to get the results she wanted, and in a way she could not only understand, but agree with."

I bit my lip, thinking. I could see what she was getting at, but... "I don't know, Myle. I couldn't take a job from you, it'd feel like... I don't know, like charity or something."

Myle grinned. "So? Be charitable and give me a hand around the gym." She put a large hand on my shoulder. "You know you'd love it here, you're here four hours a day, every day."

I shook my head. "It wouldn't work. Nobody would want me for a trainer, and you'd end up having to let me go. I mean, look at me!" I threw my arms out to my sides to emphasize their thinness.

Myle looked me over appraisingly. "Okay. I'll tell you what I see. I see probably the most dedicated athelete in the western hemisphere. I see someone who knows every muscle in hir body, what they're capable of, and how to get the most out of them. I see a professional, who for some stupid reason isn't getting paid. I see an opportunity to hire the best damn coach in the city, that's what I see."

I could feel the blush creeping up along my cheeks. I gave silent thanks for my dark brown fur, which concealed it from others - in this case, obviously, Myle. "I can't do it. I can't work for you, Myle, it'd be... I don't know. Wrong, somehow."

Myle put her hand on my shoulder and led me over to the front desk. "Tell you what," she said. "We'll arm-wrestle. I win, you take the job. If you win..." She shrugged. "Well, I hope you'll take the job anyway, but I won't pester you."

I considered it. I knew, from watching Myle's workouts, that we were about an even match in strength a few weeks ago. I also knew that for some reason, my workouts got me stronger, faster than a normal person. Rather than strength, I figured Myle's advantage would be in mass - I'm so light she could move my whole body just trying to pin my arm.

In the end, it wasn't the job offer that convinced me to accept the challenge. It was the opportunity to find out, once and for all, if I really was stronger than my idol. "Okay," I said. "You're on."

Elbows on the desk, we grabbed each other's hands and got ready to start. Myle's height advantage would pose more of a problem for her than me, I decided, since my shorter arm would be better positioned for maximum leverage. Myle counted down, and we started.

Immediately, we were both straining - it was a closer match than I'd anticipated. I found myself gaining ground, but more slowly than I thought I would. Myle grinned, baring her fangs. "That's it, Jo," she growled. "Push harder."

The harder I tried, the slower it seemed to go. It was almost as if she was getting stronger during the match. Her magnificent arm strained against mine, the black stripes twisted out of shape by the bulging muscle underneath them. Slowly, she started gaining ground on me, bringing our hands back to the starting position.

Gritting my teeth, I leaned into the match, pushing as hard as I could. Myle's grin widened. "More," she said, then began chanting it. "More, more, more..."

That powerful arm of hers seemed to swell even larger with the effort of overcoming my hidden strength, and as it did, she gained even more ground on me. "More," her chant continued. "Come on, more." Really straining, something I rarely had to do, I managed to bring us back to the middle again. This was going to be very close after all. I found myself making plans for when Myle won, and decided that Myle's offer was too much of a distraction.

I would take the job, win or lose. That way I could wrestle without worrying about sabotaging my effort. With that decision, I redoubled my efforts, grunting with exertion. It was fantastic, being pushed to my limits like this, and I realized I was getting an erection. The sight of Myle's arms seeming to swell still larger, making her perfect physique even more desirable, didn't help. It couldn't be coincidence - Myle was getting visibly pumped up by the match, and as she did, I swear she got stronger.

"No more mind games, Myle," I grunted, feeling my fur getting matted with sweat. "I'm taking the job either way, so you're not getting a win out of me that way."

Myle's grin widened. "Well, in that case," she growled, and added her left hand to the match, pushing with it as well.

"Hey!" Immediately, I grabbed on with my left hand and wrenched for all I was worth, determined to win. I looked up at Myle, grinning back at her, only to find my view of her face obstructed by those perfect breasts of hers, straining against her T-shirt. Somehow, she'd begun to get taller.

That's when I realized that the illusion of her arms' expansion was no illusion. She was visibly growing before my eyes, and now that I'd noticed it, I could even feel her hands expanding in my grip. Grin widening, she pushed harder, and I responded in kind. Maybe it wasn't fair that she was getting bigger and stronger during our match, but I would be damned if I'd let that make her win.

Suddenly, I felt something else. It was like fire, or an electric arc, racing up my arms from where our hands were gripping each other, straight to my heart. Simultaneous with that, her mysterious growth spurt accelerated. She moaned, and I let out a shuddering gasp, now acutely aware of my arousal.

Her grip began to slack, as her hands rapidly overshadowed mine in size. I let go, arm wrestling match forgotten, to stare slack-jawed as my idol turned before my eyes into a goddess. She stretched, and her T-shirt, straining mightily against her expanding physique, burst at the seams, releasing her breasts from what had to have been an uncomfortable confinement.

It was glorious. As she stretched, fingertips brushing against the high ceiling, her powerful muscles rippled beneath her fur, the stripes slithering over the contours of truly massive muscles. The spandex shorts she was wearing could only stretch so far, and they soon followed the shirt, a tattered mess of cloth and elastic on the ground around her. By then, her hands were flat on the ceiling and her arms beginning to bend. "I knew you could push me over the top if you had the right incentive, Jo."

If I'd had breasts, they would have probably caught my dropping jaw. I wanted to ask how she was doing this, but I couln't form the words. I didn't realize what my paws were doing, pleasuring myself as I watched her grow, until her ears brushed against the ceiling of the gym.

Her growth was accelerating now, and she arched her back, roaring in pleasure. Her head pushed through the flimsy ceiling tile, and the much sturdier steel bracers supporting it, with ease, and as she grew, her massive bust expanded the hole she was making, their mass sheilding me from debris.

By the time she stopped growing, I barely came up to mid-shin on her. Her calf muscles flared out, each wider than the desk, and her thighs, bulging with demonstrably harder-than-steel muscle, were even wider. The ceiling - and roof - already torn open, came down in chunks as Myle lowered herself to a squatting position above me.

Thoroughly embarrassed to be caught masturbating by my new boss, I came just as her eyes focused on me and took in what I was doing. "I see you enjoyed yourself," Myle said. "Hope you enjoy working here as much."

She looked around. "It's a good thing they finished repairing the main gym yesterday," she mused. "I'd better let everyone know we're moving back there. See you there at ten, okay?" With that, she carefully stepped out of the ruined husk of her gym, and I found myself alone in the wreckage, too stunned to even think.