Not huge, brawny muscles of the bodybuilder. ( Those always did gross her out.) Not the thin, but wiry muscles of a racer. (They were painfully mascul...ne.) No. These were the well-proportioned musculature of a swimmer. Yes. And her ideal of masculine beauty. Of course it was still more ideal than substance. Her genie was still a ghost. The bulges of his muscles could only be seen if she could see their edges. And then she had to concentrate.She remembered hearing or reading somewhere that. “What?” I almost screamed.“No time for modesty or shyness. If you don’t get out of these wet things you’ll catch pneumonia.” She paused for a second and ordered me again, “Now get out of your wet clothes quickly and get in under the blanket.”I perfectly understood her reasoning. Beside it was dark and thank god, the lightening had become sporadic. I quickly stripped and got under the blanket as she wanted.“Underwear too.” She demanded. I took my last piece of clothing and handed it over to. More

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