I was brought up in West Greater London close to Heathrow airport where the Underground trains run overground. For 18 years this had been home, until I went to University outside the capital. In the less congested suburbs of Southampton, I grew used to a quieter pace of life and returning to my hometown lost its appeal apart from visiting my parents. After my father died, I had no reason to return. Now many years later, I was back walking the streets dismayed at how much it had changed and feeling like a stranger in my own country.

My recent escapades and narrow escape made me think about mortality [JIMP#35-37]. So I had decided that it was about time that I paid a visit to my Dad’s grave, having not done so since he was buried many years ago. You’re probably thinking I’m a bad person for that. The truth is that I was bitter after I found out that he had cut me out completely from his will in favour of my sister. It hurt to discover that your own father must have hated you. So here I was walking into the churchyard of the old church where I used to go to Sunday school. This autumn’s day was dry and warm, so I only wore a T-shirt with a thick overshirt and jeans.

It took a while to locate the grave. It was overgrown with plants and covered with fallen leaves and dead flowers. Fortunately my sister had the foresight to give me some fresh plants, a trowel, secateurs and some cleaning bits. As I settled down to start tidying up the plot, I saw that I was the only person around apart from an old white-haired woman who was tending the grounds. Although she was some distance away, I thought I recognised her from all those years ago when I was a teenager and she was one of the adults on the committee that ran the church. I decided that I wouldn’t disturb her and that she probably wouldn’t remember me anyway.

By the time I had finished, I had a fair sized pile of rubbish but couldn’t see anywhere to dispose of it. The old woman was still working away in the distance, so I strolled over to ask her. She was kneeling on a pad doing some weeding wearing a knee-length white floral skirt with a matching top over which she wore a short-sleeved light blue cardigan. Her white hair was short and tightly curled. The face was well worn and wrinkled. Some people would unkindly call it ‘horsy’ or ‘manly’; long and plain with a narrow chin, broad flat cheeks with small eyes over which she wore thin rimmed glasses. Her nose was long and prominent beneath which sat a small thin-lipped mouth surrounded by deep creases of age. She wore no jewellery apart from a large round white earring sat in each of her long ears.

She sat back to reposition herself and I realised with a shock that I could see big nipples jutting from her top. I’m sorry but I couldn’t stop staring. By the way her small bust moved, she wasn’t wearing a bra. Oblivious to my stare, she leant forward to tackle some weeds. The front of her top fell forward giving me an eyeful of her small dangling breasts with occasional glimpses of her nipples that caused my groin to tighten. This was bad, here I was in a graveyard approaching an old woman and gawping down her top, but I just couldn’t tear my eyes away as her pale-fleshed mounds swayed and lurched as she worked. Suddenly she looked up and I guiltily moved my eyes to her face, into her steely grey eyes behind her spectacles. She sat back with her hands on her knees and smiled. “I’m sorry to disturb you but I was wondering where to put the rubbish that I cleared from my father’s grave?” I asked forcing myself not to let my gaze slip to her chest. The woman appeared to be hefty and strongly built with very broad deep shoulders with large shoulder caps that stretched the short sleeves of her cardigan. Below this her arms were thick and bulky and it looked like she had a swell of dense triceps. I must be mistaken.

“There is a wheelbarrow by the side of the church, you can bring that over and put it in there” she told me in quite a husky voice. As she indicated the direction, I swore that her relaxed biceps were a thick solid looking mass. I thanked her and walked over to the side of the church where I found the wheelbarrow but it was full of bricks and construction rubble. Urghhhh I try to lift the handles but it is way too heavy to move.

“Oh I’m sorry. I was demolishing the old wall and haven’t gotten around to emptying it yet. Here let me move it for you, I’ve got the knack” embarrassingly the old woman was coming to my aid. I was speechless. She had removed her cardigan to reveal that the top she wore underneath was sleeveless. Her shoulder caps and triceps looked absolutely huge, out of all proportion to the rest of her body. She must have been about 5’6” and apart from her upper body, she was quite slim with a slim waist and long shapeless slender legs, which was disappointing because I have a thing for women with strong shapely legs. On her feet, she wore a pair of sensible black flat-heeled shoes. I had to say something. I couldn’t let a white-haired old lady strain herself on a loaded down wheelbarrow. “Uh no. It’s all right. It’ll be easier for me to bring my rubbish over here” I said. “Nonsense. It will only take a minute” she said. I couldn’t take my eyes off her powerful looking upper body and massive arms. They looked much bigger than my mother in-law [JIMP#13,22] and she was big in the mass department.

I watched, stupefied, as a long slab of bicep muscle thickened below her large rounded shoulder caps as the old woman took hold of the handles. The muscle in her forearms also thickened and, as she began to take up the strain, a network of vine like cords appeared. “My name’s Jim. Jim Priest” I told her, my eyes glued to her arms. “Lois” she replied as her biceps swelled like two powerfully ripped grapefruits as she lifted the wheelbarrow that I couldn’t budge. I was gob smacked, Lois’s huge arms had gone from large and soft to massive, bulging and vascular in a matter of seconds as they raised the overladened barrow and wheeled it down the path. As I followed trying to keep her amazing arms in sight, I confirmed that her calves were slim with no visible muscle, it was just her upper body that was so well developed.

My dad’s grave was on a higher terrace and we came to some steps. Lois went around to the front of the wheelbarrow to lift it. I went to help. “No, its alright” she smiled “I’ve had over 50 years experience lugging this thing about”. My eyes felt like they were on stalks as she lifted the front of the barrow and physically manhandled it up the steps. The trapezius from her neck to shoulder swelled thickly as she took the strain. I could even clearly see the outline of ripped pectoral muscles in the neckline of her top. Her large bulging biceps were now very vascular and pumped up. They weren’t the only things to be pumped up; I was sporting a hard-on excited by the sheer power this old woman displayed.

Confronted by such huge arms, my brain disengaged and my mouth went into stupid mode. “Wow you are seriously strong” I gasped watching her arms as she continued to push the barrow. “I thank The Lord for my strong body. I’ve been assistant and warden here for over 50 years, tending the grounds, doing all the hard manual maintenance work, clearing rubble, righting fallen gravestones that sort of thing” she told me. “50 years. You probably won’t remember me but I used to come here to Sunday school” I told her. “Priest? The name seems familiar but you don’t come to Sunday sermons do you?” she said. It sounded like an accusation. “I moved away some time ago. I’m just here to visit my father’s grave” I replied. “And here we are” I said glad to change the subject.

She brought the barrow to a rest, her big arms now ripped and pumped up. “Leave the wheelbarrow here. I will collect it later” she told me then turned to leave. I felt I had to say something before she walked away but was dumbfounded to think of something clever. “Your arms are amazing. Such incredible muscles for someone your age. Do you mind me asking how old you are?” I blurted then blushed as I realised what I had said. “I’m most terrible sorry that was very rude of me” I apologised. “That’s quite all right, dear. I’m 70 something if you must know” she said with a smile. “And you’ve those arms from doing the heavy manual work around the church?” I queried. “That and ringing the bells. They are very old and very heavy and they keep me fit and strong” she replied. “God gave us our bodies and we honour him by keeping them strong” she added.

“Watch” she told me and grabbed the front of the wheelbarrow, lifting it high with both hands. Her arms ballooned into massively ripped muscle as she lifted the heavy load up and down. I could see now that she had split biceps, each individual muscle clearly defined with a noticeable crevice between them. Up and down went that load of bricks and rubble, over and over again. Lois seemed oblivious to me watching with a huge boner as she became lost in pumping up her arms. Boy, did she pump them up, they were massive and fearsome. “Oh Lois, you are amazing. Please can I feel them?” I moaned before realising how stupid that was. Luckily she didn’t seem to have heard me. As if that wasn’t enough, she started lifting the barrow with one hand. I couldn’t even manage it with two. The sight of massive well defined arms, bigger and better defined than most male bodybuilders, on an other wise slim woman over 70 drove me crazy with lust. “Ohhhhh Lois” I moaned loudly stepping forward and placing a hand on her big pumped biceps.