Another beautiful Friday night in Colorado... shot to Hell because you are too pissed off to appreciate it. As you slam the door your lover looks up from her workout. In a tiny corner of your mind it registers that she is doing concentration curls with 95 pounds...three quarters your weight. But, you are too upset and the usual ache you feel when you watch her biceps swell to its full glory is swept aside. It has been a good week and to have it tarnished by some idiot on Friday afternoon has left a bad taste in you mouth.
"'More traditional!'...crap," you think to yourself. You know what's really behind their reluctance to let you manage the account. How the Hell do people like that end up in what is supposed to be the world most progressive business? No, you correct yourself, not people...men.
As usual, she seems to be reading your mind.
"Shar, do you know why men can't get mad cow disease?"
Your reply comes in the form of a chant which builds to a scream as you bite off each syllable. It becomes a cathartic mantra as the two of you in perfect unison complete the ritual.
The mood is broken and you laugh out loud. You chide yourself for letting something, no - someone so insignificant soil your universe. You turn to thank her and for the thousandth time catch your breath as she stands there, towelling off, outlined in the picture window. The smooth flow, the contraction and expansion of her body brings the familiar warmth. It's as if she is never still, there is so much sweet strength, so much power fighting for release. Yet the overall demeanor is calm. That total calm found only in the truly powerful, the ones who know they have nothing to prove.
This is Friday. The weekend beckons and the two of you have no plans which involve anything other than each other.
"It's in," she tells you cryptically. You look at her quizzically. "Check you email, he's sent it tonight."
A flash of apprehension hits you. "You didn't open.."
"Don't be silly," she cuts you off, "give me some credit. It was on, I heard the tone and I recognized the address. There are two attachments, I'm sure this is it."
You feel light-headed. Out of nowhere a week ago you got a pict over the 'net which reached out from the screen and grabbed you. Aurora! On the cover of Women's Physique World no less. Not a drawing, or a crude attempt at enhancement but one the looked so real it was as if it was torn right from your imagination.
Every day, another pict, each more dramatic and powerful than the last, as this unknown man (he had to be a he, didn't he?) erased the line between fantasy and reality.
You hesitated when I asked for a scan of you. Alarm bells rang in the back of your head. What did I want with it? What could a person capable of this... as you stared amazed in into the screen ...do with your image?
The need to know triumphed over caution. You began to rationalize, but stopped. You just had to find out. So began our thrust an parry over the wires. I slipped between the soft folds of your mind and showed you things you'd only felt. You returned fire, as only you could. We connected in the detached intimacy only strangers can have. And tomorrow I promised your trust in me would be rewarded.
But tonight? Why now? He can't wait...you chuckle to yourself. Just like a man, always too soon.
You are still chuckling to yourself as you call up the image from the attachments folder.
"Oh my...G..." the words die unborn in your throat. It feels as though the entire room has closed in on you. You feel, literally feel, a physical blow from all directions as your head swims. Looking back at you from the screen is your face. Your face on the body of a Goddess.
A Goddess in a Supergirl costume. The legs, the tiny waist, the chest and those incredible arms. Arms that could deform steel, arms that now seem to be reaching out to you as you swim in a whirlpool of emotion. The image on the screen looks at you, comes alive and whispers two words: "be free."
You start as you realize you are sitting at the terminal. Unbalanced, You think you are feeling the after effects of a severe head rush but you don't remember getting up. Behind you hear you lover's voice clearly say "finally."
You get up and turn around, the image on the screen all but forgotten and you almost fall over. Dizzier than you'd thought you'd be you dismiss the sensation that, for a fleeting instant, you floated off the floor. However, you are at a loss to explain what you are doing in the centre of the room, ten feet from the desk.
"Sharon," she says in a hoarse, slow, voice. "Listen very carefully to me. Do... not... move. Stand right where you are, raise your arms out to the sides and hold them there."
There is a subtle shift in your internal compass. Everything seems slightly smaller. You look down to check and are shocked. You can't see you feet because your view is blocked by two large, perfect breasts. In wonderment you move to touch them, to verify what can't possibly have happened but she stops you with a word.
Quieter now. "I said, don't move. NO matter what happens you can only move when I tell you and even then you must do exactly what I say. "
There was a tone you'd never heard before. A tone of command, an imperative in her voice which freezes you like a steel statue in the centre of the room. There was something else: lust, lust combined with ....hunger? You look at her and for the second time you catch your breath. She is breathing hard, almost hyperventilating. Her iron hard arms and legs a bathed in sweat and as the smell of her hits you, you realize she is literally seething with desire.
Her words come in hoarse, ragged gasps. "You can turn your head, that is all. Look in the mirror."
And there you are.. the you from the computer! Staring back at yourself in amazement. The flaring calves, the sweep of the impossibly hard thighs the tiny waist with the web of abs visible every time you breath. You have an overwhelming urge to grab your chest... to squeeze these incredible orbs which thrust proudly in defiance of gravity from your chest.
A wave of desire washes over you as you realize that despite their size they are far more sensitive than they used to be. You can feel the air against your nipples as they harden. You stare transfixed as over the top of your right breast you watch the tip of your nipple expand into view and beyond until it is the size of an eraser.
Reading your mind again, she stops you. "No!" Gentler this time, understanding..."not yet."
Your arms, straight out from your sides, seem strangely normal. Honed by three years of rock climbing they are firm, solid but not overly large. You think to test but a warning look stops you.
She walks towards you with a weight belt in her hand. Her breathing laboured but more under control. She fastens it around your waste cinching it tight to the familiar second notch. The belt, while firm, doesn't seem to provide the usual support. She takes the belt off and re-fastens it to the same notch. Sliding it down your right arm until it dangles from your extended but relaxed bicep.
"Put your left arm down," she tells you as you wonder why it brings no feeling of relief. Your arms should be tired, your shoulders should be burning by now but strangely they aren't. "Your waist is '22, right?" she asks.
You nod, wondering above the confusion what the point of this is.
Okay, now slowly...and I mean slowly, flex your right arm."
And you flex. And your arm, quite simply explodes. Where there was smoothness and sinew there is now massive quivering muscle. Your forearm is double its former size. Huge tendons connect it to your bicep which has leapt out of hiding and swells ever closer to your unbelieving eyes. Larger it grows and you feel the power in your arm. You don't think you're stronger, you know it, with every fibre of your being you're sure you can curl the 225 pound barbell which sits on the rack. This knowledge brings something else...pleasure. You are getting wet as you continue to bring your clenched fist closer. This is the biggest arm you have ever seen, on any male or female. This arm contains unimaginable power, you are now longer thinking about lifting the weight but of crushing it, moulding it into a ball, tying a knot in the bar. You gasp as you realize the belt is tight around your biceps. Your arm is 22 inches...the same size as your waist!
"All the way...finish," she tells you. "Finish?" you ask, can there be more?
"Do it," she snaps. You watch her knees buckle as you suddenly contract your arm as hard as you can. The belt pops off, torn in two. It offered no more resistance than string, you think. You can smell her desire, just as you realize you can also smell your own. Suddenly you want her. You want to pick her up and hold her down and control her with this incredible new power you have. You want to dominate her, you want to make her sing and cry with ecstasy at the same time. You want to do for her what she has done for you.
She, however, has other plans.
"Hold your right arm straight out, palm up," she tells you. She walks over to you and in a series of quick movements tears all the clothes from both your bodies. You marvel at the ease she does this and at how natural it seemed not to move at all while the fabric was shredded like Kleenex from your body.
Lithe and powerful she grabs your now relaxed arm with both hands. Eyes that could bore holes in concrete focus on you and she says, "don't move."
With that, employing a grace and agility which belies her 165 pound frame she mounts your arm as a gymnast would a balance beam. There is a wicked look on her face as she stands, seemingly weightless on the palm of your hand. You are holding an adult woman in the palm of your hand with no more effort that if she were pocket change, less in fact because you feel no strain at all on your shoulder.
She stretches, her own incredible musculature coming into startling relief. Without warning she reaches down and grabbing your forearm as if it were a bar executes a perfect handstand. You are so in awe of what she has done and what you are doing that it comes as a complete surprise when she flips out of it and comes down hard and straddles your upper arm.
Again, there is no give, no strain, not even the suggestion of weight as she wraps her steel-hard thighs around your arm and uses the top of your head for balance. The smell of her is overpowering as she begins to grind her moistness down into you arm.
Staring into the chain-link pattern of her abdominal wall you hear her voice above your head.
"I want you to flex this arm, as hard as you can for 10 seconds. I want you to do it 100 times then I want you to flex for eight seconds 100 times, then six then four then two or until I tell you to stop."
The first time you flex you think she is going to tear your head from your body. "Yes," she screams clamping down with incredible force as the peak of your biceps forces her moist lips apart. On the second flex you are ready for her reaction and holding still is easier. You become more and more aroused as your lover treats your arm like a horse.
Your own desire rises to match hers as she urges you on.
"Yes," she seethes, "fuck me, Sharon, muscle fuck me with your arm. God, you are so strong now, isn't this was way you always dreamed?" And it is but you can't think because she is relentless. She rides you like a rodeo bull, screaming at you and desire becomes a palpable thing as you glory in your strength and the effect it is having on her. The fine web of her abs dances in front of your eyes. She groans, a savage, guttural sound. You look up just in time to have a diamond hard nipple thrust in your mouth. Forgetting your power, you attack it as if it was the fountain of life itself. This is familiar ground for you and you take her even higher, you awareness becoming a compact universe of sweat, muscle, hair and musk.
You have long lost count when she cums, jerking, writhing and spasming on your steel-hard arm. In the afterglow you discover she is lying on it like a cat on fence-rail. "Ohhh yesss," she purrs, "have I been waiting a long time for that. Now...." she fixes your eyes with a knowing look.
In a state of stunned bliss you wonder what could possibly come next.
She slides towards you, wrapping her hands behind your head she brushes your lips with hers. You feel the kiss down to your toes, your stomach contracts on its own. She increases the pressure probing your mouth with her firm tongue and you respond in kind. Eyes closed with pleasure you marvel at this transformation, at your power, at the new possibilities... She shifts her mouth and you become aware of her hands leaving your head and grabbing the top of your huge, aching breasts. You thrust your chest forward to meet her embrace and are rewarded with a slowly increasing squeeze. You think to yourself that your breasts are now so large that her hands can only span the tops of them. Both her hands together probably couldn't cover half of one of them.
You open your eyes to verify this and are stunned to see she is doing another handstand...supported only by your swelling breasts! She continues to brush your lips with hers. Alternating hands, she shifts from one breast to the other. In your amazement you feel them begin to harden, each time she replaces a hand there is less give until there is none at all.
"Yes," she urges, "that's it. They feel like marble now, oh God you should feel them," she teases.
Fixing your eyes again, you are told for what seems the one hundredth time not to move.
"Don't take your eyes off mine," she commands.
You marvel again at the control and agility of her amazing body as she inch, by inch walks her hands backwards, to the very edge of where she can still maintain her balance. Tiny lines of concentration at the corners of her eyes are the only clue she is straining at all. She removes one hand and you gasp as she pinches your right nipple between her fore and middle fingers. Bolts of pleasure shoot from your breast to your groin as she traps your swollen flesh in a fist. Your mind reels as she repeats the process on your left nipple. You mind screams in denial of what your eyes are showing you. It isn't possible for anyone to support their entire weight on two inch-and-one half long pegs! Nor is possible that two of the most tender parts of your body are supporting the weight of a 165 pound woman!
With agonizing slowness she pikes her lower body and like an Olympic gymnast on the rings and rotates until she is upright, facing you, holding herself off the ground by your nipples. Through the entire time, she never once takes her eyes from yours, her face a smug mask of pride and pleasure as she knows the effect her display is having on you.
Showing off now, you can only stand motionless as she performs 10 languid dips. Each time she rises to brush your lips with hers. Suddenly she throws her self backward in a full somersault to hand lightly on her feet before you. There is no sign of any strain or effort, just a fluid grace, the level of which you have never seen.
"That was incredible," you manage.
"Not, really. I over-rotated a bit and didn't stick the landing," she smiles.
"Now," she grins as your expectation mounts, "it's your turn. Flex one more time and lick it off."
Tentatively at first and then with the zeal of a cat in heat you attack your bulging arm with your tongue. You gasp at the feel of satin over steel sweetened by her juices. Taste, small and touch combine to send you to a level of arousal you never imagined possible. You feel moistness running down your own leg.
All business suddenly, she strolls over to the weight bench and returns with two 22.5 pound plates.
Without a word she hangs one plate on each nipple as if they were bars themselves. Once again your incredible breasts rise to meet the challenge. No test at all really, considering you just held up an entire body. But the sight of your nipples casually supporting more weight than you could hold straight out with you entire arm before, thrills you again.
Sinking to her knees she looks up and tells you "you may touch your breasts with your hands but only by holding those plates right where they are." You cup yourself as best you can through the cold steel. You breasts are slightly crushed inward by the pressure of your grasp. They are crushed farther still as she hooks both arms through your legs and grabs your firm ass.
You start with surprise and pleasure as she easily lifts you to her mouth.
"But..." you start.
"You're just stronger, silly," she smiles up at you, her eyes barely visible over the tops of your breasts, "you're not that much heavier. Now, I'm going to work, you do whatever you want but you can't take your hands off those plates."
Before you can voice your concern her hot breath is on your labia and any thoughts you might have are washed away by a wave of indescribable pleasure. Unconsciously you squeeze your breast and thrust you chest up and out. The screaming of deforming metal opens your eyes and you watch in passionate disbelief as your fingers dig into the plates. The metal bends and presses against you as you can feel your breasts turn to something far harder than any Weider product. Once again you thrill in your incredible strength as the plates become easier and easier to bend. The tortured metal feels like clay in your fingers now as it offers no more resistance than a pie-plate.
Stars explode behind your eyes as the sensation of a tongue parting your moist lips reminds you that she is still very much a part of this. You feel a sensation unlike anything in your experience as your clitoris grows to an incredible size, parting you from the inside, straining to meet her tongue.
The plates feel like warm plasticene now, you are no longer bending them, you are smearing them over your chest in a attempt to get at your throbbing nipples. Molten steel begins to run down your tightly flexed stomach as your efforts are rewarded and your hand finally finds your swollen flesh. Nothing exists except desire and the incredible feeling you have in your chest and pussy. The world spins as you fell an incredible force building up inside you. Her tongue is an insane thing within you. You are sure you are going to explode, you are sure you are going to die from the power of what is coming and you are sure it will be worth it. Had you any conscious thought at all you would wonder why melting metal hasn't killed you lover.
In fact you are only dimly aware of her even as she rips you from her face, throws you to the ground, the floor boards shattering beneath the power of your impact. There on the cold cement of the basement floor, she dives upon you The wild look in her eye is the last thing you see as her vagina slams you in the face. You are skewered by her tongue and you respond in kind. She nibbles, you retaliate, a little harder. She caresses, you, straining for control with every fibre of your being, caress softer. She bites down, you scream and your last act on earth before you die of pleasure is to bite her back just before you convulse in a spasming shower of stars into blessed blackness.
You wake to a dripping on your face. Looking up your are mildly confused because you don't remember going into the basement and you are quite sure there wasn't a hole in the floor of the front room when you came home. Without really thinking about it, in a perfectly natural way, you slightly flex your diamond calves and your steel-hard ass. As you float slowly up through the hole you casually pinch the end of a severed water pipe shut with your thumb and forefinger. Walking into the kitchen to get a coffee you glance contentedly at the magnificent reflection which looks back at you from the mirror.
She's there, waiting for you, coffee at the ready, reading your mind again.
"How?" you ask.
"I've been giving you a...ah.. a 'special drug,' I believe you once called it, for months now. I was going crazy trying to figure out why it hadn't taken effect."
"Hadn't taken effect?" You wonder out loud.
"It must have been that pict that guy sent you over the email," she muses. "Just the drug wasn't enough, you needed some kind of catalyst to trigger it."
"The pict?..." you are still dreamy and not getting this all on the first bounce. "But how did you manage?...sure in stories...in my imagination...but this isn't....I mean there's no way..." You stop, overwhelmed by what is and what can't be.
"You're the writer," she smiles. "When you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, is the truth - Conan Doyle."
"You know, Sherlock Holmes," she grins a happy, tolerant look on her face as she comes to you and takes you in her arms.
"But I don't understand how..." you protest meekly.
"It's simple, silly, I'm your Aurora, remember?" She locks her mouth to yours again. As the increasingly familiar feeling of passion and power wells up from within you have an odd thought.
"Will our insurance cover this?"Sharon Best