Author: [Amnoartist] Juiced II

[MassiveMuscleGoddess]

The story is pretty good so far. Looking forward to see what else happens next!

[Amnoartist]

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 6: Digging Deep

With the exception of her laptop screen blasting light at her scowled expression, Detective Hart’s lounge was bathed in darkness, rain gently pitter-pattering off her window in the background. She’d been deep into her research for hours now, collectively - and arguably obsessively - amassing a total of three thousand six hundred and fifty-two hours across the five-month long investigation into Bright Life.

One thing was for certain, which could be considered a positive depending how one looked at it: there was no shortage in news about the South Korean medical firm, the most recent of which detailed the company’s intention to counter-sue those who accused them of performing illegal experimentations. Bright Life was predictably quick to stand its ground on that matter, but nobody was buying it. So the firm bought them, bribing them into either silence or siding with them in the investigation. Nobody was aware of it though. Nobody but Hart.

But she didn’t stop there, jumping down the rabbit hole in the hope to find even more truths to expose the company.

Taking a sip of wine, the Irishwoman prepared herself for not just the inevitable, but for the ‘journey’ she might not so easily come back from.

Hart didn’t moonlight as a hacker per-se. Rather, she picked up a few things over the short number of years as a detective to help track down a series of cyber criminals, learning from former hackers and reformed criminals. She’d be using those techniques learned over time right now to open a back door into Bright Life’s servers. She knew it was a stupid thing to do, hacking into one of the world’s most influential companies’s databases, but the thrill of being caught - being part of the other side of the law - was what kept Hart going.

She was in surprisingly sooner than expected. The database password flashed up a few times in lime green:

Pretzel70b
[/color]
Hart snickered. It wasn’t the best password they used, that was for sure. But who would be stupid enough to even try hacking into Bright Life’s serves in the fir— she glanced at her reflection, embarrassed.

It wasn’t long afterwards the database’s files starting unlocking themselves right in front of Hart for her viewing pleasure, a list of files of various natures one by one building onto itself - hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands — an absolute goldmine! Now it was a matter of knowing where to start. Maybe the one labeled Hr4a.mp4?

She clicked the file and set it up to be viewed on full screen. At first glance it didn’t look all that interesting - just a video of a blond girl no older than five playing with her dolls. Judging by its grainy quality, the video must’ve been recorded in the early nineties. Hart scoffed. She wasn’t going to get much out of this. Time for something else.

Mcrosm.pdf was opened next. This one was a bit more interesting, though not exactly what Hart was looking for, talking about micro-organisms and how they may exist in a single-celled form or a colony. The deeper she read into the document, the more Hart realized Bright Life could have used these micro-organisms for almost anything - Food production, energy, chemicals, warfare - all of which were markets the company had sizable stakes in. Then there was the casual mention of something labeled ‘SDE,’ whatever that was.

The name of the next file the redhead opened stuck out like a sore thumb, like it wasn’t even trying to hide itself. PES Types. There were several categories, which themselves broke off into smaller lists: Anabolics, Stimulants, Ergogenics, Biomolecules, Human Genetic Engineering. Anabolics and stimulants spoke for themselves, but it was Human Genetic Engineering that intrigued Hart the most.

“let's see what we've gaht 'ere.” She clicked the link, which took her even deeper into the database than she thought it could go, exciting Hart and filling her with the feeling that she was onto something now.

Before she had a moment to react accordingly to her new find, an archived video started on its own, showing a group of surgeons stood over a female strapped to an operating table. What felt odd to Hart was the fact the patient was calm about the the abnormally large needle held in the lead surgeon’s hand, filled with a pink liquid.

“Ready to inject 330ccs of Empizine. You ready Jane?” he asked calmly.

The girl strapped to the table merely nodded, though Hart could see from her perspective that she was buzzing with excitement, the EKG she was hooked onto beeping steadily. "Make me big-brained, doc!"

The surgeon injected the drug into Jane’s neck, without so much as a moment of self-doubt. He may have been physically ready but mentally he was more than eager. Jane bucked her leg as she felt the drug’s sudden coldness flow through her, the syringe’s contents hastily administered until not even a drop was left.

“Injection successful. Awaiting results.”

Hart wasn’t sure what she was getting herself into, but all the same couldn’t muster the willpower to stop watching, not over whether whatever she found could be important so much as pure curiosity. Whatever was Empizine, anyway? She hadn't heard of that before.

“Cerebral mass increase by five percent…ten…fourteen.” The lead surgeon simply watched Jane’s changes occur with what could only be described as fulfillment, as though the changes in the young woman’s body were something to be proud of. The girl herself mirrored his sentiments, smiling toothily. “The serum is working as planned,” the lead surgeon added, not even bothering to hide his excitement.

Hart’s opinion was drastically, morally different. There was nothing to be proud of with this Jane’s desired bodily changes, watching her brain literally grow to the point where the detective could see its distinctive shaping and outline bulge under her skull. But she was loving every moment of it.

That was when things took a dark turn.

Hart could see it long before either the surgeons or Jane did. All she could do was watch, see the blood casually ooze from Jane’s ears even as her brain continued its alarming growth. Yet her smile stayed as though she was completely oblivious to it.

“Shit, she’s hemorrhaging!” one of the surgeon’s called out.

The growth continued even then, but at a much faster rate as though the surgeons presumed the hemorrhaging was a threat to its encompassing enlargement, literally ripping its way through Jane’s skull until her brain quite literally burst through it, bulging and writhing like something unseen before.

The EKG flatlined. The surgeons didn’t get their chance to save Jane from herself. In spite of the fact they all had the equipment on hand to maybe give her a second chance at life…there was nothing they could do by way of rehousing Jane’s exponentially larger brain, which moved lively like jelly even after the girl’s unexpected passing.

The lead surgeon pressed the button on the micro-recorder he hand in his trouser pocket. “Patient Four-Two-Six is deceased. Cranial matter increased beyond expectations. Empizine needs further testing.”

The video came to an abrupt end in the form of cutting to black and returning to the Bright Life database. Hart didn’t immediately dig deeper into what the South Korean firm had been hiding from the public, so traumatized by what she just watched. Just from that she had enough to take the company to court, but the Irishwoman wasn’t stupid. They’d just bribe people into keeping their mouths shut.


She looked at the video file’s date: March fourth, twenty-nineteen. Only a few weeks ago.

As much as it pained her to admit it, Hart had to keep going. She opened a random file, anything that wasn’t a video of a girl dying with a smile on her face as her brain literally burst through her skull. She came across a list of drugs, all of which she hadn't ever heard of before, with the exception of Empizine: Pazovatol, Apixiporin, Levacline, Anapan, Zevatonin, Dexadryl and Enavac. Hart had no idea which one to pick, but the hunch crawling up her back made her choose Zevatonin.

Another video started. Didn’t look like much - two rats munching on their food. The video’s date, April twenty-five, twenty-sixteen.

Then a voice broke the otherwise calm moment. It was the lead surgeon from the previous video, though by his familiarity with the circumstances at hand, he seemed to be more a Jack-of-all-trades than a mere surgeon.

“Conducting experiment number sixteen. Time is now Five-Forty, British Summer Time,” he disclosed, placing what seemed to be more fresh muesli for the rats in the cage. If she hadn’t watched the previous video beforehand, Hart would’ve been no wiser to the truth. Now though, she knew not to be so easily fooled. “Zevatonin laced muesli in place,” he added.

Hart prepared herself, knowing something unsavory was about to happen. It just pained her to not know what. To hide her stress she took another sip of wine, in which time both rats had already started nibbling on the newly received food, rather greedily, in fact, close to fighting one another over every morsel.

Upon Hart’s involuntarily blink, that was when it happened. The rats’s muscular structures were growing rapidly, spilling and folding over their own bodies, pressing against the glass in their seemingly constant growth. In spite of the fact both had eaten an equal amount, one of the rats seemed to be growing faster and larger than the other. That which was largest had already ballooned twice the size of the surgeon’s hand and kept going. In defiance of its own increased size, the smaller rat couldn’t hide its fear as the larger one loomed over it, its body cracking the glass cage, growing to the size of a fully-developed Yorkshire Terrier, its own limbs the size of a small child's, its breathing loud and husky, distinct.

“Experiment successful, but with curious results. Both subjects accepted the laced foodstuff, though one grew exponentially larger than its counterpart. Perhaps this indicates results vary by the individual? Will move onto human testing next to see if similar results appear,” the surgeon commented with obvious joy.

The video ended.

Stressed out, Hart finished her glass of wine, poured a new one and considered necking it. Not to mention the bottle. No—no, she had a job to do. It was clear no one but her actually gave a shit what Bright Life was really up to, whatever the fuck that was. Illegal experimentation, sure, but that was just the means. The real question was, ‘What was the end, the goal?’

What’s the goal? She wrote that down on a piece of paper resting on the coffee table, followed by ‘What is SDE?’

Things took an interesting turn when Hart’s laptop pinged. At first she took no real interest in it, thinking it was just a simple email, but then the Bright Life file database shifted upwards as a new file came in - live!

Hart smirked. She didn’t just hack her way into Bright Life’s database. She had live access to it, meaning every new file that came into its “secure” server was essentially hers as well. It was all just too good to be true, she thought, clicking on the new randomly named file, though this time it was much different, just audio coming in. Reaching into the nearby drawer, Hart pulled out her pair of headphones and plugged them in, wanting to get every sound from the apparent conversation at hand, her pen and paper ready, watching the audio waves fluctuate as the clip started.

"You must understand. A natural delivery will be too risky even if the DNA bonds to your own. It is not as simple as your mind presumes it it to be. Your body simply won’t sustain itself through the procedure. It will reject the cells - violently.” The voice was male, different from the surgeon Hart had already become accustomed to, his voice laced with fear yet undercoated with a sense of reasoning.

The smashing of what was presumed to be pottery was a clear indication whomever heard the news didn’t take it well. A moment of silence followed, stinging Hart as though she were involved in the heated moment.

“What about the artificial wombs?” The other voice was female, drenched in anger, yet it was clear they were trying to soak it up with self-control.

Silence again, though this time Hart realized it was of a different kind - not so much out of fear as realization. As if the woman had made a valid point.

“Perhaps. We are close to finalizing our first, but, given your circumstances, it would involve undergoing a hysterectomy.” Even though there was nothing on-screen to reinforce the fact, Hart could tell the man hid his words of hope behind a face of dread. The detective was, of course, no science expert, but even she knew what was being implied. The woman would have her womb removed so a new, stronger one could take its place. “Even then, there is the possibility of the procedure being a total failure. It has never been conducted before.”

“How long before…”

“There are many variables to take into consideration with such work. How long it takes for you to recover from the Hysterectomy, for instance. Notwithstanding that, we’re talking at least six months before we can even talk about insemination.”

“Too long!”

Hart assumed a moment’s silence would come between her hearing more, but she was caught off-guard by the man taking a stand.

“All I can suggest, then, is you maintain your injections until something more substantial swings our way. We cannot force the issue.”

The audio clip ended. Hart didn’t know whether to think heads or tail of it all. What the fuck did it all even mean? Not just the audio clip - everything! Jane, the rats, the woman….. It must have all been connected somehow. Rubbing her temple, Hart scrolled through the database randomly, trying to find something, anything that connected all the pieces together. All the experiments were individual, but Hart had the brains to realize they were all part of something bigger. Like the monkey pills.

That’s when she realized. To think it was all right in front of her like a carrot on a string. The experiment with the rats and Zevatonin-laced Muesli. The monkey pills were Zevatonin — in pill form no less! But where did all the other drugs fit into the equation?

Hart found a pay check for two point five million next, going out to a Watson Grimes. Curious. Wasn’t he already the heir to Grimes billionaire estate? Curiouser still, he was the boyfriend of the Avington girl, who just so happened to be the daughter of Warren Avington, CEO of the Avington Concern, tied to Bright Life.

“Well, Watsahn Grimes. let's see what you've gaht to say.”

***

Priscilla grimaced, checking herself out in the mirror positioned in the corner with the utmost revulsion, wearing naught but a pair of frilly underwear and ankle socks. She was convinced her muscles were larger than when she worked out with Peyton the other day, while the family doctor insisted she was simply retaining the ‘pump’ gained from it. In spite of her often-expressed ignorance, however, she knew better.

Her muscles were bigger. And she resented herself for having them, calling herself masculine on account of the fact. Had Priscilla known gaining mass would be so easy, she would’ve insisted upon not meeting with Peyton.

Dayna stood sat Priscilla’s side holding the young heiress’s attire for the day on a hanger. Two options, though each didn’t help in the blond’s want to hide her broader shoulders. Truly, Dayna had already kept on at her about being confident in her changes. But Priscilla wouldn’t have it, being to body-conscious.

“A reminder the Russian will be far larger than yourself. Most if not all eyes will be on her.” What Dayna said was true, but the narcissistic nature that swelled within Priscilla always showed itself one way or another. The girl had to make it about her somehow, practically lived off the attention she gained. And even then, she just wanted more.

“Is my arm even supposed to look like this?” Priscilla raised the limb slowly so as to make sure her bespectacled aide caught a glimpse of the smooth skin that came hand-in-hand with the juxtaposing unevenness of her bicep, a faint split present down its peak.

Dayna found herself suddenly electrified by Priscilla’s brisk motion, a distinctive feeling roiling in her loins. She bit her lip but caught herself, looking away from the blond who caught her looking as she slipped into the outfit of her choosing.

“It's not my place to say, miss,” Dayna simply responded.

Priscilla smirked, looking at her budding musculature more seriously, taking into account how advantageous it could be going forward. Perhaps it was reflective of how much better she was than everyone else? Granted, the Russian was bigger, but she could be used to help her become even better than she already was. Priscilla knew Masha was only here to be her friend while a cure for her ailing father was concocted, but who was to say Priscilla couldn’t use her for other means? It was all for her benefit anyway. When she was big, buff and beautiful enough, she could force people into doing whatever she wanted. It wasn’t like by then anybody could stop—!

“Did you hear me, miss? We’re ready” Dayna commented.

Priscilla gasped quietly, coming out of her daydream. The little fantasy of becoming super muscular had clearly gotten the better of her, completely blanking out Dayna, but it didn’t seem like she was bothered by it. At all.

“I’ll be there momentarily,” Priscilla returned distantly.

***

Masha wasn’t particularly keen on the supposed mandatory injection needed to be carried out before meeting Priscilla. Something about wanting to make sure the colossal Russian didn’t have any STDs in case the relationship she’d form with the little blond would ‘blossom into something beautiful.’ Lily’s words, not hers. In any case, Masha knew she didn’t have any sexual diseases, mostly on account of the fact she had never been with anyone. Anatoly was more a friend than a companion to her.

The Avington’s family doctor removed the syringe and placed it in a small case not dissimilar to the ones cigars were kept in. Lily stood by him with a smile, her bountiful chest bobbing up and down as she breathed gently. Masha could tell from his repressed glances that the doctor had some level of affection for the matriarch of the family. Perhaps the same kind as Jeeves the chauffeur.

“Should have the results tomorrow.”

Anatoly dabbed a cloth on Masha’s new track mark, smiling at her. On any other occasion he knew she wouldn’t be so quick to submit to a blood test, especially when it wasn’t part of their initial agreement she signed, but knew it had to be done to get the help she needed for her father. Simply, Anatoly was proud of her.

As the doctor left, Masha clocked the distinctly beautiful blond Priscilla come in from the main hall, Dayna trailing her like a loyal pet dog. Anatoly was quick to notice how Priscilla’s entrance alone was enough to arrest Masha, stopping her dead in her tracks, blind and deaf to Lily’s formal introduction.

“—my daughter, Priscilla. She read up on you a little bit before your arrival.”

Masha extended her hand out to Priscilla, who shook it firmly. Though, Masha was taken aback by the fact the blond’s grip was actually hurting her, like her hand was held in a vice! Nobody had done that before. She pulled away, hiding her pain within a smile. “You have strong grip.”

Lily mirrored her daughter’s response, smiling emphatically. Her mind was elsewhere, however, not entirely focused on the moment at hand. Priscilla had obviously grown slightly more muscular since her mother left to collect Masha, but Lily was the only one to notice she had grown taller as well. It may have only been a couple of inches, but it was obvious to her all the same.

“So you’re the famous Russian everyone keeps talking about.” Priscilla inspected Masha carefully, eye-fucking every bulging inch of her gargantuan frame, from the rippling quads desperate to burst out from her tight leggings to washboard abs hidden under a plain white shirt, even batting her eyelids at the jutting trapezius muscles the size of watermelons. Priscilla didn’t even bother trying to fight back the urge to bite her lip, imagining herself biting down on the Russian’s muscles in a burst of pleasure.

“Would not say famous. More like popular. Same same, but different.”

Anatoly snickered softly.

“Of course,” Lily said.

“You and I are gonna have tons of fun together,” Priscilla called out, barely managing to contain her childish excitement. She had so many ideas. And Masha had no clue what she was about to get herself into.

[Amnoartist]

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 7: Determination & Ambition Greater Than Others

Anatoly had never expected the painting to be so large, stretching high as the wall, nearly just as wide, presenting the Avington family together in a luxurious family portrait. Warren sat on the chair with one leg crossed over the other, grinning smugly. Just from that it was clear whom Priscilla got her holier-than-thou attitude from. Lily stood behind Warren, both hands resting on the top of the chair. She smiled too, though not as fervently as her husband.

And then there was Priscilla to the left, stylized to appear like the literal embodiment of feminine and beauty.

“She truly is something, isn’t she?”

Anatoly turned to face the source of the words spoken so plainly with admiration. One would expect them to have come from Lily, Priscilla’s assistant Dayna who stood at the lounge’s threshold in a professional, freshly-pressed suit, hands clasped behind her back. Anatoly never heard her approach. He must’ve been so transfixed on the painting. He turned his attention back to it, taking note of the fact Priscilla looked far slimmer then than she did now. Now, her shoulders appeared to be wider.

“I guess you could say that. The mother’s just as curious.”

“Ah.” Dayna walked closer, to Anatoly’s side. “Lily gets plenty of comments regarding her age. Nothing special about it, really. Just a clean, healthy diet and plenty of water.”

Anatoly had grown curious by Dayna’s comments. Not the mentioning of a diet or drinking water, rather using a first name basis for her employer. Odd. But it was best not to dwell on it, not knowing how things worked in this maze of a mansion the Avington’s called home.

“Where’s the father? I realized he was noticeably absent during our arrival.” Anatoly already knew the answer, of course, having done some sneaky digging in advance of meeting the Avington’s. Warren, being the legal adviser to Bright Life, was probably still helping dig them themselves out of some trouble. Dayna would probably spin a different tale.

“He’s helping Bright Life through some issues,” she returned.

He didn’t react accordingly, but Anatoly was still surprised by Dayna actually telling the truth. He expected her to barefacedly lie to him, as if to hide something. But then, Anatoly never did find anything to suggest the Avington’s had something worth hiding. He just assumed they had, being such a secretive family.

Dayna pointed to the painting with a smile not dissimilar to one shared when expressing admiration. Anatoly followed her finger, stopping dead at Priscilla. “Notice her hair, how golden it is. Full of life and vigor. Have you ever seen anyone with hair quite like hers before?”

Anatoly wasn’t sure how to express his opinion. He didn’t really care for Priscilla, having already read up on how dangerously conceited she could be at times. He’d already warned Masha about the same, though wasn’t sure she actually heeded his words. Even then, Dayna’s tone felt more akin to idolization towards Priscilla than admiration, both of which were completely different animals.

“Even her legs. Smooth and slender,” Dayna added.

Anatoly dreaded to admit he didn’t feel the same way towards Priscilla as Dayna. The bespectacled assistant clearly had feelings for the heiress, but probably didn’t have the courage to confess them. Of course, doing that would only make things worse. A relationship with the help? That didn’t particularly go down well with most rich families.

But then why did Dayna so brazenly disclose the fact with Anatoly? Did she presume he and Masha were in a relationship and so could seek advice from him? It would be harder to do so from Masha, being whisked away by Priscilla to discuss their future. In spite of that, Anatoly couldn’t deny Dayna’s honesty creeped him out a bit.

“Sorry, I’m not that sure how I can be of help to you. Masha and I aren’t together; we’re like you and Priscilla, employee and employer. Our relationship is strictly professional.” Anatoly knew his words would cut through Dayna like butter, but he’d hate to lie.

Dayna chuckled. It seemed Anatoly had misinterpreted her actions and words. Their nature was completely different from the way the powerhouse Russian’s aide had skewed them. Of course, she could just as easily tell him the truth, but where was the fun in that? It would be better and more enjoyable for them both when he realized the reality on his own.

All the same, Dayna decided to play along with Anatoly’s view of the situation, at this point just for fun. “Perhaps it’s best I keep my relationship with Priscilla strictly professional as well. I’m not all that sure how she would accept me for who I am.”

That was when Anatoly made his mistake. He didn’t mean to do it; it was just an innocent glance down at the floor at first, toddled with self-hate when he heard Dayna feel worthless. But when he started bringing his head back up, that was when he noticed the bulge straining the fabric of her trousers. He couldn’t stop staring at it, and by the time Dayna noticed Anatoly doing it—

“The doctors call it Futanariism. A rare genetic condition that only affects a very small number of women in the world. Something like a few thousand I believe.” Dayna turned away from the painting so her angry nine-inch erection faced Anatoly who flinched at the sight of an obvious vein visibly pulsing underneath her trousers. “I’m honestly surprised it took you this long to notice me. Usually it’s the first thing people see, so full marks for lasting long.”

“I…I-uh…”

“Oh don’t worry, I don’t expect you to touch it or anything. Don’t even have to look if you don’t want to. Just putting it out there now, so to speak, so it doesn’t become a shock later.”

Anatoly didn’t know what to say. He’d stopped looking, but the mental image of Dayna’s third leg was seared into his skull. He’d carry that image in his head for the rest of his life.

“Lily is particularly fond of it.”

Now Anatoly understood why Dayna used a first name basis for her employer: they were lovers. By extension, that meant Lily Avington frequented sexual intercourse between Dayna and Jeeves the chauffeur, perhaps even both together. That implied Lily’s relationship with her husband Warren wasn’t so healthy as one would expect.

Anatoly’s head hurt. Between the situation with Masha and Bright Life and the sudden revelation regarding Dayna, it was to much to take in.

“Blyad’.”

“Exactly,” Dayna said.

***

Masha marveled at Priscilla’s bedroom upon entering it, completely diminishing the modesty of her own, swallowed whole by the obvious vanity of the blond heiress’s. A rich oil painting of the girl hung squarely at the room’s back, at the left of which was her wardrobe, still open, revealing all her luxurious clothing. Masha may have been popular, but didn’t have the same degree of prosperity as Priscilla. And probably never would.

Priscilla strolled over to the small table in the corner, grabbing two wine glasses and a decanter of red wine. Masha visibly squinted when offered one of the glasses. Despite being of legal age, she had never touched alcohol in her life, not wanting it to hinder her performance. Even so, Priscilla thumbed the rim of the glass eagerly.

“Go on, girl. Just a sip at least. Believe me, when I say you’ve been living a life quite like mine for this long, you’ll be wanting to drink at least three of these. On a good day.” Priscilla’s thumb pushed down on the glass’s edge tighter, as if to indicate she had become agitated. She’d hate to ask twice.

Masha obliged, taking the glass and sipping just the once. She wasn’t particularly fond of the flavor, to say the least, much less the aftertaste, but both girls knew drinking wine together wasn’t the point of this particular moment, of the arguably fateful meeting.

“So, tell me about yourself. You’re from Russia, I get that. But where? Who is Masha Konovaleva?” Priscilla took another sip of wine, faster this time, as if bolstered by some degree of excitement. It would be negligent to not mention the fact she stared at Masha’s bulging muscles sporadically, a few seconds at a time, relaxed yet all the same seemed threatening to bust from her skin. Masha had obviously gotten used to people staring over the years, but Priscilla was different. Priscilla was—

“I live in Saint Petersburg, but born in small village in countryside.” Masha drank more of her wine not because she happened to actually like the taste, but to mask her nervousness. She rarely talked about her past life in the countryside, mostly because there wasn’t much worth mentioning. Nobody really needed to know the winters were harsh and the summers warm, that much was a given where she lived, which was later relayed to the heiress anyway, to satiate her curiosity. “I not have many friends there. Some leave, others pass during winters. Those who stay not friends. They...bullies is word, da?”

“Well, you won’t be bullied here. I can guarantee it.”

Masha smiled, pleased with the news. She could feel the ice between her and Priscilla starting to break. The heiress may have been slightly inattentive to the Russian’ life story, but all people were, when faced with someone so large and, at times, intimidating. But Priscilla was completely enthralled by her. Masha knew that at least, from the distinctive glint in her eye.

Priscilla frowned, although it was feigned. She didn’t have that much of a genuine interest in the brickhouse Russian. Rather, she acted that way to later bleed her way into asking the questions she was really fascinated by, even if Masha was sorely starting to reminisce. “And when did you start realizing you could…you know…”

Masha chuckled softly. Admittedly, she was happy about Priscilla changing the subject to something they both had varied, though positive, interest in. It allowed Masha to feel less awkward and alienated. In any case, in one respect Priscilla was no different from the other people curious about Masha: the attention was always, inevitably, turned to her muscles.

Masha started explaining.

“I twenty-two right now, start working out when sixteen to lose weight. Kids in school call me, how you say, chubby.” Masha noticed Priscilla’s response: a nod, not the kind of reaction she was expecting especially considering everyone else she told the same story to reacted more appropriately with disappointment or shock. The fact Priscilla acknowledged Masha’s story with a simple sod implied she wasn’t fully attentive or didn’t really care. All the same, Masha continued. “Eventually, I start liking results, push myself harder to become stronger, bigger.”

“My mother says she’s paying you to be my friend, so you can help your ailing father. Is that correct?”

“Da. My friend Anatoly say Bright Life help.”

Priscilla nodded in agreement. It was true that Bright Life could help Masha’s bedridden father. But that all depended on what ailed him. Bright Life’s technology was no Fountain of Youth, even if it was more advanced than other nations’. Priscilla just hoped Masha was filled in on that.

“She’s paying you to be my friend. I would be more than happy to give you double her rate, on top of that, for something else.” Priscilla watched Masha’s brow curl with curiosity. Masha needed all the money she could get her hands on for her father’s treatment, which was a fact Priscilla was shamelessly exploiting for her own self-serving needs. Masha was just innocent to the fact.

Masha wasn’t sure where this was heading, alarmed by Lily’s earlier comments about potentially having to be Priscilla’s sexual partner. She wasn’t even sure she could do well in that regard. Even so—

“I want to be like you,” Priscilla declared plainly, not mincing her words. Even then, there was no mistaking the obvious confusion Masha expressed. She wanted to be like her? What did that even mean? Priscilla sized Masha up from head to toe, bicep-to-bicep, shoulder-to-shoulder, quad-to-quad, practically eye-fucking the Russian before going into greater detail with her desire. “I want to be buff, have abs of steel like yours, be able to lift a tank over my head with a single arm, be the strongest, most muscular person in the world!”

Masha observed Priscilla’s physique with further scrutiny. Judging by her modestly sculpted arms, she certainly did have the genes to grow at least. “Nobody lift tank with one hand,” the Russian chuckled.

“I will,” Priscilla stated firmly.

Masha gulped. Never before had she met someone with such determination and ambition in their tone. On most cases, people felt one way about something one day and completely different the next. The same distinctive glint in Priscilla’s eye made Masha realize that wasn’t going to be the case with her. Even then, Masha couldn’t explicitly refuse the heiress’s offer. Everything she’d done up until now was to help her father. She’d gotten this far.

“Why?” Masha inquired curiously. At this point she had already mentally accepted Priscilla’s offer, but couldn’t help with wanting to determine the reason behind her goal.

“Because I want to.” Four simple words, yet they meant so much more than most people would think. It would make Pandora’s Box be of no importance by comparison. “I noticed just how much attention you get from being so large. I want to know what that feels like. Now take off your clothes. I want to see what I’m aiming towards.”

Masha’s eyes widened with shock. She definitely didn’t expect the situation to take this kind of turn, not to mention so swiftly. Perhaps Lily’s words were aught to be taken more seriously in future. Masha complied all the same, slipping off her socks, casually tossing them in the corner, then reaching for the bottom of her shirt, but Priscilla held her hand up, palm outward.

“Stop. Just a sec.” Priscilla pulled a chair out from beside her desk, positioned it in the middle of the room and sat down to continue watching, crossing one leg over the other. With a simple wave of her hand, Priscilla order Masha to continue. “Slowly. I want to savor the moment.”

Taking light breaths between each step, Masha starting removing her shirt, first gripping the bands around the edge, then pulling it upwards.

Priscilla scoffed, rolling her eyes. Masha was so modest, it was unbelievable. She had all that raw unbridled physical power and she didn’t see fit to demonstrate it? If that was the case, Masha didn’t deserve it. The heiress bit her lip as an idea lit up in her head. “Rip it. You’ve all that strength and you’re afraid to actually use it. God knows I won’t be.”

Taking two sizable handfuls of her shirt fabric, Masha prepared herself for the feat with a gentle exhale before wincing as her shirt started giving way to her strength, bit by bit tearing and shredding into pieces to reveal pectorals and a six-pack flanked by indescribably detailed obliques and a faint layer of veins. Priscilla watched as a single bead of sweat rolled down the Russian’s torso, into her shorts where her darkest cavities were likely even more impressive and beefier.

With a simple commanding blink the heiress directed Masha into removing her shorts next, peeling them off like sticky notes off a wall to reveal her shaved mound and clitoris, both with a degree of muscularity befitting the rest of her. Priscilla stared with unquestionable jealousy, watching Masha flex her pussy muscles enticingly, the Russian herself feigning moans of arousal in an attempt to please her new employer. But Priscilla predictably didn’t reciprocate, owing to her never being able to feel arousal or get off. The most she offered by way of indicating enjoyment was a smile, and even then it was probably just at her getting a glimpse of her future self.

“How big did you say your biceps were again?”

“I didn’t. I think they’re currently forty inches.”

Priscilla leaned back upon being hit with Masha’s measurement. She was so large, and yet, when compared with how the heiress envisioned her future self, so tiny. The things Priscilla imagined herself being able to do in time, would be true feats of strength compared to Masha’s. “Think I’ll go for eighty inches, just to prove my point. Might even go for a hundred. Who knows?”

Masha heard Priscilla’s words laced with determination but didn’t heed them. It was obvious the heiress had ambition greater than most people, but nobody could ever grow so large as she dreamed of becoming. It would be nothing but a rude awakening when she realized that.

“Pose.” Her words were soft, gentle, yet carried with them an air of dominance, biting her lip harder to the point where it bled. There was no denying Priscilla was enthralled by both her position and Masha’s unequaled strength. “Hard.”

And pose hard Masha did. It was a display in itself, pushing her frame to its limits as she squeezed down into a crab most muscular, bringing her arms forwards with such intensity that her veins visibly rose to the surface of her skin. Grunting softly, she felt the veins in her forehead also make themselves known, close to bursting like blisters from the exertion.

A bicep flex next, simpler yet just as intense as the crab pose. Seemingly as if they were their own life forms latched onto it, the veins in her arm squirmed and danced like worms in dirt, writhing fiercely, crisscrossed like a lattice. It wasn’t long afterwards one of the veins decided to take a little trip, snaking along, around and twisting down her arm like a snake coiling around a vine.

The Russian had reached a point where she was half intrigued and half disturbed by Priscilla’s silent and blatantly perverse observations.

Maintaining the bicep flex, Masha raised her other arm to match it, with a level of power and strength Priscilla sought to not only match, but dwarf. Masha seemed to have become empowered by Priscilla’s dare, pushing her body further than it had ever gone before, to the point where she could quite literally feel every muscle in her body push, pull, squeeze and grind against itself to urge them all forth and rub against her skin for just a few short seconds before softly receding, albeit with a sharp pain.

The display ended. Masha was pleased she was actually able to push herself that far without any serious injury, especially considering it was something she hadn’t done before. And yet, Priscilla merely looked on with an expression not dissimilar to disappointment. The fact was she expected so much more from someone considered the most muscular woman in the world.

“Is that it? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was still enjoyable to a degree, but I didn’t even get off on it.” Priscilla didn’t care she was so open at this point, her disappointment getting the best of her. “Granted nothing gets me off, but I was honestly thinking you’d be different. How could I be so stupid to think that? Fuck!”

Masha observed Priscilla carefully, not sure what to do or say at this point. She did what was asked of her, so surely what happened now wasn’t her fault. But generally, obviously, Priscilla was never one to admit the blame was hers, always pointing the finger at others. Masha would hate for things between her and Priscilla to get off on the wrong foot, so decided to take matters into her own hands.

She straddled Priscilla without giving the heiress much room to react appropriately, staring into her eyes. The Russian’s grin may have been slight, but was well-intended.

“What’re you doing?” Priscilla asked, taken aback by Masha’s blatant control of the situation.

“You see muscles. Next you touch. Part of routine.”

It all felt so obvious. Priscilla didn’t know where to start. Biceps? Legs? The jutting traps? Tombstone-thick pecs? To Priscilla, Masha felt like a living, breathing candy store full of delicious options. Realizing Priscilla was not just lost for words, but lacked the strength to make a decision on her own terms, Masha helped make one, her eyes sparkling as she took Priscilla’s hand and placed it to her chest.

Priscilla gasped profusely. “Oh my. It’s so thick!”

Masha flexed, compelling her pecs to bubble and roil in their efforts to pump up larger, striations starting to visibly show themselves under her minimal fluff. Using a hand, she guided Priscilla’s other hand down to her monstrous, far thicker thighs. The Russian giggled as she felt Priscilla’s hand shamelessly glide past her thighs to squeeze her ass, biting her lip.

“You like?”

“Definitely,” Priscilla returned softly with a blush. That was enough to get the point across. Masha moved up closer so the girls’s lips were parallel to one another. They paused, the breath from their exhales touching one another’s skin in a seemingly fated attraction. They both wondered, should they kiss just to see what would happen. An experiment more than anything, so it certainly wouldn’t hurt, their lips merely inches from touching.

But Masha pulled away at the last second, turning her head to hide the shame that hung over her. Masha knew it was best to refrain from developing a relationship with Priscilla beyond her expected professionalism. It would certainly prevent Anatoly from bursting into a fit if otherwise came to pass. But she couldn’t hide her blushing.

“Net. We keep relationship professional, da?”

“No, of course. You have standards to maintain.” Priscilla, predictably, was disappointed by the Russian’s sudden change of heart. Some would even go so far as to say she was angry, veiling the response with a modest yet feigned smile.

Masha returned the favor, happy in knowing Priscilla was able to take the rejection so calmly. Masha didn’t have anything against the girl. She was certainly pretty, with her long flowing golden hair, sparkling light teeth, perfect, blemish-free skin, soft-spoken voice… If anything, Masha had more cause to be jealous than Priscilla had to be angry in being rejected.

If only Masha knew Priscilla had a tendency to disproportionately hold grudges over the slightest thing.

“We start tomorrow, da? Six o’clock. How you say, bright and early.”

“Absolutely,” Priscilla returned, still brimming with discontent over her rejection. If there was one thing she knew about her rage, it would be used to her advantage in her quest to grow. When large enough Priscilla would turn Masha’s head for sure, which was when things would certainly turn interesting.

She wanted—needed to taste the Russian.

[Amnoartist]

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 8: From Calves to Cows

Masha never could grasp why people liked listening to Death metal music while working out. She could never hear herself think, never could tell if her innermost thoughts made sense because the incessant growling vocals and distorted guitar chords cut through her ears like a hot knife through butter. But it was what Priscilla wanted to play in the background whilst she trained to the Russian’s grueling workout program, which she took to rather easily.

“Da! Don’t forget to breathe.” Masha gave Priscilla a once over from behind, scrutinizing the heiress’s form for any inconsistencies or slack. Masha was determined to give Priscilla her money’s worth, so made sure not to treat her any different from other clients — before they eventually, predictably, called it quits. Some said Masha’s workout plan was just too extreme to manage. This was true to an extent, though she warned her regimens weren’t designed for people who wanted to simply lose weight, but for those who wanted to turn heads on account of being huge. Masha cupped her hands around Priscilla’s glutes. “Keep glutes locked. Exhale slowly. Good! Faster!”

Priscilla huffed, sweat pouring from her brow as she upped the treadmill’s speed to eight. The dainty heiress hadn’t worked out like this before. Until now, it was usually only Pilates or Plyometrics. Now a whole new world in the form of weightlifting had opened its doors to Priscilla.

“OK, stop for now.” Masha handed Priscilla a cool towel and an electrolyte drink. The two shared a proud smile for a moment before Priscilla glanced at her reflection, seeing a visible pump; her calves seemingly slightly larger than before, her veins risen to the surface of her skin like worms burrowed in the dirt.

Predictably, Priscilla couldn’t resist flexing, bringing her leg out to the side, mimicking one of the poses Masha displayed the day before. Convinced she had genuinely grown larger, a smile crept along her lips. Masha, like now, had seen that exact self-confidence several times before, though knew it was nothing but a pump that would be lost through rest.

The leg press was next. Masha had already set everything up the night before, setting the starting weight at just over sixty kilograms. A nice round number. Though judging by the expression she offered, Priscilla wasn’t exactly keen on how…undemanding it looked.

“Can’t you make it heavier? Like, I dunno…double the weight?”

Masha wasn’t sure if indulging Priscilla was a good idea. Even if the weight was doubled for just a few reps so the heiress could sample it, Masha couldn't run the risk of Priscilla harming herself. That wouldn’t reflect well on Masha going forward, especially when helping her ailing father hinged on her relationship with Priscilla. “Net, don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“You’re the second person to tell me that,” Priscilla warned with a deathly glare, reminded of her previous, ill-fated encounter with Peyton. “Usually, I don’t have to ask twice. Don’t make me.”

Masha took the hint. She didn’t want to take a chance with seeing Priscilla’s bad side for obvious reasons, yet also hoped fulfilling her command wouldn't skewer that relationship either. It was a tricky situation where Masha was damned if she did, damned if she didn’t. Taking several weight plates, she racked them onto the leg press with obvious reluctance.

Priscilla took control, gesturing with her hand for Masha to move aside. Grinning enthusiastically, the heiress took her place in the leg press and heaved a preparatory breath before making an effort to push the weight forwards, to no avail. Masha could tell from her wincing that Priscilla was obviously struggling. She had been warned and only herself to blame if she sustained an injury.

“Stop before you hurt—”

The leg press groaned, its weight pushed backwards, little by little at first, before, signaled by the obvious sensual moans from Priscilla, inevitably being propelled at an even faster speed. At this point it was obvious she no longer wrestled with the burdensome weight but worked with it at an even pace. Masha had never seen anything like this before - even with her curious genes it still took weeks, maybe even months — with a weight belt — before she could press such a heavy weight so confidently.

But the shock didn’t end there. It happened so quickly - only a few brief seconds; blink or turn and one would miss it. Priscilla rested her hands on her quads as she felt them quiver with growth under the press’s weight, biting her lip as the flesh hardened and filled out under the skin of her palms. As one might have expected, this allowed her to manipulate the weight all the quicker, lighter and easier to control with each passing second and growing inch. The more she grew, the easier it became for Priscilla to press the weight further outwards; the more she pressed the weight, the more she grew. It was a vicious cycle, a loop.

Priscilla chuckled, feeling her veins beginning to rise to the surface of her skin like a water geyser. “This is fun.”

All Masha could do was watch, frozen in place with equal parts disbelief and wonderment. She thumbed the rim of the weight plate held in her sweaty grip, contemplating whether to add it to the press.

"Put it on, you know you want to," Priscilla spoke with an all-too-suggestive wink. "In fact, put it all on. Let's make these cows of mine moo!"

Masha complied all too eagerly.

***

Pressing the mansion’s doorbell again, Detective Hart sighed, clearly exasperated. She’d already been waiting on Watson for the past five minutes, knowing he was home through contacting him only a short while ago. The young billionaire had already been told he wasn’t in any kind of trouble — at least, not yet — and that Hart only wanted to piece together some information he might have about an ongoing investigation. Of course, the Irishwoman kept her cards close to her chest and didn’t go into detail over the phone, rather preferring to keep that stuff for a ‘chat.’

Eventually, the mansion door was opened, strangely enough by Watson himself, seemingly timid, no older than the detective himself, his head low. Watson felt it strange how someone so wealthy as Watson opened the door himself and not have some lackey do for him. She flashed her badge sternly. Of course, it wasn’t the kind of law enforcement badge Watson had expected to encounter - a love heart, inside of which resided a small cross, flanked by spread wings — and he had half a mind to refuse Hart entry, but she still had the air of authority, reliability and trust.

Gestured in with a halfhearted nod, Hart strolled into the center of Watson’s mansion hall, an impressively large and alluring space with a diamond chandelier hung above portraits of family members past and a red carpet. As glamorous as the billionaire’s home appeared to be, though, it didn’t take Hart much to notice it was strangely quiet, lonesome even. There was no butler, maid or even a single security guard. One would think an individual so wealthy as Watson ought to at least have one of those.

“Mister grimes, oi’m ‘ere ter talk aboyt yer affiliashun wi’ Bright Life.” Hart moved into the living room and looked around. Seeing a pitcher of whiskey and a half-filled glass, it was clear Watson had either been drinking or planned to. This concerned the detective. Hopefully her inquiry would be fruitful given the billionaire’s questionable lucidity, not to mention her Dublin accent many felt was apparently indecipherable. “An ongoin’ investigashun points yer oyt as de receiver av a suspicious sum av money from de company.”

Watson knew this day would come, and frankly, he was going to embrace it with open arms. He was done with it all — Bright Life, the Avington Concern — all of it. He wasn’t even going to fuss about how Hart approached her inquiry. But even then he knew to get away from it wouldn’t be a walk in the park. They were watching. They were always watching. He could feel their invisible eyes on him now even as he shakily drank from the glass of whiskey to calm his nerves.

“It was all bribe money. Monthly installments first from the Avington Concern, then an increase from Bright Life once the Concern was swallowed up by it.” Of course, Watson’s explanation didn’t make much sense to Hart. How would a billionaire like him even need to take bribes in the first place? Did they have dirt on him?

“Oi don’t understand. Were yer in debt?”

Watson shook his head, chuckling mockingly. Of course Hart didn’t understand what he meant. It was all too big to wrap her head around. Watson tried, but that half explained the point of the bribes. He got too close to figuring out the truth. “No, I wasn’t in debt. I was being bribed to keep my mouth shut. Being doing it for years now. All part of some big fucking scheme, you understand?”

Hart watched Watson pour another fresh glass of whiskey and chug it. She was of the mind to seize the pitcher in an effort to keep him sober, but a part of her felt it just wouldn’t matter, believing Watson to be talking out of his ass. All the same, she indulged him. “Bribed? Scheme? waaat ye gettin’ at?”

“Priscilla. Been in a relationship with her for years. Or so I was told to be until a few weeks ago.” It pained Watson to know it was a bad idea to break up with Priscilla. She didn’t take neither rejection nor not getting her way all that well. He knew and warned them about it. Their response? Part of the plan. It chilled Watson down to the bone knowing that. “We’ve known one another since we were children, nine years old. The Concern then put me forward as Priscilla’s boyfriend when we were old enough, when she started…A seven-year-long relationship followed, ended over a phone call because it was all ‘part of the plan’.”

Watson winced, holding back his inner turmoil. The relationship he formed with Priscilla had started off with the two sharing no common interest, but Watson developed genuine feelings for her, completely off-script. Priscilla even reciprocated those feelings in turn…which eventually forced Bright Life’s hand and ordered Watson to end the relationship.

Despite the fact it dangled in front of her like a carrot on a stick, Hart felt no wiser to the information Watson fed her. What was he trying to say?

“Git ter de point!”

“She is the point! Priscilla’s right - she is better than everyone else. She’s just innocent to the extent of that superiority.” Watson growled. “Everything Bright Life’s been doing is about her. They’ve been setting the stage for her to do something for years. I’ve been trying to figure out what, but…”

Watson trailed off, suddenly gripped by paranoia, looking over his shoulder for Them. Even if they were watching, he mustered enough courage to flip back the rug and pry off a piece of floor paneling with his hands. After rummaging through the hollow floor, he pulled out several sheets of paper hastily stapled together before tossing them over to Hart.

“Read that,” Watson said, though the tone he expressed suggested it was more an order.

***

Priscilla’s right foot slipped free from the leg press, calves pumped and swollen to at least thrice their original size only in the space of fifteen minutes. Veins of varied thickness twisted, coiled, forked and zig-sagged across the full length of the girl’s leg, throbbing and bulging wildly as though they moved independently from the rest of her, had lives of their own, moving audibly under the ruggedness of her skin.

Masha watched Priscilla pull up from the machine and stand proudly with her hands on her hips before looking down at her quads’ engorged meat, pumped feverishly with blood to the point where her skin had turned lobster red. The Russian offered the quickest of glances at the leg press, the frame of its seat visibly warped, not sure whether it was due to the plates’ excessive 950KG weight, Priscilla’s rapidly mushroomed bulk….or both.

“Aw yeah, look at the size of these wheels!” A dull thud came from Priscilla slapping her leg for effect. It didn’t even budge, harder than rock. From a simple estimation, the Russian surmised Priscilla’s quads had to be easily forty inches, a twenty-six-inch increase over their original size in the space of what had to be only fifteen minutes, compared to Masha’s months and years. “If only that Peyton bitch could see me now.”

Priscilla gave herself a once over, pouting at the obvious contrast between her lower and upper body, twisting her leg around to flaunt the vein-crusted calf. How could she have been so calm and collected about her sudden physical change? She was so..sure of herself, filled with an aura of confidence. Masha realised this and prodded the situation further.

“Perhaps biceps next, da?”

“Great idea!”

Priscilla removed a few weight plates from either side of the leg press without any indication of struggle. In fact, Masha was convinced she saw the heiress’s arms fill out just a nudge more from simply carrying the plates over to the EZ-curl, watching her lock them into place like an expert.

Now accumulating a grand total of 480KG, the EZ-curl groaned as it was pulled upwards to meet Priscilla’s chest, which seemed to twitch and convulse gently as each rep was performed. Her porn star tits wiggled as Priscilla winced for effect when the bar was brought up for its fifth rep, her biceps continuously contracting. Eventually, Masha understood what was going on: while Priscilla worked her arms, her chest grew in tandem with it, melting away the natural fat that made up her breasts, forging them instead into thick bricks of pectoral tissue with each rep, filling out more and more, practically inflating like balloons.

“Oh God, the power! So much…”

The Russian gulped.

***

Hart skimming through the typed notes, charts, tables, graphs, not being able to make neither heads nor tails of them. There was an extensively labeled diagram of what was likely Priscilla’s body, giving a rundown of her internal organs, the mention of a rage-induced skin rash, something called Hyper-Excessive Metabolic Feedback. Even mentioned the lack of a womb. Surely Watson didn’t expect Hart to understand anymore than he did? If anything, she knew far less.

“Priscilla? She’s not even human, the result of decades of illegal experimentation.” When Watson discovered this the first time, he found it hard to believe, but eventually came to realize it was obvious, stared right at him. “She’s Bright Life’s Magnum Opus. But now they’re gearing up to use her for something worse. Or better. If there’s one thing I know about Priscilla, it’s that she doesn’t like being second best.”

“It says 'ere she doesn't 'av a womb. wus it removed?”

“No. A safety measure employed by Bright Life when they started ‘developing’ Priscilla. They have a vision set for her, obviously, so couldn’t run the risk of someone as…let's say 'important' as her reproducing.” Watson went back to his pitcher of whiskey but thought better of his intention to further inebriate himself. It honestly felt good to finally get all those thoughts and theories out of his head. “If you ask me, it’s a good thing they didn’t give her one. She’s already got an outrageous sexual apetitite that seems insatiable.”

The rather too personal details Watson was all too keen on sharing aside, Hart theorized Priscilla’s lack of a womb could actually be the cause of her supposed voracious sexual hunger. Hart further examined the next printout, a list of drugs on the market, the same drugs she found when digging through the Bright Life servers the day before. “Wha ye git dis informashun from?”

“Bright Life defectors. Some people who worked there thought they were actually doing good. Turned out to be a fucking lie.”

The drug Zevatonin was mentioned on the printout. Wasn’t that the market name for the monkey pills? Hart just had to be sure. “Zevatonin, what's dat?”

“The monkey pills you’ve heard about on the TV. Zevatonin, Empizine, Pazovatol, Anapan — all of it comes from Bright Life…from Priscilla. She is the monkey pills! The public have been mindlessly guinea pigging and buying up SDE pills laced with her DNA, and nobody's wise to it.”

Hart’s mind reeled with all this information thrown at her. She just didn’t know how to process it. Even then, Watson’s casual mention of SDE stuck out like a sore thumb, like it was bait. Hart was convinced ‘SDE’ had been mentioned several times when she searched through Bright Life’s servers.

“SDE. Ah've 'eard av dat before. waaat is it?”

Watson drove himself into a rant. “Self-Directed Evolution. Bright Life’s ideology that science can be used to directly influence one’s own evolution. They’re using Priscilla as a fucking pump to shoot out new pills to service their clientèle - the elite; the one-percenters of the one-percenters. If one think’s evolution involves being superhumanly strong, eerily attractive or have a snake-long dick, Bright Life would draw samples of Priscilla’s blood and turn them into pills that would allow for that. Could even make a pill that youngifies people if they wanted. A Bright Life For All. That’s their slogan.”

“Why Priscilla?”

“She is synthetic right down to every cell. They could take her blood and turn it into anything. Imagination’s the only limit.”

Hart couldn’t believe it. She’d struck gold with Watson’s apparent hoard of information, which dwarfed what she uncovered. Though she wondered why he sat on it all instead of exposing Bright Life for what they were doing. “If waaat you're tellin' me is true, waaat you've shown is rayle, i'll 'av ter take yer into protective custody.”

“No!” Watson panicked. It was bad enough already he shared what he had, courageous enough or not, without having to go into protective custody and blowing the whistle. He just couldn’t do that. Someone else would have to do it. Someone like…the detective. “They’re watching. Always watching, everywhere. You just don’t know it. If I say anything—Christ I already have!”

“Who, Bright Life?”

“No, the elite. In and outside Bright Life.” Watson sighed when he saw Hart unhook handcuffs from her belt loop. He was initially of the mind to make a break for it, but all the whiskey drinking had finally started getting the better of him - he wouldn’t even make it past the door.

Hart’s concern for Watson grew by the second. What could have driven this man to such a state of paranoia? She knew Bright Life was unethical, evil even, but the way Watson’s eyes shifted so quickly made her realize there was more to all of this than she thought and couldn’t risk him doing something reckless. As far as the detective was concerned, Watson was the key to all of this now. If something were to ever happen to him…

***

The EX-curl dropped to Priscilla’s feet, a mangled and twisted mess looped in and around itself reshaped into a pretzel. The plates had been flattened — judging by a hand’s visibly imprint, by force - bent inward or mashed together into a mass of metal. Beside the bar were the obvious remains of Priscilla’s gym clothing, burst and torn into threads of fabric small enough to be easily confused for confetti.

Priscilla still had her back turned, breathing in a matter not dissimilar to arousal. The heiress hadn’t ever felt this way before and yet, it seemed right….familiar even. Masha…didn’t know what to feel, reaching out—

Priscilla turned. This caught Masha off-guard, pulling her hand back. The Russian turned her nose up as a familiar smell filled the air, seemingly from Priscilla. Smelled like…banana? In spite of the curious scent, Masha had every right to be concerned right now, not because of Priscilla’s sudden…bloat in size — which actually happened to be something that turned her on — but her face: half of it was covered in veins that gently rose to the surface of her face, the same way they would do so when she was angry. Except this time they stayed and Priscilla seemed to embrace them. Or at least tolerate them.

“Priscilla…are you—”

Masha didn’t get the chance to fully express her concern, silenced by Priscilla pulling her arms up into a double-bicep pose, goading themselves slightly larger from just that simple action.

“Stage-ready?” It was clear she was unaware of the fact, but Priscilla’s voice had deepened slightly over the last few moments, smiling pompously at her reflection in the mirror. To think she used to be tiny compared to Masha. Now she’d ballooned to half the Russian’s size in less than an hour. “I’m going to rule the stage!”

Masha felt useless at this point. Not because she was suddenly dwarfed by a cute little blond in a matter of minutes, rather because she still had to find the money to help save her father. Of course, Priscilla’s mother Lily was still paying to be her friend, but it looked like Priscilla didn’t care much for that anymore. Or at all to begin with.

“Don’t worry, Masha. I’m sure I’ll still find a use for you.”

Masha’s heart fluttered.

***

Elsewhere in an undisclosed location, a dark figure watched Priscilla continue her workout through a holographic screen. At their side stood the family doctor feverishly examining Priscilla’s ‘impressive’ results, noting things down on a pad. Behind both him and the figure were scientific teams working with formulas of several colors in beakers, test tubes, joint flasks, separating funnels, petri dishes— the full works.

“We’ll be able to extract another blood sample momentarily.” The doctor cross-referenced the notes he made in earlier… ‘sessions,’ impressed with the marked strides Priscilla had been making. Truthfully, she was doing better than he hoped. Far better. In fact — which he was afraid to openly admit — she was doing too well.

“And the Russian?” The figure watched Masha’s hand touch Priscilla’s bloated chest in a matter not dissimilar to eroticism, seeing Priscilla return the favor before the two girls locked lips passionately. “What do we know about her?”

The doctor hesitated. He of course knew the answer to the person’s inquiry, but was reluctant to share it with them. The doctor knew it was a bad idea to hold back the information, but couldn’t shake the gut-wrenching feeling telling them would somehow be worse.

“We don’t know yet. Blood sample results from others usually come back merely minutes after they’ve been put through for processing, but..” The doctor trailed off and looked away with uncertainty, yet felt Lily’s eyes narrow and stare at him all the same. Sweat pooled at the pits of his arms. “…somehow we’re still processing hers. It’s…she is difficult.”

“Difficult how?”

“The processor - it keeps knocking back the sample, is under the impression it shares strands similar to Priscilla’s.”

The person swiftly turned to face the doctor, the only thing giving them away slightly was the small cloud of smoke from their cigarette. “But that’s impossible.”

“I know it’s impossible!” The doctor’s words were true. He built the processor himself, designed it to refuse duplication of any kind and scan DNA right down to the last cell, making every last one count. “Yet it happened. It’ll take time, but with a few code modifications--”

“We don’t have time!” The figure shook their head, not particularly pleased with the doctor’s words. They weren’t encouraging. Pulling back to continue watching Priscilla and Masha on the holographic screen, the couple now feverishly exploring one another’s bodies, the figure glared angrily at Masha, listening to her warbled giggling.

“Who the fuck are you?

[Amnoartist]

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 9: There’s Always A Bigger Fish

The light buzzing above him, Watson took the coffee cup from Hart and positioned herself on the table’s edge, examining him closely, still paranoid as ever despite being reassured countless times already he’d be safe at the station.

“Let's backtrack a wee bit. Earlier yer mentioned somethin' called de Board.”

Watson seemed to flinch at the mere raising the subject of the Board. It was obvious he’d regretted ever mentioning it to Hart, but it would likely have been worse not disclosing its criminal existence.

“What about it?” Watson inquired with obvious resentment, sipping his coffee.

Hart rolled her eyes, expecting Watson to have caught onto her insinuation. “Give me names.”

“Andrew Donovan. Madalyn Palmer. Avery Lott. Edward Barker. Scarlett Lee. Irene Mercer.”

Hart noted the names down on a pad. Not a single name was familiar, yet they all sounded a bit…conservative, or at most rich and successful. “Oi take it dees people muk de Board?”

Watson nodded. “There’s also Bright Life’s CEO, Tam Jae-Yong, and his wife Cho, but neither of them are officially listed as part of the Board.”

Hart looked at the list again, wondering which name should she pluck out from it to grill Watson over. He seemed particularly jumpy when this Irene Mercer was mentioned.

“Waaat can yer tell me aboyt Irene?”

Watson winced, as if mentioning Irene bit into his soul. “Geneticist. Owns the Sanford Group. More than half of Bright Life’s scientific workforce comes from her. She’s twisted. Has a penchant for splicing DNA from various animals to see how they look. And that’s a hobby.”

“Not in any way affiliated wi' de surgeon oi kep seein' in dohs videos?”

Watson scoffed. “No. I do know who you mean though.”

Hart cocked a curious brow.

“It’s Priscilla’s father. That whole family lawyer thing’s just a front. Wouldn’t be surprised if he experimented on Priscilla, for whatever fucking reason.”

Hart’s response was a deadpan stare.

“Think about it. I already told you her blood’s being used to make those damn pills. But why? People don’t do shit for no reason. Especially crazy people.”

“Why wud he use 'er?”

His handcuffs scraping off the table, Watson pointed at Hart with a smile. “Now you’re asking the real questions. He’s obviously using her for something, so…what does he have that he doesn’t want Priscilla to see?”

“'Oy wud she react?”

“Exactly!”

Hart slumped back a bit, riddled with disbelief as if she had been struck with a major revelation.

“But Priscilla?” Watson pressed a finger to his forehead. “She’s not right in the head.”

***

“Should we invite Elliston Goldschild too?”

Sat at her office desk, Lily was up to her neck in preparations for the Avington Concern’s annual gala. Food, entertainment, invitations — she had to organize it all. Her husband Warren usually took this particular matter into his hands, knowing whom to invite for appearances’s sake, whom to avoid and whose hand to shake. But with him being elsewhere, helping the Jong’s with their work, Lily was close to screaming from her pent-up stress.

At the opposite end of the room, using a smaller desk, Anatoly used his laptop to organize the party’s layout with CAD software. His job was easier than Lily’s but just as stressful, knowing it needed to adhere to certain parameters.

Dayna stood behind Lily, massaging her shoulders to help alleviate this stress. The bespectacled assistant was particularly good with her hands, her lover’s shoulders gently, teasing her almost. “I’m not so sure. All he ever does is tell the same stories, and they’re boring after you’ve heard them a hundred times before.”

Lily crossed Elliston off the list. “Desmond Muccino?”

Desmond Muccino was a high-profile sports activist turned professional bodybuilder. Just a couple of months younger her, he had Priscilla in his line of sight for years, but his chances were shot when Watson stepped in first. After that, Desmond focused on his sporting career until it predictably got to his head.

“He’s vain, never stops talking about his bodybuilding trophies. Besides, he’ll try to woo Priscilla again, which is something I’m not prepared to live through — again.”

Lily was just about to cross Desmond off the list when her office door groaned open, revealing a large throbbing calf.

Priscilla and Masha.

On most occasions Lily would protest over her daughter’s unannounced entrance, but in this case she was far too busy staring at her hyper-muscular frame with a dropped jaw.

“H-h-h-how—”

“Seems my body’s far more responsive to physical development than we all thought.” Grunting forcefully, Priscilla just couldn't resist pulling herself into a crab most muscular, her muscles creaking and ever so slightly growing from the pressure. Masha watched with doe-like eyes. “And it’s all thanks to Masha here for pushing me.”

“But…you’ve only had the one workout! How is…” Lily’s head spun, not being able to comprehend any part of the revelation presented to her. “You haven’t been using anything illegal, have you?”

“The only thing that ought to be illegal is how fucking hot I look.” Priscilla’s words were spoken plainly, but there was the obvious habitual tinge of vanity sprinkled on top of them.

“I’ll say,” Dayna shamelessly acknowledged. Though perhaps it was her erection that helped do the talking, poking through her trousers. In any case, she noted Lily’s obvious disdain for having been so open.

“Da.” Masha didn’t even bother trying to hide the fact she was groping Priscilla’s glutes, who returned the favor by teasingly flexing them, pushing the Russian’s hand outward.

“Oh, Masha, while I remember. Your first paycheck will be sent out to you on Friday. Your parents’s medical bills for this month should be cleared that day too.”

“Thank you!” Masha beamed.

Only then did Lily see what Masha was doing, making her realize something. She wasn’t one hundred percent certain but felt the need to broach the possibility of her being right. “Wait…are you two—”

“Yes, mother, we’re in a relationship.”

It turned out Lily’s presumption was right, but even then to know it was, still stung. Lily knew Priscilla had a tendency to take basically whomever she wanted as a lover, on most cases having several, but she had never anticipated to take someone like Masha, a mammoth, abnormally strong woman. But Priscilla had her reasons.

Anatoly looked at Masha solemnly, perhaps even with the slightest bit of a broken heart.

“Oh. Then in that case I wish you two the best of luck.” Lily smiled before feeling Dayna squeeze her shoulder slightly, as if using that as an indicator, a signal. “Then in the spirit of breaking news, I suppose I should issue some of my own.”

Priscilla didn’t react accordingly, but wasn’t particularly happy about the fact her mother had news to share as well. It was supposed to be about Priscilla and Masha. It was supposed to be about Priscilla.

“Priscilla…” Lily leaned back, pressing a hand to her belly. “You’re going to be a sister.”

Priscilla only just managed to bottle up her urge to scream, glaring resentfully at her mother’s hand pressed to her blouse. Her eyes green with envy, begrudging the mere fact she was no longer an only-child. The attention Priscilla so perversely craved and lived for would now either be split evenly between her and her sibling, or given in its totality to Lily’s expectant child.

Masha took Priscilla’s hand and squeezed it affectionately as she noted the veins starting to sprout from the heiress’s cheeks, calming her.

“Who’s the father then? It’s not him,” Priscilla pointed to Anatoly, “because he’s only been here a few days. Dad hasn’t been here in months, and Jeeves, as much as you fuck him on the side, can’t shoot for shit!”

“Ahem,” Dayna expressed.

Priscilla rolled her eyes. “Should’ve expected it to be you, what with that third leg of yours.”

“Third leg? I do not know this,” Masha innocently confessed. She looked to Anatoly for help, who simply gestured down to his crotch in silence. Even though he knew the circumstances concerning Dayna, Anatoly had no idea she was capable of fertilizing a woman. One could still see the shock in his face even as he illuminated Masha.

“Dayna has cock? Is she man who dresses as woman?”

“No!” Anatoly gestured for Masha to wind down. “Shh!”

In spite of Masha’s innocence to it, Priscilla decided to stick with the matter at hand. “And what about Dad? What happens when he finds out?”

“You said it yourself, Priscilla. Your father hasn’t been here in months, hasn’t so much as touched me in months.” Lily and Priscilla had a brief standoff, staring at one another in the hopes that one would break off and blink, but there was something about Priscilla that— she was uncharacteristically far more confident than usual, Dayna, Anatoly and Masha couldn’t see it, but Lily did. And frankly it frightened her. “I’m a young woman with womanly needs. And you’re right, Jeeves does shoot blanks, but he’s no different than your father, if I’m honest. But Dayna. Dayna’s always ready for a fuck.”

Lily stroked Dayna’s bulge which seemed to swell to the mother’s touch.

“Young woman,’ Priscilla mocked. “Please, stopping trying to believe your own lie; I’ve seen you pop those little pink pills. Take them away and they’ll see the real you.” At this point it was obvious Priscilla was openly divulging family secrets, but it was just as obvious she didn’t give a shit.

Lily knew exactly why Priscilla was so antagonistic. Hand-in-hand with her obvious insecurities, it was rather embarrassing. “We’re having this baby, Priscilla. That’s the end of it.”

“What if it’s a little freak? What if you think it’s a boy and it’s actually a—”

“—Futanari?” Dayna cut in with a shrewd grin. “Your mother and I discussed this and we’re perfectly OK with that.”

“Oh my God!”

“It’s not all about you, Pris—”

“IT SHOULD BE!” Priscilla swiped the ornaments clean of her mother’s desk, only just narrowly missing the laptop.

Lily reached out, slapping Priscilla hard across her face. The veins across her cheek returned with a frightening vengeance, squirming and roiling as Priscilla retorted by simply glaring, the slap’s outline distinctly prominent. Lily panicked, seeing both it and the tear running down her daughter’s cheek. Reaching out, she hoped—

Priscilla swiped her mother’s affectionate hand aside. “Don’t…touch me,” she threatened through barred teeth.

“Priscilla, I didn’t—”

Pulling Masha away with her, Priscilla slammed the door shut as she left, leaving Lily riddled with regret.

An awkward silence fell before Anatoly chose to break it.

“If it’s of any consolation, congrats on the baby.”

Lily rolled her eyes before turning back to the invitation list, though couldn’t fight the pangs of worry that came with Priscilla’s blatant jealousy.

***

Sweat trickled from Reagan’s brow, nerves crippling her. She and Natalie had finally made it to their destination, an hours-long trip from London to somewhere up North that wouldn’t at all be mistaken for somewhere in the countryside. The duo may have been glad to arrive, but again, the trip was long; Reagan’s free leg ached and she was pretty sure the nuts and bolts on her braced leg were stiffening up.

“Did they have to be so far out?” she complained.

“They have their reasons,” Natalie responded, knocking on the Whitewood door. Unlike her redheaded partner, Nat wasn’t wracked with nerves, but even then felt the slightest bit of worry crawl up her spine. What if this trip was a waste of time? What if they didn’t want to listen to—

The door unlatched, groaning as it opened to reveal a woman not all that different from Reagan. She was slender, an obvious contrast with Reagan’s freakish bulk, but the rest of her was eerily similar — a redhead, green eyes and even the same height. Though, as Reagan came to realize upon looking down at this doppelganger’s blouse-covered belly, it was obvious she was pregnant.

The homeowner spoke with a softer tone than anticipated, or at least not so deep as Reagan’s, whom the woman’s words were obviously directed at. “What are you doing here? Nat, I thought you said she was going to sat away.”

Reagan offered a suspicious glance to Natalie, realizing she was obviously hiding something, but the brunette didn’t react to it.

“Just hear me out, Kait. This was her idea. And we’ve come a long way.”

Natalie had hoped Kaitlyn would see reason, though it was obvious she was hesitant. But that was before she noticed the brace on Reagan’s leg, feeling a sense of pity.

“He might not like it.”

“You don’t know that,” Natalie acknowledged.

A moment’s silence pierced the dusking air, almost as if a standoff between Natalie and Kaitlyn had kicked off. Reagan watched in silence, going back and forth in her glances at both women. It reminded reminded Reagan of her own confrontation against Natalie — something she wasn’t particularly keen on being reminded of.

“Who is it?” came the voice from inside the house. Reagan recognized it but didn’t react.

“It’s her,” Kaitlyn answered, her stare unwavering.

Silence again.

“Let them in,” the voice called.

Kaitlyn had hoped he wouldn’t let Reagan in, but it wasn’t her decision to make. Rubbing her temple defeated, Kaitlyn gestured for the new arrivals to enter. Natalie and Reagan wiped their shoes off the welcome before taking them off.

Natalie took a moment to look around the hall. Without having disclosed to Reagan, she’d been here several times before to check up on how they — how he was doing. But something was out of place. There should’ve been a wheelchair by the door. Perhaps he was already in it. But then, the crutches were gone too.

Reagan chose to sit at the pouffe nearest the window. Her decision to sit there was strategic — in case a argument between her and Kaitlyn broke out over whatever. The redhead knew she wasn’t welcome. Natalie was different. She sat at the couch with Kaitlyn. It was obvious the two of them had a history together, no doubt over the two years Reagan was a drooling mess in hospital.

That was when he came in. Reagan’s heart jumped at merely his presence, honestly never expecting to see him again — standing, for that matter. It was obvious Reagan and Natalie by this stark revelation.

“Dale? How are you—” Natalie blurted out, overcome with shock.

“—Walking?” Dale moved to the armchair opposite the couch, sat down and crossed one leg over the other. With the smile he presented, It was obvious he enjoyed being able to do that, now that he could — again. “Bit of a story behind that actually,” he added, conscientiously pulling his leg down when he noticed Reagan’s leg brace.

As interested as she was in this ‘story’ Dale mentioned, Natalie bringing Reagan to him wasn’t to hear it, especially considering the doctors at the hospital admitted he wouldn’t ever walk again. Natalie brought Reagan so she could at least attempt in mending fences between Dale. The fact Kaitlyn was pregnant didn’t add up either, considering his appendage was supposed to have been crushed under Reagan’s weight when she—

Kaitlyn left, entering the kitchen.

Reagan was quick to note Dale hadn’t properly acknowledged her presence. Was it out of contempt or something else? In any case, it hurt Reagan to know she was there but not being noticed, to just sit there and take up space in a stranger’s house and breathe their air. Though, thinking about it, perhaps this was what Reagan deserved.

“You remember Kaitlyn was my charge nurse when I was recovering after Reagan had her…accident,” Dale began. Natalie already knew the story of how Dale and Kaitlyn met, being there the day it happened. Now she was just hoping to learn how it was related to Dale being on his feet again. “Eventually, the two of us became friendly. Actually, a bit more than that.”

Kaitlyn returned with a tray of drinks, setting them down on the table in the middle of the room.

“When I was discharged, you know Kaitlyn and I decided to move in together, here. Of course, in hindsight we didn’t realize just how much of a bother the bills were gonna be, and with me not being able to work, we were close to selling the house only a year after buying it.”

This was information was new to Natalie. She had no idea just how tight-lipped Dale was about the situation. He should’ve said something! In point of fact, she was about to there and then, but Dale continued his story.

“Of course, in the middle of all this we were rather foolishly trying for a kid. I knew my dick was spent, but Kaitlyn was persistent. I didn’t want to lose what little I had left.”

She smiled.

“So what did you do?” Reagan leaned in closer, powered by curiosity and intrigue.

Dale reached over to the small drawer at his side, opened it, and pulled out a leaflet, handing it over to Reagan. The pamphlet was in relation to a new therapy trial from the Sanford Group, in partnership with Bright Life. The front of the pamphlet showed a man holding his pregnant wife’s hand, while she cupped her belly with her other hand. At the pregnant woman’s right side was a bespectacled woman in a white lab coat with white-grey hair, easily in her fifties.

“Headed by some woman, Irene Mercer I think her name was. It was a six-week trial. Physical therapy, a couple of injections here and there. Very experimental and risky, but before I knew it, I was on my feet again. I don’t even feel like me anymore. I feel better. Pay was great. Hundred thousand per week of the trial, which we used to pay the bills.”

“And after that..” Kaitlyn eventually cut in with a smile. “…Well, I won’t be ashamed to admit it, but we had sex for days. Riotous, sweaty, back-breaking sex.”

“Oh, um…that’s cool.” Natalie turned away from Kaitlyn, hiding her obvious discomfiture. It was then she noticed how out-of-place Reagan felt. She was here for her own reason and hadn’t a chance to even squeeze it in yet. Noticing the empty glasses, Natalie saw an opportunity. “Say, uh, you want a hand with the glasses, Kait?”

“Sure.”

The two girls parted, leaving Reagan with Dale. Not a single word had passed between them for a whole minute. If not for the clock, there’d be total silence. The truth was, Reagan didn’t know what to say. That wasn’t entirely true. She knew what to say, but the words were struggling to surface. Reagan thought back to her polygraph interview with Detective Hart, about not knowing if she raped Dale.

She did, and knew it too. The reality was Reagan didn’t want to admit it — because that wasn’t her. The muscled freak that crippled Dale wasn’t Reagan — it was a monster that walked in her skin. The real Reagan wasn’t even capable of thinking about such an act of violence.

The words — they struggled to come, but the silence between them was an even greater struggle.

“Dale, I—”

“I know. That wasn’t you. We both know that.”

Tears welled from Reagan.

“But you have to understand. I have a life here now. I’m able to walk again. I’m due to be married to a very beautiful woman and I’m going to be a father.”

Reagan nodded, understanding. They were going to part ways, on far better terms than before.

“I hope there’s someone out there for you, Reagan,” Dale continued. He reached over and kissed her on the cheek and smiled. “I really do.”

Natalie peeled in from the kitchen door. She had, of course, heard every word from Reagan and Dale’s exchange, watching Reagan wipe the tears from her cheek.

“You OK?”

“Yeah,” Reagan responded in a broken voice, forcing herself to smile ash she sniffled.

“She’s definitely smaller than I remember,” Dale remarked.

Natalie and Reagan chuckled softly.

***

The handcuffs rattled. Her breaths were slow — calm yet eager.

It had taken some convincing, but Masha eventually succumbed to Priscilla’s desire to try something new. At least to her Russian lover. Laid on the bed backside up and blindfolded, Masha listened to the heiress’s indecipherable mumblings as she perused the drawer in the room’s corner, a delicate hand brushing the many tools of the trade — a ball gag, rope cat-o-nine tails, aluminum dildo, horse crop. Everything.

The truth was Priscilla was so spoiled for choice she didn’t know what to pick. She also had to consider making sure what she did opt for wasn’t something Masha wasn’t keen on. Picking the dildo up, Priscilla postulated whether that was a good start. A nice, smooth texture, easy to use. Pouting, she placed it back into the drawer and chose something else.

The high-powered clit pump. That had been used several times in the past by the heiress, usually only for self-pleasure when her other former lovers weren’t ‘doing their jobs right.’ But Priscilla thought to use it for a different reason this time, postulating if a curious outcome was possible, having not used it since she started growing muscular, so wondered—

Rustling. Something clicking into place. Masha wondered what to make of it but couldn’t stop herself from giggling with anticipation. “What you do?”

The pump clicked itself into action, whirring softly at first as it massaged Priscilla’s genitalia, before she was emboldened by its power to crank it up a notch…and again. The heiress wasted no time in seeing if her experiment would be a success, looking down at the pump to not only see her clitoris start to engorge itself to almost twice its original size — then thrice that size too — but veins burst forth from it as well, snaking up and along her midriff, bulging obscenely before, yes, her experiment started bearing fruit she desired.

Running her hands down her quads, Priscilla felt their respective muscles brush and push against her palms in their growth induced by the sex toy, visibly swelling their successful attempt to take up more space. Smiling perversely, the pump’s pressure was cranked up once again to its highest level, instantly forcing the heiress’s clit to not only grow again, but bloat to such a state that its flesh pressed and cracked the pump’s tubing until the device fizzed, indicating it had blown out.

“Everything OK?” Masha queried, hearing the rustling again as the pump was removed and nonchalantly discarded.

“Everything’s fine.” Priscilla couldn’t resist staring at her freakishly engorged clit, seeing it visibly throb before thumbing it tenderly, soft to the touch. It must’ve been as wide as her index and middle fingers together, yet thrice as long, near enough doubling as a cock!

Priscilla turned back to the drawer, pulling out the crop and swung it around a few times for a test. She knew it would be perfect, eyeballing her bicep curiously swell slightly larger upon its own accord.

Smiling, Priscilla brushed the crop off Masha’s bare glutes before striking her — hard! The Russian merely giggled. This…was something Priscilla hadn't expected.

“Harder,” Masha ordered.

Priscilla raised a brow curiously, cocking a half-smile. Tightening her grip on the crop’s handle, she prepared herself.

The second strike came, this time peeling raw skin clean off Masha’s butt. She yelped, prompting Priscilla to uncharacteristically panic and stop.

“Oh my God, are you o—”

“Again!”

And it eventually dawned on Priscilla. Masha liked it. Brushing the crop off the Russian’s glutes once more, seeing the slightest trickle of blood flow down the crack of her ass, the heiress smiled before leaning forward, whispering softly into the Russian’s ear, a finger teasing her slick pussy.

“Beg for it.”

“Beg?”

“That’s right, beg for it. Beg me to whip you harder. I want you to scream out the words like your life depended on it.”

Masha wondered whether she should follow through, though remembered why she was here in the first place: to help save her father.

“PLEASE! HIT ME HARDER! AS HARD AS YOU CAN! DON’T HOLD BACK!”

Pulling back up, Priscilla smiled.

The third strike came, harder. Then the fourth, harder still. The fifth. Each hit made Priscilla’s clit pulse frenetically, was fueled by the intense jealousy Priscilla had for her unborn sibling. It was always about Priscilla. Always.

Another strike, imaging this time it was dealt out to Dayna. Then her mother, followed by heaved breaths. Again, again and again, never ceasing to increase each hit’s power.

Again, constantly, Priscilla going back and forth between imagining Dayna or her own mother taking Dayna’s place.

[Amnoartist]

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 10: Infanticipating

Warren Avington observed the expectant young woman through the two-way mirror attentively, watching her sign the NDA handed to her by a clerk. Tapping his black oxford shoe off the tiled floor nervously, it was uncharacteristic of Warren to feel this way, but if everything didn’t go as planned, it would be his head on a platter.

To Warren’s side was Edward Barker, one of The Board’s members — and the reason why Warren’s head was threatened. Edward may have been several decades older, at well into his seventies, but he was a ‘no bullshit’ kind of guy and the closest to Tam Jae-Yong. Edward watched the young woman, a blond named Joanne, be guided into the adjacent room by the clerk, taking the NDA from her.

Warren and Edward moved over to the next two-way mirror and continued watching Joanne, stripping down to her lace underwear and bra to expose her pregnancy fully. Despondently she turned to the mirror in the corner and burst into tears at the sight of herself. Joanne wasn’t upset by the fact she was with-child. Not exactly, anyway. Rather, she knew it shouldn’t have progressed so fast — a few short weeks instead of the typical nine months. There was also the alarming issue of the thick black veins spreading across her navel.

Joanne’s sobs cut into Warren’s heart. He turned to Edward. “Are you absolutely sure we should do this? She thinks we’re helping her!”

Edward shook his head. He always knew Warren to be the sentimental type. Especially the circumstances surrounding Katherine. All the same, Edward also recognized Warren was too far into his work to backtrack now. Bearing in mind Joanne had also signed the NDA. “Boy, your sentimentality became null and void the moment she set foot in that room. Just as her right to leave did when she signed those papers.”

Joanne slid into a johnny gown and once again followed the clerk to the gynecologist examination table in the center of the room. The clerk offered the slightest offhand glance at the painting on the wall, knowing Warren and Edward were watching from the other side.

“I just don’t think—”

“No, Warren, you don’t. That’s the problem. You’re so stuck in the past that you can’t see the future even when it’s staring right at you.” Pointing into the room, what Edward referred to was of course Joanne’s freakish pregnancy, watching the veins across her navel pulse and thicken further, seemingly brought on by her evident panicking. “Irene’s work has helped us tremendously. You were right to bring her into the Board.”

A group of surgeons entered the chamber Joanne was in from the opposite side, clad in navy blue gowns and masks, a tray of of equipment in tow. Seeing the appliances, of course, only served to agitate Joanne further, wincing in pain as her child kicked hard enough to give her a bruise across the side of her stomach.

“It certainly is larger and stronger than the last one. Promising,” Edward commented.

Warren offered Edward a gaze not dissimilar to disgust. The older gentleman noticed it but didn’t react.

The head surgeon took Joanne’s hand comfortingly, assuring her there was absolutely nothing to worry about as he helped spread her legs. He’d done this many time before. She offered the slightest smile through all the pain. After a moment, the head surgeon nodded at one of his assistants to begin, producing a syringe from the tray and filling it with an orange-yellow liquid.

Joanne’s panic flared, compelling her child to kick once more.

“Nothing to worry about, Joanne,” The bespectacled head surgeon spoke. A soft-toned female with green eyes that were softer still. “It’s just going to be a little nick. It’ll all be over soon and your baby’ll be back to normal.”

“I’m not so sure I wanna do this—”

“I understand your concern. But it’s either you let me do this or the pain just gets worse as the baby develops.”

Joanne was understandably hesitant to now see the deed through. She had signed the NDA, but like anyone else, never bothered to read the fine print. What would be the ramifications in not continuing to the end? What would happen to her? The pain would just get worse, the surgeon said. But the needle— there was something about that damned needle that just felt off to her.

She had to make a decision.

The head surgeon glanced at the painting, through to Warren and Edward. Warren had hoped Joanne would make the right decision and not go through with the procedure. In the meantime, Edward had become increasingly impatient.

“Okay,” Joanne agreed. “Let’s do it.”

As the head surgeon took the syringe from his colleague, Warren sighed with regret, though it was completely overshadowed by Edward’s soft triumphant chuckle. It stung Warren. Edward stung Warren.

Joanne winced as she felt the syringe nick her genitalia, biting her lip in the attempt to mask the pain. It was fleeting, gone in only a few seconds and swapped for an almost euphoric sensation, a high.

But that was fleeting too, quicker even than the pain from the nick. Joanne felt different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she did as her hands ran down her belly to—

That’s when she realised it. Joanne’s belly was bigger, the pregnancy more prominent than before. Far more prominent than before. The veins across her navel had slightly thickened.

“What’s happening?” Joanne panicked.

“We’re helping you with the delivery,” the head surgeon commented, her voice still soft yet possessing an eerie layer of shadiness to it as she placed her gloved hand on Joanne’s belly as it grew under her palm. “It’ll be just a minute or two for that to happen.”

Delivery? Joanne didn’t want the baby to be delivered. She didn’t want any of this. She wanted— “I wanted it out of me! I didn’t want the baby.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you spread your legs, darling.” The surgeon’s voice had turned from its soft tones to something more sinister. “At any rate, it’s too late for that now. She’ll be here any minute.”

Edward gripped the railing in front of him, not even trying to hide his evident excitement regarding the situation. It was working.

It was working. Warren was torn over it. He had hoped it wouldn’t work for the reason that the Board would now be one step closer to its ultimate goal. Ironically, he hoped it would work for the same reason — because at least then his job wasn’t on the line. Warren eyeballed Edward staring at Joanne at the child within her kicked and writhed merely moments from its inevitable birthing, giving its mother-to-be even more bruises.

That was when things turned ugly.

The subsequent bruises were bloody, as if the child within Joanne was quite literally trying to bust its way out of her with its kicks and violent moving. She screamed bloodcurdlingly as her belly expanded further, stretching her skin to the point that it started ripping.

Edward’s expressions quickly shifted from excitement to shock then horror in merely moments, watching Joanne’s belly balloon, going from ripping flesh to exposing the raw bone underneath.

“Do something!” the white-haired septuagenarian board member yelled.

The assisting surgeons clawed at their equipment in attempts to help Joanne, but the head surgeon merely watched as her stomach continually bloated. But the way she watched implied it was something that had been witnessed before. The head surgeon was in the know.

There was nothing they could do.

Blood oozed from the corners of Joanne’s mouth as she cupped her belly watching a hand quite literally try clawing its way of her. The shrieks continued as Joanne’s genitalia burst, blood oozing from it and pooling at the floor. Even then her belly continued to swell, if only to—

A torrent of blood silently splattered across the two-way mirror.

Edward frowned. Warren panicked.

“I thought you said it would work this time?” the elder man queried through barred teeth, trying vainly to hide his justified anger.

“I didn’t,” Warren corrected him. “What I said was she could potentially survive longer than the last girl, which she did by a margin of three seconds.”

Warren didn’t expect what happened next, being casually throat-lifted by a man twenty years his senior. Edward’s strength was nothing like Warren had seen before by a man his age, his grip tightening like a vice around steel. In spite of his blurry vision, Warren could see Edward’s clothing shift and tear slightly to reveal abnormally muscular shoulders that definitely weren’t there before. As Warren’s eyes eventually came level with the overhead fan, it became clear Edward had grown several inches taller too, further evidenced by his bare ankles his trousers should otherwise have been covering. The question at this point for most people would’ve been how it was possible for Edward to express such a drastic change in physical strength and size so quickly, but Warren knew.

“Surviving longer means nothing if they still die, boy,” Edward said, tightening his grip still before his suit burst like confetti to reveal a bare muscular chest easily thrice larger than Warren’s own.

“I warned you: without Katherine this won’t work,” Warren responded between chokes, distinct bruises forming around his neck.

“And we all know what happened to her, don’t we?” Edward knew his response would cut deep into Warren’s soul. And that was the point. He wanted the ‘boy’ to know who was in charge. All the same, hearing the words caused Warren’s anger to flare up, compelling him to vainly kick Edward in the stomach. He didn’t even feel it. Instead, Edward only laughed before his abs contracted into a solid six-pack. “Priscilla was supposed to be the next one up, but she’s been failing us at every turn.”

“There’s another candidate,” Warren choked. “The Russian.”

“Your daughter’s little fancy piece? Hardly.”

“She has quadruple helix DNA.”

Quadruple helix? That was impossible and Edward knew it, but the sincerity in Warren’s words made him think otherwise. Besides, he had no reason to lie to someone who could crush the life out of his lungs without even trying.

Edward loosening his grip slightly. “We don’t want another Masha.”

“No, listen. We bond the helices. Masha’s quadruple with Priss’ triple. DNA samples from both.”

“The benefits to such a bond?”

“A god. If done right, we could quite literally create a god.”

The silence that followed seemed awkward at first, but Edward took the moment to think before finally letting Warren go, giving him a moment to catch his breath.

“I’ll take your proposition up with Mister Yong. We shall see how he feels on the matter first before deigning to dedicate the resources we need.”

“We have most of it here,” Warren mentioned, watching the cleaner crew mop up the blood and gather Joanne’s putrid ruptured remains. As the door to Warren and Edward’s flank opened, the head surgeon appeared from its threshold, removing her cap and mask and wiping the blood from her spectacles.

Irene Mercer.

“Well, that was an absolute fuck-up. Warren, I thought you said we’d be in for a success this time? The Board tires—”

“Yes, Irene. I’ve given him a firm scolding. But he does offer something curious in return. Something that might raise your brow.”

Irene’s brow was raised. “I’m listening.”

Warren didn’t waste time getting to the point. He wanted to make himself feel like the golden boy again. “Triple and quadruple helices. Can they be successfully bonded?”

“In theory, yes. But nobody’s ever been recorded to have a quadruple helix.” Irene’s curiosity certainly was piqued even at the mere theoretical mention of someone possessing a quadruple helix, not to mention bonding it with a triple. The implications of such a merge—

“I wouldn’t say that” was Warren’s casual response. He let the moment hang in the hopes that Irene would be able to catch onto his hint.

“The Russian.” Irene smirked. “But how?”

“All in good time.” Warren strived to maintain his position as the one on top in the current situation, so made sure not to divulge his only instance of leverage. “Can it be done?”

“Get me a sample of the Russian’s blood and I’ll do what I can.”

Edward raised his hand to get the others’ attention. Irene wasn’t even going to question her friend’s half-nakedness. She, like Warren, knew how. “What are the implications for such a bond with the helices. Warren here claims we might actually create a god?”

Irene scoffed. “I’ll say. It’ll make his dear Priscilla feel like a child by comparison.” She hung back a bit, not sure if it was best to divulge the rest of her theory. But Irene’s silence betrayed her as Warren and Edward caught onto it, looking at her. “Though, if my theory regarding the bond is correct, and if we’re going by the impregnation route Mister Yong insists upon, the delivery might be as violent as the one we just saw. The artificial wombs you’re developing in R&D might help solve that problem.”

“They’re not ready yet. We’re months away before human trials.”

“Push the date forward like you did with the Sandford Group’s new tech,” Edward not-so friendly suggested. “Trials begin over the weekend.”

Warren nodded. He didn’t even bother trying his hand at protesting. He knew his position — under the Board’s shit-smudged heel.

“It’s also worth mentioning that with the bonding might come some untoward changes in the embryo itself.” Irene’s warning only served to riddle Edward and Warren with confusion. “I’ll explain. With the triple helix DNA samples were injecting into the women currently through Sandford’s tech, the embryos gestate rapidly over several weeks, not the usual nine months.”

“So? What’s the point?” Edward queried impatiently.

Irene scoffed. “I’m getting to that. If we bond the triple helix with the even more powerful quad helix, the gestation period will be drastically shortened even further.”

“How long are we talking here? A few weeks less than with the triple helix?”

“No. I’m taking a birthing hours, even minutes after the initial impregnation.”

“I see no problems with that,” Edward mentioned. “If all goes well with the tests, it’ll likely be what Mister Yong would opt for.”

“I recognize that,” Irene commented. “Just something I felt might be worth mentioning.”

Edward nodded, turning to Warren. “You understand your next task then, son? Set up early trials for the artificial wombs, then do what you must to gather a DNA sample from the Russian.”

Warren merely nodded. He knew what the Board was doing was wrong, and what they planned to do was worse, but was in no position to come between it in any way. He was nothing compared to the other board members. Yes, he was a member, but didn’t share in the wealth that was Priscilla’s DNA for reasons moral. This was partly why Edward was so keen on branding Warren a boy — because he was nothing by comparison.

“There’s another thing,” Irene cut in abruptly. “If everything about my theory is correct — everything — then the bi-helixed fetus at birth will be several times stronger than what Priscilla is currently."

“Excellent news. Mister Yong will be pleased.” Edward glanced at Warren, who stood by him shakily. “Why are you still here? You have a task to attend to, boy! Oh, and if I remember correctly, your wife has a gala party during the weekend. Be sure to expect me there.”

“Yes, sir.” Warren marched off clenching his fist in seething, blinding rage not dissimilar to Priscilla’s own characteristic lashings, heaving his breath.

He knew.

Something had to be done.

[Amnoartist]

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 11: The Day Before

A deep, masculine grunt filled the space, thick squelches following suit to end with a dull, shaky thud. Empty pill bottles rolled off the counter, landing ungainly at her naked, vein-crusted foot. It twitched, it throbbed.

She moaned.

The newly-birthed veins in her knuckles twitched as her hand shook with a sense of necessity, reaching for the dripping syringe near the sink, a clear liquid not dissimilar to water filling it. It practically called for her, magnetizing the bloated shape that was more inhuman than one’s comprehension could handle, one’s imagination could generate, more muscle than person.

But she clearly couldn’t care less.

Grunting again, deeper this time — somehow — as she injected the liquid into her bloodstream, her arm already grossly disfigured by track marks, some of which were clustered by tainted, blackish veins dancing in anticipation of her inevitable expansion.

“Oh God! OH FUCK YES!” Her voice. It wasn’t even human anymore. More something else than what it used to be, transformed into something truly monstrous. The squelches persisted as her calves expanded outwards, skin and bone literally tearing and breaking themselves apart to ensure space for growth. The pain was unbearable, but the lust for size outweighed even that. Nothing meant anything to her except growing.

The veins traveled up her naked waist, splitting and forking off in various directions to cover themselves, somehow layering over one another thicker and more lively than those underneath, visibly and audibly swelling, pumping more of the drug through her system.

Her arms snapped like twigs, unable to bear the weight of her rapidly growing biceps pressing on her hips, pushing outwards to brush against the wall and chip away at the tiling like nothing. Her husky moans only deepened as her thighs rubbed together, vying with one another for space, her clit pulsing with inexplicable sensitivity.

She needed more. So much more. Impossibly more. Infinitely more. And her body willed it so, expanding further and wider until she filled the bathroom’s entire space, but even then continued to grow, moaning as her weight bored down on the floor, causing it to crack futilely like an egg, insignificant compared to her.

As distinctive rumbling boomed, she stared at her reflection in the medicine cabinet’s mirror, her visage so horrendously misshapen by constant hormone use that it was impossible to determine her identity. Not that it mattered. She flashed a smirk as a distinctive vein on her cheek throbbed, a mane of lush red hair flowing down her mountainous back.

“That-a-girl, Reagan!” she cheered.

***

It was Reagan’s own panicked exhale that woke her. Looking around, she familiarized herself with her surroundings, wiping sweat from her brow. Natalie’s spare room for guests and family. So it was all just a nightmare? What a nightmare it was too. She hadn’t ever experienced one so vivid before. A little too real.

Faint voices from beyond the door spurred the redhead on. Her leg brace clicking and clacking in time with her careful steps, she opened the door. The voices became clearer — three, all female, seemingly in the midst of a heated discussion.

Natalie’s voice was heard first. “I don’t need you to tell me what I can or can’t do with my time, Peyton. I chose to do the right thing. Those things are dangerous, now more than ever.”

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite. You know that?” Peyton retorted, her voice uncharacteristically gruff.

Reagan didn’t quite recognize the third voice. She was fairly certain she’d heard it once or twice before, a thick accent.

“Yer sister's roi. De monkey pills are jist wan piece av a bigger puzzle an' shouldn't ever be used.”

Peyton scoffed. She was passed caring. She’d made leaps in strength and size over the past few months that rivalled even Natalie when she was at her biggest. Ever since the siblings had become estranged over Natalie’s changes in loyalty, Peyton had become completely engrossed with becoming bigger. Natalie was the one who usually talked sense into her, but she was so focused on helping Detective Hart that she had no time to keep an eye on her now gargantuan younger sibling who sat opposite, her shadow effortlessly enveloping them both.

“Maybe if you two stopped tribbing on the side—”

“Peyton!” Natalie scolded. She couldn’t tell if that was just the pills talking or Peyton’s actual opinion. Maybe it was even both.

“Oh, don’t gimme that. Ever since she came in here, all you’ve done is exchange that doe-eyed 'I can't wait to go down on you' look. Tell me, Detective, is my sister good with her tongue? She ought to be, otherwise you’d have put her behind bars long before now over her own usage of the pills.”

Natalie slapped Peyton. She hadn’t ever done that before and felt predictably bad about it. Seeking forgiveness, Natalie reached out to Peyton, but she held her arm out to deflect.

“No, don’t...don’t do that.”

Peyton stood up to leave, her tight shirt ripping slightly at the sides from her heaved breath, then noticed Reagan at the bottom of the staircase.

“Did you up the game to threesomes a while back or what? And with her, no less.” Peyton queried with a hint of sharpness in her tone. Eyeballing the leg brace, Peyton couldn’t stop herself from letting out a stifled chuckle. “God, she’s a cripple?”

“Get out!” Natalie bellowed, pointing to the door.

Peyton scoffed. She’d gladly leave. Her booming steps reverberating through Natalie’s entire household, ornaments were knocked and rolled clean off the shelves, tea cups on the table at which they sat cracked into pieces on the floor.

With the door slammed shut behind Peyton, its frame cracking from the excessive use of her strength, Natalie could finally breathe. Then she sensed something. Something she never thought she’d haveFear. Natalie was scared of her sister because she reminded her of herself, reminded her of—

“Sorry you had to hear that. Here, take a seat.” Natalie was embarrassed Reagan had to stand through the little domestic moment.

“So, uh…what was that, back there?” Reagan sat adjacent to Detective Hart who rummaged through her handbag and pulled out a thick folder. She placed it on the table.

“Oh nothing, just some family domestic moment. Nothing to worry about.” Of course, Natalie told half a lie. There was nothing for Reagan to worry about, even if Peyton’s comment felt like targeted harassment. It was Natalie who had to worry, about Peyton, for Peyton. Seeing her act the way she did, be the size she was, only reminded her of her past transgressions. Everything Natalie had been doing with Hart for the past two years was to protect Peyton from such things. But how ironic it was, then, that Natalie focused so much on helping Hart that she never had time to spare to keep an eye on Peyton. “I got a thick skin.”

“But Detective Hart—”

Detective Hart had shut herself off from the argument between the two siblings. She didn’t have anything constructive to say that would help either of them. But the fact remained: Peyton was right. Hart and Natalie were in a relationship. That went against several police protocols. Natalie may not have exactly been a witness but that was besides the point. She helped Hart get this far with the case. If the station were to ever find out, they’d both be both in for it.

“Oi'm gran', 'onestly.” The detective smiled.

Reagan knew Hart was deflecting, but decided to drop it.

“Anyway, de reason why oi'm 'ere is cos there’s mar ter al' av dis than we both tart, Nat.” Hart gestured towards the folder, ushering Natalie to take and open it. A part of her implied she didn’t want to, but Peyton—

Natalie skimmed through the pages, looking at compiled data, quotes, tables going all the way back to the early 80’s. No, even earlier, as far as the 60’s. Mentions of ‘Self-Directed Evolution,’ whatever that was, started popping up as early as then, Bright Life, the Board. Priscilla. Everything.

“Where did this all come from?”

“Confidential witness. 'e's in protective custody roi nigh.

“What is the Board, exactly?”

“Witness calls dem de one-percenters av de one-percenters. they control everythin'.” Hart maintained her keen observation of Natalie reading through the reports, her eyes glued to them. It was obvious she was struck by all this information; it was like a goldmine. But at the same time, Natalie couldn’t believe just how much bigger this all was. The monkey pills that helped set her on this path - they were nothing compared to all the other stuff. “Names are on dare too,” Hart added.

“Got it. Andrew Donovan. Madalyn Palmer. Avery Lott. Edward Barker. Scarlett Lee. Ire…”

Natalie stopped, hesitant.

“Waaat is it?”

“I’m not sure…” Natalie turned to Reagan for reassurance. “Rea, didn’t Dale mention someone called Irene Mercer?”

“His physical therapy doctor?”

“Yeah, her! Sandford Group, physical therapy tech. She’s on this list. But that couldn’t be right.” Natalie’s heart fell to the pit of her stomach. Why would Irene Mercer be on the list? “Who is she?”

“Geneticist. De physical therapy doctor's jist a front.”

““Geneticist. A front? For what?” Natalie panicked.

“Oi 'onestly don't nu.” It pained Hart to have to admit that. She’d uncovered so much up until this point. “But Bright Life, de Board, de 'eiress lassy -- 'tis al' connected somehow.”

That was when Reagan connected the dots, remembering her visit to Dale’s.

“Kaitlyn.”

“What?” Natalie furrowed a brow in confusion.

“Sure, she was pregnant when we visited, right? Seemed pretty impossible for her to be in that state unless Dale’s therapy had something to do with it.” Reagan remembered Dale’s comments regarding the lack of pain he felt following the therapy. None at all. That wasn’t suspicious? “I don’t know if you noticed, but Kaitlyn looked further along than she let on. There’s no reason to lie about it, so….”

Natalie’s worry intensified. Between the new information presented to her in the folder and Reagan’s sound theory, she wondered what all of this could mean. She turned back to Hart.

“Tell me, what would a geneticist even want with a pregnant woman?”

Hart drew blanks.

“Fuck.” Panicking, Natalie stumbled out of the chair and grabbed her mobile. Four missed calls, all from Dale. Christ. Must’ve come through during the argument with Peyton. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She held the phone to her ear. It rang out, nobody answering. Maybe they were just busy. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. Maybe—

Click.

“Dale? Dale, you there?” Natalie could feel Reagan and Hart listening intently from behind, occassionally offering one another curious glances.

A stifled sniffle on the other end of the call. A soft cough.

“Dale? Everything okay?”

“I didn’t know what to do,” was Dale’s response. Soft. Broken. “It all happened so fast. It—she…”

“Dale,” Natalie panicked, gripping the phone tighter until its frame surprisingly cracked slightly in her palm. “Dale…what happened?”

“She…she burst. Right in front of me.”

The words hit Natalie hard. A shuddering exhale followed. Then a teardrop formed upon hearing Dale’s soft sobs through the phone.

“We’ll be right there.” Natalie ended the call, placing her phone back on the worktop.

“What happened?” Reagan asked.

Natalie sighed, wiping the tear away.

***

“How long’s she been at this for now?” Priscilla’s apparent bodyguard Owen queried, watching her power through her treadmill exercise, eyeballing her mountainous lats, her tight, slightly torn gym shorts matted with sweat. Her grunts of exertion were more a deliberate attempt at enticement than an indication of struggle, quads shaking in the wake of her nigh-thunderous steps. The pair of headphones layered over her ponytail played heavy metal.

Dayna stood at Owen’s side, equally mesmerized by the heiress’s apparent advancements in progress. She checked her gold watch. “She’s been at this for eight hours straight now.”

“What about the Russian?”

Dayna scoffed. She didn’t like it when Owen mentioned Masha. Perhaps it was jealousy. “Presently indisposed. Wardrobe malfunction, apparently. Needs something to wear for the event.”

“Shouldn’t she be helping Priss train?”

Dayna laughed out heartily, practically insulting Owen. She couldn’t believe he had the audacity to even think of the words that so carelessly rolled from his tongue. “Look at her.”

Owen did. In fact, he couldn’t bring himself to even think of looking away since he set foot in the home gym. To look away from Priscilla would be an insult. She’d upped the treadmill’s speed to fourteen, doubling the initial speed she started with all those hours earlier. And it didn’t look like she intended on stopping. Or at least resting. “I am. Intently,” Owen responded.

“Do you honestly think she needs the Russian anymore?” Dayna quipped. “She never needed her to begin with. All that was needed was a little spark of encouragement. The hairdresser helped with that.”

“The Peyton girl?”

“Exactly. If anything, Priscilla ought to train Masha at this point.”

The treadmill whirred to a stop, suddenly, catching both Owen and Dayna off-guard. Priscilla moved to the mirror wall, pulled her arms up into a double bicep pose and extended her left leg out to the side. Her legs may have done the brunt of the work, but her arms appeared to grow regardless, visibly expanding upwards with growth, her peaks climbing higher to reach their new circumference of what had to be sixty inches, a layer of veins coating them. The calf of her extending leg seemed to twitch in anticipation.

Then Priscilla spoke, but in a tone not characteristic of her, far more controlling, domineering than before. The single word she uttered, even in its simplicity, was enough to instill a sense of either fear or crippling obsession in the listener’s heart. It was hard to say which in this instance.

“Owen?”

He faced her reflection…visibly trembling. “Yes?”

“Kneel down before me — literally.”

Owen was understandably hesitant, looking at Dayna for advice. She just looked away.

Owen complied, if only out of fear of not knowing what would happen if he didn’t.

“See my calf? Squeeze it.”

Out of some weird, inexplicable need, Owen complied. Or at least to the best of his ability. No matter how much pressure he applied, Priss’ calf didn’t yield to his strength. Didn’t even leave a fingerprint. In fact, Owen’s hand was pushed backwards as her calf only grew from the pressure, thick veins squirming and writhing as they pressed against his palm.

Priscilla sighed contentedly, feeling her growth continue, the sound of her skin quite literally stretching in its attempt to better house her expanding self. Bone ground against bone, flesh tore itself to rebuild anew, only to cannibalize and repeat the process at a faster, more violent rate. Gentle moans of pleasure sounded to the pressured vying of Priss’ quads growing against one another for space.

“Feel me, Owen. The power of a GOD lives in this body! I see how it just wills itself bigger?” Priscilla moved aside turning to Owen, deliberately ignoring Dayna, the knowledge that she’d likely have put a freak baby in her mother still fresh in her mind. “I intend on putting on a show for the guests tomorrow night.”

“What did you have in mind?” Owen asked, his tone wrought with curiosity, desperate to know. Needing to know kept him alive at this point groveling at the girl.

Priscilla smirked. All in good time, she thought. “But Dayna here I think will be relegated to overseeing the kitchen staff. Might even want to help arrange the cream pies, since she’s so eager to give them to mother.”

“What! That’s not your decision to make.”

“Isn’t it?” The heiress warned coldly, her shadow looming over the three-legged woman.

Dayna glared but didn’t say anything else in the way of protest. Not that she needed to - her expression alone said a thousand words. This narcissistic, self-imposed God didn’t scare Dayna. It turned her on. The iea that someone could be so self-confident as to label themselves a God made the assistant hard in all the right places, but opted to hide her feelings behind feigned anger, jealous of Owen.

“Thought as much. Now if you’ll excuse me, these mini mountains of mine need some food.”

Dayna glared at Owen jealously as Priscilla walked off. It was clear Dayna didn’t see eye-to-eye with Owen at this point.

***

“You sure tape is big enough?”

“Yes, I’m sure the tape is big enough. Hold still. Try breathing in a bit, see if that’ll help.”

Masha inhaled, her abs pulling themselves inward and compressing against her insides in an effort to shrink her torso so Anatoly could do his job correctly. Wrapping the measuring tape around her waist, he hoped to the high heavens this would do the trick.

“Let’s see here. fifty-inch waist, with an extra seven inches to compensate for the inhale, so fifty-seven, twenty-four point nine inches calves—”

“Twenty-nine point four inches, you mean,” Masha corrected with a smile.

Anatoly chuckled. “Sorry, twenty-nine point four inches.” He knelt on one knee to take a measurement of her quads. Or at least he tried to, again struggling to get the tape around. Meanwhile, Masha took in her surroundings. Of course the Avingtons had a room completely dedicated to tailoring. Was there anything they didn’t have? The family tailor initially offered to help Masha size her up for the gala, but Anatoly was insistent he do it in his instead, knowing she’d feel safer if someone she trusted did the job. “Quads are fifty-eight point four inches. A six-inch increase since your last measurement.”

“That’s good, da?”

“Good if you wanna keep on growing, but bad if you wanna fit into an outfit for tomorrow. Just gives us more work before then. Your thighs could stop rubbing together, for instance.”

Anatoly’s point was valid and Masha knew that, hard to argue with. That was when he saw the scratches running down her back. In fact, they looked more like deep cuts. He traced his finger along one of them. Masha winced, recoiling.

“What happened?” Anatoly queried with concern.

“Nothing. Priss and I get little kinky last night. She use dildo.”

Anatoly heard Masha’s words, but, frankly, just didn’t believe them. Well, except the dildo part. “Masha, I know what ‘kinky’ looks like. It isn’t…this.” He traced another cut, deeper this time, causing the Russian hulkette to let out a small yelp. “This is pretty deep. You’re lucky she didn’t—”

“I’ll be fine.” Masha’s words were sterner than usual. Enough, even, to make Anatoly pull back a bit. She scared him. That hadn’t happened before.

She sighed.

“Okay, just…be careful. Don’t forget why you’re doing all this,” Anatoly reminded.

Her family. Her ailing father. He was the reason Masha was doing all this. Befriending, training and screwing Priscilla was all done in the hope of getting help for her father in the end. Her reward for doing so. But the traumatic reality was Masha had become so distracted by Priscilla that she’d forgotten why. That was until Anatoly reminded her.

She kissed him, their soft lips seemingly connecting naturally as though it was meant to be. The moment itself was short but there’d be no questioning its memory would be eternal.

Anatoly chuckled, blushing. “Why’d you do that? Why’d you kiss me?”

“For being there,” Masha said, smiling back.

***

The chef stumbled in his rush to serve Priscilla yet more food. His mind raced. How could she pack so much food in that body of hers? How was she so big? How was she still growing? He picked up a chicken breast off the floor and surreptitiously wiped any suspected dirt off with his double-breasted jacket, hoping to God no-one saw him. But even then he felt as though he was being watched.

Following her grueling workout, Priscilla had been eating non-stop. She hadn’t even bothered to wash, her smell ripe and pungent, wafting through the lounge. She burped between swallows, tore protein-stuffed chicken flesh from bone between burps, a seemingly endless cycle of caloric intake. She had to eat to maintain the divine body she’d built for herself. No-one was bigger than her, yet everyone was smaller, her muscles twitching and throbbing, pulling themselves outwards to somehow grow through the mere act of eating, skin stretching out account of the expansion’s consistency, shredding and building itself anew!

“MORE!” she bellowed, driving her fist through the table, its frame futilely cracking with laughably ease. Such a reckless yet casual display of raw power turned her on; she moaned. “Your goddess needs to feed!”

The clumsy chef arrived, placing the tray of chicken breasts on the table. He hadn’t had enough time to settle beside his colleagues before Priscilla stuffed four of the delicious poultry in her gaping maw, not even caring if she choked. Judging by the sheer size of her throat, though, it didn’t look as though she would. Or even could, for that matter.

Her mother stood by one of the family’s “doctors,” who simply marveled at Priscilla’s potential.

“How is she growing just by eating?” Lily queried with concern.

“An educated guess would be that she’s crossed yet another threshold,” the doctor answered confidently, watching the chair split and groan under Priscilla’s weight. “This just might be a symptom of the fact, however. Given that, we must seriously consider drawing another DNA sample for testing.”

“Are you sure it’ll even work? I mean, look at her. I’d wager her muscles are denser than any metal at this point.” Lily’s point was valid, but the doctor issued his assurances it would work as intended, regardless of her concern. “Even then, what makes you so sure she’ll comply? You heard what she’s been calling herself. Her ego’s through the roof!”

“It’s not a concern,” the doctor said with a strange certainty. “Besides, she’s too focused on her caloric intake to care.”

While there was still a part of her that felt it was a bad idea, Lily agreed with his plan. Clicking his fingers at a man huddled in the corner, as if in wait, the doctor gestured for him to ‘begin,’ watching him approach the still-gorging Priscilla who hadn’t even noticed. Her stomach growled loudly as he opened a briefcase, inside of which was a single, simple syringe. Taking the syringe in hand, he approached Priscilla hesitantly, her sweaty, ripe scent stinging his eyes as he leveled the needle with her forearm.

Lily watched on. Surprisingly, the syringe did, in fact, pierce Priscilla’s flesh, drawing and pumping blood into its small container. The syringe was then repacked into the case and the man left.

“Results should come back later in the week,” the doctor imparted.

“And the results from…?” Lily put a hand to her belly.

“Ah yes. DNA confirms you’re definitely carrying a boy. A big one at that A simulated timeline we put together suggests you’ll deliver by the spring of next year.” The doctor smiled. “Congratulations, Missus Avington. I’m sure you and     Warren will be happy.”

Lily smiled. A boy. She was elated. To think now she had the chance to finally be a proper mother. Sure, there was Priscilla, but…she was difficult to control. It was part of whom — what — she was. And there was the fact that Lily wasn’t—

But Lily couldn’t help but feel the gnawing feeling at the back of her mind. Priscilla was often times jealous over the slightest thing. Now that her mother was expecting — a boy, no less — there was no reason not to suspect Priscilla’s position as the heir to the Avington fortune would be jeopardized. Her father may not have sired the child in Lily, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to pass it off as his own, or rip the family fortune out from under him, keep it for herself, and give it to her eventual newborn when he came of age. Warren and Lily did love each other, but his passion wasn’t as fervent as it once was. Lily going so far as to cheat on him to get what she wanted was proof of that.

Lily pressed a hand to her belly, smiling.

***

It was the ambulance parked outside Dale’s that set the mood going forward. Its lights flashed in silence.

Natalie, Reagan and Hart parked the car they arrived in just behind the ambulance and disembarked. Natalie scouted for Dale but couldn’t find him. Maybe he went ahead to the funeral home to discuss arrangements for Kaitlyn’s body? Or he visited her family to mourn together?

“Natalie, over 'ere.” Hart stood near Reagan, who appeared to be hugging Dale, comforting him. Natalie couldn’t help with noticing the powerfulness of that moment, seeing them embracing one another. It was almost like they both still harbored feelings for one another.

“What happened?” Reagan asked.

“I dunno.” Dale heaved a breath to compose himself. Recounting the events to the trio, in the hopes that they might help better understand or know what was going on, would no doubt be hard on him. “One minute, we were having lunch together, watching TV. The next, completely out of nowhere, Kaitlyn complained about stomach pains.”

Hart noted Dale’s words down on a pad, almost as if she was taking a witness statement. Dale had already done that with the other detective who arrived earlier. But then he noted the trio of girls themselves. Natalie, Reagan and the detective. They were obviously together in some capacity.

“Keep goin’,” Hart urged.

“At first, I thought the baby was coming. But…” Dale trailed off. He knew. They all knew. It was as their minds and knowledge clicked in place all at once.

“It wus too soon for dat,” Hart finished, offering a knowing expression.

“Yeah. Then her belly just started bloating, inflating, creaking.” Dale pulled away, ashamed of his emotions for some reason. Yet there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Bolstering his emotions, he continued. “Then she just…popped. Burst like a grape skin. Oh god…”

Reagan gasped profusely.

“Where's de body nigh?”

Dale pointed behind Hart to the coroner, a lithe, balding man seemingly in his late-fifties, squatting next to the body bag on the lawn. Judging from his expression, it was clear he struggled with keeping his food in his stomach, no doubt repulsed by what was inside. He felt Hart’s approach, eyeballing the glinting police badge on her belt.

“Let me luk at de body.”

The coroner didn’t even protest against Hart’s command. What would be the point? She looked like one of those people who’d raise all Hell if someone dared to stand in her way. “Hope you have a strong stomach, girl,” he warned, unzipping the body bag.

The smell hit Hart first. A putrefied, acidic stench wafted its way up and through her nostrils, forcing her to gag, eye-wateringly powerful. But she pulled the sheeting back further anyway, exposing Kaitlyn’s visage, her eyes shut in a deserving peace.

Hart wasn’t sure she had the mental strength or courage to pull the sheeting all the way back to expose the true extent of Kaitlyn’s untimely fate. So the coroner did it for her, hastily peeling the layer of plastic back to reveal Kaitlyn’s remains. Her ribcage had been completely pulled outwards to the elements. Bone had split, dislodged and protruded her sides, her womb ruptured like an airbag to reveal what was supposed to have been the thing she would call her firstborn. But it didn’t take a form that resembled something even remotely human. It was a…sac. A rock-solid sac.

“What the fuck is that?” Natalie watched from a distance, feeling safer there than by Hart’s side, seeing the thing sit there atop inside the mangled remains of its supposed mother’s insides.

Hart inspected it more carefully, taking a pen from her jacket pocket. The sac, for lack of a more appropriate term, had a basic vascular structure, the veins twisting and coiling around its entirety throbbed and twitched. Steeling herself for whatever might come next, Hart poked the sac with her pen.

It moved, flexing the same way a muscle would when tensed, the veins covering it visibly throbbing in response to Hart’s contact.

“Oh my God, it moved!” Reagan shrieked, retreating behind Dale for protection.

Hart thought for a moment. Whatever the sac was or supposed to be, it didn’t completely gestate properly inside Kaitlyn. Something went wrong somewhere. And it involved the therapy Dale took part in. It wasn’t done growing either, its bulking weight pressing down on Kaitlyn’s corpse to crush more bone.

“Whatever ‘tis,” Hart said, watching the sac twitch and throb, “'tis alive.”

Hart had had enough. It was obvious what was really going on at the supposed "therapy clinic" wasn't what was advertised. Lives were at stake. Lives had unfortunately been cut short on account of Bright Life and the Board using the unsuspecting public as guinea pigs for…something.

“Dale, wha ye say de clinic wus?”

“I didn’t. It’s up on Twelfth Promenade. The tall glass building, can’t miss it. But what’s this all about? What is that inside Kaitlyn?”

Hart didn’t have time for answering Dale’s questions. In part, because she couldn’t offer him any solid answers, and partly because she had a job to do. “Natalie, fill 'im in.”

“What’re you doing?” she queried confusedly, watching the detective climb into the car.

“Me feckin’ job!” was the Irishwoman’s firm response before slamming the door on Natalie and driving off.

***

Warren Avington observed the young man laid on the medical bed intently, from behind the safety of the two-way mirror. The breathing apparatus conjoined to the stranger’s neck hissed and clicked, every so often releasing a soft unsettling whir as he struggled with his exhales. A medical team was positioned around him, cleaning, taking samples and checking vitals. He was weak, sickly, malnourished and gaunt, yet possessed a degree of strength greater than others. The nameplate at the bed’s front read Michael.

Warren folded his arms over his chest. A petite young woman with horn-rimmed glasses stood at his side holding a folder. His aide, Ruby. “Tell me,” Warren said, his eyes unfaltering in their staring at the team at Michael’s bedside, “are the rumors regarding my wife’s pregnancy to be believed?”

Ruby wasn’t sure if she should say. She’d only been on the job a week or two and wasn’t knowledgeable enough of her boss to know how he would react. The last girl Warren had, Tiffany, seemed to just stop turning up without explanation. She was always asking questions.

“Out with it, girl,” Warren snapped.

“Yes, sir.” Ruby’s voice was soft, quiet, almost mousy in nature. It was adorable, really. But Warren insisted that would have to be corrected eventually.

At any rate, the news still stung Warren’s. He already had suspicions regarding his wife’s adultery, but to have them confirmed? The chauffeur Jeeves always had his eyes set on Lily, but Warren never suspected the bastard would actually act on his feelings and reap the rewards from plowing his wife’s field.

“I suspected as much. Have the old bastard killed in his sleep.”

“Forgive me, sir, but it wasn’t the driver who…did the deed,” Ruby forewarned. “Staff in the manor confirm it to be Dayna.”

Warren scoffed. “The futa girl?”

Ruby simply nodded.

Warren wasn’t sure what came more as a surprise at this point: his fear being confirmed at last, or the fact it was a woman who did the deed. It almost made things more difficult. Jeeves was disposable, could be replaced with someone on short notice, but Dayna— Dayna was needed. Dayna was Priscilla’s shadow.

“Have Jeeves offed anyway. I’ve always hated that prick.”

Ruby complied with a nod before walking off. Warren stayed behind, still watching the medical team do its tests. Warren’s value to the Board was on a knife’s edge. He practically felt them breathing down his neck even when they weren’t there. He felt as though if even if just one more mistake was made, he, like Tiffany, would vanish. Because of that fear, coupled with his persistence to ensure his own survival, Warren had put together a plan. A plan which, in a hilarious twist of irony, he had the Board to thank for. He would just need to bide his time.

“Soon,” he said, looking at Michael.

Ruby coughed, getting Warren’s attention. “Your car for the airport has arrival, sir.”

Warren nodded.

Soon.