...cont'd...


“Um, are you OK?” she asked hesitantly, her tone unsure as she forced herself to look him in the face with those amazing blue eyes.

He was taken aback by the striking beauty of the young, almost flawlessly symmetric face peering at him anxiously. She actually resembled someone in the media he had seen recently, and he struggled with the name before it hit him: Mercy looked like a twenty year-old version of Denise Richards – well, Denise with a myostatin mutation and a penchant to effortlessly humiliate Mr. Olympia in pure shredded muscularity. She could have been the younger sister of the star facially, but Mercy was mind-bogglingly muscular – she made the actress look like a twig, and one that she could snap with a mere twitch of a single muscle. Her physical traits notwithstanding, it seemingly took more force of will for Mercy to look him in the eye than what she was probably capable of lifting with just one finger.

“I, uh, didn’t mean to…” her voice trailed off timidly, a mixture of girlish naïveté and somehow, melodic sin. She looked away again, her expression trying to remain blank and casual, but failing to contain her obvious anxiety. The therapist stood back, watching – her demeanor was so…wrong. The muscles were there, but was this the same girl that was depicted with such savagery in the file?

The psychologist shook his throbbing hand a couple of times, wondering if anything was broken, and couldn’t help but marvel at what a paradox Mercy’s shy demeanor was to her fearsome, immensely powerful physique. That too contrasted with her straightforward beauty – with her looks, she might easily have been a model… if society could forgive the freakish, hypermuscular beast she actually was from her head down. Her astounding muscles notwithstanding, Mercy was fretting worriedly in front of him. He assured the powerful girl that he was all right, and wriggled his fingers in front of her, covering up the agony shooting up his arm with a short laugh. She seemed a bit relieved, and awkwardly tried to apologize again. With a pained smile, the man waved her off and directed her down the narrow hall and to the far room.  Nodding, Mercy headed in that direction.

He followed her, amazed at the sight of the utterly outrageous body walking in front of him. She looked like an anatomy chart…an anatomy chart overdosed on steroids. Mercy’s dark ponytail snuggled between such thick, high traps that she didn’t even appear to have a neck from some angles. Even more impressive than the girl’s towering trap muscles was the sheer breadth of her shoulders and upper back. He marveled at her back’s immensity -- Mercy seemed to take up most of the width of corridor, her vast, flaring lats looked like they were about to send her bulging, capped deltoids straight through both walls at any second.

Her massive upper proportions were made even more absurd in comparison to her tiny waist and miniscule hips, which he estimated as easily less than a third than her shoulder span. The utterly inhuman taper she possessed, the monstrous lat flare, would have made physique judges weak in the knees. No one could approach, let alone equal her: Mercy far exceeded the athletic shoulder-waist and shoulder-hip ratios for anyone, even males, and every step caused an incredible landscape of hardened muscle to undulate beneath the straining fabric of her vest and skirt, which was losing the battle to contain her monstrous physique by the audible creak of seams giving way to bulging, unrelenting sinew. The vest couldn’t even cover half of her enormous back span, and her bared flesh looked like golden paper stretched over the exaggerated definition of each overdeveloped muscle, punctuated by protruding veins that snaked all over.

As Mercy made her way forward and turned into the room, the therapist froze for a moment, jaw agape. What transfixed him was the flash of one of her calves, visible for a millisecond through her long skirt’s slit. The unearthly calf was a vast, huge beast and utterly shredded;  steely separations and large veins were clearly visible even in a darkened glimpse – an undeniable match for her matchlessly muscled arms. The girl was the embodiment of perfect physique development taken to a nightmarish exponential degree. Remembering the details of the incident, he swallowed hard and entered the room, gripping her file as he closed the door behind him.



...to be cont'd...

Again, a note of caution -- this is pure fiction, and part of her characterization.


...cont'd...


Since she took the couch -- actually a small loveseat --- nearest to the door, he took the chair by the far wall and started the interview. Belying her brutishly powerful physique, Mercy was painfully shy and distracted at times, but the apprehensive psychologist quickly discerned an intelligence as extreme as her body.

As they conversed, it became apparent that she exceeded his brightest, most gifted patients. This girl, barely a young woman, was simply extraordinary – an extraordinary puzzle. He marveled at the bizarre combination of stunning beauty, undeniable brains, and limitless brawn. She was absolutely loaded in all three attributes, far more than he thought anyone ever could be. She could intellectually run rings around the Mensa members he treated, and just by the look of that impossible physique, physically run over the Olympic athletes that he helped in nearby Colorado Springs. It was almost frightening, almost incomprehensible, to estimate what her potential abilities were. Everything about her was off the charts. Mercy was the complete prodigy. Except for one very apparent thing – for all her near superhuman gifts, Mercy was so… inhibited. He had the damndest time establishing a rapport, but she seemed to genuinely want help of some kind, although she apparently found it impossible to say exactly what was bothering her.

Of course, she obviously had no idea that he performed a background check on all new clientele, and that exhaustive search had inadvertently unearthed something – an awful briefing. From an old contact at Justice who told him that the contents of the dossier in front of him was something out of the “X Files.” After reading it, he was forced to agree.  But the thing was, her personality was completely and utterly opposite to what he’d expected from reading the consensus statements of eyewitnesses. Something was amiss. So the man waited for her to get comfortable, letting Mercy’s obviously low confidence grow by exploring things that were comfortable and familiar to her.

As the astonishingly muscular beauty settled into the rhythm of the conversation, the therapist found that Mercy was indeed capable of unexpected bursts of expression, speaking freely and passionately especially when she was talking about something that held her interest. Gymnastics, bodybuilding were two of those things. On the other hand, college was making her yawn – she absorbed scholastic information like the proverbial sponge, and she was on track to graduate summa cum laude in under two years. The only thing Mercy spoke about extensively on was her fascination with anatomy, physiology, genetics, and biochemistry, and in details and terminology that made the psychologist’s head spin. He was certain it was all revolved around muscles, but she was at a level that far surpassed his knowledge of the subject… and unbeknownst to him, was actually pushing past the boundaries of research in the field.

Unable to follow the scientific content of her topic of comfort, he concentrated on her process and manner instead. Her voice was itself something a revelation. As he had initially noticed, it was almost melodic in quality. Enchantingly feminine and effortlessly bewitching in tone, Mercy could change her speaking timbre from feathery and ethereal to edged steel in one word.  He had no idea exactly what that technical word meant, but it apparently it meant something to her.

Again, she was a study in contrasts, a puzzle that seemed to keep unfolding. And so he kept listening, nodding when appropriate. Inside, the psychologist was himself a mess of ambivalence – Mercy couldn’t possibly be the girl those witnesses described, could she? Then after her dissertation, out of nowhere, she dropped a bombshell.

“I think I was abused.”




...to be cont'd...

This posting and the next deserves a strong disclaimer: It is only in the service of essential characterization and plotline that the early background of Mercy is explored. Because Mercy is seriously warped, the most common explanation involves experiences early in life that can warp an individual. Therefore, some of this is portrayed, but I have limited the muscle descriptions of a young Mercy to shift as much focus away from her body to her experiences at that age (as you will see in subsequent postings). Rest assured, there will be no graphic or detailed descriptions of improper conduct towards the younger Mercy -- I would find that extraordinarily inappropriate. Comments are welcome,

Reap



...cont'd...


His head snapped up. And almost accidentally, looked her straight in Mercy’s cerulean eyes. It was exactly the wrong thing to do, for it seemed like he had jumped into the deepest, blue ocean and it took all his training as a therapist to break the hypnosis in her gaze. The man focused hard on what she had just said. Abuse?  He looked at the smartest, strongest, most muscular being he could even imagine sitting across from him, and tried to understand how anyone could ever make this beast do anything she was not willing to.  He stared at her, and  Mercy coughed nervously, sending a tidal wave of pure shredded brawn dancing across her barely contained torso. “I have this recurring dream – from when I was just a kid,” she added awkwardly, by way of explanation. Looking mortified that she actually blurted her secret out, Mercy flushed bright red.

She visibly flinched when he raised his eyebrow, and hastened to quickly continue “Though I was really strong for a kid…” and then to his surprise, she just kept talking in an unstoppable stream of tangents. “I was only four, and I could already do back handsprings that my sister was learning in gymnastics. She was almost ten, and she was so frustrated that her four year-old sister could do ten of them in a row, when she could barely do three. I mean, it was pretty obvious I was already stronger than she was. I could do way more pullups that she could, and when we would fight like kids do, I always ended up overpowering her – pinning her down, and making her cry my name – Mercy -- before I let her up. I always beat her, and she was six years older and a whole lot bigger! She was very athletic and was pretty well built for a ten year-old girl ‘cause of the gymnastics she was doing, so she was the strongest kid in her class. But even at age four, I could beat her up bad. I could make a muscle, and it was way bigger and harder than hers… she used to get so mad! If you saw the photos of us in the pool, I have this amazing hardbody -- there isn’t a picture of me in a swimsuit as a kid that doesn’t make me look like a mini-bodybuilder already. Grownups always asked me to flex and I loved how freaked they’d get when I did. I had muscles everywhere and I wanted to show them all off, veins on my biceps and legs, even chiseled abs. It was pretty weird…”

Her face crimson, Mercy finally stopped for a breath. She looked like she was about to run, her eyes wild with anxiety from her revelation of abuse.  But before the man could even raise his pen to interrupt her, she raced on, her words getting faster and faster as she tried to verbally run away from the admission she’d just made.

“…but I’ve always had abs, even when I was, like, an infant – I’ve actually seen pictures and home video of me right after birth, and you can totally see the squares on my tummy! My calves and my delts are really built, too – the doctor actually makes a comment on camera that he’s never seen any baby as muscular as me. I mean, it's obviously genetic. But when my parents finally let me start doing formal gymnastics ---”

“Mercy, please…” he started gently, trying to interrupt her panic-driven tirade. But Mercy kept talking, getting even and more wound up as she started to gesture. The therapist watched her, his own anxiety growing as he saw her already mindblowing musculature ripple and (Good Lord) grow as she became more and more animated. He watched in helpless fascination as veins popped up all over her ripped body, sprawling visibly beneath the straining cloth as she gesticulated, her movements and agitation pumping her already impossibly powerful physique up. He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him at first as the beautiful girl’s countless sinew striations danced and swelled, but the audible tearing of her clothes failing to contain her muscles confirmed his observation. His mouth felt dry as he saw absurd peaks and bulges all over her granite body become even more prominent. “Stop” he said in a tone of authority.

“— and then I started training for real, and I became even bigger and stronger! At six years old, I started outmuscling even the boys in drills. All of them – pushups, leg raises, pullups, straddles – you name it, and I could double or triple the next best kid. I could even outrun anyone else. I was so much better that they put me in boys’ elite division so I could have some competition for strength and endurance. The next thing you know, I was doing iron crosses and strength holds longer than anyone in the gym, and ---“

“Stop.” he ordered more forcefully, as he watched her become more and more wild-eyed and distressed. She ignored him, plunging forward at full steam. He felt compelled to do something to interrupt her, but instead all he heard was:

“ – then I had this instructor who was also a competitive bodybuilder and he was amazed at my “power.” In gymnastics, your physique and strength is referred to as “power”.  I was only six, a little kid, but my body was so powerful that I probably outmuscled even him in proportions! It was obvious that I totally outmuscled all the boys. I mean, it wasn’t even close. Those 12 year-old boys were twice as old as I was, so their frames were bigger all around, but my muscles were actually far more developed…”

The therapist slapped Mercy. More accurately, he tried to slap her lightly on her cheek with his good hand. But before his palm and fingers could make contact, they were intercepted by the back of her right hand, moving with inhuman speed and economy of motion, blocking his therapeutic blow just inches from her face. In fact, her reflexes were so lightning fast, before he even registered that his hand had never reached its intended target, she was already staring him steadily in the eyes.

For a second, there was a unnerving, icy malice in Mercy’s deep blue eyes. But she had stopped talking, her anxiety clearly broken. Then she blinked and sighed heavily, her posture crumbling as she dropped her intercepting hand, and used it to rub her eyes. “Thanks” she uttered in a quiet whisper, before lapsing again into a discomfited silence.



...to be cont'd...

...cont'd...


It was that sudden glimpse of … something … in her attitude that unsettled the psychologist. A prickling began at the back of his neck as the gory horror of the incident allegedly involving Mercy once again came to the forefront of his consciousness. He tried to take breath but found he couldn’t, as he glanced the insanely attractive, young pinnacle of muscular development sitting opposite him. She was again studying the floor intensely. In silence. He could still see large veins protruding on her massive, bulging chest beef, right through the shirt. Her protruding nipples looked very small compared to what they were pinned to, but they were erect, and seemed very, very hard. His eyes took in the immensity of the fully separated, chiseled slabs of pectoral muscle, and he shivered at the sheer strength that Mercy must possess. She looked capable of bench pressing a locomotive. Or a van, his memory reminded him, and he twitched involuntarily at the thought.

A drop of cold sweat formed on his forehead. Nonetheless, he deliberately filed his fear away mentally and prodded Mercy back to her dream, the one in which she was abused. If this dream provoked a reaction like the one she just displayed, then it was something that had to be pursued.

After an eternity of affirmations and encouragement, Mercy barely managed “Uh, I was ten…” and then stopped. But it was obvious that deep down, she really did want to tell him about this dream, despite the fact that she hemmed and hawed, squirming. The psychologist gently prompted her, studiously trying to ignore the rippling and bulging of the grotesquely overdeveloped, living anatomy chart before him as she fidgeted. Finally, under his persistence and cajoling, the words came.

When Mercy was only 10 years-old, there apparently had been a murder at her gym – that much Mercy knew was fact. The therapist vaguely remembered reading about that incident in the newspaper, years ago. A older male gymnast was killed late in the evening, as the last instructor had been in the far office on the telephone. The crime had provoked a wave of fear amongst the community that ended up shuttering the facility permanently.

It turned out that the young Mercy had known the victim, if only very briefly, and she had been at the gym the very same day he was murdered. In fact, Mercy had walked the several blocks home only a couple hours before the teenager had died horribly at the hands of unknown, uncaught assailants. At least she thought that’s what had happened. “I can’t remember exactly. I do remember being at the gym, working out with him, and then I remember walking home. That’s all – nothing else happened in between. And that’s what I told the police back then.”

The man scratched his head. Mercy was probably traumatized by the boy’s death, but it didn’t speak of any kind of abuse. He said so. Mercy protested mildly “I haven’t gotten there yet – like I was about to say, I keep having this dream...” and hesitated. He looked at her as she decided if it was safe to continue. "Well, it's only a dream, right?" Mercy convinced herself with a deep breath. She looked up at him, her youthful, beautiful face solemn. “The gymnast who was murdered? In my dream, he molested me... at least, I have feelings that he did." She said plaintively, "I don't actually seem to remember that part too well.” The psychologist’s eyebrows shot upwards, and Mercy's eyes turned downward. She softly added, “That’s not the end of it. In my dream, what's really vivid is... I’m the one who kills him.”

She looked up, timid. The man was just staring at her. He didn’t say a word. An unreadable expression and a twinge at the corner of his left eye gave nothing away. This time it was his turn to be silent. Just sat there, waiting. Mercy spoke again, at last, sounding lame. “Are you sure you want to hear about this? It, uh…gets really, um…” She looks at him almost pleadingly, her radiant blue eyes a mixture of conflicting emotions.

"I think it's important that we go over your dreams," he said, his voice carefully neutral.



...to be cont'd...

...cont'd...


“Dreams,” he continued, “are sometimes what we call re-enactments.” Mercy nodded, but her face looked a little blank.  The therapist explained that by re-enacting something traumatic but changing the eventual ending, it was possible for victims to gain a sense of mastery and come to better grips with what happened. A way to cope, in essence. The gorgeous young hulk said nothing, but she looked impressed with his insights.

He delved deeper, but like she had said earlier, Mercy was unsure as to exactly happened at the time she was abused in her dream.  Mercy frowned, trying to recollect. All she remembered was the 17 year-old gymnast – the one that died – saying that she was “sooo sexy” and then a series of confused, jumbled emotions, and a sense of being profoundly violated. Frustrated, she simply could not remember details as the psychologist tried to gently walk her through the narrative. For all his efforts, he got nothing. Something was clearly missing, and it was obvious that it had affected her horribly.  After several futile attempts, he scribbled a note on his pad, reminding himself to refer her to a colleague that used hypnosis to retrieve memories.  He glanced at Mercy dabbing at her eyes, her amazing muscles rippling, clearly upset. He decided to move on.

“This other part of the dream is the part that you really know, isn’t it?” the therapist asked and she nodded, looking relieved that they were going to familiar territory.  He thought for a moment, and went for the straightforward approach. “You know he’s already dead. But do you dream about finding this person, the one that hurt the 10 year-old you, hunting him down and killing him?”

“Not really,” Mercy said, matter-of-fact. She licked her lips. “I don’t have to find him at all. It’s not like I’m older or anything.“  When the psychologist looked quizzical, she added, by way of explanation. “It’s right after the part I don’t remember. He’s still alive. He’s right there and I’m right there – the 10 year-old me, uh, kills him.” Mercy gave a slight shrug, bunching her hulking traps, and stared at the wall.

For his part, the psychologist was disconcerted by this revelation; most revenge fantasies had the victim, if they were this young, coming back in the future to wreck vengeance. But in this dream, the 10 year-old Mercy had actually turned the tables right in the moment. It was most unusual…  “You said it felt really vivid… What exactly does the young Mercy do?” he asks, trying to envision a very young, preteen version of the extraordinarily muscled girl across from him. Frighteningly enough, it wasn’t that hard to do. With that conjured image, his mouth seemed suddenly dry, and an apprehensive premonition clutched his insides.


...to be cont'd...

...cont'd...


Mercy looked at the floor, shutting her eyes. This was the part of the dream she secretly enjoyed, disturbing and grotesque as it likely would be to others. “I break him,” she smiled chillingly, eyes still closed. "All over. His spine, his legs and arms – with my bare hands, I snap his bones like toothpicks. The dream’s so vivid that I can actually feel how weak and brittle his bones are as they pop against my pumped-up body. I’m so much younger than him, but my muscles are just so much bigger and harder. And so, so strong.“

Her beautiful, smiling face was dreamy, bizarrely juxtaposed against the carnage she described. “But I don’t stop there. I even tear apart his ribcage, and I can see all his organs. I grab his heart with one hand, and rip it right out. Blood bursts out everywhere. It’s still beating, until I crush it to mush between my fingers.” Mercy’s voice rose, her grin still showing. All the hair on the back of the therapist’s neck was standing, and he’s shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his outlandishly muscled young client continued, eyes closed, oblivious to his fearful discomfort. “Then I pull his entire body apart into dozens of separate pieces, limb from limb, rip off his head, his internal organs. I totally dismember him, and it’s so easy with all my muscles...” Close-eyed, Mercy spoke with a relish that was not only disconcerting, but utterly terrifying.

“I remember what I’m thinking – I’m only a 10 year-old girl, but I’ve literally broken and torn a boy twice my age into pieces with my bare hands. I flex my muscles in superiority, and I see myself in the mirror. At first, I’m still only ten, but then my reflection changes, and all of a sudden, I’m seeing myself as I am today…" Mercy paused, obviously visualizing her dream.

"There’s still all this gore and blood everywhere, which doesn't make sense since I'm now all grown up, but I can't take my eyes off my reflection. I look so powerful – I'm naked and I've got so much beautiful, sexy muscle! Pecs, biceps, lats, abs, legs all exploding with strength! I’m SO strong I can tear a man to death. And it turns me on, making me jack like you wouldn’t believe. That’s where I usually wake up. Wet with jack.” Mercy finally opened her eyes, and looked up, blinking. She sighed a little; as she halfway expected, the therapist looked like he’s having a heart attack, or a stroke.

He just stared at her. His jaw slack, his face sheet white. Unlike what Mercy thought, it wasn’t just the shockingly gory and sexual nature of her dream. He had no idea how the male gymnast had died, as he didn’t recall what the newspaper had disclosed all those years ago. But dear God, the dream was so close to what the report said. Apart from the sexuality in the dream, the similarity was inescapable: Gory, wanton dismemberment.

He didn’t want to think it was even possible that anyone could be so vicious. He was absolutely stunned by her account, and even more so by how Mercy seemed to savor her slaughter, even in its retelling. It was like a door had cracked opened into her inner life, and its darkness was utterly foreboding.  There was a discernible shift in Mercy’s presence, one that he’d only glimpsed when she stopped his slap, but that sense of mind-numbing, malevolent power was unmistakable. The psychologist tried to gather himself, but still found no way to respond.


...to be cont'd...


P.S. from writer: - Please note that it is indeed the COLLEGE-AGED Mercy who has experiences the sexual content of the dream.... - Reap

its getting interesting i wonder whats gona happen to the doctor

Karma to you for actually bothering to write a response! I'm relieved -- it seemed like no one else was in this thread, except for one comment earlier on. Nice to know I'm not posting into a vacuum.

Best wishes,
Reap

heh im reading trying not to break it all up with posts

Don't worry, your stories are definitely appreciated; I had just already read it over at the amazons forum, and didn't see the need to say the same positive comments twice.
I've still been (silently) throwing some Karma your way all the same, though

Thanks -- I'm grateful for whatever support I get.
I'm having technical issues with this file, and I'm revisiting and editing each section as I post here, making this a more polished version than what's available in the other forum....

Onwards,
Reap
---------



...cont'd...

As the man opposite her made attempts to pull himself together, Mercy lamely added “It’s only a dream, I guess.” She awkwardly fidgeted a bit, and caused several seams to audibly tear under the bulges of her hardened bronzed brawn. The young beauty ignored the sound, and considered what the therapist had said earlier about dreams. Mercy pursed her lips, saying “In a way, I guess I have dealt with being molested. I think that’s why I now love building my body even more.” The psychologist eyebrows lifted at the remark.

She paused for a moment, and seeing she hadn’t made herself clear, tried to spell it out. “Because it makes me so strong. Strong enough to deal with ANY man who thinks muscles are sexy.” She thought that this conclusion, which she felt was insightful, might somehow spur the doctor back from wherever the hell he was to the here and now. But he still looked stunned. Absently, the powerful girl watched him take a deep, shuddering breath, visibly focusing on what she had just announced. Mercy cocked her head, waiting.

“That doesn’t make sense,” the therapist finally offered, objecting to the obvious fallacy in her logic. Mercy was so intelligent, he couldn’t believe she wouldn’t see it a mile away. “If you thought that muscles made you sexy, and you didn’t want the attention, you’d stop building your body. Not add to it.”

Mercy sighed, the side of her perfect mouth curling. “Doctor, my muscles… they're a given. A constant that can’t be taken away.” Seeing that she still didn’t make sense to him, the gorgeous young brute explained, “I can’t NOT be muscular. Like I told you earlier, I was born this way. It was written in my genes, and I’ve done as much research as I can to reverse or modify it, but there’s no way I can see to go any further. Even gene therapy isn’t going to work on me.” She looked at him with a tinge of impatience, her blue eyes reading him – hadn’t he been listening earlier to everything she said about the projects she was involved in? She had talked about it in substantial detail.

Seeing that the man gave no response to her conclusion, Mercy licked her thin lips, and repeated herself for emphasis. “I’m always going to have muscles. It took a long time for me to accept it, but now I actually love my muscles again,” she said, and glanced down at her own massive, chiseled chest. A mere, slight tensing and both giant breastless slabs seemed to leap full inches. Mercy’s vest cracked, the material barely containing her unholy chest brawn. In fact, her shredded pectoral separations were clearly visible through the cloth, and her small areola were now fully outlined to the extent that the tiny tips of her nipples were actually exposed, pushing their way through the fabric. Just as the man thought that she was going to literally explode straight out of her clothing, Mercy relaxed, and her mighty chest receded, but only slightly.

She smiled at her awesome physical power. “Since I’m not going to be able to change, it’s not up to me anymore. The problem is men and their urges, it’s up to them. And men don't change -- they all want the same thing. So to deal with whoever finds me sexy, I’m going to build even more strength and more muscle, more muscle than anyone can ever handle.” Mercy regarded him closely, and breathed out quietly. “Men will want me. And they will pay.” Her usually melodic voice was pointedly neutral, but there was a latent venom in those words… As he thought about that last statement with a shudder, he realized that the silence between them was again lengthening, and Mercy was regarding him quizzically. He swallowed nervously.


...to be cont'd...

...cont'd...


“Ultimately, I don’t think that muscles have anything inherent do with being sexy,” he told her, almost for lack of anything better to say. Still trying to make sense of all that had been explored, he went on, thinking things through as he talked. “It’s all in our heads, what makes someone sexual to someone else. For example, a lot of people don’t find girls with big muscles at all sexy. In fact, the effect is quite the opposite, I would say that it’s not attractive at all.”

Mercy opened her mouth, and then shut it again. She looked like she was about to make a rebuttal, but instead fell silent. She frowned, appearing upset and perhaps a little angry, but said nothing. Several full seconds passed. The hypermuscular girl continued to just sit on the couch, her smooth forehead furrowed in thought. Pondering his statement far more than he would have anticipated, Mercy pushed an errant strand of her brown hair back behind a broad shoulder with an absentminded flick of her wrist.

The therapist couldn’t help but flinch at the sight.

Just that simple, careless motion had orchestrated a rippling symphony in Mercy’s obscene, frightening muscularity. The coiling of her bare arm had made the huge, heavy bicep gather itself into an incredibly large, jutting mass, which the twisting of her wrist then further made explode into freakishly high, jagged steel peaks over the hanging bulk of her sculpted triceps. One enormous lat flared out, almost tearing through the armhole of her vest as it expanded under her arm. Her vein-strewn forearm had become a den of writhing snakes as she absently played with the ends of her hair, before tossing it back. As a result, her thick, sloping traps and bulging deltoids were also now exposed, the material of her sleeveless top clinging to a hulking ridge of ripped sinew that ended at a thick cap of brawn which showed chiseled vertical separations even when fully at rest. Her muscles were simply mindboggling. Without even trying, Mercy exuded unbelievable physical strength.

A drop of sweat fell from him as he tore his eyes away from the sight of her ungodly, casually mighty arm, trying to suppress the thoughts of what Mercy could do – what she had maybe done as a mere 10 year-old – with her incredible physique. With muscles like that, it actually wasn’t that difficult to imagine what she dreamed about being mortifyingly real. Not to mention that equally horrific and graphic report, descriptions of her vicious fearsome strength that he had read and prematurely dismissed as certain exaggeration.

The psychologist shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he waited for Mercy to respond, but she didn’t. The supremely muscular beauty just sat there, her brows knit, obviously thinking carefully at what to say next. He wondered if he had gone a little too far with his last statement, which was undoubtedly true… but he was now thinking it may have been too harsh for this girl who clearly valued her astonishing muscularity above anything else. It now occurred to him that Mercy’s muscles were not just the subject of her study, but had also become her shield against a hostile, abusive world. However, her muscles held some sort of erotic obsession, and one which he probably needed to address.

Still Mercy didn’t say a word… she just sat there, seeming to steam. As the silence became protracted, the therapist’s mind couldn’t help but wander nervously back to her file, some of the words of the report still haunting at him. It was right there in his lap. Unable to suppress it any further, he flipped open the folder containing the forensic report and reviewed it again as he waited for her to speak….


...to be cont'd...

...cont'd...


After a party downtown around midnight, witnesses had seen Mercy with a group of young men. These hardened young males were most of a street gang whose social strata had exceeded their upbringing, likely because of an income source not quite legal in origin. Known for taking the best looking (and most intoxicated) young women out of the Riverside Club, they had an ill reputation that was likely deserved. Somehow, they always evaded prosecution, typically for lack of credible witnesses. After all, the club was said to be owned by the most powerful crime family in the state, and all investigations by the authorities had somehow proven fruitless.  Sometime after midnight, this same group entered a van and departed for an unknown destination.

The van had gone only into the far parking lot before it suddenly slammed on its brakes, and according to those who watched its red brake lights, was rocking side to side when a man was literally launched out the back of the stopped vehicle. He was thrown nearly thirty feet in the air, and both arms, several ribs and one shoulder were broken. Landing on his skull and neck and shattering both, he survived but never recovered his mental functioning. Next, a brown-haired girl with a badly torn dress and prominent, bulging muscles – Mercy allegedly -- tumbled out, and the van started to speed away, tires screeching as the driver gunned the engine. What happened after that was almost completely unbelievable.

The witnesses at the party, all on the second floor balcony, swore they saw the half-naked, muscular girl furiously take off after the van, shedding her shoes and running barefoot, chasing it at impossible speed. To their astonishment, she was so fast that she actually caught up with the speeding vehicle before it left the distant lot, and through the dark they saw its red lights abruptly stop and jerk upwards, as if the rear of the van had been lifted off the ground. The lights hung there for a moment before flipping over three times, and the van was seen overturned on its roof under the light of a nearby street lamp. The angry brown-haired girl came into view and grasped the side doors of the overturned vehicle.  Her exposed back muscles visibly exploded – the witnesses’ own words – to enormous size as she flexed and pulled at the van doors, and some swore that she was even lifting the vehicle off the pavement by the way she made the entire van shake like a leaf.

To their astonishment, there was a long loud shriek of metal as the girl ripped both doors right off their hinges with her bare hands, and she was seen holding up a torn, mangled door in each amazingly strong arm. Still holding the heavy doors aloft like trophies, the girl flexed her arms demonstratively. Even from the distant vantage point, her extraordinary muscles could be seen clearly, her huge biceps peaking like mountains as she proudly coiled her van-destroying limbs. From their distance, they couldn’t hear the crunching sounds as she derisively crushed the metal frame within her grasp, her fingers mangling steel like tinfoil with the power of her fingers. She then flung the doors away, tossing the heavy metal into the adjacent river like they weighed nothing to her.

The powerful girl then apparently registered how badly damaged her dress was, and ripped off the remnants of her torn clothing in obvious disgust, leaving her in the street wearing only her panties. Her exposed, barechested physique was shocking to the onlookers – the degree of her muscular development was frankly freakish. This young, naked girl was more muscular – much, much more muscular – than anyone they had ever seen, and some of the witnesses thought they must have been hallucinating. Emerging from incredibly narrow hips and freakishly chiseled haunches, her long legs were packed with more huge, hard sculpted muscle than most people’s entire bodies possessed. Matching those hellish legs, her monstrous back and arms were obscene idols to muscular overdevelopment. And at her slender, hardened waist, even her abdomen was unreal. She had more than a six pack, but no one could agree on exactly how many individual segments of muscle were chiseled on her stomach from that distance. And with that much alcohol clouding their senses.

The therapist had sighed; it didn’t matter – obviously, the girl was in simply incredible bodybuilding condition. However, there was a more important controversy when it came to her bared chest. Most of the observers already doubted if this was really a girl, since the physique they saw was so inhumanly strong: no mere girl could be that strong, could she? And now some witnesses also pointed out that despite the long brown hair, her pumped-up, herculean body was so incredibly ripped that this girl also didn’t have any visible breasts at all – her mighty chest was clearly all brutish, utterly shredded pectoral muscle. But the few who saw Mercy up close with that group of men – assuming this was indeed Mercy – were absolutely convinced that it was Mercy, and Mercy was definitely a girl. Yes, Mercy had muscles, monstrous muscles, but she was undeniably female; her overwhelming facial  beauty, her silky voice, and the feline grace with which she moved was utterly feminine. But if this was indeed her, there was a part that was also sadistically predatory.



...to be cont'd...

WARNING: It gets more messy from here on in, just wanted you to know the violence is extreme. You're warned.

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...cont'd...



At this point, all the witnesses said that the barechested girl then stalked into the overturned van and emerged with three struggling men. She manhandled all of them like they were mere infants, with one draped over her shoulder, another hoisted by her other arm while the third was dragged out by his legs. Any notion that this young powerhouse was rescuing them was dispelled by the sickening crack of shattering bones against metal, for she abruptly and viciously hurled one of the men into the side of the vehicle like she would throw a football. He was flung with such force that upon the revolting, crunching impact of his body, the ruined van skidded several feet on its roof, spinning. With a single arm, she had thrown him so unbelievably hard that he was gruesomely embedded into the van’s side like a compressed human javelin, every large bone in his body fragmented. He was instantly killed by her extraordinary and horrible power.

Still gripping the other man on her shoulder, the muscle girl turned on the third man, the one she had dragged out. Seeing what she had just done to his friend, he was on his knees, gesturing in a pleading, placating manner with his hands, clearly begging the girl “for mercy”.  The psychologist had initially smiled humorlessly at this witness’ exact quote. Little did the pleading man realize that perhaps it was exactly and literally Mercy that he got.

At any rate, the girl’s response was the most brutal kick ever documented. The therapist still shivered at the vivid description. She drew her leg back, the striated flexing of her legs’ spectacular muscles still embedded in the witnesses’ minds, and sent a kick of unrestrained power at the pleading man’s body. A shower of blood erupted from out of his back as he was lifted several feet of the ground to land a couple yards away, his upper body almost decimated by her single ferocious blow; a couple of shaken witnesses even said they saw her foot protrude out of his shoulders for one ghastly instant. The coroner’s report supported this gory detail, indicating that the victim’s torso had suffered “massive blunt trauma that completely penetrated the thorax and exited the left shoulder, dissecting the subject vertically from the abdomen up.” Viciously, she had kicked him so hard that she’d split him in two. His gruesome remains simply collapsed to the ground, convulsing, blood slowly seeping over where it had already been splattered with her lethal, smashing kick. He was dead before his splintered torso was hoisted by the musclegirl, and flung like a broken rag doll into the river.
 
The last man, slung on her shoulder, screamed and started struggling with all his strength against the powerful female arm that ensnared and hoisted him. He flailed mightily, pummeling and kicking the incredibly muscular, sadistic girl with desperate blows. He might as well as well have been pounding on a stone statue for all the effect it had on her sculpted, granite-hard physique. With an annoyed look, she captured both his wrists with ease, using her other free hand, and contained him like he was a weak child. Suddenly the suspended man started screaming again, writhing in pain. At first, the observers didn’t know why, but then they saw that that the strong, sculpted arm that held his torso trapped, was being increasingly coiled – the barechested musclegirl was starting to flex her extraordinarily muscled, steel-bending arm. Having just seen how superhumanly strong she was, the witnesses watched in fascinated horror as the last man’s torso was slowly and relentlessly crushed, visibly compressing between the vice of her vein-sprawled forearm, bursting biceps and steely deltoid.

As she slowly brought her hand closer and closer to her shoulder, she then rotated her wrist, a red stream of unknowable fluid and pulverized internal material suddenly exploded out of both his anus and mouth. When they observed the terrible sight of the mangled man vomiting his own organs from the hellish pressure from her single, scissoring arm, it was enough for some of the already drunk, nauseated onlookers to start retching and throwing up as well. What they also didn’t see – but the coroner found puzzling evidence of – was how her huge, freakishly peaked biceps erupted into unstoppable two-headed towers that broke her third victim’s ribs and actually penetrated into his thorax with their incredible flexed shape as she twisted her wrist to full contraction. Apparently, the girl had disemboweled him with just her biceps… and by simply flexing them.

When he first read this, the psychologist had to put down the file, mind reeling. It was too much. The mutilations were medical evidence, however waterlogged – and that was what made him queasy – but the narrative was ridiculous; he was disinclined to put any faith in it. All but naked, this girl had brutally killed three men with her amazing muscles and bare hands. Ended their lives like they were insects to her. But the report didn’t end; the description continued.


...to be cont'd...

...cont'd...


Apparently, squeezing this man’s torso to an unsurvivable slit wasn’t enough for her. With her other arm, the one that held both his arms immobile by the grip on his wrists, she started pulling the crushed, dying man’s limp arms. Even from afar, the witnesses were able and shocked to notice the wide smile on the barechested, tremendously muscled girl’s face – a couple of them said it was a look they will never forget, because of how jarring and out of place her expression seemed to what she was doing.  Eyes closed, her face was positively beatific; one of pure joy and contentment… as she effortlessly ripped both his arms right off his body with one hand. One observer numbly compared the ease with which the girl did this like “she was pulling warm taffy apart,” while another said it reminded him of how a child would tear the wings off an injured fly. As the blood poured out of where his arms had been, the brown-haired girl tossed his severed limbs into the van and sat his utterly mangled body to the ground.

She swiveled her narrow hips erotically, her face still blissful as her small, ripped midsection undulated with more muscle than the onlookers could believe. The musclegirl finally straddled the armless, sitting corpse while placing his skull roughly in between the colossally muscled pillars of her sculpted legs, just below her bulging crotch that her panties struggled to hold. Smiling with evil bliss, she then raised and flexed both arms again in a pose of absolute dominance. At the same time, she also flexed her shredded thighs, striations leaping to prominence and veins protruding all over her bulging muscles.

The effect on his skull was instantaneous. “My God -- she popped his head like it was a pimple!” was how one appalled witness put it, making the therapist recoil again, disbelieving the horrendous description of a human skull literally splattering apart. But the headless, armless, scissored corpse was a matter of record, as were the numerous pieces of skull and smashed brain found scattered all over the area.

The coroner had personally told the therapist’s contact at Justice that the victim’s skull had been forcibly imploded, its individual bone fragments similar in destruction to what one might expect out of a home trash compactor. He doubted that anyone’s inner thighs were strong enough to exert that kind of force, but he had already seen what could be interpreted as the double-headed imprint of an exceptionally large, high, and hard biceps muscle that was stamped into the corpse’s compressed torso. But everything was blurred by the recovery process; they had dredged the river, and had taken days to recover the water-bloated bodies for forensic pathology to examine. IF the forensic medical evidence were to be correlated with the admittedly intoxicated eyewitnesses’ utterly ludicrous accounts of a freakishly muscular, unbelievably strong girl.

A girl who had then demonstrated the full extent of her gender-bending muscular superiority. Tossing the carnage into the river like a dismembered rag doll, she sauntered towards the overturned van, every step turning her amazing legs into a symphony of bulging, striated power. Without even pausing, the incredibly muscled girl thrust her arms deep into the engine compartment, and lifted the van clear off the road. She was so strong that while suspending entire skewered vehicle, she walked it to the edge of the river, and with a heave, hurled the van into the fast-moving current.


...to be cont'd...