Built: Has been re-edited and re-released and is on sale for 33% off
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07T9WNQB6Here is a scene when Andrew goes to London to have a session--- and then another.
It was the first time anyone had ever picked me up at the airport holding a sign with my name on it. And the woman holding it wasn’t just anyone. I’d been low-key terrified that the “recent picture” she’d sent would turn out to be Photoshopped, ten years old, or both. She didn’t disappoint. Not even a little.
In the middle of hundreds of tired travelers of every shape and size, Raisa stood out like a neon sign in a blackout. She wore red-and-white striped leggings featuring a cartoonish muscular Wonder Woman breaking free of chains. She was as subtle as a sledgehammer. Her upper body was poured into a cutoff white tank top that revealed a carved six-pack so deep the shadows made it look like she’d painted the lines on with a Sharpie. She wasn’t quite as massive as Sandy had been, but she was absolutely gorgeous, and she hadn’t lied about her conditioning for a second.
From the top of the long escalator I just stood there, staring, letting the delicious realization wash over me:
this was the experience I was about to have. This hard, confident woman was unapologetically jacked and was about to be mine for the night.
Her rounded shoulders and thick upper pecs strained against the thin fabric of her top. A very non-British golden tan glowed on every inch of exposed skin, and her platinum blonde hair paired with striking blue eyes made her look like she’d wandered off a California beach and accidentally landed in drizzly London. If my actual girlfriend had shown up at an airport dressed like this, I would have been mortified. But knowing this was a one-off, no-strings transaction? I laughed under my breath and secretly reveled in the stares we were both getting.
I walked straight up to her and pulled her into a big, overly familiar hug like we’d been best friends for years. The second my arms registered how hard she was—solid, unyielding muscle everywhere I touched—my body reacted instantly. I started getting hard right there in the arrivals hall. She returned the hug with surprising force, then leaned in and whispered hot against my ear, “You’ll be mine soon.”
My cock twitched hard enough that I was pretty sure she felt it.
We got to the hotel she’d chosen for me—perfectly calibrated to my budget, Tube access, and, crucially, the quality of the gym where she planned to “pump up” for our session. As I headed to check in, she reminded me to text her the room number and disappeared straight toward the weight room. Apparently she’d been here before, had some workaround for gym access, and wanted to get a head start on swelling those muscles even bigger for me.
When I got my key, I texted her. Seconds later my phone buzzed with her reply: a close-up shot of the top of her pecs, cleavage carved like marble. She was an escort, but the confidence radiating off her made me a little nervous. A little afraid, honestly. And a lot excited.
I was still staring at the photo like a teenager who’d just discovered porn when the elevator dinged and the biggest woman I’d ever seen stepped up beside me.
I did a cartoonish double take. She was nearly my height, easily north of two hundred pounds, and absolutely rippling with thick, dense muscle. She wasn’t in contest shape—there was a layer of softness over the power—but it didn’t matter one bit. She dwarfed even Sandy. My breath went shallow. I could feel my pulse hammering in my neck like I’d just sprinted a flight of stairs.
Trying to play it cool, I pretended to keep scrolling on my phone while I drank her in. A pink bandana barely contained her long, jet-black curly ringlets. Her face was angular, strong, not conventionally pretty but undeniably striking. A white short-sleeve button-down shirt was losing the war against her enormous fake breasts and even bigger shoulders, ending abruptly at her midriff. Below that, a short black skirt with a chain belt and three-inch heels completed the look. She was clearly here for a session.
Jesus, I thought. Is this hotel some kind of secret female muscle mecca?When the elevator doors opened, I politely gestured for her to go first. To my eternal chagrin, she stepped back almost as far as I was, making it impossible to ogle her without getting caught. She leaned forward and punched the button for floor 13. The thick vein running down her pointer finger traced a dramatic path across her forearm, up into her massive bicep, and disappeared into the cap of her shoulder like a roadmap of pure power.
I swallowed hard, suddenly, embarrassingly aware of how desperately I wanted or I should say
needed— to feel that kind of strength wrapped around me.
She looked back at me. “You?” I was befuddled, my brain fogged with desire. God, I liked British accents. Beads of sweat appeared above my lip and the elevator felt steamy hot. She was simply a maze of muscle from head to toe. What did she want? Why was I here again? She repeated her question so that the simpleton which I’d been reduced to could understand, “What floor?”
Speak man, speak. “Um, me too.” I was breathing so fast by this point I thought seriously that I might hyperventilate. My body wasn’t working properly as it was surrounded by a work of art so beautiful and statuesque that I was entranced. As the elevator accelerated, she began pressing her palms together as if praying and pushing them hard against each other. I couldn’t see over her massive traps, so I maneuvered to look over her colossal shoulders which had three expressways of lines separating the massive muscles.
My gaze fell on her pec muscles contracting with her efforts and her triceps flaring while fighting with each other to create the friction for her pecs. I squeezed my legs together in a futile effort to appease my manhood hoping the jeans would hitch around my tool which ached to be stroked.
Suddenly, the elevator halted, and the door slid open with a creak. We peered at each other briefly, trying to figure out who was going to let who go first. My feet were glued to the floor like they were stuck in wet cement, so I wasn’t moving. She smiled at me like I was a lost little girl while I just stood there, dumbfounded by her sheer size.
Realizing I was clearly too overwhelmed to function, she decided to walk out first. I shivered with every step she took as her powerful calf muscles clenched hard, a thick line forming and then swelling with the angle of each stride. When she reached the doors she turned back and looked at me. The elevator doors started to close, but she batted them aside like they were annoying gnats against the enormity of her muscles. In the process, she flashed thick, horseshoe-shaped triceps that ballooned out from her arm. Male bodybuilders at the gym would’ve killed for arms like hers. At least 17 inches. I was still frozen in place, completely brain-dead.
“Are you going to get off?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
I’m already getting off just looking at you, I thought crudely, my mind immediately diving into the gutter. It felt like a frog had taken up permanent residence in my throat. My voice had officially quit. Respond, you idiot, my brain screamed, but my mouth refused to cooperate.
Finally, I snapped out of it. “Y-yeah… thanks for waking me up.”
