Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 1: One Of Those Days

Peyton had never been so drawn towards a news report before. Generally it was just a whole lot of nonsense about prices going up again or the government shafting its people…again, which only permitted a derisive rolling of the eyes from the brunette. But this particular news report was different, something that actually, genuinely interested Peyton. Folding her arms, the sleeves of her denim shirt straining and pulling in earnest to keep her muscles hidden, she fazed out from reality to watch the broadcast with all her perceivable scrutiny.

The report transitioned into the montage of a large blonde woman training with such passion and energy Peyton had great cause to be envious, sweat matting every perceivable inch of her indubitably superhumanly muscular frame, large throbbing veins goading themselves larger with every pump and flex.

At that point a name started rolling horizontally into the shot: Masha Konovaleva; world’s most muscular woman. There was no mistaking it was her, even from the montage’s first shot, but seeing her name slowly come into view as it did only made the moment all the more exciting. Micha had built a name for herself over the last couple of years, initially dubbed a rising starlet in the world of bodybuilding, before an entirely new division was forced into being introduced, the Mass Monster class. Masha helped pave the way towards reinitializing the otherwise dying sport.

Peyton kept her eyes on the screen, watching the montage bleed into a live stream of Micha accompanied by male professionals. It stood to reason these so-called heavyweights were dwarfed by the comparatively mountainous Russian. She raised her biceps into a flex, which even without a pump stood thrice the size of the professional’s heads, criss-crossed with veins both thin and broad. Smiling into the camera, she heard the men struggle with the measuring tape in their attempt to take a reading of her biceps. Their previous recording stood at forty-six point seven inches, but between the month-long wait and intense training since then, Micha had to have climbed beyond fifty.

One of the men finally managed to take a measurement of Masha’s biceps. Judging by his expression though, it was clear she had more than exceeded his expectations. Wordlessly, he approached the camera and flaunted the measurement written on a small piece of paper.

Fifty-six point nine inches. A ten-inch increase within the space of a month.

Masha relaxed, turned to face a tall dark-haired man in a sharp suit and spoke to him quietly in Russian. Peyton presumed this man in black to be Micha’s translator. Either she didn’t speak good English or just preferred not to. In any case, this Micha Konovalev was a living mystery box.

“Miss Konovaleva would like to train now,” the black-suited aide spoke softly to the cameraman behind the shot.

The live feed cut short, bringing the news back to its normal, nonsensical dreariness. Despite that, though, Peyton maintained a mesmerized stare on the screen, drowning out the reality that was her life, before—

“Helllloo! Are you deaf or something?”

Peyton snapped back to reality at the pretentious tones of Priscilla Avington, the richest gal in town, a friend to some but a total bitch to most. Having returned to reality made Peyton realize just how boring her life was compared to Priscilla’s, even more so Micha’s. A part-time job at the local hairdresser that seemed to be going absolutely nowhere, buried up to her neck in student work, all while owning the local gym. Priscilla had riches and could probably do anything anything she wanted, and while Micha didn’t have the same degree of wealth, her popularity was equal depending on the social circle she found herself in.

“Sorry, Priscilla. What were you saying?” Peyton looked down at the blonde with feigned interest.

Priscilla rolled her eyes derisively. She hated having to repeat herself just once, always expected people to have their total attention on her at all times. However, otherwise was always to be expected from commoners, or so her father said.

“I said, that Kolotosesh chick, or whatever the frack she’s called—”

“Konovalev.”

“Whatever! The point is, that’s really a dude in a bra. I don’t see why those Russians aren’t aware of that.” Priscilla reached into her handbag and pulled a pink mobile phone. Of course, it wasn’t just any mobile phone, but one from the Avington Tech brand. Only the rich people had them. Priscilla flicked through her contacts - Clive, Daddy, Ewan, Fiona, Georgina, Mummy - not a single text or missed call from any of them. She hated it when that happened. “They must be so drunk from all that Vodka that they can’t tell the difference between a man or a woman,” she continued.

Derogatory, stereotypical and often times racist remarks were common from Priscilla, things Peyton had learned to steel herself against from repeated exposure. The truth was Peyton loathed Priscilla on account of both that and her arrogant personality. Priscilla’s father Warren had strictly instructed her to blend in with the common people more to dilute her pompousness, getting her hair styled in an everyday hairdresser, for instance, but it never seemed to work, instead only gave Priscilla reason to gloat.

“Anyway, can you believe my Dad said no to me about getting a new car? Said I had to work for it.” Priscilla scoffed. “Me, work? With my broken nail?”

“Done.” Peyton snipped the last solitary strand of hair from Priscilla’s forehead, giving her a fringe to go alongside the ponytails she styled before the news started. Now Priscilla looked like a rich bitch as well as act like one. “That’ll be nine pounds, Priscilla.”

The blonde checked her hair in the mirror before standing, scrutinizing the cut obsessively. Everything had to be perfect for tonight, she had a bunch of her friends coming over for a party while her father and his friends talked Avington stocks. When that was all done her gentleman caller would arrive.

“Meh, it’s adequate.” Priscilla handed Peyton a ten pound note. Peyton knew Priscilla enough not to expect a tip, so handed that single pound coin back. Like her appearance, every penny mattered to the rich girl.

“You have a good day now.” Peyton knew her courteous words fell on Priscilla’s ears like water on a rock, as though the pompous girl could filter out compliments at will, discarding those from common people and only paying even just a second of attention to those that would only serve her in some way. Rich people complimenting other rich people because they could make each other wealthier. With common people they were just words.

Peyton removed her apron and hung it up next to the others, each labeled by name - Trisha, Peyton, Vivien, Lucy and Laura. Peyton was the last shift of the half-day so had to close up the shop after tidying up. The other girls couldn’t handle Priscilla’s personality so well as Peyton, so she had ‘exclusive’ access to the budding egotist, for lack of a more appropriate term. Priscilla generally didn’t like socializing with the average person for fear of catching something from them, but she liked Peyton…mostly because Peyton didn’t exactly listen to what she had to say and constantly agreed with everything just to be on the safe side. This week’s run-in with Priscilla was surprisingly tolerable, though, even by her standards.

Peyton sighed. It was just one of those days.

***

“Da, ya ponimayu.” Anatol Berezin spoke into his mobile phone in the gym’s corner, where a horizontal slit window was positioned. A thin outburst of daylight cutting fiercely through it, almost blinding him. The voice that came from the phone was strict, to such a degree in fact that Anatol bit his lip anxiously. “konechno, ser.”

The voice on the other end bellowed at Anatol, forcing him to pull the phone away to dull the tirade of verbal abuse directed at him. After mustering enough courage, Anatol put the phone to his ear again.

“Sorry, ma’am. I forget we’re not in the Motherland anymore.” Anatol turned away from the window and observed Micha curl a dumbbell that weighed somewhere within the one thousand pound range. An immense weight to most people but felt no lighter than a shopping bag to Micha. “It’s just—you know she doesn’t like to be disturbed during her training.”

“I do not care. She has a strict schedule to adhere to this week.” A distant cough came from the phone; raspy, wheezy. Anatol nodded in agreement with the caller’s statement, though with reluctance before he continued. “She is not to deviate any further. Do you understand?”

Anatol nodded with a moment’s silence, at first, before finding the necessary courage to agree yet again. He could hear Micha’s grunting intensify between his exchange, knew it was all just an act in an effort to make her training feel more intense and no doubt get Anatol’s attention. She was particularly adept at that.

Anatol ended the call and waited with hesitance for a moment, not sure it was a particularly good idea to break the news to Micha while she worked out. Stopping, he watched her ease into the leg press, eyeballing the large young woman manipulate the one-ton weight like it was nothing. Her quads visibly expanded with each rep, pumping her outrageous, unquestionably Herculean muscles with each passing second, ballooning and pressing against the fabric of her skin-tight shorts.

Anatol gulped. “Your mother says you need to stop with the diversions. That you have a strict schedule to adhere to.”

“Net, ya yeshche ne zakonchil.” Micha’s voice was strained, no doubt from the focus on her training, her neck muscles bulging in tandem with her fourteenth rep. “U menya yeshche yest’ neskol’ko povtoreniy, chtoby sdelat’.”

“English, Micha,” Anatol scolded. Her father wasn’t paying him money to teach his daughter the language only to not use it.

She rolled her eyes derisively, not finding much point in repeating herself. The leg press jolted violently back into its starting position as she threw her legs to the floor, the tendons in her calves twitching like snakes slithering through grass.

Mother always have problem with me working out.”

“—has a problem,” Anatoly corrected.

The leg press jerked as Micha’s monumental weight peeled free from it, an imprint of her musculature fashioned into the bench’s leather. That would no doubt be permanent. With a heaved breath she stood in front of Anatol and eased into a lat spread pose, the fabric of her sports bra visibly straining from the effort to keep her modest. Anatol was like a tiny mouse compared to Micha, four times his width.

Keeping his professional composure, Anatol opened the logbook he kept with him at all times. The logbook mostly chronicled Micha’s events of the day and upcoming events, almost like a diary. “You have an autobiography signing tomorrow morning, an interview with Lee King that night and a sponsored event all of Wednesday.”

“Blyad’!” Between her mother’s incessant prodding and constantly being on the move, Micha was stressed out beyond belief. She just wanted to be home.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear but you have to do it.” Anatol keenly observed Micha wipe the sweat from her legs with a damp towel, the musculature of her lower body quickly forming from wet to stone-dry rock with each rub. “Get it all over with and you’ll have Thursday all to yourself. I’ll make your favorite dinner then.”

Micha’s brow curled curiously. Before taking up the job as her personal aide, Anatol previously worked as a world-class chef, making appearances for the Prime Minister. Eventually seeking new ventures, Anatol applied to be an aide to the nation’s rising starlet, unaware at the time that it would be Micha.

“You make Zharkoye?”

Anatol smirked. “I won’t just make it for you. I’ll make as much of it as you want.”

Micha smiled. “You, how you say, ‘have a deal.’”

***

Sat comfortably in her private limousine, Micha crossed a foot over her gargantuan leg while texting as Anatol read through the stats she accrued over the past month. Sitting comfortably at thirty-eight point inches, her biceps truly were the largest in the known world, and at only twenty-two years old, there was reason to believe she still had potential for even more growth. Micha hadn’t  yet plateaued, which reinforced Anatol’s presumption. He was distracted for a moment by the large girl pulling at her shorts vainly trying to cover up her thighs. While looking though, Anatol could sense Micha’s disappointment. As much as she liked his cooking, there was no denying even zharkoye wouldn’t help her mood. And Anatol had yet more news to break.

“Your father’s health deteriorates further, unfortunately.” Anatol looked away quickly, peering out the window at the snow-capped rooftops of St Petersburg. He didn’t have to look at Micha to know how she felt about the news; it was distressing, heart-rending. Everything she done - the bodybuilding contests, private shows, webcamming and writing her autobiography - all of that was to fund the procedure necessary in helping him get better, but her father assumed it was just to gain wealth. “I heard his breathing over the phone earlier. It isn’t looking good.”

Micha offered a glance at Anatol. She knew he always meant what was best for her and could depend on him if needed. But still—hearing that news tore into her soul. “Kak dolgo do—How long until he..” Shuddering, she couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence that was otherwise at the tip of her tongue.

“Doctors say we’ve a few weeks at most.”

Micha knew it was a hopeless endeavor at this point. All her hard work amounting to naught. At the rate things were going, all the money gained was better off being used for her father’s funeral.

“Cancel appearances and signing.” Micha’s foot slipped away from her thigh, her calf easing into a squelchy flex in response, thick veins criss-crossing her kneecap. “Take me home.”

Anatol didn’t say anything, instead he nodded in agreement before knocking on the glass pane behind him, rousing the driver’s attention.

“Otvezi nas domoy.”

“Srazu, ser,” the driver called back.

The limo took a left turn, entering a dimly lit tunnel under a bridge. Micha grew anxious by the gridlock ahead. The snows from last night had pummeled the city so hard that metropolis itself had bled into a deadlock. No one in a car was going anywhere.

“You understand that when the time comes, you will be heading the family, taking care of your father’s accounts and debts.” Anatol’s eyes grew when he noticed Micha’s deathly glare. That definitely wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Being reminded that the family was buried up to its neck in debt certainly didn’t help thing either. Anatol was just doing his job, though he may have overstepped his boundaries with Micha. It was best not to stay in that particular line of questioning. Better to talk about something Micha had interest in.

Anatol remembered Micha strained in her effort to keep her shorts over her thick thighs, looking at the broad chunks of feminine meat with a curious expression.

“How big are your thighs now?”

Micha responded with a confused look, not sure why Anatol would ask such a question so abruptly. He was never so forward in the matters of wanting to know how large or strong she was. That said, she just couldn’t resist boasting. “Pyat’desyat—fifty-two inches. Why you ask me this?”

“To keep your mind off things. How much can you lift?”

“I lift one ton.”

Anatol feigned a surprised expression. Of course, it was part of his job to keep track of Micha’s measurements. Outside of keeping the girl calm, the point of Anatol’s little game of trivia was to uncover just how large and strong Micha intended on getting. Before deciding to use her muscles as the means to earn money for her father’s operation, Anatol knew Micha had aspirations of her own as well. All girls do. “Name one thing on your bucket list.”

“Bucket list. I do not know this word.” Micha’s anxious news returned upon believing Anatol’s question to be a trick.

Anatol smiled. He always found Micha’s nervousness to be adorable. “A bucket list is a list of things you want to in life before you die.”

Much thought long and hard about her ‘bucket list.’ Things to do in life before one dies - that was harder to come up with than Anatol would think, especially given the expense of the moment.

“I want to visit London, England. Try full English breakfast, fish and chips, custard creams—hmmm!”

Anatol burst into laughter. Micha frowned, thinking she had embarrassed herself in some way.

“What funny? I say it wrong?”

“No, no. It’s just…” Anatol smiled. He forgot the most obvious thing about Micha, outside of her unnatural muscularity and strength. “…sometimes I forget you’re an ordinary girl deep down.”

Micha smiled back, trying yet failing to hide the blush in her cheeks.

“If you really want to visit London, I’m sure something will fly your way.” Anatol let out a small sigh of relief as the limo started moving again.

Micha didn’t say anything to suggest the fact but she was contented by Anatol’s trivia, her anxiousness ebbed away. All while Anatol hadn’t noticed she offered him a smile he hadn’t seen before. She leaned in closer to him, her sports bra straining with the movement.

“I also want to try threesome,” she revealed shamelessly with a giggle, looking at Anatoly intently. He responded with his cheeks blushing, realising It might’ve been a mistake telling her what a bucket list was.

Juiced is technically back with a sequel! This has actually been an active project of mine for the past two years over on Deviantart. It never occurred to me until recently (like with Trophy Wife) to post it here, so decided to rectify that. Juiced II is 17 chapters thick so far, with over 200 PDF pages in its current unfinished state, so this is indeed a long 'un!

A word of caution that Juiced II is also VERY plotty. If you're only looking at this for a quick femuscle fix, this isn't for you I'm afraid. I'm a man who likes his stories and wants his own content to reflect that. Those who follow on me on Deviantart have even suggested that Juiced II is a bit too convoluted in comparison with its original entry, but I endeavor to see this series through. Unlike the original series, II is very much about "the bigger picture," with sci-fi elements, conspiracies and secret groups controlling things from the safety of the shadows.

That said, I do hope you enjoy what I have to offer out of this 17+ chaptered journey

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 2: Modesty

Peyton sighed. With her shift over, she could finally focus on some personal time, specifically organize her meal plan: Two chicken breasts with rice, a yogurt as a snack and a protein shake every day for the next week. Stood over the kitchen counter, she counted the breasts individually, the rice boiling away gently in the background. She’d just bought two six-packs of yogurt on the way home and would no doubt buy another before the week was even halfway through.

Grunting softly, she pulled her shirt off over her head, allowing her muscles to finally properly breathe. Just by standing over the counter Peyton could feel her biceps’ tendons pull and constrict, taut from the evident lack of oxygen supplied to them throughout the day from hiding them. Her friends and colleagues knew about the muscles and even accepted them - it was from Priscilla they had to be hidden, knowing she would derogatorily mouth off. Her earlier comments about Masha Konovaleva were proof of that.

The TV was on in the background, though muted. Peyton didn’t have much interest in watching network shows these days, between exclusive streaming services on the rise, her part-time job as a personal trainer and the other as a hairdresser, not to mention working out in her own time, she could barely keep up with a schedule for such things. Ironic, Peyton not being able to adhere to a timetable. Even so, the vibrant colours and flashing from the TV caught her attention, like disco music pulling in an energetic youth from the outside. Turning away from the counter, she gave the news report a moment of attention before inevitably being sucked into it like a black hole.

The report was being presented live by a man somewhere in his mid-forties dressed in a thick raincoat as light rain lashed him, stood outside the Silverlight center, a five-billion pounds sterling project funded entirely by the Avington Concern, used to host expos, theater shows and other forms of leisure.

Several black vehicles filled most of the camera’s frame. Peyton found herself slowly lowering into the couch as the main headline rolled in from the right:

BODYBUILDING CONTEST CONTROVERSY - CONTESTANT ARRESTED

Seeing the headline, Peyton unmuted the TV, the full force of the report having now grabbed her attention. A sense of unease came over her, coupled with uncertainty.

“That’s right, Harriet,” the male reporter called out loudly amongst a gust of fierce wind battering him, forcing him to double-check his footing, “Australian amateur female bodybuilding competitor, Zara Philips, has been detained following her disqualification from the contest, which came after an inexplicable outburst of growth when performing on stage. The contest was subsequently canceled.”

A female voice came through live from the news studio while the reporter adjusted his jacket, trying vainly to keep himself presentable for the live viewers across both the country and the world. “What could have caused this outburst to take place, Glen?”

“Hard to say at the moment, but from what information has been gathered since then, this ties in with the group of vehicles behind me that arrived shortly afterwards. Too soon for any outgoing call to the emergency services to arrive.” Glen turned sideways to look at the vehicles curiously, the camera panning and zooming in to get a better look at the unfamiliar crest on the front door - a love heart, in side of which resided a small cross, flanked by spread wings. “It is unclear at this time which section of the law enforcement these individuals represent. Perhaps, most likely, something new, but they were aware of this incident being likely to happen.”

 Glen was cut short, looking at the cameraman behind the shot pointing outwards at Silverlight’s main entrance where several officers representing this yet unknown wing of the law enforcement came from, escorting Zara Philips. Glen rushed to meet the group head-on, desperate to know so much more of the incident that occurred behind closed doors. But he stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed Zara.

Her muscles were still twitching from a perverse want to grow, desperate for more of the pills. Her own increase in size wanting—needing to feed on itself like a virus. Zara may have complied with the nameless group’s demand in detaining her, but she never was going to be aggressive. If anything, she just wanted to ensure her victory in the contest, feeling her pecs swell outwards inches at a time just by breathing. It was orgasmic, a sensation she would’ve taken care of personally backstage had she not been caught doping. Arms hung at her front, her biceps creaked and bloated in their sickening desperation to grow, her peaks pressing against her hips, a layer of vascularity suddenly bursting into existence.

Glen caught the attention from one of the people escorting Zara, coming up to the camera to interrupt the otherwise perfectly flawless shot of the Asian’s spurt of growth. That was when Peyton recognized the red hair and light brown trench coat. It was Detective Lily Hart, coming all this way from Southpoint - again.

Lily flashed her badge on camera, though it wasn’t distinctively a police one. Rather, an exact copy of the crest found on the vehicles shown earlier. That was when the report was cut off, bringing the live feed back to the BBC offices in London.

News presenter Harriet Lane issued an awkward smile. “Sorry about that. In other news, South Korean medical firm Bright Life has come under fire for its alleged illegal use of DNA—”

Peyton’s mouth dropped open in shock. That was it? Damn it. She turned the TV off and threw the remote onto the couch, trying to figure out how to make either heads or tails of what she just saw. How was Kim so big? It couldn’t possibly have been the monkey pills because looking that large when on them would’ve yielded countless adverse effects - internal organ failure, an abnormal outbreak of vascularity, high prospect of addiction—all the same traits a particularly different redhead exhibited a couple of years prior.

Then of course, there were the bigger questions. Who was Lily working with that she had to maintain such secrecy? Sure, she was a detective, but this secretive wing she worked under definitely wasn’t public knowledge. It was all so stressful.

Opening the nearby drawer, Peyton looked at the lone pill bottle rolling back and forth. Then the smiling monkey face slowly came into view as if to tease her. Kim couldn’t have been using the monkey pills because Peyton had the last bottle in existence. When Natalie decided to go cod turkey, she dumped the remaining bottles into the chemical waste bin. But from mere happenstance Peyton found a long-lost unopened bottle in her sister’s wardrobe when spring cleaning last year. Peyton had been ploddingly taking them since then just for the thrill and curiosity. If one of the pills in the palm of her hand, she remembered her vow: when the bottle was empty, she swore that would be the end of it.

Should she, shouldn’t she?

A smell filled the air, causing Peyton’s current train of thought to grind to a halt. The smell was familiar, not unlike something…burning,

“Oh shit! The chicken!”

***

Depression: that was the sole feeling to have swirled within Reagan’s mind for months, like flesh slowly ebbing away, decaying. Stood by the hospital window, she gazed out at the street below, longing to live the life of a free woman, but that wasn’t to happen anytime soon. Even so, there wasn’t much Reagan could do. Her life had changed so much in the past two years since her admission and the doctors’ worked to rehabilitate her. Dale had left and her parents ended up disowning her for the freak she ended up transforming into. Though it wasn’t her fault. Not exactly anyway.

The doctors worked their hardest to restore Reagan to her former self, though they weren’t totally successful. The eighty-hundred-and-fifty kilo mass monster they were originally tasked with saving, pleaded mostly by Natalie, now stood by the window at ninety kilos, most of which was made up of the musculature the doctors couldn’t subdue through being so solid owing to having gone full-bottle. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

Sighing, Reagan glared at the metal brace bolted onto her mangled left leg, designed purposefully to support and evenly distribute her weight. Her right leg contrasted the other; strong and muscular, layered with soft veins. The irony though was Reagan had become sickened by the strength certain aspects of her body possessed, retained from unforeseen effects brought on not just by going full-bottle but the rehabilitation procedure that came afterwards. She could walk, but no further than to the window she next to, only a few short steps away. The doctors, in turn, placed a small table and some chairs next to the window for visitors.

Her right arm throbbed, as if to attract Reagan’s attention. She hated it when that happened. It was her body’s way of saying ‘I’m still here, you’ll never get away from me. I am you!’ It drove Reagan mad at times, made her realize Karma had finally decided to dole out its dues.

Upon her admission to the hospital, the doctors eventually realized the adverse effects of Reagan going full-bottle weren’t just physical, but equally daunting cognitively and psychologically. When her body shut down from the abhorrent use of the monkey pills, it wasn’t long before Reagan was being force-fed through a tube and on twenty-four-seven care for months, the shutdown a counteraction from the pills on the doctors’ attempt to heal her.

In the months that followed her physical health returning to normalcy, Reagan experienced further problems, namely memory. She lost all semblance of knowledge or recognition from before she suffered her shutdown, failing to remember faces, names or even how to talk, spending most of her time staring blankly at the window like she was now. The memory loss was, thankfully, only temporary, but lasted long enough for certain problems to arise, particularly the relationships she had with Dale and her parents.

It took Reagan merely weeks to obtain the physique needed to enact her desired revenge on Natalie, but years to revert to normal. She was riddled with guilt gnawing on her bones and half muscular flesh. The irony of it all—

“You ready, Reagan?”

Jerking back into reality, pulling herself away from the mist of guilt, Reagan remembered. The detectives were going to question her today. A poly-something test, she vaguely remembered it being called. She agreed to it once her memory started coming back. She just hoped enough of it was back to help them. Something about an ongoing investigation involving the pills? Right?

“Yeah, I’m ready.” Reagan turned to the nurse feigning a smile. Her voice was still slightly masculine. In fact, that was permanent, something the doctor’s couldn’t do to help unless it involved clipping her vocal cords, which they wouldn’t do without Reagan;’s expressed consent. Reagan wasn’t particularly up to that. Her body had gone through so much of a change already…it was maybe best to wait.

The leg brace clicking, she hobbled over to the nurse, then stopped. She had already been offered a wheelchair, but refused, insisted she was well enough to walk. She’d have to do it eventually, anyway, otherwise prolonging the inevitable.

***

“I’m done.”

“What? Already?”

“We’ve been—”

Muffled moans and screams of pleasure. The rhythmical shaking of the bed frame. Calling out in lust as suppressed voices came from behind the locked door, which a large, burly and hairless brute of a man named Owen stood abreast of, gulping nervously as he overheard the wanton intercourse from the wall behind him. He’d never known Priscilla to have such sexual energy, though supposed it to be pent up and compensating for her comparatively mousy stature. She wasn’t small—not exactly anyway—just looked like that compared to Owen.

But, I’m not done,” came the voice from behind the door.

A groan followed by a dull thud and metallic clatter.

Literally hot under the collar, he tugged at the neckband of his shirt and exhaled. It felt like if he held his breath in long enough, something would happen, the inhales syncing up with the thrusts, exhales going hand in hand with the bed frame’s wooden groans.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Owen saw Dayna appear seemingly out of nowhere. Though the truth was he was too mesmerized by Priscilla’s passion to know the bespectacled assistant had been standing there for the last few seconds, sizing the large yet quiet giant up from head to toe.

“Lost in thought, are we?” Dayna’s voice always melted Owen’s heart; layered thickly with eroticism, applied deliberately when talking specifically to him. Because she knew he liked her. It was Dayna’s job to keep track of things, particularly when they concerned Priscilla. Owen simply grumbled in response, the sex behind him amplifying. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s been at it for four hours straight. Around five men are in there with her.”

Owen was surprised he managed to retain a sense of professionalism after divulging such a thing to Dayna, who he presumed to find such things either distasteful or lacking in morals, judging by her conservative dress; a black blazer suit and trousers, white shirt and a tie, almost identical to Owen’s attire. But Dayna was younger than Owen, he in his mid-forties, she only just reached her twenties. That made her even younger than Priscilla.

Dayna looked down at Owen’s crotch and smirked at the first obvious indication of an erection, then looked up at him with shrewdly. “Well, if you’re a good little guard, I’m sure she’d be perfectly willing to make it six men—next time.”

Priscilla swayed her hips in sync with her thrusts, releasing impassioned moans in the attempt to instill vigour in the man below her struggling to keep himself awake. His energy had been spent long before now, yet determined in some way or another to ensure she was satisfied. Her breasts bouncing up and down gently with each jolt, slapping into one another, she bit her lip in eagerness, staring into his eyes.

The door clicked open revealing Dayna, who casually walked past and over the sexually exhausted men strewn across the floor, some of which were bigger and longer than others, but it was clear they just didn’t do the job they were paid to. No-one seemed to fit the bill. One of the men paid to service Priscilla laid droopy over the bed, groaning in a manner that seemed to indicate pain.

“Enjoying yourself?” Dayna stopped just a few inches from Priscilla, examining her naked back, which, unlike the impressively-built man below her fondling her perfect tits, was glistened with sweat. Curious at first glance, considering they’d been at it for hours.

“No.” Priscilla stopped, looking at her gigalo in disgust. He seemed to be enjoying himself, what with the wide toothy grin plastered across his face, but it wasn’t about him. It was about her. “Four hours and five dicks later, I still haven’t orgasmed. Not once. Are you sure they’re working as they should? Are they long enough?”

“I can assure you these men are of the highest quality.”

Priscilla scoffed, sliding free from the dazzled man who just couldn’t keep his eyes off her. “Whatever you say, Dayna.” Between her smooth and tight bubble butt, hourglass figure and gravity-defying breasts, she was, in a word, perfect. A goddess, even. But Priscilla felt different on that matter. Never in her life had she reached climax during sex. It drove her mad at times to think she was different from other women, different from her friends who could do it anytime they wanted. She was annoyed, and it showed.

“Why are you here?”

Dayna reached into the inside pocket of her blazer and pulled out a syringe with a vial attached to its bottom. She and Priscilla looked at each other knowingly. Time for another check-up.

Priscilla nodded, then poked her male friend in the elbow. “You. Leave. Take your friends with you.”

“Will I see you again?” It was clear this man—whoever he was—had become starstruck by the beauty Priscilla naturally expressed. Not that it mattered. “I think I’m in love.”

“No. You’re useless to me. So you won’t be back. You…” Priscilla offered a perfunctory glance to the other men strewn across the floor and bed. “…or your friends.”

He turned to Dayna as if expecting her to reprimand Priscilla for her cold-hearted yet honest response, but the truth was Dayna didn’t feel any different on the matter. She was utterly devoted to her employer, offering an equally affronting glance that had the gigolo quickly on his feet gathering his clothes and waking his friends from their slumber.

Priscilla held out her arm, squeezing her fist a few times to get blood flowing and the veins in her arm to rise to the surface of her skin. She never questioned why samples of her blood were taken on a regular basis, having them done so ever since she could remember. It was part of her life.

“How’s Daddy?”

“Busy. What with all the Bright Life shenanigans going on. He expects having to work with them through their court case. In the meantime, he wants you to work on your relations with other people.”

“You mean, he wants me out the way.”

“Priscilla—”

The blonde groaned, slipping back into her pair of snow-white frills and ankle socks, then searched frantically for her bra. “What did he have in mind, exactly?”

Dayna didn’t immediately offer a response. Instead, she marveled at Priscilla’s tight glutes as she bent down to pick up her bra from the floor. “Oh, um…nothing in particular. Although, I offered a suggestion.”

Priscilla turned as the elastic of bra snapped into place across her shoulder, her interest piqued. “I’m listening.”

“Peyton.”

Priscilla burst into laughter. She was expected to form a friendly relationship with the fucking hairdresser? Surely Dayna wasn’t serious? Of course, when she saw the expression painted across her face—

“Oh my god, you’re serious. Why would I ever want to be friends with her?”

“Because she has friends.” Dayna kept up with her keen observations while placing the vial of blood and used syringe into her blazer’s inside pocket. “Something you, admittedly, have a severe lack in. You might learn something from her.”

Priscilla’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t like it when people called her out on her shortage of friends, especially when such comments came from someone she otherwise wholeheartedly trusted. “Careful, Dayna. Or you will find yourself with the severe lack of a job. Maybe then you’ll learn something about where you stand.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

Priscilla’s deathly glare strengthened. That alone spoke for her. Dayna stopped before speaking herself into a corner.

“Fine. I suppose it can’t hurt to see just how interesting Peyton actually can be,” Priscilla commented, tying her hair into pigtails. “Not that she will be, or anything.”

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 3

"Zdorov'ye tvoyego ottsa bystro ukhudshayetsya.” Masha’s mother Galina couldn’t bear looking at her, seeing her abnormally muscular frame press against that expensive fur coat and tight black leather boots from which her calves most definitely screamed to be released. The EKG machine hooked up to Ivan, Masha’s father, beeped rhythmically in the background. Galina looked into his eyes longingly, petrified by his looking back so gauntly, expressing more bone underneath than healthy flesh. “Vas volnuyet tol'ko stanovitsya bol'she.”

Stood at the door, Anatoly winced. He always knew Galina to offer harsh criticisms but even he knew this particular accusation was unwarranted. Masha had already tried to interject a few times now, in her effort to explain why she acted this way - why she was supposedly obsessed with working out. She was aware of her apparent ‘gift’ for gaining muscle mass quickly and so sought to use that to her advantage - to accumulate the necessary funds for her father’s life-saving, yet expensive operation. But Galina just couldn’t see it that way, instead, believing Masha’s reasoning to be an excuse to cover up her enjoyment in being rich.

Masha looked around her parents’ bedroom, reminiscing in not too distant memories - her father reading her his favorite childhood book, which in turn became hers; hiding under the bed during a game of hide and seek… Her life as a child in the village was such a stark contrast to what it was now but she felt no different towards her parents. It was just Galina who felt that way.

But then, perhaps arriving at her childhood home in a limousine wasn’t the best idea.

“Mama, I…” Masha stopped herself suddenly, remembering her mother didn’t know a single word of English let alone be able to string a sentence together. This created yet another wedge between the mother and daughter. Masha sat on the edge of the bed and listened to her father’s wheezy breaths with dread, fearing the worst could happen at any moment. She hoped her mother would eventually come around and see sense. Her father’s life depended on that.

Masha sighed. Her family was in dire straits, between the crippling debt and expensive treatment for her father. Masha knew she had what it took to pull her parents out from the hole they found themselves in, particularly when it came to her father’s potential therapy.

Anatoly took it upon himself to step in, to help Galina see the light her daughter was guiding her towards. Masha knew her own attempts amounted to nothing at this point but she knew first hand that Anatoly seemed to have a way with words during important situations. Resting his hand on her pumpkin’d shoulder, he smiled at Masha who decided to leave, holding back tears.

***

Anatoly didn’t leave Masha’s parents’ cozy homestead until nearly an hour later, by which point the sun was starting to set over the distant hills. Leaning over the porch railing, he pulled out a cigarette packet from his waistcoat with a smile that seemed to suggest triumph. The family barn was just a short stroll from where he stood, its doors spread open like angel wings wide enough to see the animal stalls on both sides filled with horses and cows both.

Between the stalls was a simple hay path. Stamping the cigarette out on the porch, Anatoly made his way towards it leisurely as his ears picked up a distinctive, yet muffled sound he’d grown accustomed to hearing on a daily basis, making his smile grow until his teeth flashed. The cow nearest the barn doors mooed when Anatoly came to a halt stood squarely between them, his shadow growing with the setting sun. The muffled sound had since become clearer, metamorphosed into a grunt of effort coming hand in hand with metallic groans, steel scraping off the ground as the large machine was casually lifted by its front, the fur coat casually tossed into the pile of hay in the corner.

Masha was curling the family’s tractor! Seeing this display had given Anatoly cause to stare long enough for Masha to realize she was no longer alone, which only fueled her desire to keep going. She loved it when there was an audience, after all. Wincing, she drove the vehicle even higher, listening to its grill hiss as steam was expelled from mounting pressure, the front suspension groaning in protest. The ground beneath Masha cracked as she maintained her position, shuffling her feet to widen her stance which in turn allowed the tractor to be raised even higher at an angle, almost like she was about to flip it like a tire. But that’s when she stopped, turning to Anatoly with a smile.

“Like what you see?” There was no indication of struggle in Masha’s voice. Keeping the tractor upright, she let one hand go free to casually flex her arm, watching Anatoly’s expression shift from shocked to aroused in a matter of seconds. It certainly wasn’t the first time that happened and they both knew that. He watched as her bicep casually grew a couple of inches, veins snaking up it like worms writhing in the dirt. “I’ve a feeling you do. This weighs seven hundred and fifty kilos or half a tonne.”

To Masha’s surprise and slight annoyance, Anatoly managed to regain his professional composure, adjusting the crease in his waistcoat and collar. Masha had originally set out to lift the tractor to release the pent-up frustrations concerning her mother’s reluctance to the truth, but as she lifted the large machine higher and Anatoly arrived, those frustrations evolved into something more primal. Anatoly was just too much of a professional and all-round gentleman to take advantage of them. If he were to have a private moment with Masha, it would be through courting her as one should, not just when one was desperate for a fuck.

In any case, he could see Masha’s frustrations had found a new target in him. Releasing her grip, the tractor dropped back to the ground in its previous position, the resounding light shockwave rippled through the woman’s trousers like a sharp blade, cutting them up at the back to reveal her throbbing calves.

“What is it?”

“I managed to get your mother to see sense. That is to say, explain why you’re doing all this.”

Masha’s frustrations seemed to dissipate as if Anatoly’s words calmed her. Despite not actually saying anything to suggest the fact, Anatoly knew Masha was contented by his ability to help. Now she could focus all her efforts on getting the money needed to help her father.

Anatoly lit another cigarette but didn’t immediately take a draw from it. Instead, he kept it between his fingers as the smoke flailed to and fro with the rising wind. In essence, there was a moment of silence between them. “I figured since we’re somewhere private we could talk about the other thing.”

Masha raised her brow in curiosity. That alone spoke for her. She watched Anatoly pull out a notepad from the inside pocket of his waistcoat. After a moment of anticipation he opened it, revealing scrawled notes - research. Scanning through the pages, he heard Masha approach his side, her steps crunching on the gravel and hay.

“You were right about the Avington Concern. It does offer the therapy your father needs, but the majority of it is owned by a South Korean megacorporation, Bright Life.” Anatoly flipped through the notepad to another page of notes scrawled right into the corners. “Bright Life itself has its hands in pretty much everything worth investing in - pharmaceuticals, construction, energy. They even have a stake in a private military firm.”

“What this mean?”

“It means whatever the Avington Concern owns that can help save your father, this Bright Life wants it too. And everything they own gets privatized. Depending on the shares they own, Bright Life might already have it, which means—”

“I might not be able to save my father.” Masha felt her heart sting. It hurt knowing there was even just a possibility her father might not get the treatment he needed. That everything she’d done up until now could have amounted to nothing broke her.

Anatoly sympathized. He closed the notepad but had yet more news to break. “What’s interesting is anytime the Concern is mentioned, through newspapers, online articles and so on, even before Bright Life made its majority stake, A Priscilla Avington pops up. Every. Single. Time.”

“What we know of her?”

“Not much. She’s the heiress to the Avington fortune which accumulates up to ten billion per annum, prefers the company of those who share her social status, like a billionaire’s club…”

Masha’s eyes narrowed, realizing Anatoly had trailed off. He was holding something back and he knew she was aware of the fact. But Masha needed to know. “And?”

“She is dangerously conceited.”

“Con-consee—I do not know this word.”

“Conceited. Means you’re full of yourself, self-loving. She thinks she’s better than everyone else.”

Masha understood now, but couldn’t quite place why Anatoly felt it was important to mention this Priscilla Avington in the first place. All Masha cared about was helping her father get better, using the Avington’s therapy to do that. It wasn’t as if Masha and Priscilla would ever meet face-to-face.

“Why tell me about her?”

“If you’re serious about approaching the Avington’s for help with your father, you gotta understand everything worth knowing about them. Their daughter too. She isn’t to be taken lightly, a stereotypical rich bitch who isn’t adverse to fighting to get what she wants. And everything she wants, she gets. If you want the therapy, you ought to get on her good side as a precaution.”

Masha nodded. If she were to ever insult Priscilla, even if there was no guarantee they would ever meet, it would, by extension, be an insult to the Avington family as a whole, which would drive a wedge in Masha’s hopes to save her father.

“You understand now? If you two ever meet and she asks you to, you better lick her boot. Else you won’t get what you need to help your father.”

Masha looked out to the farmhouse through the barn window. The things she’d do for family…

***

Priscilla looked into her compact makeup mirror, vainly scrutinizing her face from every perceivable angle for blemishes, but as ever found nothing but smooth glossy perfection. A smile crept along her face as she crossed one leg over the other, adjusting her white French beret so it sat perfectly on her head. Closing the mirror, her sigh came as a sign of boredom from having to wait so long in the traffic. Priscilla was never used to waiting on things, on anything, and today was no different.

Dayna sat on the opposite end of the limo double-checking Priscilla’s plans for the remainder of the week. Dayna had tried countless times to contact Peyton about meeting up so she and Priscilla could socialize for a bit, get to know one another better, but Peyton never returned the calls. Admittedly, Priscilla was happy about the fact, but even then Dayna insisted she at least try mingling.

Priscilla’s bodyguard Owen doubled as her chauffeur, escorting her to Peyton’s gym on the other side of town where they would hope to find her. They already tried the hairdresser’s to find it shut, locked up for the day. Priscilla had initially taken that as a sign they would just drop the plan to meet Peyton, but Dayna—

“Can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Me, Priscilla Avington, mingling with the underclass?” The blonde shuddered at the thought of having to share the same air as Peyton longer than necessary. It was bad enough she had to sit near her in the hairdresser to keep her dear, lovable Daddy happy. Else she wouldn’t get her hands on that beefy trust fund he promised her. “I hope I don’t catch anything off her.”

“Everything will be fine so long as you stick by your father’s rules. You don’t have to spend any more time with her than he proposed. Fifteen minutes at most. After that, we’ll take it from there.”

“Any less and Daddy locks me out of my own trust fund.”

“Yes, but understand he’s doing this for your benefit, not to punish you.” Dayna watched Priscilla roll her eyes derisively as if to suggest it was foolish to believe that claim. It was.

“For his benefit, you mean. I told you, he wants me out the way while he works that court case.” Priscilla clutched her skirt, pulling at it as she bit her lip in annoyance. While Dayna’s earlier words were meant to comfort her, Priscilla’s were truthful. Her father did want her out the way. Didn’t want any potential episodes like last time. It annoyed her just thinking about it, knowing she was basically separated to save her father from further embarrassment. It wasn’t as though Priscilla could choose when or when not to ‘act out.’

Her phone buzzed. The smile returned when she noticed the call was coming from her boyfriend Watson Grimes, calming her. Priscilla loved Watson and hoped her father would one day give them his blessing to marry. She envisioned a future of them together as a married couple with children, living somewhere warm all year around instead of the depressing, often cold British isles.

“Hey, Watty. I’m just finishing up a few things here. After that, you and I can have some fun. I’ll let you use the crop this time. Whatcha say to that?”

Priscilla wasn’t used to silence. In fact, just like having to wait, she hated it. To her, silence came across as a moment where the gears in someone’s head were turning, coming up with an excuse for whatever. Priscilla wouldn’t have minded if Watson was caught up with something else. It would’ve given her the perfect reason to look for men more muscular than him to ride like the wild horses they were. She knew it would’ve all amounted to the same result anyway—not getting off. At this point, she did it just for the purpose of being in control. But the fact was, the nature of the silence was different.

“Priss…we’re going to have to break up.”

Priscilla predictably didn’t take the news all that well. Breaking up with her. No-one had done that before. Usually, it was Priscilla who discarded her lovers like used tissues, not the other way around.

Her eye twitched. “What do you mean you’re breaking up with me?”

“I know you’ve been sleeping with other men. Sometimes women too.” Even though his reasons for breaking up with her were perfectly rational, Watson knew Priscilla wouldn’t take the news well. He heard her breath quicken through the phone as if building up to a scream. “I’m not sure how you can expect us to have a happy life together when you’re unfaithful.”

“You’re throwing me away just because I had a little bit of fun?” Priscilla could feel her rage build atop itself, the rash she experienced only an hour earlier returning in full force, far more violent than before. She felt it burn into her skin like a red hot poker. “I’m rich! People like me have fun like that all the time! I’m Priscilla Avington. I could have fun like that anytime I wanted!”

Dayna watched Priscilla continue her argument. It was partly Dayna’s job to calm Priscilla down whenever she got worked up but she didn’t honestly know what to do this time. She’d never seen the veins on the side of Priscilla’s face emerge before, like fat worms burrowed under dirt squirming violently. All Dayna could do was watch.

“Well, maybe if you packed a bigger dick I wouldn’t have to go looking for other men to fuck!” Of course, Priscilla’s words were meaningless. Truthfully, it didn’t matter if Watson possessed a bigger manhood or not, given she just wouldn’t get off anyway and Priscilla knew that. She was just calling a bluff.

“There’s your rage problem too. That rash you get when angry. You’ve probably got it right now. It—”

Priscilla winced, jolting her head to one side as the rash intensified further, deepened so the veins at the side of her face became even more apparent and violent in their flails, audibly twitching. She panted heavily before mustering enough strength to speak through barred teeth. “It’s not…my…fault.”

Owen glanced through the front view mirror, panicking over the sight before him. He’d heard stories about Priscilla’s ‘condition’ but chalked it up as mere hearsay on account of others being jealous of her good looks. It all, clearly, turned out to be true though. Every word of it. He parked the car up against the kerb and maintained his stares through the mirror. He had no idea what to do. That was Dayna’s job.

“It might not be your fault, but—” Watson’s response was cut short by Dayna grabbing Priscilla’s phone and tossing it out the window, smashing into pieces on the road. Priscilla sustained her quickened breaths even afterwards, the veins in her face throbbing ceaselessly, thick and blue.

And then—

Priscilla’s breaths had built up to a scream so loud the limousine’s windows cracked and smashed into pieces, the resulting shockwave causing the alarms of nearby parked cars to go off, alongside cats and dogs scurrying away in fear, barking and hissing. The deep rash and violent outbreak of veins across Priscilla’s face started to fade and disappear not long afterwards, returning the girl’s visage to its former blemish-free perfection.

Owen turned to Dayna slowly, expecting answers. “The fuck was that?”

“Never you mind!” Dayna scolded. “Take us home. She needs to rest.”

“No,” Priscilla cut in, panting softly. “No, I’m fine. I can still do this.”

“Miss Avington, I’m not so sure—” Owen was cut off by a perfunctory wave of Dayna’s hand. Owen knew his place. Dayna worked for Priscilla, while Owen basically worked for them both. He sighed defeatedly, though his concern for Priscilla couldn’t be denied. “Alright then.”

As the limo pulled forward onto the road again Dayna held Priscilla’s hand affectionately. The spoiled billionaire heiress was often times against being touched, but for some reason always found comfort in Dayna. Ever since she could remember, Priscilla never questioned the nature of her condition, but was now starting to find doubts in that.

“What’s wrong with me?”

Dayna smiled. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Owen glanced though the front view mirror once more, his concern shifting into suspicion.

Thank you for the great read so far. Hope for more. Kudos.