Where to start?
Maybe with him? The guy sobbing and broken on the floor? Hang on, no, that’s not a good idea: I didn’t even catch his name before I broke his nose and a few of his ribs. All I know about him is that he’s a whiney areshole. Oh, and that he’s her boyfriend.
So maybe I should start with her? The girl who tore her own clothes off when I promised to show her mine if she would show me hers? The girl currently on her hands and knees, squirming and rubbing her thighs together to try and get herself off as she stares at my freakishly muscular body?
Yeah, let’s start with her. She’s Ophelia, and she’s brilliant: PhD funded by the Arts and Humanities Research Council, a BBC New Generation Thinker, and a fellow at All Souls College, Oxford, all by the age of 25. She just so happens to be beautiful, too - and the absolute spit of Audrey Tautou at the same age.
And that very evening she had been celebrating the publication of her third book, a monograph analysing Truffaut’s film criticism in Cahiers du cinéma.
I know, because I gatecrashed the launch party. That’s how we met, actually. All of, oh, an hour ago, I think. Time flies when you’re having fun.
It’s funny to think how aloof and distracted she was when I first approached her at the party to ask her to sign my copy of her book. She was totally uninterested in me right up until I took off my coat and suddenly I had her full attention. I knew there and then she wouldn’t be able to resist me.
“So what’s it going to be, Ophelia? I don’t have all day.”
I made great play of raising my arm to look at my smartwatch, flexing my bicep and rolling my wrist as I did so. Hell, even I was impressed by how beefy and powerful my arm looked - what chance did Ophelia have? Still on all fours, her body shuddered with her first orgasm of the evening, and I wasn’t even touching her yet.
Yet...
“I think we both know what you want.”
I extended my leg and moved my foot back towards her boyfriend’s testicles, already turning unhealthy shades of black and blue. Black and blue balls. After tonight, as far as his relationship with Ophelia went, he would never be enough for her again. He would have blue balls forever.
He saw my foot coming and tried to curl up into a protective ball. Unfortunately for him, he’d forgotten about his broken ribs. He spasmed almost as impressively as his girlfriend just had, but without any of the pleasure she had experienced.
Pain was all he would know tonight.
This time though, as my stiletto lightly touched his testicles, I held my leg in the air, resisting the urge to press down with any weight.
I think he thought I’d taken pity on him. How wrong he was.
“How about this, Ophelia: you have ten minutes to hump my leg, like the horny little bitch you are. Imagine how these muscles would feel between your thighs. Imagine how good it would feel to have this big, hard quad pressing into your pink little pussy. Imagine how it would feel to have something this massive and this powerful rubbing against your clit.”
She crouched on the floor, staring up at me wide-eyed and nodding, gently at first but then more and more emphatically.
“There’s just one thing you need to bear in mind: every time you press your moist little pussy up against my rock-hard muscles, well, your weight is going to cause me to press my heel down into your boyfriend’s balls. Your ecstasy will cause him agony. Do you want that, Ophelia? Do you want to worship my muscles that badly?”
“Pl-please, Ophelia… No… You can’t…” he pleaded, through his sobs.
Ophelia must have heard him begging, but she didn’t acknowledge him; instead she stared in wonderment at my thigh, her fantasies running wild.
I flexed my extended leg a little, just enough to make my muscles jump. Not for her benefit - I knew she wasn’t capable of resisting me - but for his: I had already asserted my dominance, but I enjoyed vaunting my power.
I almost envied him his view of me right then, as I towered over him, my muscles bulging and rippling at will. I must have looked spectacular.
And terrifying.