Yukiko - The Intern

[diabolodiabolo]

YUKIKO – THE INTERN

It was a typical Monday morning in January 2026 in Cologne. The sky was grey and rainy as I – Mark, 1.70 m tall, thin and untrained – hurried into the office building in the city centre. My job in the IT department of a medium-sized software company was routine: checking code, meetings, coffee breaks. I often felt invisible among my colleagues, most of whom were sportier and more self-confident than me. In my secret moments, when no one was looking, I scrolled through bodybuilding forums or magazines on my phone, fascinated by muscular women – their strength, their definition, the way muscles played under the skin. It was my little secret, one that aroused me, but which I never acted upon. Until that day.

The HR department had announced a new intern: Yukiko, a 19-year-old Japanese woman who had come from Tokyo for a few months to take on administrative tasks – sorting files, preparing meetings, that sort of thing. When she entered our open-plan office, she immediately stood out. She was huge – over 2 metres tall, I estimated – dressed in a conservative outfit: a loose white blouse that hung loosely over her upper body, and a long skirt that reached her ankles. Her shoes were flat, but enormous – size 52, as I would later learn. Her face was delicate and pretty, Asian features with almond-shaped eyes that blinked shyly, and a gentle smile that betrayed slight uncertainty. She tried to make herself smaller by slouching her shoulders, but her sheer presence made the room feel narrower. "Hello, I'm Yukiko," she said in a soft accent, her voice quiet and embarrassed. "Nice to be here."

I was assigned to onboard her – as the "quiet guy" in the team who could explain things well. We sat at my desk and I showed her the system: uploading files, sorting emails. At first I only noticed her size – her hands typing on the keyboard were enormous, fingers longer and thicker than mine, nails neatly painted in a delicate pink. When she stretched to grab a folder from the shelf without standing up, I sensed a hint of something powerful: her blouse sleeve slipped up slightly, and I caught a glimpse of her forearm – defined, with a suggestion of veins standing out under the skin. It was only a split second, but my pulse raced. Was that muscle? She didn't notice my gaze, or at least pretended not to, and murmured: "Sorry, I'm still new here."

The day passed with small interactions. Yukiko was efficient but shy – she spoke little, smiled a lot, and tried to minimise her movements as if she was afraid of taking up too much space. During lunch break she helped clear the conference table and lifted a stack of chairs as if they were feathers. I stared involuntarily: her arms tensed under the blouse, the fabric stretched, and I saw the outline of biceps that looked bigger than any man's in the office. My body reacted – a quiet tingling in my pants that I tried to ignore. She turned around, saw my stare, and blushed slightly. "Everything okay, Mark?" she asked awkwardly. I nodded quickly, mumbled something about "impressive", and she laughed softly: "Oh, I train a little. Nothing special."

But it was special. Yukiko wasn't just tall – she was the most muscular human being on earth, over 200 kg of pure, defined muscle mass, stronger and more massive than even the most elite male bodybuilders. Years of intense training combined with steroids had turned her into this colossus: every muscle hypertrophied, veins like ropes, cuts so deep they cast shadows. Yet she hid it, insecure because of the looks she otherwise received. That afternoon, when we were alone in the copy room, it happened properly for the first time. She bent down to refill paper, and her skirt stretched over her calves – those calves were monstrous, diamond-shaped, thicker than my thighs, with veins pulsing prominently as she tensed. I couldn't look away; my arousal grew, my breathing became shallower. Yukiko straightened up, saw my fixed stare, and a flash of understanding crossed her face. "Do you like... strong legs?" she asked shyly, and tested it by rising slightly onto her toes – her calves pumped up, became even more defined, the muscles splitting into separate heads, veins swelling like rivers after rain.

I blushed, nodded silently, and she smiled awkwardly. "A lot of people are afraid of it. But you... you look fascinated." From then on she began to play subtly – she now knew about my secret preference.

The next day it became more intense. We were working on a project and Yukiko was again wearing loose clothing, but she moved more deliberately. When she handed me a stack of files, her fingers touched my hand – warm, strong – and she held the contact a second longer than necessary. "Help me with the shelf," she said, and we pushed it aside. She did most of the work; her shoulders tensed, the blouse fabric stretched over trapezius muscles that rose like mountains, higher than my shoulders. Veins emerged, thick and blue, branching down from her neck. I gasped quietly, my pants grew tighter, and Yukiko noticed – her eyes drifted lower and she blushed. "Oh... that turns you on? My muscles?" She whispered it as if it were a secret, and discreetly flexed her arm – the biceps swelled, bigger than a basketball, the peak sharp and defined, veins practically exploding. Compared to my thin, untrained arms – soft like pudding – it was overwhelming. She noticed my growing arousal; her own breathing deepened.

After work she invited me to "discuss something else" – we stayed in the empty conference room. The door was closed, the office quiet. Yukiko closed the blinds and her movements became more playful. "You keep staring," she said awkwardly, but with a hint of dominance. "Do you want to see more?" I nodded eagerly, and she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, first revealing her neck, then her shoulders – massive, wider than the door, with deltoids divided into three separate heads, veins like a net across them. She pumped them up, raised her arms into a side-shoulder pose, and the muscles exploded: every deltoid doubled in size, cuts so deep my fingers could fit inside. My arousal was now obvious, throbbing in my pants, and Yukiko laughed softly: "Look at you... so small and turned on. My steroids make me a monster... and you love it."



She pulled the blouse completely off and stood there in a sports bra that could barely contain her chest muscles – pecs thicker than books, nipples already stiffening under the tight fabric. She flexed them rhythmically, making them bounce and dance, veins pulsing from her shoulders straight down the centre of her chest. I stepped closer, touched them; my thin fingers sank into the rock-hard density, feeling the heat radiating from within. "Kiss them," she whispered, and I did – licking along the thick, throbbing veins, tasting the faint salt of her skin. Yukiko moaned softly, clearly noticing how intensely this turned me on – my hands were shaking, my cock straining painfully against my trousers.

Then she slid the long skirt down her legs, revealing thighs like ancient tree trunks – quads split into four massive, perfectly separated heads, each one more defined than the last, veins wrapping around them like vines on marble columns. She stepped one leg forward and flexed; the quads exploded outward, growing even larger and harder in front of my eyes. Next to my skinny stick-legs they looked almost comical in their disproportion – humiliating and intoxicating at the same time. Yukiko noticed the obvious bulge in my pants, reached out with one thick finger and lightly traced its outline. "This makes you hard, doesn't it? My muscles... the most muscular on the entire planet."

Yukiko stood in the dim light of the conference room, now wearing only the tight sports bra and a narrow thong that did almost nothing to hide her unimaginable muscle mass. Her pecs – those colossal plates, thicker than two stacked telephone directories, carved with deep shadowy separations and crossed by thick blue veins that pulsed visibly with every breath – rose and fell hypnotically. She had just flexed her quads again: monstrous thighs divided into four hypertrophied heads – vastus lateralis, medialis, intermedius, rectus femoris – each fibre visible under the thin, tanned skin, twitching with power. Veins snaked across them like storm-swollen rivers, swelling and throbbing as though alive. Her strength felt almost tangible – she could have crushed a tree trunk between one quad squeeze – yet every movement remained precise, controlled, the product of years of brutal training and heavy steroid cycles. Compared to my frail 1.70 m frame – thin, untrained, legs like matchsticks – I felt like a toy doll in the hands of a giantess.

Her almond-shaped eyes, still carrying that trace of shyness, locked onto the obvious tent in my trousers. "You're so turned on by my muscles," she murmured, voice soft yet edged with growing dominance. "I can see it... and it's making me... wet." She stepped closer; the floor seemed to tremble faintly under her weight. Before I could react she grabbed my shirt collar with one hand. Her fingers – thick as sausages yet impossibly strong – closed around the fabric without effort. "Wait, Yukiko, I..." I stammered, a mixture of excitement and token protest, but she shook her head. Her delicate, pretty face – now carrying the faintest masculine edge from years of androgens – grew serious. "No, Mark. You want this. I can feel it. And now... I'm going to strip you. Against your will? Maybe. But you're going to love every second."

Despite my half-hearted squirming – I wriggled a little, but deep down I craved it – she tore my shirt open with one smooth, controlled pull. Buttons flew across the room; the fabric ripped like wet paper under her power. Her biceps tensed during the motion, ballooning to well over 60 cm circumference, the peak rising sharp like a mountain ridge, veins exploding outward in a chaotic web of vascularity. She was the single most muscular human alive – no male pro bodybuilder came close to her sheer mass. Her shoulders alone were wider than my entire chest, traps rising almost to her ears in thick, rope-like strands. I stood there shirtless, my soft, narrow chest in pathetic contrast to her armoured, granite-hard torso. "Look at you... so weak, so cute," she whispered, blushing herself, yet her arousal was unmistakable – nipples diamond-hard under the bra, lower lip caught between her teeth.

She held me effortlessly with one hand – her grip around my upper arm like a warm steel clamp, escape impossible yet never painful. With the other she unbuckled my belt, dragged my trousers and boxers down despite my murmured "No, wait...". Her strength was overwhelming: she lifted me slightly off the ground by the armpits as though I weighed nothing, stripped everything off in seconds. Shoes went flying. Now I stood completely naked before her, cock half-hard and trembling with anticipation. Yukiko stared, eyes hungry, her own excitement visibly rising. "You're so small... perfect for me."

Now she undressed herself, slowly, deliberately. First the sports bra: she unhooked it and let it fall. Her breasts – firm, muscular, never soft – sprang free, held high by the underlying pectorals that flexed involuntarily at the release. Veins ran from shoulders across the pecs, pulsing openly. Then the thong: she slid it down and her clit sprang forward, already half-erect – thick as my little finger, roughly 4 cm long, smooth and defined with a visible glans. Veins began to swell as her arousal mounted. She blushed deeply: "Sorry... it always happens when I get... dominant. The steroids... they made it so big."

But she wasn't finished. The act of overpowering me, of stripping me "against my will", caused her clit to swell further. Right before my eyes it lengthened, hardened – 6 cm, then 7 cm, now as thick as my thumb, rock-hard, veins thickening and throbbing visibly. Yukiko moaned quietly; every muscle on her body tensed in response: quads quivered and ballooned, cuts deepening into chasms; calves hardened into perfect diamonds; biceps flexed involuntarily, peaks rising menacingly high. "This... turns me on so much. Controlling you. My power... it makes me drip."

She began to dominate me – playful yet utterly unyielding. With one hand she pressed me back against the conference table, lifted me onto the edge as though I were weightless. Her free hand – enormous, fingers stronger than my entire arm – wrapped around the back of my neck, pinning me gently but inescapably. "Now... touch me. Stimulate my clit. I'm making you." I hesitated theatrically; she guided my hand anyway, pressing my fingers against the hard, pulsing glans. "Lick it... suck it like a little cock." Her voice was commanding yet still carried that embarrassed blush. When I obeyed, running my tongue over the smooth tip and along the swollen veins that now stood out like cables, Yukiko groaned deeply. Her entire physique tensed: shoulders pumped, delts splitting into three distinct heads, each thicker than my biceps; lats flared like wings, wider than the table itself, veins streaming top to bottom.

While I worked her – sucking, licking, feeling her clit reach 8 cm, harder than steel – she made the comparison explicit. She reached down, gripped my cock between thumb and forefinger, then held her clit right beside it. "Look... my clit is thicker than your penis now. Harder. Longer." It was true: her engorged, vascular clit felt more massive – the glans throbbed powerfully, veins pulsing harder than mine ever could. My erection looked tiny and soft next to it despite being fully hard. "Rub it against mine... feel the difference." She forced my hand to slide them together – her clit dominating, harder, thicker. She moaned: "The steroids turned me into a monster... and you're so small. That makes me even hotter."

Yukiko's soft moan echoed quietly through the conference room, her colossal muscles trembling with arousal as she pressed her throbbing clit against my cock – the size comparison was utterly humiliating yet unbearably exciting. Her clit, now fully erect at over 8 cm, felt like a rock-hard, vascular mini-penis: the glans glistened, thick blue veins swelled prominently, pulsing harder with each heartbeat than mine ever could. My own cock, thinner and comparatively softer despite being at full erection, quivered with desperate need. "The steroids made me a monster... and you're so small. That turns me on even more," she whispered, her voice a intoxicating blend of shyness and raw dominance. She saw me trembling, saw the glistening precum on my tip, and a timid smile flickered across her pretty, slightly masculinized face. "You can't stop, can you? My muscles... my power... they make you weak."

She began stimulating me in various ways, all while showcasing her unimaginable muscle mass – the single most muscular human being alive, over 200 kg of perfectly hypertrophied, shredded perfection.

First with her hand: her gigantic paw – fingers thicker than my arms, grip strength that could bend steel – completely enveloped my cock. At the same time she pumped her biceps into a full double-biceps pose: the peaks soared like jagged mountain ridges, well over 62 cm in circumference, cuts so deep they held shadows, veins exploding in a chaotic vascular map from shoulders to elbows. "Feel my strength," she murmured, stroking me slowly, deliberately, circling with perfect control – sometimes firmer, sometimes feather-light, edging me right to the brink. Her traps rose like fortress walls, thicker than my neck, fibres visibly splitting and twitching under the skin. I gasped, begged quietly, but she held me back: "Not yet... I decide when."

Her own arousal grew with every demonstration – she saw how obsessively my eyes devoured her shoulders, wider than the chair I was sitting on, deltoids carved into three distinct heads, each fibre countable under paper-thin skin. She switched techniques: pressed me flat onto the table, wrapped her tree-trunk quads – thicker than my torso, four massive separated heads, cuts like trenches, veins like garden hoses – around my hips in a gentle but inescapable scissor hold. She demonstrated her power, squeezing just enough to make my breath catch without causing harm. "Feel that? My legs could crush you... but I'm careful." Meanwhile she rubbed her clit against my glans, stimulating me with that hard, pulsing tip – grinding, circling, harder than any finger could be. Her calves ballooned as she braced herself: diamond-hard, veins crisscrossing like road maps, swelling with every tiny shift.

I was right on the edge, whimpering with need. Yukiko laughed softly, blushing: "You're so turned on... your eyes are eating my muscles alive." She flared her lats – gigantic wings that doubled the width of her back, broader than my outstretched arms, veins streaming like a river delta from top to bottom. Finally she let me come – but under her complete control: she enveloped me with her vagina, which felt like a living vice. Her internal muscles contracted independently: the lower ring milked the base, the middle kneaded the shaft, the upper squeezed the head in rhythmic waves. "Now... come for me." The orgasm was explosive, violent – I erupted in thick, heavy spurts, body shaking as if it might shatter. Yukiko drained me completely: she leaned forward, took my twitching cock into her mouth, lips sealing around me, sucking out every last drop while her tongue danced over the hypersensitive tip. "Good... give me everything," she murmured, her pecs flexing and dancing under my involuntarily placed hand.

But she wasn't done. After the first she kept going, demonstrating more: she lifted me one-handed under my ass as if I weighed nothing, sat me on her shoulders – her traps and delts ballooning into a muscular throne, veins throbbing under my thighs. "See? My shoulders hold you effortlessly." She edged me again with just one finger – her index, thick and strong as my forearm – circling the head slowly. Her pecs bounced rhythmically, nipples rock-hard, veins webbing across like a spider's web. I came a second time when she allowed it: suddenly she pulled me down, enveloped me again with precise, milking contractions – wave after wave, prolonging it far beyond normal. The orgasm was even more intense, spurting wildly across her abs – an eight-pack, each brick carved like stone, veins running vertically like rivers. She sucked me clean again, swallowing with obvious pleasure: "More protein for my muscles... you give so much."

The third time became brutal: she laid me on the table, spread her legs, and used thigh-play – quads wrapped around my cock, squeezing with controlled force, milking me through pure friction. She flexed her adductors and hamstrings, muscles separating into thick bundles, veins pounding like war drums. "Come... now." I exploded again, body convulsing, and she sucked every remnant out, lips vacuum-tight while she pumped her biceps – peaks rising higher than ever, veins like raging rivers.

She forced two more orgasms after that, always exactly when she chose – edging me mercilessly in between, flexing every pose in the book: side-chest, most-muscular, vacuum to showcase the shredded midsection. Each climax more violent, more draining, until I was a trembling, exhausted wreck.

Yukiko still held me on the conference table, my body shaking uncontrollably after the fifth – or was it the sixth? – orgasm. My cock was raw, hypersensitive; every touch felt like electric pleasure-pain. I gasped, pleaded weakly: "Yukiko... please... I can't anymore..."

She only gave that shy yet implacable smile, almond eyes gleaming. "Yes you can," she whispered, voice soft as silk with steel beneath. "I want to see how far your little body can go. My muscles... my control... they make it possible."

She had just drained me again – full lips sealed around the head, sucking with surgical precision while simultaneously pumping her biceps to impossible peaks. Now the real overstimulation began.

She laid me flat on my back, pinned my arms above my head – not with ropes, just one enormous hand. Her fingers easily encircled both wrists, pressing them gently but immovably to the table. With her other hand – just two fingers, index and middle, each thicker than my cock – she began feather-light circles directly over my burning, oversensitive glans.

"Ahhh... Yukiko... too much..." I whimpered, body jerking, trying to escape, but her grip was absolute. All the while she kept posing, treating this like another training session.

She tensed her free shoulder – deltoids exploding into three razor-sharp heads, each as thick as an average man's biceps, veins like power cables pulsing in time with her heartbeat. "Feel how strong I am?" she murmured, blushing. "I could hold you like this all day... and you'd still come again."

And I did. Again. The sixth – seventh? – was dry, almost agonising: body spasming, hips bucking, nothing left to give, just searing, empty pulses ripping through my pelvis. Yukiko moaned quietly at the sensation, her own arousal spiking. Her clit, still rock-hard and 8+ cm, throbbed visibly, veins thickening further, glans glistening.

She changed tactics: half-covered me with her body, massive pecs – thicker than pillows, carved with deep separations and pulsing vascular webs – pressed against my chest. She flexed them rhythmically, making the plates bounce up and down while her fingers kept circling. At the same time she ground her clit against my side, smearing her wetness across my skin.

"One more... for me," she breathed. "I love when you shake... when your little body can't take it... and you still come."

The next orgasm hit like a tidal wave, nearly knocking me unconscious. My cock twitched helplessly, spurting one final, thin, clear droplet – that was all that remained. Yukiko immediately bent down, took me back into her mouth, sucking gently yet relentlessly, milking the last traces while her tongue flicked the overstimulated head. I cried out softly – half ecstasy, half plea – body trembling like a leaf.

She still didn't stop. Instead she flipped me onto my stomach, lifted my hips so I was on all fours – or rather, she held me there, hands like steel around my waist. Now came her specialty: pelvic-floor contractions. She positioned herself behind me, rubbed her clit between my cheeks while simulating penetration with tiny, precise internal movements. Simultaneously she kept stroking – now with the vascular, steel-hard inside of her forearm.

"Feel my veins... feel my power," she whispered. And then I came again – one last, dry, excruciatingly intense peak that nearly brought tears from overstimulation. Yukiko groaned deeply, every muscle exploding: quads ballooned, calves hardened to diamonds, lats flared like wings. She sucked me empty one final time – though nothing came, she still nursed insistently, as if determined to claim every molecule.

Finally – finally – she relented.

She turned me gently onto my back, cradled me in her arms. Her gigantic limbs wrapped around me like a warm, living armour. Her pecs became my pillow, her hand stroked tenderly through my hair, massaging my temples.

"You were so good," she murmured, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Gave so much. I hope... it wasn't too much."

I could barely speak, only nod, still shaking in her embrace.

She kissed my forehead softly. "Rest now. I'll get you water... and I'll take you home if you want. Or... you could stay with me tonight?"

Her voice had turned completely gentle, uncertain – the dominant Yukiko giving way to the shy young woman afraid she had been too much.

"But next time..." she whispered with a small, hopeful smile, "...maybe you'll train with me for real? I'll show you how strong I truly am."

[diabolodiabolo]

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[JangoFitt5]

Wow! This is exactly the kind of story I've been wanting lately. I hope there's a sequel. I loved it incredibly. 

[diabolodiabolo]

thanks for the flowers. maybe I will create another one :-)