Lina, the Sister of My Girlfriend

[diabolodiabolo]

I sat on the plane to Stockholm, barely able to sit still. The vacation with Anna a few weeks earlier had been wonderful—relaxed, uncomplicated, full of laughter and a little more. She was exactly my type: pretty, slim, kind, around forty, with that typical open Swedish smile. No complications, no secrets. And yet, for years, I had carried a secret inside me that I had never told anyone.

Since my teenage years, I had been fascinated by tall, extremely muscular women. The bigger, the more defined, the stronger—the better. I spent hours secretly scrolling through bodybuilding forums, buying magazines, staring at photos of women whose biceps were bigger than my thighs, whose shoulders looked like armor plates, and whose legs were so veiny and striated they seemed capable of bending steel. Afterward, I would lie in the dark, touch myself, and imagine what it would be like to be dominated by such a woman. But it remained fantasy. In real life? Impossible. I had never met anyone who even came close.

Anna picked me up from the airport. She wore jeans and a loose sweater, hugged me warmly, and smelled of fresh air and a hint of vanilla. We drove to her apartment—a bright, cozy three-room place in a quiet Stockholm suburb. Her mother was away for a few days visiting a friend, she explained. It was just her and her little sister. The sister had just turned eighteen.

We sat in the living room. Anna made coffee, we chatted about the vacation, about silly anecdotes from Spain, about work. Everything felt familiar and easy. At some point, I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. The door opened.

In walked Lina.

She was... huge. At least 1.95 meters, maybe even 1.98. She wore a very loose gray T-shirt that reached past her hips and baggy black sweatpants. Her face was incredibly sweet—big blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, long blonde hair tied back in a casual ponytail. She looked like a model. But her presence filled the room.

"Hi," she said quietly, almost shyly, and shook my hand.

Her hand was warm. And large. And... firm. Not painful, but I immediately felt the restrained power in it. I shook her hand and tried not to stare. She sat down in the armchair opposite, pulled her legs up, and smiled politely.

Anna kept talking. Lina listened, nodded occasionally. At one point she stretched—quite casually—and raised her arms over her head. The T-shirt rode up a bit. And that's when I saw it for the first time.

Her stomach.

Not just flat. A perfect, deeply cut six-pack—no, on closer inspection it was an eight-pack, clearly visible abdominal muscles lined up like bricks. The upper four were especially thick and high, the lower ones narrower and sharper. On both sides, narrow, hard obliques ran like ropes downward and disappeared under the waistband of her sweatpants. Fine but distinct veins ran across her entire abdomen, shifting slightly with every movement.

I stared. Too long.

Lina noticed. She slowly pulled the shirt back down, not hastily. More... deliberately. Then she looked at me. Straight into my eyes. A tiny, almost invisible smile flickered at the corner of her mouth.

"Everything okay?" she asked quietly.

"Yes... yes, sure," I stammered and looked away. My heart was pounding.

The conversation continued. Anna talked about her job, I tried to laugh along. At some point Lina stood up to get water. She went into the kitchen, reached up to grab a glass from the top cabinet. Again the shirt rode up—this time higher. I saw her entire lower back: two deep Christmas-tree lines running from her lumbar spine downward, and beneath them the beginning of glutes so hard and round that the sweatpants stretched over them like over two stone basketballs.

Then she turned around, glass in hand. Her T-shirt now clung slightly to her body—probably from the warm living room. And suddenly the contours of her chest became visible. Not normal breasts. Massive, hard pectoral muscles pushing the fabric forward, forming a deep, muscular cleavage in the middle. The sports bra underneath was visible—wide, sturdy, made for someone who presses a lot of weight.

I swallowed. My mouth was dry.

She came back and sat down again. This time she crossed her legs. The sweatpants stretched over her thigh. And even through the fabric I could see the separation: a huge quadriceps dividing into four heads, the vastus lateralis bulging outward like a mountain, the rectus femoris drawing a thick line upward. When she tensed her leg—just slightly, almost imperceptibly—a vein popped out, running across the muscle.

Anna kept talking, noticing nothing.

Lina looked at me. That look again. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Later she helped set the table. She carried a large, heavy cast-iron pot from the stove to the table with one hand. One hand. The pot easily weighed 15 kilos. Her forearm tensed—thick, veiny tendons and muscles standing out like steel cables under the skin. The brachioradialis bulged like a small hill, the flexors and extensors of her forearm stood out like in an anatomy model.

I stared again.

She set the pot down, turned to me, and said very quietly so Anna couldn't hear:

"You're looking quite closely."

I turned bright red. "Sorry... I..."

She just smiled. Sweet. And dangerous.

The evening passed. We ate, talked, laughed. But every time Lina moved, I saw more. How she stretched and her trapezius muscle rose like a mountain under her neck. How she laughed and her latissimus showed under the shirt, wide and thick. How she stood up and her calves—even through the pants—looked like two inverted hearts, split and veiny.

Eventually Anna yawned.

"I really need to go to bed. Early start tomorrow." She kissed me on the cheek. "You two can stay up. Lina, be nice to him, okay?"

"Sure, sis," Lina said with an innocent smile.

Anna disappeared into the bedroom. The door closed quietly.

Silence.

Lina leaned back, stretched out her long legs. Her eyes fixed on me.

"So," she said slowly. "Now we're alone."

She stood up. Slowly. Very slowly.

And then—without another word—she pulled her T-shirt over her head.

Underneath she wore only a black sports bra that could barely contain her massive shoulders, her incredible traps, and the wide, fanned latissimus.

She looked down at me. 1.95 meters of pure, youthful, feminine muscle.

"Do you want to see the rest?"

Lina stood in front of me, the gray T-shirt already on the floor. Her black sports bra sat tight over her massive pectoral muscles, pushing forward like two hard, curved armor plates. The deep cleavage between them wasn't soft and round—it was a hard, muscular trench that shifted slightly with every breath. Her shoulders were absurdly wide and round, the deltoids bulging like two perfect hemispheres separated by a deep cut. The trapezius muscle rose high toward her neck, thick and veiny, as if someone had placed two small mountains there.

She looked at me—really looked. Her blue eyes slowly traveled over my face, then lower, to my chest, my stomach, and finally rested on my pants. Where a clear bulge was already visible. She smiled. Not sweet. Knowing. And aroused.

"You're breathing faster," she noted quietly. Her voice was deep, almost smoky. "And you're blushing. And hard."

I couldn't say anything. Just nod. My cock throbbed painfully against the fabric of my jeans.

Lina slowly raised her arms. First just slightly bent, then higher. Front double biceps.

Her biceps exploded. Each arm had a peak that rose steeply upward—at least 45–48 cm in circumference, I estimated in my dazed state, probably even more given her age and size. The biceps clearly split into long and short heads with a deep separation line between them. Above it, the brachialis bulged like a thick cord, and the brachioradialis rose sideways like another small hill. Veins ran crisscross over the entire surface—thick blue strands pulsing with every minimal contraction.

She held the pose. For seconds. Looking straight into my eyes.

"Like it?" she whispered. "How hard they are? How big?"

I just nodded. My hands trembled. I felt a drop of precum leaking from my tip and soaking my underwear.

She slowly turned 90 degrees—side double biceps. Now I saw the side of her arm: the triceps a perfect horseshoe, three heads clearly separated, the long head bulging backward like a horseshoe cap. The latissimus ran from her armpit down to her waist like a huge wing fanning out in the pose. Her waist was narrow—absurdly narrow for such wide shoulders—but not soft. The obliques cut deep, forming a perfect V that led down into the waistband of her sweatpants.

Then she turned completely. Back double biceps.

Her back was... overwhelming. The latissimus was so wide it almost filled the width of the room. Thick, feathered muscles spreading like wings. The Christmas-tree lines in the lower back were extremely deep and sharp—two perfect fir trees running downward. The traps rose high, almost to her ears. The rhomboids and erector spinae stood out like steel cables under the skin. And below... her gluteus maximus muscles. Even through the pants you could see the hard, round shape, the striations of the gluteal furrows, the hint of deep striation.

She tensed everything even harder. Her entire back became a map of muscles and veins.

I gasped quietly. My hand instinctively moved to my crotch—I pressed lightly to relieve the pressure. Lina heard it. Turned her head over her shoulder.

"Go ahead and touch yourself," she said hoarsely. "I see how much it turns you on. And you know what?"

She turned back to me. Her cheeks were flushed. Her nipples pressed hard through the sports bra—thick, erect buds almost piercing the fabric.

"It turns me on too. Seeing you almost explode just because I'm posing. Just because I'm stronger. Bigger. More muscular."

She took a step closer. So close I could feel her heat. The scent of her body—a mix of fresh sweat, deodorant, and pure youthful power—rose to my nose.

"Touch," she ordered quietly.

I hesitantly raised my hand. Placed it on her right biceps. It was... indescribable. Hard as warm marble. I pressed—nothing gave way. Nothing at all. She tensed even harder, and the peak grew under my fingers, pushing against my palm like a fist.

"Harder," she said.

I pressed harder. Still nothing. She laughed quietly—a deep, aroused laugh.

"You can't even dent me. Not even a little."

Her free hand moved to my crotch. She simply placed it over it—not tight, just... there. Through the fabric I felt her warmth, her strength. She pressed minimally. Enough to make me gasp.

"Already so hard," she murmured. "And I haven't even started."

She took my other hand and placed it on her stomach. Eight packs. Each muscle thick, high, separated by deep furrows. I ran my fingers along the lines—like grooves in stone. When she tensed, they became even sharper, the veins standing out more. I felt her tremble—not from weakness. From arousal.

"Look," she whispered and guided my hand lower. Over the narrow waist, then to the waistband of her sweatpants. "Want more?"

I nodded frantically.

She pushed the pants down slowly, agonizingly slowly. Centimeter by centimeter her thighs came into view.

Quadriceps—huge. Four heads clearly separated. The vastus lateralis bulged sideways like a roof, the rectus femoris drew a thick, veiny line upward almost to the hip bone. The teardrop shape right above the knee was absurdly pronounced—a thick, hanging drop of muscle trembling with every movement. Hamstrings on the back—thick cords stretching like ropes. And the calves... oh god, the calves. Two perfect diamonds, split into inner and outer heads, veiny, hard, the size of softballs.

She stepped out of the pants. Now stood only in her thong and sports bra.

Her pussy was clearly outlined under the thin fabric—the outer labia full and swollen, a wet spot already visible. The adductors on both sides pulled inward like thick cords, framing her intimate zone like a muscular fortress.

She spread her legs slightly—side quad pose. The quads separated even more clearly, veins pulsing across the entire surface.

"Touch me down there," she said in a rough voice. "Feel how wet I am because you're so crazy about my muscles."

I let my fingers tremble over the fabric. She was soaked. Hot. When I pressed lightly, she tensed her adductors—the muscles closed like a vise around my hand, holding it tight.

"See?" she gasped. "I'm so turned on that you worship me. That you come just because I'm stronger than you. That you want me because I could crush you if I wanted."

Her hips circled lightly. She rubbed against my hand. Her breathing quickened.

"And now..." she whispered, "I want to see how much you really need it."

Lina stood so close I could feel her breath on my skin. Her body radiated heat, a mix of warm skin and the light sheen of sweat on her defined muscles. The thong sat low on her hips, the narrow straps stretched over the hard edges of her hip bones and the thick adductors framing her mound like a muscular frame. Her gaze was no longer just playful—there was hunger in it. And absolute certainty.

"You're probably thinking," she whispered as she slowly placed a hand on my shoulder, "that I'm only eighteen. That I might be strong, but... well... not really dangerous to an adult man."

She laughed quietly, deep in her throat.

"Wrong."

Without warning she grabbed me under the armpits with both hands—just like that, as if I were a light gym bag. Her fingers dug into my sides, not painful but unyielding. And then she lifted me.

Just lifted me.

My feet left the floor. I hung in the air, maybe 30 centimeters above the carpet, legs dangling uselessly. My weight—good 85 kilos—seemed like nothing to her. Her shoulders bulged even more, the deltoids balled into hard spheres, the traps pulled up almost to her ears. Her arms didn't even tremble. The biceps on each arm tensed into a perfect peak, veins visibly pulsing over them.

"See?" she said calmly while holding me. "I could hold you like this all evening. Or higher. Or press you against the ceiling if I want."

My cock jerked hard in my pants. The sight—this eighteen-year-old giantess lifting me like a child, her muscles straining to bursting, her face sweet and at the same time absolutely dominant—almost drove me insane. Precum leaked uncontrollably through the fabric.

She slowly lowered me again, but not to my feet. Instead she turned me 180 degrees with a fluid motion so my back was to her. Then she wrapped one arm around my chest, the other around my waist—a kind of body lock from behind. Her forearms pressed against my ribcage like steel bands. I felt every single muscle: the thick brachialis pressing against my ribs, the veiny forearms closing around me like ropes.

"Try to get free," she said quietly in my ear. Her breath tickled. "Come on. Show me how strong you are."

I tried. Really. I pushed my arms apart, pressed with all my strength against her forearms. It was like pushing against a concrete wall. Nothing moved. Nothing at all. Instead she tensed just a little more—and suddenly I could hardly breathe. Not because she was choking me, but because her pecs and shoulders pressed so massively against my back that they simply squeezed me.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" she murmured. "Knowing I can do whatever I want with you. That you stand here and get hard because an eighteen-year-old holds you like a toy."

I gasped. My head fell back against her shoulder. She laughed again—that deep, aroused laugh.

Then she loosened her grip just enough to turn me around. Now we faced each other again. She took my right hand, placed it on her left biceps.

"Press. As hard as you can."

I did. With both hands even. I gripped her biceps like a baseball bat and pressed with all my strength. The muscle didn't give a millimeter. Instead she tensed it even harder—and suddenly the peak grew under my fingers, pushing my hands apart. It felt like trying to crush an inflated water balloon made of pure granite.

"And now me," she said.

She took my right forearm in her hand—only with thumb and index finger she almost completely encircled it. Then she squeezed. Not brutal, but constant. The pressure built until I felt the bones in my forearm pressing together. It didn't really hurt—not yet—but it was a demonstration of pure, casual superiority. She could have broken my arm without breaking a sweat.

"See the difference?" she whispered. Her free hand now moved to my crotch. She placed her flat palm over it, pressed very lightly. "You're hard as rock. And I'm much harder."

She pulled me closer until my face was almost between her massive breasts—not soft, but hard and curved, the pecs like two warm armor plates. I smelled her scent more intensely: musk, sweat, arousal. The wet spot on her thong had grown noticeably larger.

"Arm wrestling?" she suddenly asked with a mischievous grin. "Or do you want me to just lift you and pin you to the sofa until you beg?"

She didn't wait for my answer.

Instead she grabbed me again—this time around the hips. With a light grunt she lifted me and carried me the two steps to the sofa as if I weighed nothing. There she didn't set me down. She turned, let herself fall with me—but controlled. I landed on my back, she knelt over me, one knee left, one right of my hips. Her massive quads tensed directly over my sides, the teardrops hanging menacingly close to my ribs.

She leaned forward until her lips almost touched mine.

"I could crush you right here and now," she breathed. "With my legs. With my arms. With my whole body. And you'd just get hornier, right?"

I nodded frantically. My cock throbbed so hard it almost hurt.

"That's exactly what makes me so wet," she confessed quietly. "Knowing that's exactly what you want. That you come just because I show you how helpless you are."

Her hips circled once slowly over me—I felt the heat of her pussy through the thin fabric, the hard muscles of her adductors tensing and releasing rhythmically.

Lina still knelt over me, her massive quads like two living pillars of steel and warm skin on either side of my hips. She looked down at me, her blue eyes dark with arousal, cheeks slightly flushed. Her breathing was deeper, faster—she enjoyed this as much as I did.

"Do you know what I want to do now?" she whispered as she slowly leaned back. Her hands moved to my wrists, pressing them gently but unyieldingly over my head onto the sofa. "I want to show you how little you can resist. And how much that turns you on."

Without another word she slid her knees a little higher. Her thighs—those incredible, veiny quads—now pushed directly around my neck and upper chest. She crossed her ankles behind my neck, closing her legs into a perfect figure-four scissor hold. Not brutal. Not yet. Just enough pressure so I felt the hard muscles wrap around my neck like a warm, pulsing vise.

I gasped. Not from pain—from pure, overwhelming arousal.

"Do you feel that?" she asked quietly. Her voice vibrated through her body straight into mine. "These are my adductors and quads. The inner thigh muscles I've trained for years to do exactly this: hold someone. Control them. Crush them if I want."

She tensed minimally. Just a small pulse. The quads bulged even more inward, pressing against my cheeks and ears. The vastus medialis—that thick, teardrop-shaped muscle right above the knee—pressed against my carotid artery. I felt every single strand, every vein pulsing under the skin. The pressure was controlled but relentless—I could breathe, but only shallowly. Every attempt to turn my head or move my arms was immediately answered with another small tensing.

"Try to get free," she said with that sweet, almost innocent smile. "Come on. Show me how strong an adult man is."

I pushed upward. Pressed with my shoulders, twisted my torso, tried to bend my legs for leverage. It was ridiculous. Her thighs didn't give a millimeter. Instead she laughed quietly—a deep, throaty laugh that vibrated through her whole body and aroused me even more.

"See? Nothing. Nothing at all." She tensed harder now—just for two seconds. The muscles exploded around my neck. The quads visibly split into their four heads, the rectus femoris drew a thick veiny line upward, the adductors closed like a vise. My face turned red, the veins on my temples bulged. Then she eased up—just in time for me to gasp for air.

"And now the proof of how much this turns you on," she murmured.

Her right hand slowly moved downward. She skillfully opened the button of my jeans, pulled down the zipper. My cock sprang out—rock-hard, throbbing, the tip already glistening with precum. Lina wrapped her warm, strong hand around it. Her fingers were long and thick from training, her forearms veiny and hard. She began to stroke slowly—not fast, not frantic. Deliberate. Tormenting.

"Look at me," she ordered.

I did. Looked into her face—sweet, young, eighteen—while her legs still held me. Looked at her shoulders bulging with every breath. Looked at her stomach right above me: eight perfect packs dancing with every light tensing. Looked at her pecs almost bursting the sports bra.

"You're about to come, aren't you?" she whispered. "Just because my legs are holding you. Just because you know I could knock you out anytime. Just because an eighteen-year-old dominates you so easily."

She sped up slightly. Her thumb circled over my tip, spreading the precum, while her other hand cupped my balls—firm enough to control me, gentle enough to drive me crazy.

I moaned loudly. My hips jerked upward involuntarily—but her quads held me like a vise. No chance to escape.

"Come for me," she breathed. "Come because you feel my strength. Because you know I'm ten times stronger. Because you know I can play with you however I want."

That was too much.

I exploded.

The orgasm hit me like a blow. My whole body tensed, my legs kicked uselessly against the sofa, my back arched—but her legs didn't let go. Cum shot in hot spurts over her forearm, dripped onto her stomach, ran through the deep furrows of her six-pack. She milked me further, pressing gently with her hand until the last drop was out.

Only then did she loosen the scissor hold. Slowly. Very slowly. Her thighs slid apart, freeing my head. I gasped, coughed lightly, sucked in air like a drowning man.

Lina leaned forward, kissed me lightly on the forehead—almost tenderly.

"First," she said quietly, with a satisfied smile. "And you're far from finished."

She stayed kneeling over me, her quads still menacingly close to my sides. Her thong was now soaked—a dark spot clearly visible. She was as aroused as I was, maybe even more.

Lina slowly loosened the scissor hold, her massive quads sliding apart and finally freeing my head and neck. I gasped loudly, sucking in air like a drowning man, my face burning, the veins on my temples throbbing. My body still trembled from the first orgasm—cum stuck warm and sticky on her right forearm, running in thin lines over the hard, veiny tendons and dripping onto her stomach, where it disappeared into the deep furrows of her eight-pack.

She stayed kneeling over me, one knee left, one right of my hips. Her eyes were dark with arousal, cheeks slightly flushed, nipples pressing hard through the sports bra. The wet spot on her thong had now become huge—the fabric clung transparently to her skin.

"First," she murmured with a satisfied, almost tender smile. "And you're already shaking like a leaf. But we're not done yet."

She stood up—slowly, controlled, her legs fully releasing me. Then she bent down, grabbed me under the armpits, and pulled me up. Not brutal, but firm. My legs were weak, I had to support myself on her shoulders—her shoulders that felt like warm granite balls under my fingers.

"Come with me," she said quietly. "To the mirror. I want you to see what happens next."

She led me the few steps through the living room to the large wall mirror next to the terrace door. The floor lamp cast long shadows, emphasizing every vein, every muscle contour on her body. She positioned us both facing it—her behind me, her hands loosely on my hips.

"Now I'm undressing," she whispered in my ear. "Very slowly. And you watch. No words."

Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her thong. She didn't pull it down hastily. Centimeter by centimeter she let the fabric slide over her hips. First the sharp edges of her hip bones appeared, then the hard iliacus muscles running like ropes from hip to thigh. She lightly tensed her adductors—just a tiny pulse—and the inner thigh muscles bulged inward, framing her pussy like a living frame. The thong now hung only on the widest parts of her quads, stretching over the teardrop shape right above the knees.

Lina slowly circled her hips once—a controlled, almost dancer-like move. The fabric slid lower, revealing the smooth, shaved skin above. Her outer labia were full and swollen, the inner ones slightly protruding, glistening wet in the lamplight. A thin silver thread stretched from the fabric to her clit as she pulled the thong further down.

Finally it slid over her massive calves—those two perfect split diamonds—and fell to the floor. She stepped out with one foot and flicked the thong aside with her toe.

Now she stood completely naked behind me. Her entire body was a living monument of youthful power: the wide shoulders, the high traps, the fanned lats, the tight eight-pack abs with pulsing veins, the huge quads and hamstrings, the hard round glutes, the veiny calves. And in the middle—her pussy, open and wet, framed by those massive adductors that lightly contracted and released with every breath. Her clit was swollen and visible, the inner lips glistening.

In the mirror I saw us both: her huge, dominant, naked and flawlessly muscular. Me still half-dressed—jeans around my ankles, shirt pushed up, cum on my stomach.

"And now you," she said.

Her hands slid under my shirt. She slowly pulled it over my head—letting the fabric brush over my chest, revealing my soft stomach, my normal but thin shoulders and arms compared to hers. She tossed the shirt aside carelessly.

Then she knelt briefly—just for a moment. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of my jeans and underwear at the same time. She pulled both down in one fluid, powerful motion—over my hips, over my thighs, over my knees, down to my ankles. I stepped out, trembling, naked.

She stood up again, positioned herself directly behind me. Her hands rested on my hips—her fingers almost reaching around my entire waist. In the mirror we now both stood completely naked.

The contrast was brutal.

I looked like an average man around forty: a bit soft around the middle, narrow shoulders, arms and legs without definition, my cock half-hard and wet from the first orgasm, the tip glistening. My height reached only to the middle of her chest.

And her beside me: 1.95 meters of pure youthful dominance. Her shoulders twice as wide as mine, the pecs bulging forward like armor plates, the abs a perfect eight-pack with deep cuts and veins, the legs so thick my thighs looked like twigs next to them. Her pussy—wet, swollen, framed by those adductors—was at the height of my chest. I had to lift my head to look into her face.

She placed one hand on my shoulder—her fingers almost encircling my entire shoulder muscle. The other hand moved to my cock, loosely wrapping around it. In the mirror I saw her hand: large, veiny, muscular—it almost completely enclosed me.

"Look closely," she whispered in my ear. "See how small you are. How weak. How naked and helpless next to me. An eighteen-year-old just stripped you completely. And now you stand here naked in front of the mirror, getting hard again just because you see the difference."

She squeezed once lightly—not painful, just enough to make me twitch. My cock immediately stiffened again in her hand.

"The second is coming soon," she said hoarsely. "But first I want you to see this. To understand who's in control here."

Lina kept holding me from behind, her large hands firm on my hips, her fingers almost reaching around my entire lower abdomen. In the mirror we stood naked side by side—she a tower of muscles and youthful power, me beside her small, soft, helpless. My cock had already stiffened again, visibly throbbing, the tip still glistening from the remnants of the first climax. She noticed immediately, her gaze wandered downward, then back to my eyes in the mirror.

"Look at that," she whispered hoarsely in my ear. "Hard again. Just because you're standing next to me and see how tiny you are."

Without another word she gripped me tighter. Her arms wrapped around my waist—not tenderly, but like steel cables. Then she lifted me.

Just like that.

My feet left the floor, I floated again, this time facing her. She held me up like a doll: one hand under my ass, fingers digging deep into my glutes, the other around my back to keep me stable. My legs dangled uselessly left and right of her massive hips. In the mirror I saw it in brutal clarity: my body hanging in her arms, my shoulders barely reaching her pecs, my head at the height of her shoulders. And my cock—stiff, throbbing—now protruded exactly at the height of her pussy.

That's exactly what she wanted.

She spread her legs slightly, just enough for her massive quads to part and her adductors to bulge inward. Her pussy opened a bit—wet, swollen, the inner lips glistening in the lamplight, her clit protruding hard. The scent of her arousal rose straight to my nose—musky, sweet, overwhelming.

"Do you feel that?" she murmured as she slowly pulled me closer. "I'm lifting you so your little cock is exactly where I want it. At the height of my pussy. Because I decide. Not you."

She lowered me just a fraction—just enough for the tip of my cock to touch her outer lips. The heat was immediately noticeable, wet, slippery. I gasped, my hands instinctively clawing into her shoulders—but I could do nothing, direct nothing. She had complete control.

In the mirror I saw everything:

My legs dangled limply, feet far above the floor. My stomach almost touched her hard eight-packs. My arms hung uselessly at her sides, too short to really grip her. My face was red, sweaty, mouth half open in shock and lust. And below—my cock now slowly sliding between her labia because she lowered me centimeter by centimeter.

Her quads tensed with every movement—the four heads clearly separated, veins pulsing across the entire surface. The adductors contracted like a living vise, holding me in position without me being able to move. Her glutes contracted hard, round and striated, giving every thrust explosive power. Even her calves—balancing on her toes—were like two hard hearts trembling with tension at every movement.

In the mirror I saw the contrast even more brutally: my legs dangling like a child's, my hips narrow against her wide, muscular ones. My cock almost disappeared between her massive thighs, vanishing into the wet slit framed by adductors and quads like a fortress. Her pecs bulged with every breath, veins standing out on her arms and shoulders as she held me effortlessly.

The pressure built lightning-fast. I felt her clit rubbing hard against my tip, felt her trembling herself—her breathing became irregular, her thighs tensing even harder.

"I'm coming with you," she whispered. "Because it makes me so wet to hold you like this. To use you. To dominate you."

That was too much.

I exploded for the second time—hard, long, in hot spurts that shot straight into her slit, ran over her clit, dripped onto her inner thighs. At the same time I felt her come: her pussy contracted wildly around my tip, her adductors squeezed like a vise, her quads trembled with tension. A quiet, deep moan escaped her, her hips jerked once, twice, then she held still—still holding me up, still in control.

Slowly she lowered me. My feet touched the trembling floor. My knees almost gave way, I had to support myself on her hips. She held me tight, one hand on my neck, the other on my chest.

In the mirror we looked like from two different worlds: her huge, sweaty, but dominant and almost untouched—only the sheen between her legs and the flushed cheeks showed her orgasm. And me: exhausted, smeared, shrunken, with shaking legs.

She bent down, kissed me hard on the mouth—her tongue invading, demanding, possessive.

"Second," she breathed against my lips. "And now... the third. If you can still manage it."

Lina still held me wrapped in her arms, my feet just touching the floor again, but my knees trembled so much I had to brace myself on her hard hips. The second orgasm had almost knocked me out—my cum still clung warm between her thighs, running in thin lines over her inner quads and dripping onto the wooden floor. She breathed deeply, her pecs rising and falling with every breath, the veins on her shoulders and arms visibly pulsing. Her whole body glistened lightly with sweat, every muscle even more defined than before.

She looked down at me—1.95 meters of pure youthful superiority—and smiled that sweet but absolutely dominant smile.

"You're already done, aren't you?" she whispered. "Come twice, and I've barely started. But I want the third. And I want you to feel how little strength you really have."

Without warning she grabbed me again—this time harder. Her hands closed around my waist like a warm steel vise. Her fingers dug into my sides, her forearms tensed, the veiny tendons standing out like thick cables. With a light grunt—more from lust than effort—she lifted me.

Again.

This time she turned me so my back faced the mirror. She pressed me against it with full force—not painful, but unyielding. My back pressed against the cool glass, my shoulders flattened. Her massive pecs pressed against my chest, her hard nipples boring through the air between us. I hung virtually against the wall, held only by her strength.

"Stay like that," she ordered quietly.

Then she raised her right leg.

Slowly. Controlled. With an ease that drove me insane.

Her quad exploded—the vastus lateralis bulged sideways like a mountain, the rectus femoris drew a thick veiny line from hip to knee, the teardrop muscle hung menacingly over the knee like a drop of pure stone. The hamstrings on the back tensed like thick cords, the calves below split into two perfect diamonds. She lifted the leg higher—almost horizontal—until her thigh was parallel to the floor. The adductors contracted, forming a hard muscular groove right next to her pussy.

And then she spread her legs even wider—pressed her right leg against the wall beside my head, pinning me between her body and the mirror.

My cock—still sensitive but already half-hard again—now protruded directly in front of her wet slit. She didn't even need to hold me up anymore; the pure power of her leg pinning me to the wall was enough to render me immobile.

"Feel my strength," she breathed. "This leg weighs more than your entire upper body. And it holds you tight as if you were nothing."

She began pushing her hips forward. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly. Her pussy slid over my shaft—hot, wet, slippery from the mixed juices of our orgasms. The outer lips enclosed me like warm silk, her clit rubbing hard over my tip with every small thrust. But it wasn't just the rubbing—it was her entire lower body working.

Her quads contracted with every thrust—I saw it in the mirror behind me: the four heads clearly separated, veins pulsing like rivers across the surface. The adductors rhythmically contracted, squeezing her pussy tighter around my cock. Her glutes tensed hard, round and striated, giving every thrust explosive power. Even her calves—balancing on her toes—were like two hard hearts trembling with tension at every movement.

In the mirror I saw everything in brutal clarity:

My body flattened against the glass, legs slightly spread because her other leg stood between mine, forcing them apart. My shoulders narrow and soft against her wide, muscular ones. My face red, mouth open, eyes wide with shock and lust. And her—dominant, huge, controlling—her right leg horizontal against the wall, the quad so thick and veiny it almost touched my head. Her stomach—eight-pack—danced with every thrust, veins running like nets over it. Her pecs bulged forward, pressing against my chest, her traps rising high like mountains.

"See how strong I am," she gasped. "This leg alone could crush you. And yet I use it only to fuck you. To make you come. Because you can't do anything about it."

She sped up slightly—her hips now circling faster, rubbing her clit hard against me, her pussy milking my shaft with every contraction of the inner muscles. I felt every vein, every groove, every contraction of her adductors. The pressure built again—lightning-fast because I was still so sensitive.

"Come for my muscles," she whispered. "Come because you know I can hold you with one leg. Because my quads are stronger than your whole body. Because I'm eighteen and still destroy you."

That was the trigger.

The third orgasm hit me like a hammer. I cried out—quiet, stifled—my body tensed, my legs jerked against her massive thighs, my hands clawed into her shoulders (without giving even a millimeter). Cum shot out in hot spurts, spraying into her slit, running over her inner quads, dripping onto the floor. At the same time I felt her come again—her pussy contracting wildly, her adductors trembling, her quad on the leg tensing so hard the glass behind me vibrated.

She held me like that for seconds—pinned high, fixed—while the last waves ran through both of us.

Then she slowly lowered her leg. Let me slide down carefully until my feet touched the floor. My knees gave way immediately—I collapsed, barely catching myself with my hands. She knelt down to me, her huge quads tensing right in front of my face.

"Third," she said quietly, almost tenderly. She brushed a sweaty strand from my forehead. "You made it. Well done."

She pulled me up—gently this time—and pressed me against her hard, warm chest. Her heart beat strong and steady against my cheek.

Lina held me for another moment, her hard, warm body pressing against mine as my breathing slowly calmed. The third orgasm had completely drained me—my legs felt like pudding, my cock hung limp and sensitive, and everywhere our mixed juices clung: on her quads, on my stomach, on the floor. She gently stroked my back, her fingers—strong, veiny, unyielding—tracing the line of my spine.

"You're done," she murmured quietly, almost lovingly. "Completely wrecked. But before you fall asleep... I want to show you one more thing. Just for me. And for you."

She released me, took a step back. Then she slowly turned to the mirror. The light fell perfectly on her body—every muscle glistened with sweat, every vein pulsed lightly in time with her heartbeat. She stood there, naked, huge, dominant: 1.95 meters of pure youthful bodybuilding power.

"Watch," she said. "And touch me wherever you want. Kiss me. Lick me. But don't you dare come again until I allow it."

She began to pose.

First the most muscular.

She placed her feet shoulder-width apart, toes slightly outward. Then she bent her upper body forward just a bit, clenched her fists in front of her stomach, and tensed everything.

Her entire body exploded.

Her traps rose high like two mountains almost reaching her ears. Her shoulders bulged into massive spheres, the deltoids divided into front, side, and rear heads. Her pecs contracted into hard plates, the deep cleavage between them sharpening even more. Her stomach—the eight-pack—drew in, each muscle turning into a hard brick, the obliques cutting like knives. Veins across her entire torso pulsed like thick cords.

I knelt instinctively—my knees hitting the floor right in front of her. My hands trembled as I placed them on her quads. Hard. Unyielding. I pressed—nothing gave. Instead she tensed her legs even harder, the four heads clearly separated, the vastus lateralis bulging sideways like a roof, the teardrop hanging menacingly over the knee. Veins crisscrossed the entire surface.

I leaned forward and kissed her right quad—warm, salty from sweat. My tongue traced the deep separation line between rectus femoris and vastus lateralis. She moaned quietly—a deep, throaty sound.

Then she seamlessly transitioned into double biceps.

Arms up, elbows slightly bent, fists clenched. Her biceps exploded into perfect peaks—high, pointed, split into long and short heads. The brachialis underneath bulged like a thick cord, the brachioradialis sideways like a small hill. Triceps as a horseshoe on the back, three heads clearly separated. Shoulders rolled forward, lats fanned out like wings.

I stood up, legs shaky. My lips found her right biceps—I kissed the peak, sucked lightly, felt the hardness under the warm skin. My tongue traced the vein running like a river over the muscle. Lina gasped, her free hand wandered between her legs—she began fingering herself, slowly circling, while holding the pose.

"More," she whispered. "Lick me everywhere."

I sank back to my knees. Kissed her stomach—every single one of the eight packs, ran my tongue through the deep furrows, tasting salt and sweat. Then lower—over the narrow waist, the sharp iliacus muscles, down to her pussy.

She spread her legs slightly, holding the pose. I licked her—first the outer lips, then deeper, my tongue gliding over her swollen clit, tasting our mixed juices. Her adductors tensed—hard like steel cables closing around my face, holding me without using her hands. I could barely breathe, but that only made it hotter.

Her fingers moved faster—she was masturbating more intensely now, the other hand still in the pose, biceps tensed. Her breathing became irregular.

Then the vacuum pose—she inhaled deeply, pulled her stomach in extremely until her ribs showed and her abs became almost concave. The obliques cut like diamonds, her entire waist absurdly narrow. At the same time she tensed her quads and glutes—her legs turned into a map of muscles and veins.

I kissed her glutes—hard, round, striated. My tongue ran through the deep furrow between them, then forward again, licking her pussy while she held the vacuum. Her fingers circled frantically over her clit.

"Now come with me," she gasped. "But only because I want it."

Her free hand—the one not posing—reached for my cock. It was sensitive, almost overstimulated, but still half-hard from the whole sight. She stroked me slowly, firmly—her fingers completely enclosing me, her forearm veiny and hard.

I licked faster, sucked on her clit, felt her adductors trembling, her quads contracting.

Then she came.

Her whole body tensed—most muscular again, but this time uncontrollably from pleasure. Her pussy pulsed against my tongue, hot juice flowing over my face, her legs trembling, the veins on her quads swelling like never before. A deep, loud moan escaped her—not sweet, but raw, dominant.

At the same time she stroked me faster—and I came a fourth time, even though I thought I had nothing left. Just a few weak spurts, but intense, painfully pleasurable. My body collapsed forward against her legs, kissing her quad again as she shuddered.

She dropped the pose, knelt down to me. Her body glistened everywhere, sweat and juices everywhere. She pulled me up, pressed me against her chest—her pecs hard like warm armor plates against my cheek.

"Enough," she whispered. "You sleep now. Here, with me. And tomorrow... we'll see."

She lifted me again—effortlessly, like a child—and carried me to the guest room. Laid me on the bed, covered me. Then she lay down beside me, her huge, muscular body wrapping around me from behind like a living blanket of steel and warmth.

I fell asleep—completely exhausted, completely satisfied, completely dominated by an eighteen-year-old muscle goddess.

[diabolodiabolo]

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[Sicod]

He is living the dream...

[russianfbbfan]

Great story. Biceps should be bigger, though, at least 60 cm for such a giantess.