The Sculptor

[sevenpeight]

Julianne was forty-eight, soft, and invisible. Her body had settled into middle age like dough left too long on the counter—thick rolls around her middle that spilled over her waistband, heavy breasts that rested on the shelf of her belly, thighs that rubbed together with a constant whisper of fabric, and arms that jiggled when she waved. She avoided mirrors. She avoided photographs. She especially avoided the gym, where the sleek, confident women made her feel like an agglomeration of every muffin, danish and doughnut she'd ever eaten.

Instead, she poured her longing into clay in the converted garage studio behind her suburban house. Inside the house, her husband Gary was lost to the flickering lights of their big screen TV — whether it was sports or a cheap reality TV excuse for soft porn, she'd stopped caring. They were ineffectually affectionate towards each other. But any spark that might have existed was so far gone that it had the quality of a half-remembered dream. She was as uninterested in him as he was her. Which left her to pursue her solitary passion without encouragement or distraction.

For months she had been sculpting *Galatea Reborn*—a towering female form, eight feet of pure, exaggerated power. Every striation, every vein, every brutal curve of muscle had been carved with obsessive care. The statue's quads were vast teardrops split by deep separations, each bulging slab of muscle sweeping outward like armored plates. Its deltoids jutting from the torso meaty wings, capped by an escarpment of traps that framed a neck thick as a bull's. The abs were an eight-pack of thick, rectangular bricks separated by gutters that disappeared into shadow. They were framed by the deeply etched obliques. Cords of vascularity snaked over the biceps peaks and down the forearms, defined by muscles and sinew. Julianne had spent weeks getting the veins right—raised, rope-like, pulsing even in stillness.

Day after day, week after week, she gave this masterpiece all that she had within her until the last fateful session before firing. She worked late that night, clay dust coating her flabby arms, her lower back aching. Just past two in the morning, exhausted and half-drunk on cheap red wine, she pressed her lips to the statue's cold, unyielding mouth.

"Oh to be you..." she whispered. "To be hard, and unyielding. They'll stare at you and marvel..."

She thought about what they would think when they turned from marvelling at the statue to taking in its maker. Its polar opposite. Would they pity her? Mock her? Think her perverted and judge her? A tear rolled down her bloated cheek and for a moment fused her flushed skin to the cool unyielding clay.

The light in the garage seemed to dim. The flush of her cheek seemed to bloom, from the edge of her perception into her core and then exploding outwards to every nerve ending.

A deep, aching pump swelled her shoulders first. The soft, rounded caps tightened, then began to throb. Flesh pushed outward as if growing inside her skin. She gasped, clutching the workbench as her trapezius muscles erupted upward, thick slabs rising toward her ears, carving a savage yoke as her neck simultaneously grew suddenly thicker, more powerful. Veins surfaced like rivers breaking through earth—thick blue cords crawling over the newly hardened caps of her delts.

"Oh god..." Her voice cracked, plunging deeper.

Her chest came next. The heavy, sagging breasts lifted as pectoral muscles slammed into place beneath them, like steel plates being shunted into place to secure the furnace behind them. The pecs thickened dramatically, striations appearing in real time—diagonal fibers etching themselves across the expanding shelf. Her nipples hardened into thick bullets atop the massive, striated slabs. The cleavage between her pecs deepened into a deep valley even as her breasts themselves were consumed and, reshaped by the growing muscle.

Her arms were changing fastest. Biceps that had hung loose and wobbly now inflated, peaks rising higher and higher with every frantic heartbeat. The muscle split into a sharp, double-headed mound, the long head peaking like a mountain. Triceps burst out on the backs of her arms, thick and horseshoe-shaped, each head defined in gruesome detail. Forearms thickened into vascular clubs, veins wrapping around them like cables under the skin. She flexed experimentally and the biceps jumped, hard as stone, the peak so tall it cast a shadow on her forearm.

Julianne staggered toward the full-length mirror she usually kept angled at the statue. Her legs were transforming now.

Her quads exploded outward. The inside head swept in like a teardrop the size of a football, pressing against the inner thigh. The middle head stood out in thick relief down the center, while the outside head flared dramatically, creating a striated sweep that made her thighs wider than her waist had ever been. Hamstrings corded at the back like thick steel cables, and her glutes—once soft and wide—hardened into two massive, striated globes that jutted rearward with powerful projection. Each glute was carved with visible muscle fibers that flexed and relaxed with every shift of weight. Calves ballooned into diamond shapes so sharp they looked ready to cut glass, veins snaking over them in high relief.

Her abdominal wall tightened next. The soft belly flattened, then inverted as eight thick, blocky abs pushed forward, each one separated by deep, shadowed lines. The obliques slashed downward in dramatic serrations, framing the abs like armor plating. A thick Adonis belt carved itself in above her widening hips. Every breath made the bricks flex and separate, veins crossing the lower abs in a demented vascular web.

And between her legs, her sex grew with the rest of her. Thick, meaty, darkening folds of labia bulging outwards. They were parted by a growing clitoris. It grew rigid, hardened and lengthened, its head pushing out of its hood, transforming from a hidden nub to a 12-foot long throbbing club of muscle, riddled with vascularity.

She was enormous now—well over 200 pounds of pure, shredded muscle, casting a dramatic silhouette from the sweep of her lats and the dramatic V-taper from her shoulders down to her striated waist. The vascularity was obscene: veins throbbed across her pecs, over the peaks of her biceps, down the centerline of her abs, and across the sweeping quads. Even at rest, her body looked pumped, as if she had just finished the heaviest workout of her life.

Julianne stared at the creature in the mirror. A slow, predatory smile spread across her fuller, harder jawline.

She felt *strong*.

And she felt *hungry*.

The old Julianne—the soft, apologetic one—was shrinking inside her mind, being squeezed into oblivion by something hotter, meaner, more primal. She rolled her massive shoulders, watching the delts and traps dance. A low growl escaped her throat.

"Fuck... look at me!" she spat.

She curled one arm, watching the bicep peak rise like a mountain, the vein across it pulsing thickly. The aggression built like pressure in a boiler. She wanted to grab something. Break something. Dominate something.

Her eyes flicked to the statue that had been her masterpiece moments ago. With one effortless motion, she grabbed it by the waist, hoisted the eight-foot earthen figure overhead like an unloaded barbell, and hurled it across the garage. It shattered against the far wall in a spray of plaster.

Julianne laughed—deep, throaty, victorious. Her traps and neck flexed powerfully with the sound.

She was no longer the sculptor. She was Galatea.

She breathed heavily, feeling the enormity of her chest rising and falling. Becoming aware of the frenetic drumming of the supercharged heart powering the beast she'd become.

"E-e-Julianne...?" stammered a voice from behind her. She wheeled around to see a bewildered Gary.

The pressure in her brain increased. Blood was pounding in her ears and a high pitched whine barely within the threshold of her consciousness was driving her to distraction. Domination. Destruction. Desecration. Release!

She grabbed Gary by the sides and lifted him like he was an empty sack. Terror blanched his face. Hesitation flickered in Julianne's eyes for no more than a millisecond before being extinguished.

Her glutes crunched into deformed balls of muscle as she gathered her hips forward before pulling back and thrusting savagely forward, pile-driving her foot long sex weapon into her husband's guts, shredding his organs and viscera. He gasped in pain as she repeated the act, over and over, building into a frenzy of sex and violence and madness. HIs brain shut down in shock before she reached her twisted orgasm, her sex juices exploding messily in every direction and coating his lower limbs as well as hers.

Panting, her eyes returned to focus on Gary. Dying, insensate Gary. She clenched her big meaty hands and her thick, powerful, fingers burst into his sides gripping his impending carcass. She flexed her lats and pulled apart, ripping her soon-to-be-dead husband's body in two, shattering his rib cage and tearing bones and fibre and organs from each other.

Coated in blood, guts and her own ejaculate, Julianne grinned and set groaned a deep satisfied expression of her arousal and hunger. She set out into the night. This was the first day of the rest of her life...

[sevenpeight]

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