Hypnosis for Good

[Dona Fell Friz]

Great new chapter. Your fans are ready for takeoff - as in Jackie takes off Mia's panties and flips that friendly straight girl 180 degreees.

[Dona Fell Friz]

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[Bbw123]

Here is the next chapter. It may not be for everyone. My inspiration is from the story College crush by jdmo22

My watch buzzed on my Apple watch: 10:47 p.m. Third dose reminder. The little orange prescription bottle sat on the top shelf where I'd hidden it months ago, back when I still thought I could "fix" things.
Estradiol valerate 10 mg/ml., Spironolactone 100 mg., My original plan B, the emergency brake I never pulled. I twisted the cap off with trembling fingers, drew up 0.4 ml into the syringe, and stared at the clear liquid.
I was a lean 5'11", decent arms, the guy who started this whole nightmare with a birthday gift and a fetish. I needed to do something to make things right. Jackie loved who she had become and I needed to do something.

I pressed the needle into the soft flesh of my thigh, pushed the plunger, and felt the familiar cool bloom under my skin. Third dose this week. I'd started them the night Jackie told me she was entering Mr. Olympia men's open. Couldn't explain why. Just knew, deep in my gut, that if she was becoming the ultimate man, I needed to slide the other direction. Soften. Shrink. Become the perfect counterweight to her growing mass. I capped the needle, tossed it in the sharps bin, and caught my reflection in the dark kitchen window.

I still looked mostly like the old me, for now. But my skin was smoother, chest a little tender, nipples sensitive enough that brushing a shirt across them made me shiver. Strength was already slipping; yesterday I'd struggled with 225 on bench, a weight I used to warm up with. Soon I'd be smaller, softer and more delicate. The perfect toy for the beast in the other room.

I heard the front door open, Jackie's deep rumble and a lighter, nervous female giggle. Mia. I took a shaky breath, wiped my eyes, and padded toward the bedroom on bare feet. Jackie filled the doorway, hoodie already off, torso glistening under the hall light. Mia stood behind him, tiny next to her bulk, eyes wide, biting her lip. She looked over his shoulder at me, smirked when she saw the flush on my face, the tremor in my hands.

"Good boy," she rumbled. "Room ready?"

I nodded, throat too tight to speak. She stepped aside, wrapped one massive arm around Mia's waist, and lifted her clear off the floor like she weighed nothing. She squeaked, then laughed, wrapping her legs around his waist as she carried her inside. The door shut behind them with a soft click. I sank into the armchair we'd dragged in earlier, heart hammering so hard I could hear it. And I waited, palms on my thighs, estrogen humming quietly through my bloodstream, while the woman I'd built with my own twisted fantasies started claiming everything I'd ever wanted to give her.

The bedroom door shut with a soft, final click. Jackie didn't bother with the overhead light. She flicked on the two red LED strips she'd mounted behind the headboard weeks ago (contest-prep mood lighting, she'd called it). The crimson glow painted every ridge and valley of her 250-pound physique in molten detail, turning veins into rivers of fire. Mia stood in the middle of the room, suddenly tiny, eyes huge. She wore the same neon sports bra and black leggings from the gym, now damp with nervous sweat. Jackie towered over her, shirtless, posing trunks already tented obscenely.

"Clothes off," she rumbled, voice so low the bass vibrated in my teeth. She peeled the sports bra over her head in one motion. Full, perky tits bounced free, nipples already hard. The leggings came next, shimmying down toned legs until she stood naked except for a thin pink thong. Jackie hooked a thumb under the waistband and ripped it clean off. The fabric tore like paper. Mia gasped, then moaned as she palmed one of her breasts with a hand that completely engulfed it. I sat in the corner chair, hands clenched on my thighs, breathing shallow. My little 3-inch cock (already shrunken from weeks of estrogen and blockers) strained against the soft cotton of my briefs, leaking a steady drip of pre-cum.

Jackie lifted Mia like a doll, tossed her onto the bed on her back. The mattress groaned under her weight as she crawled over her, thighs thicker than her waist pinning her legs wide. She didn't kiss her. She just flexed her chest right above her face, making those armor-plate pecs dance, veins pulsing. "Touch," She ordered.

Her small hands roamed everywhere, tracing the deep split between her pecs, squeezing the 22½-inch arms, whimpering when her fingers couldn't meet around her biceps. Jackie let her worship for a full minute, then grabbed both her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head. With the other hand she shoved her trunks down just enough to let her clit spring free: nine thick, smooth inches now, flushed dark, head slick. The only hair on her entire body was that neat, trimmed patch above the base.

She dragged the head through her folds once, twice. She was soaked; the wet sound was obscene in the quiet room. "Beg." "Please, fuck, please put it in me," Mia whined, hips bucking. Jackie slammed home in one brutal thrust. Her back arched off the bed, a sharp cry ripping from her throat. Sh didn't ease in after that. Long, punishing strokes, hips pistoning, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls. Every times she bottomed out, her tits bounced wildly and her eyes rolled back.

I couldn't breathe. My tiny cock throbbed so hard it hurt, untouched, leaking a constant string onto the chair. Jackie flipped her onto all fours without pulling out, grabbed a fistful of her ponytail, and fucked her like a machine. Her lats flared so wide they eclipsed the red light, casting her in shadow. Sweat poured off her, dripping onto her back, running down the canyon of his spine.

Mia came first, screaming into the mattress, body shaking so hard the headboard rattled. Jackie didn't slow. She growled, wrapped one arm under her hips, lifted her clean off the bed, and kept pounding while holding her suspended in the air, impaled on her clit. When she finally came, it was with a roar that rattled the mirrors. Her whole body flexed, every muscle popping in stark relief as she pumped what felt like gallons into her. Thick ropes overflowed immediately, running down her thighs in creamy rivers.

She dropped her gently, pulled out slow. The gape she left behind was obscene, her cum already pulsing out in slow waves. Jackie turned her head toward me, eyes glowing red in the light, chest heaving.

"Clean-up," she commanded.

[Bbw123]

You all might hate it, however I needed to post once more tonight. Please let me know your thoughts,

I slid off the chair onto my knees and crawled. Mia was still trembling, face down, ass in the air. I started at her thighs, licking the warm, salty mix of them both, working my way up until my tongue was buried inside her, scooping out every drop that leaked. Jackie stood over us, stroking herself lazily back to hardness, watching. When Mia finally rolled over, panting, she looked at me, really looked, and smiled a dazed, grateful smile.
"Thank you," Mia whispered.

Before I could answer, Mia pushed me gently onto my back, tugged my briefs down, and took my shrunken three inches into her mouth in one warm, wet motion. I lasted maybe ten seconds. The orgasm hit me like a freight train, tiny cock pulsing pathetically, shooting weak spurts across her tongue. She swallowed every drop, kissed the tip softly, then crawled up to curl against Jackie's massive chest. Jackie wrapped one arm around her, the other reaching down to ruffle my hair like I was a good pet. "Bedtime," she rumbled, voice satisfied. "Tomorrow we do it again. And the day after that." I curled up at the foot of the bed, sticky, spent, happier than I'd ever been.

The day of the competition came. The arena smelled like tan, sweat, and desperation. Mia and I had third-row VIP seats, dead center, close enough that when the competitors walked out we could see every striation, every bead of oil rolling down a quad sweep. Mia sat to my left in a tiny black crop top and denim shorts, legs crossed, bouncing with nervous energy. I sat to her right, softer now (skinny-fat arms, budding chest that ached under my loose T-shirt, hips starting to flare). My little 3-inch clit twitched uselessly in lace panties every time the lights hit the stage.

The announcer's voice boomed: "Men's open bodybuilding, heavyweight class!" The curtain parted. Eight monsters strode out in a line, but the second Jackie stepped through, the entire place went quiet for half a heartbeat, then erupted. She was 262 pounds this morning, water completely gone, skin so thin it looked vacuum-sealed over muscle. Quads over 36 inches, each head separated like someone had carved them with a scalpel. Hamstrings etched so deep you could lose a finger in the sweep. Glutes round and hard as bowling balls, striated even from the side. Her abs were a grotesque eight-pack, each block standing out a full inch, veins diving into the peach posing trunks like roots. But it was the upper body that made people gasp.

Traps rose so high they kissed her earlobes. Delts like cannonballs split into three distinct heads. Arms (23½ cold this morning) hung at her sides, veins thick as garden hoses, biceps peak's so high they cast shadows on her forearms even relaxed. She hit the front relaxed pose, and the arena lost its mind. Mia grabbed my hand hard enough to bruise. "Holy fuck," she whispered. "She's not human." I couldn't answer. My mouth was dry, my panties soaked.

They called the first comparison: Jackie and the reigning champ, a 5'9" 245-pound guy who looked like a child next to her. Jackie dwarfed him in every dimension. When they hit side chest, Jackie's pecs exploded forward so thick the other guy looked concave. Rear lat spread: Jackie's lats spread so wide the backdrop disappeared behind wings of muscle. The crowd started cheering!

Mandatory after mandatory, Jackie toyed with them. Every pose looked like she was flexing harder than the others could even contract. In the front double biceps, her peaks rose so high they nearly touched her fists. The most muscular had people on their feet screaming; her traps swallowed her neck completely, serratus twisting like claws under paper-thin skin. Judges didn't even bother pretending. Score sheets were already filled out by the time they hit the pose down.

When they announced the winner—"First callout and overall champion, number 47, Jackie!"—the place detonated. Phones flashed like lightning. Jackie just stood center stage, arms raised in victory, every muscle pumped beyond belief, veins pulsing under the lights, a living god sculpted from my darkest fantasy.

Backstage pass lanyards got us through chaos. We found her in the pump-up room, still in her trunks, oil glistening, chest heaving. Competitors parted like the Red Sea when she walked. She saw us and that slow, predatory grin spread across his face. The arena smelled like tan, sweat, and desperation. "Told you, "She rumbled, voice hoarse from the roar of the crowd. Mia squealed and launched herself at her wrapping legs around her waist. She caught her one-handed, the other arm scooping me against her side like I weighed nothing. Her skin was fever-hot, hard as steel under my palms.

"Celebration starts now," she said, looking down at both of us. "Hotel suites booked. Champagne on ice. And you two are the main course." She carried us both out the back exit, photographers screaming for shots, fans begging for autographs. It didn't matter, Jackie had conquered the stage and now he was going to conquer us. And tomorrow the whole world would know her name. But tonight, she belonged to Mia and me, and we belonged to her.

The suite was on the top floor, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city lights glittering like scattered diamonds. Jackie had kicked the door shut behind us, set Mia and me down gently, then disappeared into the bathroom to shower off the last of the contest tan. We heard the water running, then stop, a  minute later she walked out naked, skin still flushed from the stage lights, every muscle swollen and shining. She didn't speak, she just crooked a finger.

Mia and I stripped on the spot (her little black dress pooling at her feet, my soft, estrogen-curved body shivering in the cool air). My nipples were puffy and sensitive now, chest tender, hips wider, thighs brushing when I walked. My tiny clit stood at its full three inches, already dripping. Jackie pulled us both to the king bed, laid us side by side on our backs, and climbed over us like a lion deciding which gazelle to taste first. She  started slow.

Big hands cupped Mia's breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until she whimpered. Then those same hands slid to me, palming the soft swell of my budding tits, rolling my nipples gently between calloused fingers. I arched into her with a broken moan. She leaned down and took one into her mouth, sucking slow and deep, tongue flicking. The sensation shot straight to my clit-cock; I felt myself leak onto the sheets. Mia watched, breathing hard, then reached over and laced her fingers with mine.

Jackie moved lower. She spread Mia's thighs and licked her open in one long, possessive stroke, making her cry out. Then she turned to me, pushed my knees up to my chest, and did the same (slow, deliberate licks from my tiny balls up to my aching clit-cock, then lower, circling my hole until I was shaking. She took her time with both of us, alternating, keeping us on the edge, until we were clutching each other and begging in broken whispers.
Only then did she reach for the lube.

She warmed it between her palms, slicked herself generously (nine thick inches gleaming), then looked at me with those dark, loving eyes. "Turn over for me, baby." I rolled onto my stomach, ass up, heart hammering. Mia curled beside me, stroking my hair, kissing my shoulder as Jackie's huge hands spread me open. One finger, then two, scissoring gently, stretching me with the same patience she used on stage when she hit every perfect pose.
When she finally pressed the head of her cock against me, she leaned over my back, chest to my shoulder blades, lips at my ear. "I've got you,"s he whispered. "Breathe."

She slid slowly, inch by inch, letting me feel every throb. The stretch burned sweetly, perfectly. When she bottomed out she stayed still, letting me adjust, one massive arm wrapped under my chest, the other reaching to pull Mia close so all three of us were connected. Then she started to move.

Long, deep strokes, hips rolling like a wave. Every thrust nudged that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes. Mia kissed me, swallowed my moans, her fingers finding my clit-cock and stroking in time with Jackie's
rhythm. I came first (a soft, rolling orgasm that milked Jackie's cock inside me, my whole body trembling). She groaned, pace faltering for a second, then steadied.

She pulled out gently, turned to Mia, lifted her on top of her as she lay back. Mia sank down with a shuddering sigh, riding her slow while I curled against her side, kissing her neck and chest, licking the sweat from the deep groove between his pecs.

When Mia came, head thrown back, nails digging into her shoulders, Jackie finally let go. She gripped her hips, thrust up hard once, twice, and roared as she filled her. The pulse of it went on and on, her abs clenching, veins standing out on his forearms. Afterward she gathered us both against her (Mia on one side, me on the other), our heads on her chest, her massive arms draped over us like living steel beams. The room smelled of sex and coconut oil and victory.

She pressed a kiss to my temple, then Mia's. "My champions," she murmured, voice soft for once. We fell asleep tangled together, city lights flickering across the bed, three heartbeats slowing into one. Outside, the new champ slept. Inside, the three of us had already won everything that mattered.

[brave_archer]

Damn. Absolutely loving this one so much. Please keep going if you have more plot ideas.

[quick]

in. credible.

[Bbw123]

Here is the next chapter

The clip from the competition looped on every bodybuilding forum by dawn. Some smug pundit on a late-night sports panel, leaning back in his chair like he owned the truth: "Look, Jackie crushed a little American regional, cute. But the European Open is a totally different animal. Those Austrian boys will eat her alive. Over there it's not a beauty contest. Three phases: raw strength, strongman, then physique. You don't win by being big; you win by being a freak who can move the world. Jackie's just a pretty poser, she'll get humbled." The host chuckled. "So, America's new champ would be sent home crying if she even tried to compete."

Jackie watched it on the gym TV while pulling 800 for triples. When the segment ended, she simply stared at the screen, jaw flexing, then racked the bar so hard the collars jumped off. She pulled her phone, dialed the number she'd saved months ago, and spoke one calm sentence, "Put me in the European Open. Heavyweight. I'm on the next flight." The voice on the other end reminded her of the rules: six months' mandatory residency in the athlete village outside Salzburg. Random testing. Filmed sessions. No visitors, no partners, no exceptions. Jackie didn't hesitate. "I'll be there."

That night the apartment was quiet while she packed a single duffle. Mia and I stood in the doorway watching 268 pounds of living marble fold T-shirts like they were tissue paper. When the bag was zipped, she turned to us.
"I have to shut them up," she said, voice low. "Not for the prize money. For the statement. Six months from now nobody on earth will ever say my name and 'humbled' in the same breath again." Mia's lip trembled. I just nodded, throat tight, secretly pressing my thighs together under the loose hoodie that hid the soft new curves I hadn't let her see yet.

She pulled Mia into a crushing hug, kissed her hard, then turned to me. Her huge hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushing my lips. Keep the house ready, when I come back, I'm bringing something back  that makes that last trophy look like plastic. She had no idea the little orange prescription bottle in my nightstand had already been refilled twice. No idea my chest ached every morning now, that my hips had started swaying when I walked, that my once-respectable dick was a shy three-inch button hiding in lace. She just saw his loyal boyfriend, eyes shining with pride and unshed tears. She kissed my forehead, slow and possessive. Six months, babe. Then I own the fucking world. Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind 268 pounds of unstoppable fury.

Mia and I stood in sudden silence at her departure. She didn't know about the pills either. Only I knew that every morning at 8:00 a.m., while Jackie was across the ocean learning to pull a thousand pounds like it was nothing, I swallowed another tiny pink tablet and felt myself sliding further into softness. By the time Jackie stepped off that return flight, bigger, stronger, and angrier than ever, the person waiting at arrivals wouldn't be the same one who waved goodbye. I worried what her reaction was going to be.

The apartment never felt empty again, not really. Mia showed up three days after Jackie left with two suitcases and red-rimmed eyes. "I can't sleep in my place," she said. "It's too quiet. Please let me stay."
I handed her the key to the house and showed her the spare room without a word. That night we fell asleep on the couch together watching Jackie's leaked training clips on the big screen: 950-pound deadlifts, 1,400-pound yoke walks, tires the size of cars flipping end over end. We didn't speak. We just held hands and cried a little, then laughed at ourselves for crying. By week two she'd officially moved in.

Mornings became ritual, 6:00 a.m. alarm I swallowed my pink pill and anti-androgen with orange juice while Mia blended protein oats. We trained together five days a week, but nothing like before. No more heavy iron. Just Pilates, hot yoga, long treadmill inclines, and light dumbbells for tone. Mia called it "maintenance." I called it surrender, and I loved every second of it. My body answered fast. The first thing Mia noticed was my face in the kitchen mirror one morning. Softer jaw, fuller lips, the last traces of stubble finally gone for good.

"You look... different," she said carefully, tilting her head. I tugged the hood of my oversized sweatshirt higher and shrugged. "Lighting." She let it go. Then came the hips. My jeans stopped fitting in the thighs first, then the butt. I switched to loose fitting grey sweats and Jackie's old hoodies that now hung to mid-thigh on me. My hair (once cropped short) had grown past my shoulders; I twisted it into a small messy bun every day just to keep it out of my face when we exercised during downward dog. The chest was hardest to hide.

Little A-cups now, tender and sensitive, nipples poking through every shirt when the AC kicked on. I started wearing sports bras under everything. Mia spotted the outline once during Pilates and her eyes flicked up to mine, curious, gentle. She didn't ask. We cooked together, cried together, sent Jackie thirst-trap care packages together: new posing trunks, handwritten letters we scented with perfume, photos of Mia in lingerie we knew she'd jerk off to. Every night we curled up on the couch watching his progress clips. At month five the committee posted a shirtless weigh-in photo (298 pounds, veins everywhere, abs still visible even at that size).
Mia and I stared at the screen, mouths open. "She's not human anymore," she whispered. I just swallowed hard and felt my clit twitch uselessly in my lace panties.

The next day after a particularly brutal yoga flow, we were stretched out on the living-room floor, sweat cooling, when she rolled onto her side and looked at me. "You're beautiful, you know," she said quietly. "Whatever this is... whoever you're becoming... it's beautiful." I started crying instantly. She pulled me into her arms, hoodie riding up, her hand settling gently on the curve of my waist that hadn't been there six months ago.
"When Jackie gets home," she whispered into my hair, "she's going to lose her fucking mind. In the best way."

found Mia in the kitchen, stress-eating peanut butter straight from the jar, scrolling through pre-op instructions on her phone. She looked up when I stepped in, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands, hair twisted up in its usual messy bun. "Hey," I said, voice soft and higher than it had ever been. "Can we talk?" She set the jar down instantly. "Always." I took a breath that shook all the way to my toes. "I need to tell you something. Actually... I need to show you. And then I need to ask for help." Mia's eyes went gentle. "Whatever it is, I'm here."

I pulled the hoodie over my head in one motion. The sports bra came next, then the baggy sweats and panties. I stood there in the kitchen light, completely naked, heart hammering so hard I thought it might crack a rib.
Mia's spoon clattered to the counter. I was still 5'10", long everywhere: legs for days, waist nipped in like someone had cinched it with invisible ribbon. Hips flared wide and smooth curving into thighs that pressed together softly at the top. My breasts (full, high C-cups) sat heavy and natural, pink nipples stiff in the cool air. Between my legs, just a tiny, smooth nub, barely an inch, nestled above soft, hairless lips. No trace of what used to be there.
I reached up, pulled the elastic from my hair, and let the blonde waves tumble down. They were long now, past my shoulder blades, messy from the bun but thick and shining. Framing a face that hadn't needed makeup in months: high cheekbones, full lips, big eyes framed by lashes I'd never had to curl.

Mia's jaw dropped, she took one step, then another, until she was close enough to touch. "Mark..." she whispered, voice cracking. "It's still me," I said, tears already sliding. "But I've been on hormones since the week Jackie left. Tomorrow, I have bottom surgery (the full thing). I'm terrified and I... I can't drive myself home after. I need you to,,, Mia stopped him short and said yes, I will take you. She reached out, reverent, and cupped one of my breasts like it might disappear. Her thumb brushed the nipple and I shivered hard. Then her hand slid down the curve of my waist, over the swell of my hip, tracing the body that six months of estrogen had sculpted while Jackie was gone.

"You're..." She swallowed. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." The tears spilled over. She pulled me into her arms, careful, like I was made of glass, and I cried into her shoulder while she stroked my hair and whispered repeatedly, "I've got you. I've got you." When I finally pulled back, she wiped my cheeks with her thumbs, eyes shining. "Tomorrow," she said firmly, "I will be in that waiting room the entire time. I'll bring blankets and ice cream and every trashy magazine they have. And when they wheel you out, I'll be the first face you see." She paused, smiled through her own tears. "And when Jackie gets home in six weeks and walks through that door... we're going to destroy her in the absolute best way." I laughed, wet and shaky, and she kissed my forehead, then my lips (soft, quick, full of promise).

[Bbw123]

One more chapter. I hope you like it!

Three weeks after surgery, the swelling was gone and the final check-up was perfect. Dr. Keller had been blunt in the best way: "Everything healed beautifully. Depth is excellent, sensation is already returning faster than average, and the ovarian transplant took (you're cycling, congratulations)." I walked out of the clinic on shaky legs, prescription for progesterone in one hand, Mia's fingers laced through the other.
That night we celebrated quietly: takeout Thai, candles, and the first bottle of rosé I'd allowed myself in months.

We ended up on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket, some mindless Netflix show flickering. Mia's hand kept drifting to my thigh, tracing idle circles higher until her fingertips brushed the soft cotton of my sleep shorts.
"You still haven't tested the new equipment properly," she teased, voice low. I felt my breath catch. "Doctor said gentle is fine now." She shifted, pushed me gently onto my back, and peeled the shorts down my hips. The cool air hit new, sensitive skin and I shivered. Mia settled between my thighs, eyes wide and reverent.

"God, you're perfect," she whispered.

Her fingers were feather-light at first (just tracing the outer lips, circling the tiny hood that used to be all I had). When she finally brushed my clit, the jolt was so sharp I gasped her name. She smiled, kept the pressure soft and steady, teaching me the way I was learning myself. It was built slow and sweet, nothing like the old frantic rush. A warm, rolling wave that started deep in my belly and spread outward. When I came with a broken cry, hips lifting off the couch, her name on repeat. She didn't stop until I was trembling through the aftershocks, then crawled up to kiss me slowly and deep so I tasted myself on her tongue. While I was still floating, forehead pressed to hers, she murmured, "You're not Mark anymore. Haven't been for months."

I laughed, watery and happy. "Then who am I?" She brushed a strand of hair from my face, eyes shining. "Marika," she said simply. "Rika for short. It's been in my head for weeks." It settled over me like it had always belonged there. The next morning, she dragged me out of bed with a grin and a credit card Jackie had left "for emergencies." First stop: Sephora. The artist took one look at my face and declared I barely needed anything (just a tinted moisturizer, a touch of brow gel, mascara, and a your-lips-but-better gloss). Ten minutes later I stared at the mirror and saw a stranger who was, finally, perfectly me.

Then came the stores, silky wrapped dresses that hugged my new waist and flared over hips I hoped Jackie was going to lose her mind over. Lace bodysuits in midnight blue and crimson.  A black leather skirt that made my legs look endless. Sky-high heels I practiced walking in up and down the apartment hallway while Mia catcalled from the couch. That night we laid everything across the bed like a shrine. Mia snapped a mirror selfie of us (me in the crimson bodysuit and heels, hair tousled, lips bitten red; her in matching lingerie) and saved it to a private folder labeled "For Jackie – do not open until landing."

Mia was going to make flights for both of us to go to the competition in Europe. Mia shut the laptop with a soft click and looked at me, eyes shining but calm. Are we all set I asked her rubbing her ass. "No," she said. "I'm not coming." I blinked. "What?" "This is yours, Rika. All of it. From the second you step off the plane until the moment she carries you back through that hotel door, this weekend belongs to you and Jackie. Just the two of you, the way it started, the way it's supposed to finish." She took my hands, squeezed them tight.

"I've had her. I've watched her. I've loved her. But you... you built her. You waited. You changed everything about yourself while she was gone, just so you could meet her on the other side of this mountain she's been climbing. I'm not standing in that doorway. I'm not even going to be in the same country." I started to protest, but she shook her head.

"I already talked to Carl, Jackie's guardian. One VIP credential, one hotel suite key, and one name on the list: Marika. She thinks I'm sending a friend as a surprise. Jackie has no idea anyone's coming at all. Carl will hand you the key after the show, tell Jackie his 'victory gift' is waiting upstairs, and that's it. You walk in alone. You decide when, how, or if hse ever finds out it's you." She brushed a strand of hair from my face, smiling through sudden tears.

"I want you to have this moment pure. No audience. No shared glances across the room. Just the champion and the woman she doesn't yet realize she's been missing for almost a year."
I swallowed hard, throat aching.

"Mia..."

Go," she whispered. "Wear the red dress we bought. Leave your hair down. Don't wear anything underneath the coat. When she opens that door, let her see you for the first time as the woman you became for her. And when she's on his knees begging to know your name, you decide if you give him the old one... or make her fall in love with the new one all over again." She kissed me once, soft and fierce, then pressed the printed boarding pass into my hand. "Thursday night, Rika. Your key. Your champion. Your truth."

[brave_archer]

Just keeps getting better and better. One thing I did notice, sometimes you switch Jackie's pronouns up. Is that a conscious choice or just an oversight?

[Bbw123]

It was not intentional, just a typo, but an interesting idea.

[Bbw123]

I flew out alone the next morning, one suitcase, one red dress folded like a secret, heart hammering so loudly the flight attendants kept asking if I was nervous about flying. Mia told me before I left that Jackie wanted some intimate time with a woman after she competed. Mia had been secretly talking with her training partner Carl and they had arranged everything however she never told him that it was Mark just Marika or Rika.

The black Mercedes rolled to a stop at Vienna's arrivals curb and the rear door opened before I even reached for the handle. Carl stepped out (6'4", maybe 280 pounds off-season, shaved head, thick Austrian accent), grinning like a kid who'd just won the lottery. Marika?" he asked, eyes doing a slow, stunned sweep from my heels to my face. I nodded, suddenly shy under the weight of his stare.

"Mein Gott," he muttered, then caught himself and switched to perfect English. "Mia said you were beautiful. She lied. You are... unreal." He took my single suitcase like it weighed nothing, loaded it into the trunk, and opened the back door for me. As soon as we pulled away from the airport, he already had his phone out, thumbs hovering. "I have to text Mia," he laughed. "She will kill me if I don't tell her, you are even better than promised."
I smiled, cheeks warm, and watched Vienna roll past the tinted windows.

Twenty minutes later we were at the hotel (an ultra-modern tower right on the Danube). Carl carried my bag all the way to the top floor, swiped a keycard, and pushed open the door to a suite that looked like something out of a magazine: floor-to-ceiling glass, champagne already chilling, a king bed big enough for an entire rugby team. "Your room," he said, setting the case down. "Jackie is literally next door a wall separates you .However, he held up one thick finger, no contact until after the final crowning Sunday night. She is in the zone. Zero distractions. You understand?" I nodded.

He pulled a folder from his back pocket, sign this, please. It was a one-page NDA in English and German: I would never speak publicly about anything that happened between Jackie and me, no photos, no names, no social media. Standard rich-athlete stuff. I signed "Marika Ellis" in flowing cursive without hesitation. Carl tucked it away, then handed me a thick envelope.

"Ten thousand euro. Jackie insisted the girl be... compensated generously. Also, your VIP package: all-access lanyard, front-row seat for every event, backstage pass for Sunday night. Tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. sharp: deadlift and bench press. Saturday Strongman finals. Sunday physique and awards." He hesitated at the door, giving me one last appreciative look. She is going to lose her mind when he sees you, he said, almost reverent. "Good luck, Marika. And thank you. He deserves this."

I stood alone in the silent suite, heart hammering against my ribs. Through one thin wall, thirty feet of carpeted hallway, and three days of competition stood the woman who used to call me "babe" while I deleted hypnosis files from her phone. Now I was a stranger with a new name, a new body, and a contract that said I could never tell her who I really was.
I set the envelope on the desk (unopened), hung the red dress in the closet, and laid the VIP lanyard across it like a promise.
Three days. Deadlift. Bench. Strongman. Physique. Then Sunday night, after they put the biggest medal in Europe around her neck, Carl would walk her to this door, hand her the keycard, and say, "Your victory gift is waiting inside." And I would be standing here (hair down, heels on, coat open, nothing underneath), ready to let the champion unwrap the surprise of her life, I hoped. I pressed my palm to the wall that separated our rooms and whispered so softly no one could possibly hear: "See you soon, Jackie." I went to bed masturbating my clit with the hope I could seduce my wife.

Friday, 9:00 a.m. First competition. The hall was already a furnace. The deadlift platform sat under a single spotlight, black rubber mats, elephant bar loaded like a freight train. The crowd (mostly European lifters and hardcore fans) buzzed in a low, animal growl. I had the best seat in the house: front row, center aisle, VIP lanyard around my neck, red soles of my Louboutins crossed at the ankle. They called the heavyweights in reverse order. Seven n and one women, eight giants, Jackie was the last.

When her name echoed through the speakers ("Representing the United States... Jackie!") the place detonated. She strode out in a black singlet that looked vacuum-sealed over 308 pounds of dense, veiny muscle. Shoulders so wide the straps cut into her delts like wire. Quads so thick the fabric stretched translucent across them. Hier traps rose higher than her ears, even relaxed. The bar looked like a toy in front of her. First attempt: 420 kg (926 lbs). She chalked her hands once, walked up, gripped the bar, and pulled it like she was closing a drawer. No belt. No sleeves. Just pure violence. The bar bent, plates rattled, and the crowd roared so loud my ribs vibrated.

Second attempt: 450 kg (992 lbs).
She reset, eyes dead ahead, then ripped it off the floor so fast the judges barely had time to white-light it. The bar came up to her knees and she stood there holding it for an extra second, letting everyone see who owned gravity now.

Third attempt: 472.5 kg (1,041 lbs).
A European record attempt. The bar was loaded with every plate in the building. Silence fell like a guillotine. Jackie rolled her shoulders once. Stepped in, gripped, one breath then she pulled. The bar left the floor in a perfect arc, her back a cathedral of muscle, lats flaring so wide they eclipsed the lights behind her. At lockout she held it (one beat, two), then let it drop with a crash that shook the stage. The arena exploded. She didn't celebrate. Just turned to the crowd, hit a most muscular pose that made her traps swallow her neck completely, and walked off like she'd been bored. I sat there trembling, thighs pressed together so hard the seam of my dress threatened to split. My new clit throbbed in time with my pulse. I couldn't breathe properly until the lights came up for the next event. The deadlift was over the second Jackie stepped on the platform, Bench press was later that afternoon, but I already knew.

I couldn't help myself. After the deadlift session ended, the crowd spilled toward the exits, but I slipped through a side door marked VIP ONLY. The backstage corridor smelled of chalk, ammonia caps, and testosterone. Lifters milled around in singlets, some wrapping wrists, others staring at phones. Heads turned as I walked past (slow, deliberate clicks of my heels on concrete). A few whistles. A low "Scheiße, wer ist das?" from someone's coach.
Jackie was at the far end, sitting on a bench while Carl taped his elbows. She hadn't seen me yet. I took one step in her direction (heart in my throat) when Carl's massive frame suddenly blocked my path. "Marika." His voice was low, urgent. "Not now. Not even close. She's locked in. You come near her before Sunday night and I swear I'll have security escort you out. Go back to your seat. Please."

The look on his face wasn't anger; it was fear. Fear that one glance from a woman like me could break Jackie's  focus and cost her everything. I swallowed, nodded once, and turned on my heel. The corridor full of eyes followed me all the way out.