Much More Melissa, Parts 1 and 2

[Orange77]

A multiple part story, first posted to my DeviantArt page:orange1984blue. More chapters are in the works!

Much More Mellisa
Part 1 - Beast on Fire
By orange1984blue

My wife told me later she found berries while gardening. They presently can't be found. Don't know what to believe except this.

Mellisa's edging higher now, seven feet maybe, her head nearing top of the open garage door, and she grunts—ungh—a mix of effort and delight, moonlight highlighting her gorgeously messy hair. Her arms catch my eye next. She's still in that drab blouse she uses when gardening, and I hear this soft pleasured whine—mmmm—as her biceps - her biceps?! - become bigger and thicker. The sleeves hug them, outlining her muscles as they swell, slow and relentless. Prominent steel-like veins become embossed by the fabric.

She flexes, and a laugh bubbles out—heh-heh—then a grunt, —-grrrah—-sharp and crazy, as the right sleeve strains—creak—then staccato-like rips—sherrap, sherreaap!—tearing open at the shoulder. Her bicep bulges out, greenish and hard, bigger than my head, and she groans—eeerarrah!—was that pleasure? Then moans—mmmmoraash—like it feels good, too good.

Spittle flys from her lower lip—mmerrsph! She swallows deeply, inhaling. The left sleeve goes next—shrrrippp!—splitting wide, her other bicep exploding through, massive and veiny. She sees it and chuckles again, a wild, breathless sound. I think—those arms could snap me in half, and she's loving it. From the look in her eyes, she's lost it.

Her traps rise. She rolls her shoulders and turns from me. I hear this deep groan—grrrn—almost a growl, like she's straining. A sound I've never heard from her, but then it turns into a laugh, a slow and deep feminine—ha-haa—hehehehehahahahaa - from low to triumphant. Her entire blouse rapidly balloons over muscles. She trembles madly as if being electrocuted, like a shockwave was sent through her upper body.

The blouse pulls tight across her back, and I see it—her muscles doubling, lats flaring out, traps rising. The fabric stretches thin, seams popping, explosive!—crack—snap, shrrripp! Snap, pop!-and she grunts—unf—rrrrraaaah—- a soft roar, as her blouse is rent into uselessness. Then a slow and loud—shrrrip—from the neck down. Her back bursts through, a wall of light green muscle, wide and rippling, shredding the blouse apart. Buttons fly off her chest—ping, ping—and she moans—oooh—long and pleased, her whole body trembling with it. She inches taller.

The shirt falls in rags, revealing impossibly perfect breasts atop round pectorals, a sight beyond dreams. Her nipples are taught. Both solid and arrogant, pointed outward and up and certifiably walleyed. They look like steel thimbles welded on top of green sculpted granite. And looking up at her, her bruised ego radiating anger beyond her rising and falling breasts—she's a beast, a monster, unstoppable, and she's reveling in every second.

Mellisa towers over me now, seven feet or more, her thighs flexing—huge, veiny light green pillars that quake the floor. Her biceps twitch with every move, hard and menacing, and her back—God, her back— revealed... is a fortress, broad enough to block out the moonlight.

As she looks down at me, eyes glinting, she lets out a wild laugh—hah-hah!—followed by a soft giggle and the deepest sultry moan—mmmmmmah—-like she's teasing me, daring me. Wayward strands of hair fall over her adorable face as she spasms. Did she just climax? I was so enraptured by her metamorphosis I failed to notice what was happing between her colossal thighs. Her panties, stretched tight between boulders of strength, are drenched, her clit and pubic hair sharp and detailed under distressed cotton. This beast is on fire.

A flash of pain ignites at the back of my head. Her fingers like steel calipers force me to look up. I've seen her transformed pussy, and from her expression it excites her. My meek little lady is a colossus now. "See something you want little man?" Her voice now has deeply resonant authority.

Her other hand slides down and rips the panties away. Her fingers tap her iron ball of a clitoris, pitter-pat it—-ooooo—then rub it—-mmmm—- then scrub it, vigorously, Her eyes cloud with pleasure and pain—-eeeerrrrrah— then gaze beyond me. I'm forgotten. She continues aggressively self-pleasuring for some time and I can't stop watching.

She spasms, this time with greater intensity. Gritting her teeth, hissing, vibrating—eeerrrayahhhh! No words, just sounds—feminine moans of pleasure, groans of power, variations of f-words, calls to God, yelps of surprise, laughs of madness. Glowing with perspiration she staggers forward, slamming a knee onto the remains of her clothing, that tough pair of jeans she'd wear when gardening, now shredded strips of denim.

I hold her as she scrubs herself with renewed and demonic vigor. Her giant sweaty forehead, surrounded by an oceanic mane of hair, trembles against my shoulder. Her eyes squeeze shut as previously unconquered levels of pleasure rocket through her —rrrrrraaaaaaarrgggh!—-rrarrraagh!—-rrraaggh!  After a full minute, the force of her climaxing hits concrete like a power-washer —-rrrrrraaaaaaaagghhh! Her libidinous rage dissipates, her breathing levels, her eyes regain peace ... and she regains awareness.

I'm trembling—she's going to crush me, destroy me.

She gets to her feet slowly, towering. All she can do is admire her new body. I cease to exist. She moans and giggles, exploring, flexing, posing. Each effort stretching her body to the limit as if she could push herself bigger and stronger. Mewing and gasping like it's the best thing she's ever felt. To look at her from below like this is to see mountains of strength. She stops and looks down at herself. I'm fearful.

Mellisa's big finger again descends, passing bulletproof abdominals to her bristly delta, where at its top is that imposing iron-hard clit. Boldly she taps it—mmmmmm, lolling her head backward——fffuck yesssss!—-her thick mane splays over broad and powerful shoulders. Recovering she looks at me, light green eyes drill into my soul. Her finger again taps that impressive round iron-hard nub. Her eyes flare wide, the ecstasy stabbing her brain. Rivers of female pleasure glisten down her mammoth thighs. She smiles with explicit menace.

I think—she's gone, she's a force of nature, and I'm nothing but prey.


Coming Soon
Part 2 - Tennis Club Titan

[Orange77]

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[Orange77]

First posted to DeviantArt: orange1984blue

Much More Melissa
Part 2 - Tennis Club Titan
By orange1984blue

Love, I've learned, is like tending a wildfire—dangerous, exhilarating, and impossible to tame. That's what it's like loving Melissa, my petite little firecracker, the woman who's owned my heart since the day we met. At five-foot-two, with short, messy blonde hair that glows like spun gold, she's a whirlwind of energy, equal parts adorable and terrifying, especially when her lovely blue eyes glint with menace. She's my housewife, my soulmate, my everything, and every day with her feels like a dare to keep up with her boundless spirit.

Melissa's a talker, filling our home with chatter, laughter. She's got a temper, a secret storm that only a few ever see. She'll let loose with an occasional swear word when she's adorably fired-up. To me, it's just another layer of her magic. She pours her heart into gardening, coaxing roses and mysterious herbs to life with a tenderness that melts me, and she keeps our house a warm, welcoming haven. But above all, she loves me—fiercely, unapologetically, in a way that makes me feel appropriately competent.

When she's angry, there's a sexy, dangerous glint in her eye, a look that says she'll take what's hers, no matter who tries to stop her. It's a look that sets my blood on fire, a reminder that my sweet, chatty wife has uncharted, unsettling depth.

We're members of Winstead Arms, an exclusive country club with manicured lawns, a dining room serving divine crab cakes, and tennis courts that are Mellisa's release. She's a natural on the court, her fit frame moving like a panther, her tennis whites hugging her curves. She has that fire. Losing isn't in her vocabulary, and when she's in the zone, that glint in her eye becomes a blaze. It's a look that makes me think I'm in her way, a promise that my fierce little lady is on the road to a victory.

So there we were one Saturday afternoon in late spring, the air heavy with the scent of blooming lilacs. Melissa had roped me into watching her play a doubles match at Winstead Arms with her friend Erin, her boyfriend Mark, and his friend Jim. A chain-link fence surrounded the clay court, with concrete benches situated midway at both sides. I was lounging in an Adirondack chair next to one of the benches, a cold lemonade in hand. My eyes locked on my wife as she played the court, her tennis racket swinging lightly. Her blonde hair was tied back, strands already escaping to frame her face, and her white tennis skirt swished with every step. She was captivating, all fire and grace, and I couldn't tear my gaze away.

Erin, a tall brunette with a bright laugh, was Melissa's doubles partner, their chemistry making them a challenging opponent. Jim, though, was trouble. A slick lawyer with a loud voice and an ego to match, he'd gotten under Melissa's skin from day one. "He's a cheater," she'd muttered to me the night before, her eyes narrowing as she chopped vegetables with a vengeance. "Maybe tomorrow you'll see for yourself."

"Sweetheart," I'd said, wrapping my arms around her and kissing her temple, "Relax, you're gonna give him a good game. Just maybe break his ego a little. Or a lot," I winked.

She'd laughed when I said "ego". It had a tone that sent a shiver down my spine. I was of course joking. "No promises, babe," she said.

The match was a battle, the score tied at 4-4 in the first set. Melissa and Erin were in sync, their volleys sharp, their serves deadly. Jim and his partner, Erin's quiet guy Mark, were keeping pace, but Melissa was a dynamo, darting across the court, her "Yes!" and "Yeah!" ringing out with every winner. I grinned, my heart swelling with pride.

That's my girl.

Then came the moment that turned our world upside down. A lengthy and punishing rally.

Melissa sprinted to the baseline to chase a deep lob from Jim. The ball landed close to the sideline, and she smashed it back with a grunt, the shot angled to kiss the line. Erin whooped, and I leaned forward, ready to cheer—until Jim raised his hand.

"Out," he said, his voice dripping with smugness.

The court went silent. Melissa froze, her racket raised, her chest heaving. Erin's mouth fell open, and Mark looked uncomfortable. I sat up, my lemonade forgotten. The ball had been in. I'd seen it, clear as day, and so had everyone else.

"What did you just say?" Melissa's voice was low, lethal. She lowered her racket and stalked toward the net, her eyes locked on Jim. That sexy, angry glint was there, sharper than ever, a blade ready to slice. My pulse raced, not from fear, but because I knew my wife was about to make things more interesting.

"It was out," Jim repeated, shrugging like he hadn't just poked a lion. "Just over the line."

Melissa's lips curled into a dangerous smile. "That ball was in. You know it was."

He smirked, and I winced. Rookie mistake, Jim. "My call, Melissa. Get over it."

Erin stepped forward, her voice shaky. "Hey, maybe it was close. Can we replay the point?"

But Melissa was done with diplomacy. She crossed her arms, her petite frame radiating fury. "No way. That was my point, and I'm not letting this jerk steal it!"

"Melissa," I called softly from the sidelines. She glanced at me, and for a moment, her expression softened. I gave her a nod, my way of saying, You've got this, but I'm here. She took a deep breath, then turned back to Jim.

"Fine," she said, her voice cold as ice. "Let's play. But you're gonna regret that."

She marched to the side of the court, her movements sharp and deliberate. I watched, curious, as she dug into her tennis bag and pulled out a small, unmarked container. My brow furrowed. What was that? Melissa wasn't into energy gels—she always said her edge came from "pure, pissed-off grit." But there was something intentional in how she opened the container, tipping out a few dark, glossy berries into her palm. She glanced around, then popped them into her mouth and swallowed.

I leaned forward. Melissa was secretive about her gardening, especially the wild patch in our backyard where she grew "special plants" she wouldn't let me near. "Those are my babies," she said with a sly wink a couple days ago when asked. Were these the berries she said changed her during my extremely realistic dream? That fantasy nightmare? I'd thought it was just her quirky way of protecting her roses, but now I wondered. Were those really the heretofore unseen berries from her garden?

She returned to the court, her jaw set, her eyes blazing.

The next point began, and I saw an immediate change. Melissa's movements were faster, fiercer, almost primal. She lunged for a volley, smashing it with such force that Mark stumbled, the ball rocketing past him. She let out a low, guttural growl—a sound I'd never heard from her before, at least in reality. It was wild and thrilling.

"Point!" Erin called, clapping. "Nice one, Mel!"

Melissa didn't acknowledge her. She was locked in, her focus razor-sharp as she prepared for the next serve. Jim fired and Melissa returned it with a forehand that nearly knocked Mark's racket out of his hand. The ball landed in the corner, untouchable. Another growl, louder, and I saw Jim's smirk falter.

"What's with her?" Erin whispered to Mark across the net.

I couldn't look away from my wife. She was mesmerizing, her petite frame moving with unnatural speed and power. Her tennis whites clung to her with seeming transparency, soaking with sweat, accentuating her breasts, and I felt a familiar heat in my chest. God, I loved her.

The next few points were a slaughter. Melissa was everywhere—diving, smashing, her racket a weapon of precision. Jim and Mark couldn't keep up. The score swung decisively in Melissa and Erin's favor.

And Jim, true to his idiocy, couldn't let it go. As Melissa lined up for another serve, he called across the net, his voice thick with venom. "You know, Melissa, maybe you wouldn't need to cheat to win if you weren't such a whiny bitch."

The word landed like a bomb. Erin gasped, Mark froze, and I stood, my fists clenched. That was a line crossed. I was ready to walk onto the court. But Melissa put her hand up. I went still, as did she.

Slowly lowering her racket, her eyes narrowed to slits. That sexy, dangerous glint was back, but it was darker now, a raging inferno. The air seemed to crackle, like a storm was about to break.

"Cheat?" she said, her voice a trembling growl. "You wanna talk about cheating? Let's see how you like getting your ass obliterated!"

What happened next was a spectacle that defied reality, nothing short of fantasy, a moment that burned itself into my soul.

Melissa shuddered, an involuntary "Ugggh" escaping her lovely lips. She hunched forward, her muscles tensing under her skin as if she was punched in the stomach. Her petite frame vibrated with raw, untamed energy.

Then, with a "Grrooooaarrr!" that shook the court, her arms swelled. Her biceps pushed upward with veins coming into prominence, pulsing like tiny rivers. Her shoulders broadened to an impossible width, straining the straps of her sports bra, rapidly stretching its spandex to the limit. Her pectorals broadened, lifting her breasts, inflating with power. Her rib cage widened, powerful yet still feminine, further stressing her top, until —-rrriiiip! Sshaaarrrip! Eyelets appeared in the front and back.

Melissa moaned in pain, or was that pleasure? This was insane!

My God, her legs! Her shapely calves hardened into slabs of steel. Her thighs lengthened and ballooned. Her five-foot-two frame trembled, thrusting to five-three, four, five, the hem of her tennis skirt sliding upward, gradually... thickening ... muscles ... fabric shredding around increasingly gigantic quads, unveiling ... her black panties.

Her height surged. Five-six swiftly became five-ten. "Yeess," she hissed through gleaming teeth. Her head bobbed, five-ten crossing six-feet and beyond, a range few women reach. Her blonde hair, now wild and untamed, cascaded around her face, her eyes glowing with a feral, rage-fueled intensity. Did she giggle? Seven feet staggered to seven and a half.

Still gripping her racket, its carbon fiber handle warping in her grip, her enlarging fist drifted over a set of surfacing abs now completely visible under the serrated hem of her top. The pale peach rack of round, veiny billiard balls compressed and inflated, bulging into a chiseled, sweaty fortress, each ridge a testament to female power.

Melissa's muscle groups swelled in waves, squeezing and inflating the entirety of her womanly form upward, conspiratorially questing for size and strength, forging her into something Herculean... and rising. Her biceps, now the size of cannonballs. The fabric of her sports bra and skirt in tatters, barely preserving her dignity. Her nipples sat like iron thimbles atop boulders, defiant, prodding upward, titillating under her sports bra's sliding elastane spandex.

"Grrrraaaaoorr!," a uniquely powerful, feminine sound. Did she drool? Was there saliva hanging from her mouth?

Her back muscles flared, giving her a V-shaped silhouette that was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Her neck thickened, broader, blonde hair spooling over her arching trapezoids.

As God is my witness, she topped out at over eight-feet. I know this because the chain-link fence is at least that high. The top of my lady's cheveux blonds en désordre slowed beyond it, and settled. Strands of sweaty blonde hair stuck to her forehead, some falling over and around her piercing blue eyes. Her jaw set in a sexy snarl.

Her muscles weren't just big—they were monumental. Her biceps peaked like mountains, her triceps bulging with every move, her thighs rippling with power like they could crush steel. She was a colossus, a goddess of rage and strength, her every movement radiating raw, double-X chromosome dominance.

The court was silent, the air thick with shock. Erin's racket clattered to the ground, her eyes wide. Mark backed away, muttering incoherently. Jim's face was pale, his racket shaking in his hand.

Me, I should've been terrified, but all I felt was awe. This was Melissa—my Melissa—manifested in a way that redefined reality. She was breathtaking, her colossal form— slowly inhaling... exhaling—both fearsome and feminine, and I was utterly captivated.

Judging by the look in her eyes, her transformation wasn't just physical. A rage consumed her, a fury that pulsed like a heartbeat. Her irises glowed radiant blue, sparkling under bristle-thick eyelashes, as if a power-control dial in her mind was turned to up to eleven.

Those eyes turned to Jim, and when she spoke, her voice was a booming, guttural, and seductive roar laced with curses that cut like knives.

"You think you can fuck with me, you pathetic little shit?! I'm gonna make you wish you were never born!"

She took a step forward, the court rumbling under her massive foot. Her muscles rippled, biceps flexing as she raised her racket, thighs bulging as she shifted her weight. The air hummed with her fury. She zeroed in on Jim, lunging forward with a snarl, snatching his racket from his trembling hand.

"This is for your bullshit call, you puny-dick motherfucker!" she roared, her voice-power pulsing the air. Triceps flaring, she gripped the racket in both hands and snapped it in two with a deafening—crack—! It's metal and strings splintering like kindling.

Jim stumbled back, his eyes wide with terror, but Melissa wasn't done. She scooped up the two pieces of his racket with her big right hand. Her left hand blurred and snatched the center of Jim's polo shirt, yanking him off his feet. She then stormed across the court, dragging his fake-tanned, wildly kicking form, his Nikes bouncing over craters that her heavy footfalls left in the surface.

Her torn skirt twisting and flapping, her mighty legs halted where the disputed tennis ball had landed. Opening her fist she dropped him, his body folding to the court like a Marinette. With a primal growl, she reared back—her abs expanding into an impenetrable stone rampart—and crunched forward with impossible velocity, stabbing both pieces of the broken racket into the ground, embedding them deep into the spot where the ball had hit.

Slowly, turning like a titan kaiju, she brought the full force of her presence to Jim - frozen, petrified, and helplessly looking up at her legs, those vein-laced, caucasian skyscrapers. Her frame towered over him. She leaned forward, her enormous, rigid pectoral shelf pushing her breasts into her chin, her wild blonde mane framing her furious visage, and bellowed to his face.

"IT WAS IN!!"

Her voice was a wind tunnel, her spittle like hail, the force of her shout so powerful that Jim's hair beat straight backward, his face contorting in shock.

Satisfied with the presentation of her vicious proclamation, she pulled back, straightening, moaning with delight at the thought of events turning out better than she imagined.

Still encompassing Jim's vision, her Charles Atlas-shaming torso heaved, again moving in close. With a satisfying moan escaping her lips, and the tip of her lithe, gleaming tongue gliding across her teeth, she flexed her right bicep in front of his face. The muscle rose like a mountain, a towering peak of raw power, veins pulsing, its increasing size casting a shadow that darkened Jim's face. He stared, his jaw slack, his eyes wide with astonishment. It swelled larger. It was a mountain of strength. Melissa leaned even closer, bringing the mountain within a hair's breadth of Jim's eyes, her voice a low, gritted snarl.

"Much as it would bring me grrrrreat pleasure, you don't want me to use this big girl on you."

Jim whimpered, his legs buckling. The tension was electric. Melissa's rage was a living thing, her colossal form radiating dominance.

She stepped back, her eyes still blazing, and turned her attention to the court's netting. What followed was a display of pure, unbridled strength. Her giant fist wrapped around the net's nearest steel post, crushing its cap, the metal oozing between your fingers like Silly Putty. Her other hand squashed its center.

"Rrrraaaargh!" She unearthed the post along with its triangular concrete foundation. Clay and dirt rained down upon her terrified, liar of an opponent. She twirled the deformed post like a baton, its base flinging debris, and grabbed what remained at both ends.

Melissa drew her arms wide, holding her fists high above her sweaty blonde head. Then, with a roar and flex rivaling Kong, she drove her fists ferociously downward, executing a spectacular "most muscular" pose. Her upper body exploded. Her sports bra violently snapped away, its strips of spandex contorting and floating from her torso. The event inadvertently treated Jim to the most extraordinarily huge and unforgettable set of naked, iron-nippled knockers that he, or any of us for that matter, had ever seen.

Forty feet away, the netting's metal cleats and hooks attaching it to the still-grounded far post snapped. The entire braided, steel-cable net sling-shot back to Melissa, swarming and coiling down around Jim.

"Fuck your game! Fuck your ego! Fuck YOU, Jim!"

Still holding the deformed steel post with one hand, Melissa glared at it, squeezing it further, growling like a fire demon. She then stabbed it into the ground next to Jim's head, nearly severing his ear. That cacophonous sound of metal being spiked into the court's surface set off deafening tinnitus, a sound that would stick with Jim for days.

Melissa snatched fistfuls of the netting, wrapping it over Jim's shoulders like a cape, then his arms and legs, cinching them tight. He was effectively hog-tied to a post.

"Wear that, you cheating bastard!" she roared. Her rage devolved into moaning... luxuriating, cooing... having impressed herself with another display of her new strength.

At this point, it had to be officially stated. My muscled, hulking Melissa wounded his ego, and then some.

The Goddess looked down at her arms, left and right, marveling at the size of her biceps. In a solitary moment of narcissism, unconcerned with those around her, she flexed for pleasure, involuntarily summoning guttural ecstasy. She snap-flexed her right bicep, then her left, then her thighs and glorious chest, murmuring little affirmatives while watching peaks swell and veins rise.

Focusing on her right bicep, I'll call it like I saw it, she was fucking that big solid mama with her eyes. Her expression with that rictus smile was maniacal, unnerving. She repeated her voyeuristic flexing to the point where I thought she might spasm, and it sounded like she did when her moaning was interrupted with a hiccuping. I made a mental note to discuss that with her later, if I had the guts. I'd lost track of time. She could've been eye-fucking herself for five minutes, at least.

When that ended to her satisfaction, the court itself was her victim. She stomped on the baseline, that spot where the ball landed, obliterating the remains of Jim's racket and shattering the clay there into a web of cracks. She whirled and kicked a concrete bench, splitting it into chunks, its largest piece cannonballing fifty feet through the chain-link fence. It was a sight to see because that bench must've weighed a thousand pounds. Her muscles flexed with every movement, her biceps bulging, her thighs rippling, her abs a fortress of power.

Spotting the yellow tennis ball that Jim said was out, Melissa strode to it, each footfall causing a tremor. She picked it up with her thumb and middle finger. To her it was as weightless and insignificant as a dust bunny. Turning her hand, the ball tumbled into the valley of her palm, and her car-crushing fingers closed in.

Grinding her teeth, the ball instantly ovaled and popped, air and nylon knifing between her fingers. "Grrrrrr!" She squeezed further, her eyes widening, flattening every molecule of its rubber core into a milky white paste.

She opened her fist, its goopy remains sticking to her palm and fingers. "Yuk," she said, smirking, her hand moving to Jim. Her fingers scraped away the rubber-smelling, wool-and-nylon-musty gunk using his face, delightfully smearing his chin, mouth, and nose in a detritus sludge. A final humiliation, as if to say... we're done.

Erin and Mark had retreated beyond a chain-link fence, their faces pale. I stayed put, my heart pounding with pride and desire. This was my wife, my colossal queen, and I loved seeing every second of her savage fury.

Being forcibly tied and having his face finger-painted by a nearly naked feminine Hulk, beyond being scared into physical and verbal submission, Jim was a wreck, his voice shrill. "I'm sorry! The ball was in! You win! Please, stop!"

Melissa loomed, her frame casting a shadow that swallowed him.

"Stop," he whimpered, eyes tearing.

"You don't get to say when I stop, you fucking coward!" she roared.

Melissa grabbed the center of his polo shirt, lifting his net-wrapped form. He dangled high above ground, arms and legs immobile, squirming. His Nikes bounced around the ragged hem of her skirt, where broken seams were threatening to further separate due to her vast, muscular abductors shifting beneath. His face was a mask of terror.

"You ever cheat again, I'll crush you like the spineless worm you are. Got it?!"

The worm nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face. Did he wet himself? Glancing down, Mellisa smelled urine. Crinkling her nose, she groaned and dropped him, her big feminine fingers casting him away like a used hand towel.

She turned to me, her glowing eyes softening, her massive chest heaving, the force of her exhales kicking up dust at her feet. Standing there, her naked breasts held high, her thick, steam-pipe nipples set excruciatingly defiant from her conquest, she was a titan of strength.

To cap off this wild sight, I swear I saw wetness between Melissa's legs. In the sunshine it was clear as day. Glistening little rivers emanated from her drenched black panties, half hidden by her ripped skirt. She evidently got off —big time—on what happened to her and what she did to Jim.

I made a series of mental notes to ask her later in bed, assuming by then she'd transformed back to her normal petite size. Figured I'd plant a kiss on her pretty forehead and ask, when did the big moment happen? What sent you over the top? Was it when you snapped his racket in two? When you yanked that post out of the ground? It was insanely sexy when you crushed that thing! Had to have been after that. Or was it when you brought your bicep to Jim's face and flexed? It was that, right? Or all of it? You climaxed multiple times? Did you squirt?

Melissa is a good storyteller. It'll be fun. I hope she whispers into my ear that she squirted.

Certainly Jim saw her damp panties, how could he not from that angle? It must've been mind-altering, incredible and humiliating at the same time for that chauvinist jerk. He got what he deserved, dominantly pussified beyond reason.

To the best of my recollection, I think Erin, Mark and I simply stood there silent for a few minutes, dumbfounded. In disbelief.

Mellisa's heavy breathing eventually slowed, her astounding upper body rising and receding at longer intervals.

In those minutes, as the chaos settled, Melissa's immense form began to melt. Her muscles deflated, her height dwindling, and soon she was my little firecracker again, her tennis whites in tatters yet clinging to her. Composing herself, she slipped the remaining parts of her sports bra over her shoulders and chest, brushing away dust, debris, and gorgeous blonde strands of hair.

She sauntered over, her hips swaying, that mischievous glint returning to her eyes.

"Well, fuck me, that was a rush," she said, falling into me, looping her arms around my neck.

After everything that happened, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that normal-sized Melissa dropped an obscenity. I laughed, pulling her close. "You're a goddamn goddess. Those muscles of yours? They were... incredible."

Her eyes sparkled, and she pressed herself closer, her lips brushing mine. "Oh, you liked that, huh?" she teased, her voice low and sultry. She leaned in, kissing me deeply, passionately, her hands tangling in my hair. The kiss was fire and honey, a promise of her untamed spirit, and I melted into it, my hands roaming her back, feeling the strength still lingering in her frame.

We pulled back, breathless, looking over the destroyed court. There was Jim, still tied, groaning, certainly hoping for assistance. And Erin and Mark huddled closely together on a bench, still silent, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Yeah, this is gonna be a costly cleanup," I said. "Not to mention therapy."

Ever the spoiled Daddy's Girl, Melissa cocked a smile, "My dad will cover the damage, or Jim, with a little convincing," she said flexing her fit bicep with a wink.

"If you say so," I said, bewildered by her nonchalance.

Taking a good look at the real Melissa, I touched my forehead to hers. "I love you, Mel. Every inch of you—especially those muscles."

She laughed, a warm, wicked sound, and kissed me again, softer this time, her lips lingering. "Love you too, Dave. Always."

That night as we lay in bed, Melissa curled against me, her head on my chest. Her shampooed and disheveled blonde hair glowed under the bedside lamp. Her graceful legs wrapped around mine. She daydreamed about feats of strength she'll perform after munching a few of her favorite new berries, maybe three or four next time. She couldn't help but play with herself, eventually motoring to a rigorous scrubbing.

I thought, what are these berries turning her into? Her libido is amped.

Melissa loved those thoughts, her eyes squeezing tight, moaning with a girly high pitch to flashes of lifting a car, bending a crowbar, and her bicep tearing her sleeve. Over several minutes she eeeked out a series of eye-rolling orgasms, eventually regaining awareness of her surroundings with "Oooohhh... yeeeaah" ... a seething whisper, her voice sleepy but fierce, her blue irises returning to center. She later confided that those thoughts are her new sure-fire imagery for guaranteed orgasms.

She is my everything—my warrior, my queen, my love. Whatever secrets she keeps in her garden, whatever storms rage in her soul, I know I'll follow her anywhere, no matter how wild the ride.

"Love you," I whispered, kissing her forehead. "Forever."

"I love you too," was her sleepy response.

And as we drifted off, her blonde head on my chest, I dreamed of my colossal queen, her muscles rising like mountains, her strength, and the promise of wonders yet to come.

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Coming Soon
Part 3 - My Untamed Tempest