Wendy, Tommy's "little" sister an homage to my favorite story on the Valkyrie

[bigjake737]

Wendy and Tommy   

In the sleepy Midwest town of Middleton, where cornfields stretched farther than dreams, Tommy and Wendy Schneider lived in a modest brick house on Elm Street. Tommy, a wiry Junior at Middleton High, was gunning for the quarterback spot on the football team. At 165 pounds, he was fast but lacked the bulk Coach Daniels kept harping on about. "You've got the arm, Schneider," Coach would say, clapping a meaty hand on Tommy's shoulder, "but you need more meat on those bones if you're gonna take the hits." So Tommy spent his days lifting weights in the garage, chugging protein shakes, and devouring his mom's shepherd's pie like it was a mission. He took after her side—tall, lean, and sharp-featured, a spitting image of her British roots.
Wendy, his 14-year-old sister, was a different story. Built like their dad, a burly German man who'd once wrestled hogs for fun, she had broad shoulders and a stocky frame she hid under baggy sweatpants and oversized hoodies. Her mousy brown hair was perpetually shoved into a messy bun, and she didn't care a lick about what anyone thought. While Tommy obsessed over push-ups and passing drills, Wendy had her own fixation: a $200 used iPad she'd spotted online. It was her ticket to digital sketching, a quiet hobby she'd been nurturing since she'd doodled her first dragon in fifth grade.
It was a crisp Friday in October when their folks announced an overnight trip to Springfield, the nearest big town, to stock up on supplies for the winter. "We'll be back by noon tomorrow," their dad said, tossing a duffel into the truck. Their mom, ever the worrier, added, "Tommy's in charge. No funny business." The second the pickup's taillights vanished down the gravel road, Tommy saw opportunity. He texted Robbie, his shy best friend with a mop of red hair, and Jenny, the dark-eyed cheerleader he'd been crushing on since sophomore year. "Game's on tonight—Bears vs. Packers. Come over. I'll make nachos."
Wendy, meanwhile, saw her own opening. With their parents gone and Tommy distracted, she could finally execute her plan to get that iPad. By 6 p.m., the living room was buzzing. Tommy had the TV blaring, the Bears already down by a touchdown. Robbie sat cross-legged on the couch, nursing a Coke and mumbling stats under his breath, while Jenny perched on the armrest, laughing at Tommy's exaggerated play-by-play. Wendy slunk in, sweatpants swishing, pretending to grab a handful of nachos. "You guys need anything?" she asked, her voice casual.
"Nah, we're good," Tommy said, barely glancing her way. Perfect.
Back in the living room, the game was tied, and Tommy was on his feet, yelling at a fumbled pass. Wendy plopped onto the recliner, feigning interest. "You think you could do better?" Jenny teased Tommy, tossing a tortilla chip at him. He caught it in his mouth, grinning. "Give me a year, and I'll be starting QB. Just gotta bulk up first."
Robbie piped up, voice barely above a whisper. "You're already fast, though. Maybe Coach'll see that."
"Yeah, well, fast don't mean squat if I get flattened," Tommy said, flexing an arm that was still more string than muscle.
Wendy smirked, crunching a chip. She'd seen Tommy's "bulk-up" meals—double burgers, protein bars, gallons of milk. He was determined, she'd give him that. But her mind was elsewhere, picturing the iPad's sleek screen, her sketches coming to life. Tomorrow, she'd make it happen, one way or another. Tommy would be mad if he found out how, but she'd deal with that later. For now, the Bears scored, Tommy whooped, and Wendy let herself sink into the chaos, plotting her next move in the shadows of her sweatpants.


Chapter Two: The Basement Scheme
Two months earlier, Wendy had stumbled onto something unexpected. It started when she'd been sent to the basement to dig out an old box of Halloween decorations. The Schneider basement was a cluttered mess—Christmas lights tangled with garden tools, a busted lawnmower shoved in a corner—but as she rummaged near the back, she noticed a tarp draped over something bulky. Curiosity piqued, she tugged it aside and found herself staring at a hidden pocket of the house she'd never explored: Uncle Stanley's old workout den.
Stanley, their dad's younger brother, had lived with them until two years ago, when he'd packed up and moved to Omaha for a construction job. Wendy vaguely remembered him as a loud, barrel-chested guy who'd always smelled faintly of sweat and Old Spice. But this? This was a shrine. A rusty weight bench sat in the center, surrounded by stacks of free weights—dumbbells, barbells, plates ranging from five to fifty pounds. Mirrors lined one wall, cracked but still reflecting the dim light of a flickering bulb. Shelves held tubs of protein powder, some half-empty, and jars of creatine with faded labels. And then there were the magazines—dozens of them, fanned out like a muscle-bound library. Muscle & Fitness, Flex, and, most surprising, a thick stack of Women's Physique World, featuring women with biceps bigger than Wendy's head.
She'd stood there, sweatpants sagging, jaw slack. Uncle Stanley had been a gym rat, sure, but this was next-level. And then it hit her: an idea, wild and ridiculous, but maybe just crazy enough to work. Tommy was obsessed with bulking up—why not use this stuff herself? She wasn't athletic, not by a long shot, but she had her dad's sturdy build. What if she trained in secret, got strong, and challenged Tommy to an arm-wrestling match? He'd never back down, especially not in front of his friends during a football game halftime. She could bet him money—enough to snag that $200 iPad—and he'd be too proud to say no.
Since that day, Wendy had been sneaking downstairs after Tommy went to bed, hauling weights and mimicking poses she'd seen in the magazines. She'd choke down scoops of stale protein powder mixed with water, wincing at the chalky taste, and push herself through sets of curls and presses. Her arms ached, her legs wobbled, but she felt a strange thrill every time she hefted a dumbbell. She wasn't frumpy—she was powerful. And now, with their parents gone for the night and the Bears game blaring upstairs, it was go-time.
The first half was winding down when Wendy made her move. Tommy, Robbie, and Jenny were sprawled across the living room, nacho crumbs littering the carpet. The Bears were up by three, and Tommy was riding high, flexing his twiggy arms like he'd thrown the touchdown himself. Wendy shuffled in, sweatpants swishing, and plopped onto the recliner with a calculated slouch.
"Hey, Tommy," she said, voice loud enough to cut through the TV chatter, "you think you're so tough with all that working out. Bet I could take you in arm wrestling."
Tommy snorted, not even turning around. "Yeah, right, Wen. You'd snap like a twig."
Jenny giggled, and Robbie glanced up, curious. Wendy leaned forward, smirking. "I'm serious. Halftime, right here. Winner gets twenty bucks."
That got his attention. Tommy swiveled, eyebrows raised. "Twenty bucks? You don't even have twenty bucks."
"I'll get it," she said, cool as anything. "Unless you're scared."
The room went quiet, save for the TV droning about a penalty flag. Tommy's pride was a live wire, and Wendy had just sparked it. "Scared? Of you?" He laughed, sharp and cocky. "You're on, weirdo. Halftime. Hope you've got my money ready."
Jenny clapped her hands, delighted. "This I gotta see." Robbie just shook his head, muttering, "She's gonna regret this."
Wendy didn't say another word. She sank back into the recliner, heart thumping. Two months of basement grunting had thickened her arms, hardened her grip. Tommy might be fast, but she'd been lugging iron while he sipped milkshakes. The iPad was so close she could almost feel its smooth edges. All she had to do was win—and pray Tommy didn't figure out her game before the whistle blew.


Chapter Three: The Double-or-Nothing Gambit
The Bears game hit halftime, and the living room turned into a makeshift arena. Tommy dragged the coffee table to the center, its scratched wood surface now a battleground. Robbie shoved the nacho bowl aside, and Jenny perched on the couch, her cheerleader ponytail bouncing as she clapped. "This is gonna be epic," she said, flashing a grin at Tommy. Wendy, sweatpants bunched at her ankles, plopped down opposite her brother, her face a mask of determination.
They'd haggled over the stakes during the last commercial break. Wendy had pushed for $50, claiming she'd "find a way" to cover it. Tommy, cocky as ever, agreed—$50 was a nice chunk of change, and he didn't think for a second she'd win. "Easy money," he'd said, cracking his knuckles. Now, elbows planted, hands locked, they stared each other down. Robbie counted off, "Three, two, one—go!"
Wendy pushed hard, her basement-built muscles straining. For a split second, Tommy's arm wavered, and her heart leapt—maybe—but then his quarterback grit kicked in. He gritted his teeth, leaned into it, and slammed her hand down with a thud that rattled the table. The room erupted. Tommy whooped, leaping up to flex for Jenny, while Robbie clapped awkwardly. Wendy slumped back, shaking out her wrist, but a flicker of a smile tugged at her lips. Tommy had won—handily—but that was part of the plan.
"Pay up, Wen," Tommy crowed, holding out his hand. "Fifty bucks."
Wendy crossed her arms. "Don't have it on me," she said, casual as if she'd lost a round of cards. "But how about a rematch? Next month, when Mom and Dad are out again. Double or nothing—hundred bucks."
Tommy laughed, loud and sharp. "You serious? I just smoked you, and you want another shot?" He glanced at Jenny, who nodded encouragingly, then back at Wendy. "Fine, you're on. Double or nothing. Hope you've got a hundred bucks hiding in those sweatpants by then."
He strutted back to the couch, already recounting his victory to Robbie, who muttered, "She held on longer than I thought." Jenny, though, slid over to Wendy, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, if you wanna win next time, you could try some of my tricks. A little makeup, maybe ditch the frumpy look—guys like confidence. And cut out the carbs, it'll lean you out—"
Wendy cut her off with a flat stare. "I'm not trying to look good, Jenny. I'm trying to beat him." She stood, brushing nacho crumbs off her hoodie. "Thanks, though." She didn't need beauty tips—she needed strength, and Uncle Stanley's basement was her ticket.
Jenny blinked, then shrugged, retreating to Tommy's side with a toss of her blonde hair. "Suit yourself," she chirped, snuggling into Tommy's arm as the second half kicked off. Wendy didn't stick around to watch. She trudged downstairs, the faint hum of the TV fading behind her, and flipped on the basement light. The mirrors glinted, the weights waited. Tommy might've won tonight, but she'd seen that flicker of effort in his face—he wasn't as untouchable as he thought.
A month. Double or nothing. She hefted a 20-pound dumbbell, her sore arm protesting, and started curling. The iPad was still out there, $200 and a dream away. Tommy could gloat all he wanted—he'd beaten her once, but she'd been playing the long game from the start. Next time, she'd be ready.


Chapter Four: The Quiet Build
Tommy couldn't shake it. Sure, he'd slammed Wendy's hand down at halftime, pocketed an imaginary $50, and strutted like a champ in front of Jenny and Robbie, but something nagged at him. She'd held on too long—way longer than a scrawny 14-year-old in sweatpants should've. Her grip had been iron, her arm steady for a heartbeat before he'd powered through. "Dumb luck," he muttered to himself, but doubt crept in. If she'd been that close with zero training—or so he thought—what if she actually tried?
So Tommy doubled down. The next Monday, he hit Middleton High's gym with a vengeance, his football buddies circling like hyenas. "Schneider's scared of his little sis!" linebacker Mike hooted, slapping the bench press bar. Tommy gritted his teeth and piled on plates—185, 195, 205—pushing his 165-pound frame to its limit. "QB's gotta be unbreakable," he panted, racking the weight as his crew cheered. After practice, they'd pile into Denny's, egging him on as he shoveled down double cheeseburgers and fries, chasing calories like they were first downs. By week two, his biceps popped a little more, his chest felt tighter in his jersey. "She's got no chance," he told Jenny over the phone, flexing in his bedroom mirror. "Next month, I'll crush her and take her hundred bucks."
Wendy, meanwhile, was a ghost in her own game. Upstairs, she played the frumpy sister—baggy hoodies, messy bun, shuffling around like nothing had changed. But down in Uncle Stanley's basement, she was a machine. The protein powder and creatine she'd found were gold—stale, sure, but potent. She'd researched online, hunched over the family desktop late at night, learning how to optimize creatine: five grams a day, mixed with juice for better absorption, paired with heavy lifts. She chugged it religiously, chasing it with water to mask the grit. The magazines helped too—Women's Physique World had routines she mimicked, focusing on curls and presses to build the raw power she'd need to topple Tommy.
Workout clothes? She didn't have any. So she stripped to her underwear—plain gray briefs and a sports bra she'd dug out of a drawer—and let the basement's chill air hit her skin. The mirrors showed the truth: her arms thickened, her shoulders squared, her thighs hardened under the sweatpants disguise. She'd grunt through sets of 30-pound dumbbell curls, veins popping, sweat beading on her forehead. Each rep was a promise—to herself, to that iPad, to the look on Tommy's face when she flipped the script. She kept the door locked, the tarp pulled tight over Stanley's den. No one could know—not yet.
One night, digging through a dusty crate for more magazines, she found something else: a stash of amber bottles tucked under a towel. Labels read like science experiments—testosterone, trenbolone, stuff she'd never heard of. Pharmaceuticals, maybe steroids, left behind by Uncle Stanley. Her pulse quickened. She could use them, juice up faster—but no. Too risky, too unknown. She shoved them back, sticking to creatine and grit. Her gains were real, earned, and that's how she'd win.
By week three, Wendy's arms felt like steel cables, her grip crushing when she tested it on a jar lid. She'd bulked up, maybe ten pounds, all muscle, hidden under her baggy armor. Tommy might've been gaining too, but she'd watched him strut around, oblivious, betting on his football swagger. He didn't know what was coming. The rematch loomed—double or nothing, $100 on the line—and Wendy kept her secret locked tight, curling in the shadows, counting down the days.

Chapter Five: The Ripples Spread
It happened during gym class, a mandatory slog of dodgeball and laps that Wendy usually endured with her head down. She still wore her armor—baggy sweatpants, an oversized Middleton High tee that swallowed her frame—but the unit had shifted to weight training that week, and Coach Harper wasn't letting anyone slack. "Schneider, you're up!" he barked, pointing her to the dumbbell rack. Wendy sighed, grabbed a pair of 20-pounders, and started curling, figuring she'd coast through. She didn't notice Jenny watching from the bench press station.
Jenny, all blonde ponytail and lean cheerleader grace, had been sneaking glances. When Wendy's sleeve rode up mid-curl, exposing a thick, corded forearm and a bicep that bulged with each rep, Jenny's eyes widened. She'd seen Tommy's gains, sure, but this? Wendy looked like she could snap a dodgeball in half. By the time class ended, Jenny was buzzing, her gym shoes squeaking as she bolted to find Tommy at lunch.
"Dude, you're in trouble," she said, plopping her tray of salad and Gatorade next to him in the cafeteria. Tommy, halfway through a turkey sub, frowned. "What're you talking about?"
"Wendy," Jenny said, leaning in. "I saw her in gym today. She's jacked. Like, her arms are bigger than yours. That arm-wrestling rematch? Might not be a cakewalk."
Tommy laughed, loud enough to turn heads. "Yeah, right. She's a lump in sweatpants. You're seeing things."
Jenny smirked, poking his chest. "I'm serious. She's hiding it, but she's built. And, uh..." She hesitated, then grinned. "It's kinda hot. Like, she's got this whole secret badass thing going on."
Tommy choked on his sub, coughing. "What? You're into my sister now?"
"Not like that," Jenny said, swatting him, though her blush said otherwise. "Just... don't underestimate her, okay? I'm still your girl, but she's got game."
He waved her off, muttering, "She's got nothing," but a seed of worry sprouted. Wendy, jacked? Nah. Couldn't be. Still, he flexed his own arm under the table, reassuring himself. He'd been killing it at the gym—185 bench, 25-pound curls. No way she'd catch up.
Meanwhile, Robbie had clocked something too. During a cooldown lap, he'd lagged behind Wendy and noticed her calves—thick, sculpted, pushing against the fabric of her sweatpants like they belonged on a sprinter, not a frumpy freshman. He'd always been shy, content to orbit Tommy's spotlight, but that day after gym, he caught her at her locker. "Hey, uh, Wendy," he stammered, rubbing his neck. "You're looking... strong lately. Maybe we could, I dunno, hang out sometime? Like, a date?"
Wendy froze, locker door half-open, staring at him like he'd grown a second head. "A date?" she echoed. Robbie nodded, red hair flopping, and she blinked. "Uh... maybe. I'll think about it." He shuffled off, grinning, and she shut her locker, dazed. First Jenny's stares, now this? She glanced down at herself—same old hoodie, same sagging pants. She hadn't even shown off, not really, and yet the attention was piling up.
Back home, she locked herself in the basement, peeling off the frumpy layers to her underwear and hitting the weights. The mirrors reflected her truth: biceps swelling, shoulders broad, legs solid as oak. She'd bulked up, maybe 15 pounds now, all muscle, and it was working—too well. Jenny's warning, Robbie's fumbling crush—it was surreal. She didn't want the spotlight, just the iPad, but her body was rewriting the script. Curling 35-pounders, she gritted her teeth. Tommy could doubt all he wanted; the rematch was days away, and she'd make sure he felt every ounce of her secret gains.

Chapter Six: The Showdown
The day of the rematch dawned cold and gray, Middleton hunkered under a blanket of late fall clouds. Tommy and Wendy's parents had left that morning for another Springfield run—something about a bulk deal on canning jars—and the house was theirs again. By halftime of the Chiefs vs. Broncos game, the living room buzzed with tension. Tommy had invited Jenny and Robbie over, same as last time, expecting another easy win. He'd been hitting the gym hard, benching 195 now, his football buddies hyping him up. "No way she's got me," he'd bragged to Jenny earlier, flexing in the kitchen. But Jenny's gym-class warning still echoed in his head, and he couldn't quite shake the unease.
Upstairs, Wendy prepped her move. She'd decided to ditch the frumpy disguise—no more hiding. Digging through Uncle Stanley's basement stash, she found an old muscle tee, black with faded red lettering: "Lift Hard, Live Hard." It was tight, hugging her thickened shoulders and biceps, the hem barely reaching her waistband. She paired it with her usual sweatpants, but the shirt alone was a statement. She'd bulked up to nearly 170 pounds—more than Tommy now—all muscle, carved from weeks of creatine, protein, and relentless curls. Standing in front of the basement mirror, she flexed, watching her arms pop. "Time to shake him," she muttered, heading upstairs.
When she strode into the living room, the air shifted. Jenny, perched on the couch, let out a soft "Whoa," her eyes raking over Wendy's frame. The cheerleader's jaw dropped, and she leaned to Robbie, whispering, "She's so hot—like, damn." Robbie, cross-legged on the floor, just stared, mouth agape. His gaze locked on Wendy's biceps, then her broad chest, and a telltale bulge strained his jeans. He shifted, mortified, but couldn't look away. Tommy, mid-nacho, froze. "What the hell?" he sputtered, crumbs tumbling. Sweat beaded on his forehead as Wendy smirked, plopping into the recliner.
"Ready for round two?" she asked, voice cool. "Double or nothing, hundred bucks."
Tommy swallowed, nodding. "Yeah, uh, let's do it." He dragged the coffee table over, same as before, but his hands shook as he set up. Jenny clapped, giddy, and Robbie mumbled, "This is insane." The TV blared a halftime ad, but no one cared. Elbows down, hands clasped, Tommy's lean quarterback arm met Wendy's thicker, vein-streaked one. "Go!" Jenny shouted.
It was a war. Tommy pushed, grunting, his face red as he threw everything into it—months of gym gains, football grit, pure pride. Wendy matched him, her basement-honed power surging. Their arms trembled, locked upright for a solid ten seconds, the table creaking. Tommy's eyes widened—he hadn't expected this. Then, slowly, Wendy's strength took over. Her bicep bulged, her grip tightened, and with a final shove, she slammed his hand down. Thud. Silence.
"Holy crap," Robbie breathed. Jenny whooped, bouncing on the couch. "Told you, Tommy! She's a beast!"
Tommy yanked his hand back, staring at it like it'd betrayed him. "No way," he muttered, then looked up, panting. "One more. Next month. Double or nothing—two hundred bucks."
Wendy leaned back, arms crossed, the muscle tee straining. "You're on." Inside, she was soaring. Her plan was clicking into place—Tommy's pride wouldn't let him quit, and one more win meant $200, the exact price of that iPad. She'd played him perfectly, from the basement shadows to this moment.
Jenny slid over, grinning. "You're unreal, Wendy. Seriously, so hot." Robbie just nodded, still dazed, adjusting his pants. Tommy sulked, wiping sweat off his brow, already plotting his comeback. Wendy didn't care about the drooling or the loss stinging her brother's ego. She'd won, and in a month, she'd win again. The iPad was hers—she could almost feel the stylus in her hand.

Chapter Seven: The Stakes Escalate
The sting of defeat gnawed at Tommy. Losing to Wendy—his sister—in front of Jenny and Robbie had lit a fire under him, one that burned hotter than any football rivalry. Two hundred bucks on the line next month, and his pride? Priceless. He wasn't about to let her bulked-up arms steal his thunder again. The day after the match, he cornered his gym bros behind the weight room at Middleton High. "I need an edge," he said, voice low. Mike, the linebacker with a neck like a tree trunk, grinned and slipped him a contact—a shady guy named Rick who dealt supplements "off the books." By Wednesday, Tommy had a baggie of pills—testosterone boosters, he was told—and a vial of something called Dianabol. "Juice up, Schneider," Mike clapped his shoulder. "She won't know what hit her."
Tommy dove in, popping pills with his morning protein shake and jabbing himself with shaky hands after watching a YouTube tutorial. He upped his gym time, grinding out five-hour sessions with his crew egging him on—205 bench, 30-pound curls, squats till his legs screamed. His thin British frame fought back, though. He gained maybe five pounds, some muscle, some water weight, but the mirror showed a leaner, harder version of himself—not the hulking beast he'd hoped for. Still, he flexed at school, strutted in his letterman jacket, and told Jenny, "Next time, I've got this cold." Wendy's frumpy shuffle around the house only fueled his confidence—she looked the same, doughy and soft. No way she'd keep up.
Wendy, though, was a different animal. Down in Uncle Stanley's basement, she'd cracked open the pharmaceutical stash she'd ignored before. The amber bottles stared back—testosterone cypionate, trenbolone acetate, Anavar. She hit the internet, cross-referencing forums and bodybuilding sites, ruling out the harsher stuff. Anavar won out—mild, muscle-building, perfect for her mesomorphic frame. "Strength without the freak show," she muttered, popping her first 10mg dose. She paired it with creatine, doubled her protein—eggs, chicken, shakes thick as mud—and turned the basement into her crucible.
Five hours a day, she trained. Curls with 40-pounders, deadlifts with every plate Stanley had left, push-ups till her arms shook. The mirrors tracked her explosion: biceps ballooned, shoulders widened, thighs thickened into pillars. Her body drank the Anavar like water, piling on 20 pounds of dense, rippling muscle. At 190 now, she dwarfed Tommy, her German genes thriving under the chemical boost. She'd flex in her underwear, marveling at veins snaking down her forearms, but at school and home, the frumpy mask stayed on—hoodies, sweatpants, head down. Tommy smirked when she lumbered past, oblivious to the beast beneath.
Four weeks ticked by, grueling and relentless. Tommy's gains plateaued—his ectomorph build couldn't keep pace, and the Dianabol left him jittery, acne sprouting on his back. Wendy, though, felt invincible. Her grip crushed cans, her curls hit 50 pounds per arm. She'd cheated, sure, but so had he—she'd overheard him bragging to Robbie about "extra help." Fair game, she figured. The rematch loomed, parents due to be gone again, and Tommy thought he had it locked. Wendy kept her secret buried, her frumpy shell a perfect blind. Two hundred bucks, the iPad, victory—it was all hers to take. She just had to wait.

Chapter Eight: The Reckoning
The rematch day crackled with anticipation. The parents were off in Springfield again, and the Chiefs vs. Broncos game blared through the living room. Halftime loomed, and the coffee table was already dragged out, the stage set. Tommy paced, flexing his lean arms—185 pounds now, harder than before, but still wiry. He'd juiced, pushed his limits, and figured Wendy's last win was a fluke. She'd been shuffling around in her frumpy getup all month—baggy hoodies, sweatpants sagging. "No way she's got more than me," he muttered, psyching himself up.
Wendy, though, had other plans. Before the game, she cornered Jenny in the kitchen, voice low. "you've got to French kiss me right in front of my brother and you've gotta tell Tommy I'm the strongest, right in front of him." Jenny, eyes glinting, nodded. She'd seen the muscles peeking through Wendy's oversized clothes—hints of biceps straining the sleeves—and it thrilled her. "Deal," she said, smirking. "You're kinda badass, you know that?" She secretley hoped that Wendy would win.
Next, Wendy pulled Robbie aside by the stairs. "If I beat him, you've gotta back me up—tell him I'm tougher than he'll ever be. Loud enough for everyone to hear." Robbie's face flushed, his gaze dropping to her thick calves bulging under the sweatpants. He shifted, pants tightening, and stammered, "Y-yeah, sure, Wendy. Anything." She grinned—his crush was obvious, and she'd use it. She went one step further and said, "Ok, also, you will need to take off my thong top and suck my breasts right in front of my brother".  The thought alone made Robbie's erection start to leak.
As halftime hit, Wendy made her move. She ducked upstairs, shedding the frumpy shell for a shock play. In her mom's closet, she'd found a black thong swimsuit bottom—snug, outdated, but bold. She paired it with Uncle Stanley's muscle tee, the fabric stretched tight over her 190-pound frame, every ripple of her Anavar-fueled physique on display. When she swaggered downstairs, the room froze. Jenny gasped, "Holy—," and Robbie's jaw hit the floor, his jeans betraying him again. Tommy's eyes bugged out, sweat beading as he took in her hulking arms, slabs of muscle dwarfing his own.
"No way," he whispered, but the table was set. They locked hands—his lean grip against her meaty, veined paw. "Go!" Jenny yelled. It was brutal. Tommy strained, veins popping, his juiced-up strength clawing for control. Wendy's power surged, her bicep a cannonball, and after a trembling minute, she smashed his hand down. Thud. The room erupted—Jenny whooping, Robbie clapping like a dazed fan.  Jenny licked her lips as she approached Wendy. The kiss was passionate and long.  She went into an immediate climax.  Next was Robbie, who approached Wendy and ripped the tank top off her body and sucked her nipple hard.  This made Jenny jealous as she sat on Wendy too and sucked the other nipple.  Wendy was moaning with pleasure just before Robbie started his French kiss.  Wendy's libido provided an expulsive result.  Tommy was more aghast  by Robbie and Jenny's spectacle with his sister then loosing the match.  Wendy had thoroughly ruined his life.
Tommy slumped, humiliated. "Two hundred bucks," he muttered, digging into his wallet, tossing the cash at her. Then Jenny stepped up from Wendy's nipple, grinning. "She's the strongest, Tommy. Hands down." Her voice rang out, twisting the knife. Robbie piled on, red-faced but loud: "Tougher than you'll ever be, man!" Tommy's best friend and girlfriend, singing Wendy's praises—it was a gut punch.
Wendy pulled Robbie from her mouth and scooped up the money, her iPad dream secured, and smirked at Tommy's scowl. "One more?" he growled, voice raw. "Next month. Four hundred." She nodded, unfazed. He'd fight back—he always did—but she'd won this round, body and soul. The basement beast had roared, and Tommy's world was still shaking.

[bigjake737]

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[Ophaki]

Very nice. Too bad only about Wendy's use of steroids. I would have preferred an outright victory without any outside help. I hope for a continuation. Nice work

[bigjake737]

This is for Ophaki... a rewrite with a better outcome.


Epilogue: The Beast Unleashed
Months had passed since the rematch, and the echoes of that night still rattled through the Schneider house. Wendy had claimed her throne—two hundred bucks richer, an iPad glowing on her nightstand, and a reputation that lingered like a shadow over Tommy's pride. The living room showdown had shifted the family dynamic for good. Tommy, still simmering, had doubled down, vanishing into the gym with Mike and his crew, chasing a comeback he swore would bury her next time. Four hundred bucks on the line now, and he wasn't messing around. But Wendy? She was untouchable, a quiet titan basking in her victory.
One lazy Saturday, with the parents off at some antique fair, Wendy sprawled across the basement couch, scrolling bodybuilding forums on her new iPad. Her muscles twitched under a loose tank top—still growing, still hardening, even without the Anavar. She'd tapered off after the rematch, trusting her body's momentum to carry her forward. But a nagging itch lingered: those amber bottles she'd raided from Uncle Stanley's stash. The guilt of "cheating" had faded after overhearing Tommy's own steroid boasts, but she needed closure. She punched in Stanley's number, the old rotary phone in the basement crackling to life.
"Uncle Stan," she said when his gruff voice picked up. "Those vials you left down here—testosterone, tren, Anavar. You juiced up back in the day, didn't you?"
A gravelly laugh rumbled through the line. "Steroids? Kid, you've got it all wrong. Yeah, I messed with the real stuff in the '80s—competed in some local shows, nothing big. But those bottles? Just a head game. I'd empty out the hardcore gear and refill 'em with natural supps—BCAAs, peptides, vitamin blends. Labeled 'em like the real deal to trick my brain into pushing harder. Placebo's a hell of a drug, Wendy."
She blinked, a grin splitting her face. "Wait—so I didn't juice? That Anavar was just... fake?"
"Probably just some amino acids and a sprinkle of creatine," Stanley chuckled. "You built that beast mode all on your own, kid. German genes and grit—don't sell yourself short."
Wendy hung up, chest swelling with pride. No chemical crutches—just her own fire, her own sweat. The basement mirrors reflected a warrior, not a fraud. She flexed, veins popping, and laughed—a deep, victorious sound that bounced off the concrete walls. Tommy could juice all he wanted; she'd crushed him clean.
Her mood soared, electric. She grabbed her phone and fired off texts to Jenny and Robbie. "Parents gone. Basement's mine. Come over—time for some fun." Within twenty minutes, the doorbell chimed. Jenny strutted in, her eyes glinting with that same thrill from the rematch, and Robbie followed, flustered but eager, his crush on Wendy now an open secret. She'd ditched the frumpy shell for good around them—today it was a tight tank and shorts, her 190-pound frame a sculpted marvel they couldn't peel their eyes from.
"Missed you guys," Wendy said, smirking as she pulled Jenny close. Their lips met, a slow, deliberate kiss that sent a shiver through the room. Robbie watched, shifting awkwardly until Wendy tugged him in, her hand firm on his shoulder. "Your turn," she teased, and he dove in, kissing her with a hunger that matched the rematch's intensity. Jenny laughed, jealous but game, and soon they were a tangle of limbs on the basement couch—kissing, groping, giggling like conspirators. Wendy's strength anchored them, her confidence a magnet they couldn't resist. Clothes stayed on, mostly, but the heat of their "cuddling" fogged the basement air.
Upstairs, Tommy's weights clanged faintly—he'd moved his setup to the garage, avoiding her domain. He didn't know about the trio below, didn't hear the muffled laughter or feel the shift in power that pulsed through the house. Wendy didn't care. She'd won more than a bet—she'd claimed her place, her people, her body. Stanley's fake juice had been the spark, but she was the fire. And as Jenny's fingers traced her biceps and Robbie's breath warmed her neck, she knew: the beast was here to stay.


I think this would have been a better ending.

[Ophaki]

In my opinion perfect. Willpower rules!!! Now thanks to the placebo effect she could reach unimaginable limits. Good job!

[bigjake737]

Chapter Nine: The Long Road Back

Tommy couldn't face it. The rematch loomed—a $400 stakes showdown—and
every time he pictured Wendy's hulking arms, now monstrous from her
basement alchemy, his stomach twisted. She'd crushed him last time,
her 190-pound frame a wall of muscle he couldn't budge. He'd juiced,
trained, pushed his thin body to 185, but the gap was too wide. "I'm
out," he told Jenny over the phone a week before the date, voice
tight. "She's a freak now. I'm done." Jenny just laughed, saying,
"Smart move, babe. She's unstoppable."
Senior year dragged on, and Tommy threw himself into football,
clinging to his quarterback dreams. But the sting of losing—to his
sister, no less—followed him. When graduation hit, he bolted, picking
the farthest spot he could: University of Florida. No scholarship, no
varsity—just intramural flag football under the humid Gainesville sun.
He bulked up a bit, hit 195 with casual gym time, but the fire was
gone. Middleton, Wendy, the basement—it all faded into a distant ache.
Four years later, at 22, curiosity—or maybe homesickness—pulled him
back. He rolled into Middleton in a beat-up Honda, the cornfields
unchanged, the brick house on Elm Street still standing. Wendy was 18
now, a senior at Middleton High, and word around town was she'd turned
into a legend. Tommy didn't believe the hype till he walked through
the front door, unannounced, on a quiet Saturday afternoon.
The living room was a shock. Wendy sprawled on the couch, shirt off,
her back a map of muscle—shoulders like boulders, lats flaring, arms
thicker than his thighs. She'd hit 220, easy, the most muscular woman
he'd ever seen, her mesomorphic frame sculpted to a jaw-dropping peak.
Jenny—his ex, now a licensed masseuse—knelt beside her, hands gliding
over Wendy's traps, kneading with a grin. "You're my favorite client,
Wen," Jenny purred, clearly enjoying the work. Robbie stood nearby,
shirtless too, his once-scrawny body now a solid 200 pounds of lean
muscle. He'd become Wendy's workout partner, spotting her in the
basement, matching her lift for lift.
Tommy froze, keys dangling in his hand. "What the hell?" he croaked.
Wendy glanced up, smirking, her bicep flexing as she shifted. "Hey,
big bro. Took you long enough." Jenny waved, casual as ever, while
Robbie nodded, a dumbbell still in hand. The betrayal hit like a
linebacker—his ex and his best friend, orbiting his sister's orbit.
"You two—Benedict Arnolds," Tommy spat, glaring at Jenny and Robbie.
They shrugged, unfazed. Wendy chuckled, deep and confident, her voice
carrying years of victory. "Guess I won after all."
He couldn't take it—the sight of her dominance, the ease with which
she'd claimed his old world. Tommy spun on his heel, storming out to
the porch, the door slamming behind him. Inside, Wendy let out a
triumphant laugh, the sound chasing him down the street. He didn't
look back. Florida hadn't erased the loss, and Middleton wouldn't let
him forget it. Wendy had her iPad, her strength, her life—and Tommy?
He had a long drive ahead, and a vow to never arm-wrestle again.

[bigjake737]

Jenny's Diary

October 12, 2024
Dear Diary,
Tonight was wild. Tommy invited me over to watch the Bears game—nachos, Robbie, the whole crew. He's been killing it with his workouts lately, and I can't stop staring at those arms of his. They're not huge, but they're wiry and strong, flexing every time he yells at the TV. I love how he gets so into it, all that quarterback energy just bursting out. His biceps ripple under his T-shirt when he pumps his fist, and I swear my heart skips a beat. I tossed a chip at him just to see him catch it—God, he's quick. I'm so into him it's ridiculous. 
Wendy was there too, his little sister, lurking in her baggy sweatpants and hoodie like she's allergic to style. She's got this mousy vibe—messy bun, no effort. I tried being nice, you know, cheerleader mode, but she barely looked at me. Tommy says she's obsessed with some iPad she wants. Whatever. She's no competition for his attention, not with those frumpy vibes. I'm the one he's flexing for, and I'm loving every second of it.

November 15, 2024
Dear Diary,
Halftime at Tommy's tonight was insane. He and Wendy arm-wrestled—yeah, Wendy, his scrawny sister. She bet him $50, and I thought it'd be a joke, but she held her own for a second before he slammed her down. His arm flexed so hard I could see every muscle pop—those lean, quarterback lines I'm obsessed with. I cheered like crazy, snuggling into him after. Victory looks so good on him. 
Wendy took the loss weirdly calm, though. She even upped the stakes—$100 next month, double or nothing. Tommy laughed it off, flexing for me again, and I melted. But I couldn't help myself—I slid over to Wendy after and offered some advice. "Ditch the carbs, maybe some makeup," I said, trying to be helpful. "Guys love confidence." She just stared at me like I was nuts and said she's not trying to look good, just beat him. Okay, weirdo. I shrugged it off and went back to Tommy's arm—God, I could trace those muscles all day.

December 3, 2024
Dear Diary,
Gym class today flipped my world upside down. We're on weights this week, and Wendy—oh, Wendy, her name's a spark now—picked up 20-pound dumbbells like they were nothing. Her sleeve slid up, and holy crap, her forearm was thick, her bicep bulging with every curl—Wendy's arms, sculpted and powerful, a revelation that stole my breath. I couldn't stop staring, my pulse racing at Wendy's raw, hidden strength. Tommy's got those wiry arms I love, but Wendy—God, Wendy's got power, real and delicious, that's rewriting everything I thought I knew. I ran to him at lunch, all "Dude, you're in trouble," and he laughed it off, flexing his own arm. "She's a lump," he said. But I'm not so sure. 
I mumbled that Wendy's strength was hot, my voice thick with a lust I didn't expect. Tommy choked on his sub, and I swatted him, laughing, but it wasn't a joke. Wendy's biceps—those glorious, bulging wonders—stuck in my head all day. I still love Tommy's lean muscle, the way it moves when he throws a pass, but Wendy's got something else—something primal that's got me hooked.

December 14, 2024
Dear Diary,
The rematch was unreal. Tommy invited me and Robbie over again, Chiefs vs. Broncos, and I was ready to cheer him on. His arms are tighter now, popping under his shirt—he's been hitting the gym hard. I was drooling over him in the kitchen, all "You've got this," picturing those biceps pinning Wendy again. Then Wendy—oh, Wendy, my secret obsession—walked in. 
She'd ditched the hoodie for this tight muscle tee—Lift Hard, Live Hard—and I swear my jaw hit the floor, my eyes feasting on Wendy's massive arms, veins snaking down them, biceps like softballs begging to be worshipped. She's bigger than Tommy now, all broad shoulders and raw, luscious strength that made my knees weak. I whispered to Robbie, "Wendy's so hot," my voice dripping with desire, and he just nodded, drooling too. Tommy went pale, but the match was on. 
They locked hands, and it was intense—Tommy's lean muscle straining, Wendy's thick arm flexing hard, her bicep a glorious, bulging masterpiece. Wendy won. Slammed him down like it was nothing. I whooped, caught up in Wendy's triumph, and my world shifted. Tommy's arms used to be my everything, but watching Wendy's bicep bulge as she crushed him? I'm hers now. I slid over after, grinning, "You're unreal, Wendy. So hot," my words heavy with lust I couldn't hide. Tommy's sulking, but I can't stop picturing Wendy in that tee, her power calling to me.

January 10, 2025
Dear Diary,
I'm losing it. Tommy's been pushing himself crazy since the loss—gym every day, flexing harder, and I still cause those arms. They're sharper now, leaner, and I swoon when he wraps them around me. But Wendy—oh, Wendy, her name's a fire in my chest—is taking over. She's back to her baggy look at school, but I saw her in gym again—tank top this time, Wendy's biceps popping through the fabric like twin peaks of perfection, thicker and more divine than ever. I stared, imagining my hands on Wendy's glorious arms, tracing every curve of her muscle. 
Today, I couldn't hold back. I caught Wendy after class, her tank still clinging to that goddess body, and I blurted, "God, Wendy, your body is so sexy—those arms, your strength, it's unreal. I was an idiot to ever give you advice—you don't need it, you're turning into a freaking goddess." My voice was shaking, dripping with awe. Wendy smirked, her eyes glinting, and leaned in close—close enough I could feel her heat. "Thanks, Jenny," she said, her voice low and flirty. "You know, I've always admired your perky breasts—perfect, just like your cheerleader spirit. It's pretty hot how you light up a room." She winked, her fingers brushing my arm, and I nearly melted. Wendy's flirting with me—Wendy, my muscle dream—and I'm dizzy with it. 
Tommy doesn't know I'm torn. He's planning a comeback, $200 on the line, and I'm still his girl—right? But Wendy's strength is consuming me, her biceps haunting my dreams. I keep replaying that rematch, Wendy's arm flexing, the way she owned him—God, I need to feel that power.

February 15, 2025
Dear Diary,
Tonight was the reckoning, and I'm shaking as I write this. Tommy's been juicing—I overheard him bragging—and his arms are harder, veins popping when he flexes. I was still into it, cheering him on as the Chiefs game hit halftime. Then Wendy—oh, Wendy, my muscle queen—pulled me aside in the kitchen. "French kiss me in front of Tommy," she said, "and tell him I'm the strongest." My heart pounded—Wendy's biceps in her tank top, so close, those glorious mounds flexing with every word. I nodded, dizzy with want, my body screaming for Wendy. 
She told Robbie to back her up too, and he's so into Wendy he'd do anything. Wendy came downstairs in this thong swimsuit bottom and that muscle tee, 190 pounds of pure, rippling muscle flexing with every step—Wendy's arms a feast of power, her shoulders a shrine I'd kneel before. I couldn't breathe. The match was brutal, but Wendy crushed Tommy again, her bicep bulging like a god's fist. Then it happened—I kissed Wendy, long and deep, right in front of him, her strength flooding me as I climaxed, lost in Wendy's magnificence. Robbie ripped her tee off and sucked her nipple, and I got jealous—jumped in, took the other one, my lips worshipping Wendy's perfect, muscled chest. We were all over Wendy, moaning, and Tommy just stared, broken. 
I don't care about his arms anymore. Wendy's biceps, her power—it's all I crave, every flex a siren call. I'm Wendy's now, and I'm never looking back.

April 7, 2025
Dear Diary,
It's been months, and I'm living for Wendy—oh, Wendy, my muscle goddess. Tommy's gone—moved to Florida after that night, couldn't handle Wendy's dominance, her towering, sculpted glory. I don't miss him. Wendy's my world now, her muscles my obsession. Today, she invited me and Robbie to the basement—parents out, just us. Wendy's 190 still, but harder, leaner, flexing in a tank top that shows off those biceps—Wendy's biceps, thick and veined, a paradise I'd die to touch. We kissed, slow and hungry, Wendy's strength pulling me in, her power a drug I can't quit. Robbie joined, and we tangled up on the couch—my hands on Wendy's arms, her shoulders, feeling every inch of Wendy's divine, chiseled frame. 
Wendy told us about the "steroids"—they were fake, just placebo stuff from her uncle. Wendy built this body herself—Wendy's body, a temple of raw, natural might—and that makes her even hotter, her biceps a testament to her unbreakable will. I traced Wendy's glorious biceps while she laughed, and Robbie's hands shook as he touched her. We're Wendy's, completely. Tommy's a ghost, and I'm in love—with Wendy's strength, her confidence, Wendy herself. My muscle lust started with him, but it ends with Wendy—Wendy, the beast I can't resist, her every flex a hymn to my soul.


April 14, 2029
Dear Diary,
Today was a shock I'll never forget. Tommy came back—four years gone, 22 now, rolling into Middleton in some beat-up Honda like a ghost from the past. I heard the rumors about Wendy—oh, Wendy, my eternal goddess—being a legend around town, but I've lived it, breathed it. She's 18 now, a senior at Middleton High, and I've been her shadow, her lover, her masseuse ever since he left. When Tommy walked through that door unannounced this quiet Saturday afternoon, he didn't know what he was stepping into. 
The living room was a shrine to Wendy—Wendy, sprawled shirtless on the couch, her back a map of muscle, shoulders like boulders, lats flaring wide, arms thicker than his thighs—God, Wendy's arms, a jaw-dropping symphony of power at 220 pounds of pure, sculpted perfection. She was pumping iron with Robbie, her pecs flexing under a barbell, and I couldn't keep my hands off her. I knelt beside Wendy, purring deep in my throat, my fingers kneading Wendy's pecs—those glorious pectoralis majors, hard and thick, rippling with every lift. "Oh, Wendy," I whispered erotically, "your pecs are divine," my hands sliding to her traps—"these trapezius muscles, so strong"—then her delts—"deltoids like heaven." I purred louder, addicted, my fingers tracing every curve of Wendy's chiseled frame—I can't stop massaging, touching, worshipping her body. 
Tommy froze, keys dangling, his "What the hell?" croaking out, but I barely heard him over my own purring. Wendy glanced up, smirking, her bicep flexing—Wendy's bicep, a veined masterpiece—as she shifted. "Hey, big bro. Took you long enough," she said. Robbie nodded, spotting Wendy with a dumbbell, while I kept massaging, purring, "Oh, Wendy, your lats"—my hands gliding over her latissimus dorsi—"so wide, so perfect." Tommy spat, "You two—Benedict Arnolds," glaring at me and Robbie, but I couldn't stop—my lust for Wendy consumed me. I leaned in, kissing Wendy's pecs, my lips pressing against the hard muscle, then her traps, her delts, whispering, "Wendy, you're my goddess," right in front of him. Tommy groaned, annoyed, but I was lost, uncontrollably kissing Wendy's body, my tongue flicking over her biceps—Wendy's biceps, my paradise—and then it hit me. 
A loud, intense orgasm ripped through me, right there in front of Tommy, my body shaking as I cried out Wendy's name, waves of pleasure crashing over me. It was electric—my knees buckled, my breath ragged, every muscle in me clenching and releasing as I clung to Wendy's arm, spent and trembling. The heat started in my core, sparked by Wendy's power, and exploded outward, leaving me gasping, my hands still gripping her bicep like a lifeline. Tommy's face twisted in disgust, but I didn't care—Wendy's muscles had undone me, and I loved every shuddering second of it. 
Wendy chuckled, deep and confident, "Guess I won after all," her voice a victory hymn as I purred against her, hands still roaming, limp from ecstasy. Tommy stormed out, the door slamming, and Wendy's triumphant laugh chased him—God, Wendy's laugh, pure power that fuels my addiction. He's gone again, but I don't care. Wendy has her iPad, her strength, her life—and me, massaging, kissing, lost in Wendy's muscles forever, my orgasm a final, glorious slap in Tommy's face.

[bigjake737]

Robbie's perspective:   

October 12, 2024
Man, tonight was chill. Tommy had me over for the Bears game—nachos, TV blaring, the usual. He's my best bud since grade school, always the loud one, flexing those skinny arms he's been working on. Jenny was there too, giggling at him, all flirty. I just sat there with my Coke, muttering stats like always. Wendy popped in—Tommy's funny little sister, all sweatpants and messy bun. I've known her forever, but she's just... there, you know? Shy, quiet, snagging nachos like she's barely part of it. Didn't think much of her. My head's been on Saradas lately—those women are unreal, all muscle and power. That's my type, the mesomorph dream, but Middleton's got none of that.

October 19, 2024
Tommy sent me to the basement today to grab some tools—said they were by Uncle Stan's old stuff. I poked around, lifted a tarp, and holy crap—there's a whole gym down there! Weights, mirrors, stacks of muscle mags. Then I saw her. Wendy, stripped to her thong, pumping iron like some secret beast. It was a week after that arm-wrestling thing with Tommy—she lost, but she wasn't weak. Down here, her arms were flexing, shoulders broad, legs thick. She's a mesomorph—the mesomorph, like 1-2% of women, straight out of my bio class notes. My heart was pounding. She didn't see me, but I couldn't unsee her. Those Saradas girls? Wendy's turning into one.

November 1, 2024
I've been making excuses to hit Tommy's place every day at 6:00 p.m. Homework, weekend plans—whatever gets me in the door. I listen for it—the clang of metal from the basement. Sneak down, peek through that spot by the stairs, and there's Wendy, lifting like a goddess. Her arms are getting bigger, veins popping, muscles rippling under that dim light. She's not the funny little sister anymore—she's my obsession. I can't stop thinking about her, all that power packed into her. Tommy's clueless, yapping about football, but I'm hooked on her secret workouts and her growing muscles.  Just seeing her in the hallways at school and visioning what is under those baggy pants gets me going.

December 7, 2024
She caught me today—one week before the big rematch with Tommy. I was creeping by the basement stairs, watching her curl those heavy 40 pound dumbbells, when she turned and locked eyes with me. I froze, thought I'd die of shame, but Wendy just smirked—flirty, confident, like she knew. "Hey, Robbie," she said, voice all smooth, "wanna spot me? Work in a set?" I couldn't say no. Stood there, hands shaking, helping her lift. Her biceps bulged right in front of me, thick and perfect. We're workout buddies now—secret ones. I'm falling hard, man. Lust, not love—pure, muscle-driven lust. She loves the attention, I can tell.

December 14, 2024
Tonight was insane. Halftime, Chiefs vs. Broncos, and Wendy came down in this tight muscle tee—her arms, her shoulders, all that power on display. She crushed Tommy in the rematch, slammed his hand down like it was nothing. I couldn't stop staring, my pants tight—embarrassing, but she's a goddess. Then Jenny kissed her, right there, and I lost it. Wendy pulled me in—ripped her top off, told me to suck her nipple in front of Tommy. I did it, man, couldn't resist. Jenny jumped in too, and we were all over her, Wendy moaning like a queen.  It was rapture for the three of us.  Tommy's face—pure horror— a different story, but I didn't care. I'm hers now. Gotta get Jenny out of the picture, though.   I've got to have Wendy's for myself.  Jenny is pretty, very busty, and nice.. but nice doesn't make it.

January 10, 2025
We're tight now, me and Wendy. Secret workouts every night in the basement every night at 6:00 p.m while Tommy's at school—her spotting me, me spotting her, those biceps flexing inches from my face. She's massive, pushing 190, and I'm bulking too—hitting 170, chasing her vibe. I asked her out back in December, stammered like an idiot, and she said "maybe." Still waiting, but I don't care—she's my muscle dream. Tommy's juicing, planning a comeback, but he's got no clue what we've built down here. Jenny's still sniffing around, flirting with Wendy, and it's driving me nuts. I want Wendy all to myself—her strength, her attention, everything.  Unfortunately, Wendy still enjoys Jenny's company.  She says she likes her spirit and her traditional body.  Sometimes Wendy says she wishes she had  figure more like Jenny's.  I told Wendy about how rare and beautiful she is .. I spoked to her about the rare mesomorph body type for women.  She finally got it and why she was able to pack on so much muscle.

February 15, 2025
The rematch was wild. Wendy pulled me aside—told me to back her up, say she's tougher than Tommy, loud and clear. Then she said, "Rip my bikini top off and lick and fondle my breasts in front of him." I nearly passed out, man—my pants were soaked just thinking about her huge pecs and that tight nipple on top.  She came down in a thong and that tee, 190 pounds of pure muscle flexing. She smashed Tommy again, and I did it—tore her top off, sucked, kissed and fondled her nipple, right there. Jenny jumped in, kissing her, sucking too, and Wendy was moaning, loving it. Tommy's life's ruined, and I'm in heaven. She's my goddess, and I'm plotting—Jenny's gotta go. Wendy's mine.

April 7, 2025
Wendy texted me and Jenny today—parents out, basement's hers. I bolted over. She's 190 still, harder now, flexing in a tank top—those arms, man, thick and perfect. We kissed—me and her, then Jenny too—tangled up on the couch, hands everywhere. She told us the "steroids" were fake—just placebo junk from Uncle Stan. She built this body herself, all natural, and that makes her hotter. My hands were on her biceps, feeling every ripple, and I'm lost in her. Tommy's gone—Florida, good riddance—and I'm Wendy's guy. Jenny's still here, though. Gotta figure out how to ditch her.

April 14, 2029
Tommy came back today—four years gone, rolled in like nothing happened. I was in the living room with Wendy—she's 220 now, shirtless, a total beast. We had moved all the weights from the basement into the living room.
It was a shrine to the muscle goddess.  Her back's insane, arms thicker than ever, flexing as I spotted her. Jenny was massaging her, purring about her pecs, kissing her muscles—freaking worshipping her like always. I'm 200 now, lean and strong, Wendy's workout partner for life.  Wendy is so proud of my impressive gains.   Tommy walked in, saw us, and flipped—"Benedict Arnolds," he called me and Jenny. Wendy smirked, flexed that bicep, and said, "Guess I won; and it seems like I got more than victory in an arm wrestling match" He stormed out, slamming the door, and we laughed. Jenny has become super orgasmic.  She had this wild orgasm right there, clinging to Wendy's arm, shaking and moaning—I watched, jealous but hooked.  Jenny's orgasm gave me an idea. 
The second he was gone, I leaned into Wendy, my breath hot on her ear, and whispered, "Hey, tell Jenny to grab us some food—pizza or something." Wendy grinned, loving how I schemed, and turned to Jenny, voice low and commanding, "Jenny, be a doll and pick up some pizza. Extra pepperoni, and a few buckets of wild wings, I need that protein to keep growing!" Jenny's eyes lit up—she's practically a slave to Wendy's every word—and she nodded fast, "Anything for you, Wen," before scampering out the door like it was an honor, she gave both me and Wendy a long kiss.  That was a first.  I smirked. Perfect. Just me and my goddess now. 
I turned to Wendy, heart pounding, and said, "How about a muscle show? Flex for me—show off those gains." Her face lit up—she loves flaunting her power, and I'm her biggest fan. She stood, towering over me, and started posing and doing a slow striptease. First, she showed her biceps—those thick, veined cannons peaking as she curled her arms. Then she flared her lats , wide as wings, and she hit a double biceps that made my jaw drop.  Her "most muscular" pose almost got me to black out.  Then it was her quads time to show as they bulged through her shorts, rippling with every shift. I was drooling, man, lost in her 220 pounds of pure, sculpted glory.   The many mirrors  that we set up in the living room weren't lying; as she stared at her gorgeous muscular body, she was becoming sexually aroused.  The more aroused she became, the more she pulsed her muscles.  It was a feedback loop that ignited Robbie's passions beyond control.
Halfway through, I couldn't take it anymore. I stepped in close, my lips brushing her shoulder, and started French kissing her body—inch by inch. I traced her traps, tasting the salt of her skin, then down her delts, slow and hungry. Wendy tensed up at first, pulling back a little, "Robbie, what're you—" but I kept going, kissing along her biceps, those perfect mounds, and she softened. She turned from reluctance to enthusiasm.  She wanted more, she wanted me to eat her.  Her breath hitched as I moved to each body part.  She would scream "eat me" at every part. Her pecs, "eat me", licking the hard curves of her glutes, "eat me", then down her abs, "eat me", every ridge a masterpiece. I finally made it to the endogenous zone.  She not only screamed "eat me" .. she demanded it, "eat me now".   I encapsulated it with deep pulsating kisses.  All my anatomy studies had paid off.  She submitted, moaning soft, and then it hit—her whole body shuddered, a deep, rolling wave she'd never felt before. An orgasm, raw and real, ripped through her, and hit her like a 60 pound plate of steel.  Her knees buckling as she gasped my name, "Robbie—" then she screamed in ecstasy "YOU ATE ME WONDERFULLY".  I held her up, kissing her thighs now, her calves, every inch mine to worship. 
She slumped against me, panting, eyes wide like she'd just discovered fire. I pressed my lips to her neck, whispering, "I love you, and I lust you, Wendy. Always will." My hands roamed her arms, feeling those muscles still trembling and exhausted, and I kept kissing—her forearms, her wrists, back up to her shoulders—promising her everything with every touch. She's my world, my muscled goddess, and I've got her now, all to myself.  Wendy looked at me with those spent eyes and said that she'd never experienced anything like that before and the best part, she said that they would need to share more alone time together .  I can't wait.   Jenny'll be back with pizza soon, but this moment? It's ours. Wendy's mine forever.  We will become muscle monsters together.