Martha

[diabolodiabolo]

It was a completely ordinary Saturday afternoon in summer. I, Alex, a 40-year-old average guy with an unspectacular job in accounting, had arranged to meet my old buddy Tom. We'd known each other since university, and he had invited me over to his place to drink a few beers and chat about the old days. Tom still lived with his mother in a spacious single-family house on the outskirts of town—he was saving up for his own apartment, he had said. I parked my old sedan in front of the house, got out, and walked to the door. The sun was shining warmly, and I rang the bell, looking forward to a relaxed hangout.

After a few seconds I heard heavy footsteps from inside—not the light ones I knew from Tom, but something massive, as if the floor was vibrating. The door opened, and there she stood: A woman who towered over me by a full head. She had to be easily 2.10 meters tall. I looked up and immediately felt small, almost insignificant. She wore a loose, gray T-shirt that reached down to her elbows and baggy sweatpants that concealed her legs. Her gray hair was tied back in a simple knot, and her face was striking—deep lines around the eyes that spoke of experience, but also a strength that unsettled me. She was around 60, I guessed, but nothing about her seemed frail. On the contrary: Her shoulders filled the doorframe, broad and imposing, even though the fabric of the shirt hid everything.

"Hello? Are you Alex? Tom mentioned you," she said in a deep, resonant voice that sounded like distant thunder. Her eyes briefly sized me up, and she gave a slight smile—one that emphasized her strong jawline. "I'm Martha, Tom's mother. Come in, he just went shopping, but he should be back in about half an hour. Make yourself comfortable."

I nodded, stammering, and followed her inside. As she walked, I couldn't help but stare at her back. Even under the loose shirt, broad shoulders were visible, and her arms swung with a natural heaviness—thick forearms with veins that bulged slightly as she closed the door behind me. She was huge. Everything about her. Her hands were as large as paws, fingers thick and powerful, as though they could crush something effortlessly. We went into the kitchen, and she poured us two mugs of coffee. "Sit down," she said, pointing to a chair. When she sat down across from me, the chair creaked under her weight—she had to be over 200 kilos, but it wasn't fat; I could sense that instinctively. Pure mass.

We chatted about trivial things: Tom, his job, the weather. But I couldn't tear my eyes away from her arms. When she lifted the mug, the fabric of her sleeve tightened slightly, and I saw it—a hint of biceps bulging, hard and defined. Not huge, not yet, but enough to make my pulse race. Secretly I had always been into strong women—the more muscular, the better. For nights on end I had stared at pictures of female bodybuilders online, their hard muscles, the veins, the definition—and pleasured myself to them. But this was real. Martha didn't seem to notice my gaze at first, or pretended not to. But inside me it was already tingling. My thoughts wandered: What might the rest of her body look like? Was she trained? The idea that mountains of muscle might be hiding under that shirt secretly turned me on. I felt something stirring in my pants, and I shifted restlessly in the chair.

After a few minutes she stood up to get milk from the fridge. As she stretched slightly, her shirt rode up—just for a fraction of a second, but I saw it: the lower edge of her abdomen, flat and hard, with faint ridges suggesting a six-pack. Not a gram of fat. My heart pounded. She turned around, and her shoulders tensed as she lifted the milk carton—the trapezius muscle popped out, a thick, hard ridge under the fabric. She was unbelievable. The longer I looked, the more details I noticed: her calves, visible even through the sweatpants, round and massive, as if she had trained for hours every day. Secretly I became more and more aroused—the fantasy of being dominated by a woman like her drove me wild. But I held back, just smiled politely.

Suddenly she asked: "Everything okay, Alex? You look like something's going through your head." Her gaze was piercing, and she leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table—forearms as thick as my thighs, veins pulsing. I stammered something about the heat outside, but inside I was boiling. She smiled again, this time knowingly.

Martha stood up, took both empty mugs and placed them in the sink. Her movements were calm, almost deliberate, but each one made her shoulders roll—broad, massive shoulders that stretched the T-shirt as if the fabric might give way any second. "Come on, let's sit in the living room," she said in that deep, vibrating voice. "It's more comfortable there, and we can wait for Tom. He forgot his phone, so it might take longer."

I followed her down the hallway. Her walk was heavy yet springy—each step made the wooden floor creak slightly. The sweatpants stretched over her thighs with every stride, and I could see the outlines: thick, hard quadriceps bulging with each bend, and calves shaped like diamonds, round and massive. My throat was dry. I had fantasized so often about what it would feel like to be touched by a woman like her—by muscles stronger than anything I had ever seen. And now she was walking right in front of me, real, over two meters tall, over 200 kilos of pure, hard mass.

The living room was bright, large windows, a wide leather couch and an armchair opposite. Martha dropped onto the couch—the leather groaned loudly under her weight. She stretched her legs out, crossed her ankles, and immediately her calves stood out brutally: two enormous, heart-shaped muscle mountains bulging under the fabric of her pants, with a deep split between them. Veins ran across them like rivers. I sat down in the armchair opposite, tried not to stare—but it was impossible.

She leaned back, placed her arms on the armrests. The fabric stretched over her biceps. Even relaxed, they already bulged—a thick, round mountain that lifted with the slightest movement. "I've been training for almost 45 years," she said suddenly, as if she had noticed my gaze. "Started at 15, lifting weights to be stronger than the boys. At some point it became... an addiction." She gave a crooked smile, and her eyes sparkled. "Today I press more than most men my age can even lift."

I swallowed. "That... shows," I muttered. My voice sounded hoarse. My pants were getting tighter. The thought of those arms lifting me, holding me, crushing me... I felt my cock twitch.

Martha raised an eyebrow. "Does it show?" She slowly moved her right arm, as if stretching. The sleeve of her T-shirt rode up—just to the upper third of the biceps. But that was enough. The muscle popped out: an unbelievable, split peak of hard flesh, with a thick vein running over it like a rope. The peak was sharp, defined, harder than granite. She held the pose a second longer than necessary, then let the arm drop. "A lot of men stare. Most don't dare ask."

Heat rose in my face. "I... find that impressive," I managed to say. "Honestly. I've never seen anyone who looks so... strong."

She laughed quietly—a deep, rumbling laugh that vibrated through my body. "Impressive, huh?" Now she raised her left arm, this time more slowly. The sleeve slid higher, almost to the shoulder. The triceps came into view—a gigantic horseshoe muscle, three heads clearly separated, every fiber visible. Below it the biceps, even larger than before. She flexed—the muscle literally exploded, turning into a mountain of stone, veins pulsing, skin stretched tight over it. "This here," she said, tapping the biceps with a finger of her other hand, "has curled more than 60 kilos per arm. Every day."

My breathing quickened. I couldn't look away. Inside me everything was boiling—pure lust for those muscles, for that dominance. I imagined her lifting me with one arm, pinning me against the wall, enveloping me with those arms until I couldn't breathe. My cock was now rock-hard, painfully pressing against the fabric.

Martha held my gaze for another moment with that knowing, almost mocking smile. Then she leaned back, stretching luxuriously—her shoulders rose like two massive mountains, the trapezius swelling and pushing the collar of her T-shirt upward. "You know what, Alex?" she said slowly. "I'm sitting here in these old clothes sweating like crazy. This morning's workout was brutal. I'm going to quickly change into something more comfortable. Stay seated, I'll be back in two minutes."

She stood up. The couch sprang back up with relief. As she walked past me, her thigh nearly brushed my shoulder—so broad and massive were her legs. I caught a whiff of her sweat mixed with something raw, masculine—it made me dizzy with arousal. She disappeared down the hallway, and I heard heavy footsteps going up the stairs.

I sat there, heart hammering, cock rock-hard in my pants. The images in my head were racing: This woman, taller than any human I'd ever met, with muscles that would make even the most brutal male pro bodybuilders look like a joke. I imagined her posing, her lats spreading, her abs bulging... My breathing came in short gasps.

Two minutes later the footsteps returned—heavier now, as if she was barefoot. The door opened, and Martha stepped in.

I stared. And couldn't stop.

She was now wearing a tight black tank top that revealed far more than it concealed, and short stretchy athletic shorts. The tank top stretched across her chest—enormous, hard pectoral muscles protruding like armor plates, her nipples clearly visible through the thin fabric. But below that... her abs. Eight perfectly separated, thick abdominal blocks, each one the size of my fist, with deep grooves between them. Not a gram of fat, just pure, hard definition. The obliques pulled like ropes to the sides, and the adductors underneath bulged brutally.

Martha smiled when she noticed my stare. "Well? Better like this?" She took a step closer until she stood directly in front of my armchair. Her thighs were now at eye level—each quad as thick as my torso, with a deep four-head separation, veins as thick as pencils running across them. The shorts were stretched dangerously tight.

"Stand up," she said quietly, but with clear command in her voice.

I obeyed automatically, legs weak. Now I stood in front of her—and looked straight at her abs. Those eight hard blocks were right in front of my nose. Every muscle was so defined I could see the individual fibers. When I lifted my head, her pecs towered over me like an overhang. My face was level with her solar plexus.

She laughed deeply. "Look at you. You barely reach my chest." Then she slowly raised both arms—first out to the sides, then into the classic double-biceps pose. The biceps exploded: two gigantic, pointed peaks, taller than any Mr. Olympia winner, with almost inhuman sharpness. The veins pulsed visibly.

But then... the lat spread.

She flared her arms slightly, pushed her elbows back, and her lats unfolded. It was as if a damn wing was spreading. The latissimus muscles expanded sideways like airplane wings—so wide that even if I stretched both arms out, I wouldn't have come close to reaching the outer edges on either side. The tank top fabric strained to the breaking point, and underneath I saw the incredible width: shoulders broader than the entire couch, traps rising almost to her ears. She held the pose, took a deep breath—and her entire upper body became even more massive.

I gasped softly. My cock throbbed painfully. The sheer superiority, the size, the muscle mass... it was overwhelming. I felt helpless, tiny, aroused to the point of pain.

Martha lowered her arms and took another half-step closer. Now her abs almost touched my chest. I smelled her scent—sweat, testosterone, pure power. "Do you like this, Alex?" she whispered. "That a woman like me makes you look so small? That I'm stronger than any man you've ever met?"

I could only nod, voice gone.

She bent down slightly—her face came closer, her gray hair falling forward a little. "Say it. Tell me how much my muscles turn you on."

Martha held my gaze for another moment, then straightened up to her full, overwhelming height. Her shadow fell over me like a wall. "I can see it already," she murmured in that deep, rumbling voice, "you need more than just words to understand how superior I am."

Without another word she grabbed the hem of her tank top with both hands. The fabric was already stretched to tearing over her pecs—two massive, hard plates that rose and fell with every breath. Slowly, almost torturously slowly, she pulled the top upward. First the lower edge of her abs appeared—those eight thick, chiseled blocks, each one as big and hard as a brick, with deep, sharp separations. The skin was taut, almost translucent with definition, veins running like dark rivers over the obliques.

She pulled further. Now the lower ribs appeared, covered by brutal serratus anterior—jagged muscles protruding like fingers under the skin. Then the chest: gigantic pectoralis muscles, thicker and more defined than any male pro I'd ever seen in magazines. The nipples stood out hard, dark and large, surrounded by an areola already slightly swollen with arousal. The tank top slid over her head, her gray hair falling wildly back. She tossed it carelessly aside.

Bare upper body. Right in front of me.

I stood there, staring upward. My head reached only to her lower pecs. When I looked up, those hard plates towered above me like a rock overhang. Her shoulders were so wide they seemed to fill half the room—deltoids like cannonballs, traps rising almost to her ears, a neck thicker than my thigh. Everything pulsed slightly, veins everywhere, heat radiating from her skin.

Martha took a deep breath—her entire upper body expanded even more. "That's what 45 years of training and a little... assistance will do," she said quietly. "More muscle than any man who ever stood on stage. And you... you're so small in comparison."

Then her hands moved to the shorts. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and slowly, centimeter by centimeter, pushed them down. First the hip bones—no, not bones, but massive iliacus and tensor fasciae muscles pulling like ropes to the sides. Then the lower abs, the brutally deep V-shaped Adonis belt leading into the shorts.

And then... I saw it.

The base of her clit was already outlined—a thick, fleshy ridge pushing the shorts forward. Not fully erect yet, but already bigger than my cock flaccid. Years of anabolic use had hypertrophied it into something monstrous—a dark, swollen knob pressing against the fabric. Martha pushed the shorts a little lower until the upper part was exposed: at least 8–9 cm long semi-erect, thick as two fingers together, with a visible vein running along it. The foreskin was pulled back, the glans glistening slightly moist.

She laughed quietly, deeply. "Look at that, Alex." With two fingers of her right hand—fingers thicker than mine—she grasped the clit at the base and lifted it slightly, as if presenting it to me. "This thing is bigger than anything you have in your pants. And when I get really horny... it gets much, much bigger than your poor little cock."

I gasped. My pulse raced. The sight was overwhelming: This giant woman, naked to the waist, muscles everywhere, and this monstrous, steroid-enlarged organ already humiliating me. My own cock throbbed painfully, pressing against the fabric, a wet spot spreading. I was helpless, tiny, at her mercy.

Martha stepped even closer. Her clit was now almost at chin level. She let it go—it bobbed slightly, heavy and full. "Tell me," she whispered, bending down until her face was close to mine, her hard pecs almost touching my forehead, "do you want to know what this thing can do to you? Or should I torment you a little longer... before I take you?"

Her hand—a paw—suddenly rested on my shoulder. The pressure was gentle, but I felt the raw power behind it. A light push and I'd fall. Or she could lift me. Or crush me.

Martha straightened to her full, monstrous height, her bare pecs rising with every deep breath like two hard armor plates. Her clit—this hypertrophied, steroid-swollen colossus—now stood half-erect in front of me, thick, dark, pulsing, already longer and thicker than my entire cock erect. She looked down at me, her expression a mix of amusement and pure dominance.

"Enough staring," she said quietly, but in a tone that allowed no contradiction. Her right paw—fingers as thick as my wrists—grabbed the waistband of my pants. With one effortless motion she pulled the zipper down, unhooked the button, and yanked pants and boxers to my ankles in one tug. My cock sprang free—rock-hard, throbbing, the glans already glistening with precum. But compared to her... ridiculous.

Martha laughed deeply, a vibrating rumble that went through my body. She leaned forward slightly so her massive torso loomed over me. Her left hand encircled my shaft—not tightly, just enough to hold it up like a toy. Her fingers completely surrounded it, thumb and index finger easily meeting around the whole girth.

"Look at this," she whispered, bringing her right hand to her own clit. With two fingers she gently pulled the foreskin back so the glistening, swollen glans became fully visible—bigger than my glans and shaft combined. She pressed her clit gently against my cock, laying it alongside.

The comparison was devastating.

Her clit was longer—at least 2–3 cm more than my entire shaft—thicker, harder, the veins on it thicker than those on my forearm. The heat radiating from it was palpable, moist and pulsing. My cock looked tiny, harmless, almost childish next to it.

"Look closely, Alex," she said with a mocking smile. "This is bigger than your pathetic little cock. And this is only half hard. When I get properly aroused... this thing will fill you, stretch you, use you like a toy." She slowly rubbed her clit up and down my shaft—just a light touch, but enough to make me moan. The friction was electric, her hardness against my softness, her size against my tininess.

"Say it," she ordered. "Tell me how small your cock is compared to my clit."

I gasped, voice trembling. "It... it's smaller. Much smaller. Your clit is... bigger than my cock."

"Louder."

"Your clit is bigger than my cock!" I forced out, face burning with shame and arousal.

"Good boy." She released my shaft only to hold her clit directly in front of my face instead. "Now kiss it. Show me how much you worship this."

I leaned forward—my head just reached high enough. My lips touched the smooth, hot surface of her clit. It tasted salty, musky, of pure power. I kissed it reverently, sucked lightly on the glans, which was bigger than my mouth opening. Martha moaned quietly—a deep, animalistic sound—and her clit swelled further, grew even harder, longer, pressing against my tongue.

While I kissed and licked, her left hand returned to my cock. Just one finger—her pinky, thicker than two of mine together—circled my glans, stroked slowly along the shaft, gently pulled the foreskin back. The touch was precise, experienced, agonizingly slow. Within seconds I was at the edge again—the orgasm building furiously fast.

But exactly when my balls drew up, she stopped. The finger withdrew. I whimpered in frustration.

"Not yet," she whispered. "I decide when you come. And I need my protein first." She gently but firmly pressed my head back against her clit. "Keep going. Get me really horny... then maybe you can come. And then I'll milk you dry. With these muscles here..."

She flexed her abs—the eight blocks became even harder, the grooves deeper. Then her thighs—the shorts strained as the quads exploded. "...and with my pussy. It's so tight and strong you won't even get out before I've sucked you empty."

I licked on desperately, horny to the point of madness, while she brought me to the edge again and again with a single finger—and stopped every time.

Martha held her clit in front of my face for another moment, let me suck on it one last time—the glans filled almost my entire mouth, pulsed hot against my tongue. Then she straightened up, her over 2.10 meters towering above me like a living monolith. Without a word she grabbed under my armpits, lifted me with one arm—as if I were a doll. My body dangled helplessly in the air, feet swinging above the floor, while her biceps and triceps swelled into unbelievable mountains. The vein on her biceps stood out thick, the muscle taut like a steel cable.

She carried me two steps to the couch, sat down with her full weight (over 200 kilos of pure muscle mass)—the leather groaned loudly—and placed me between her spread thighs. Her legs immediately clamped around me like a vise: the quads pressed against my hips from both sides, hard, unyielding, warm. I could no longer move, not even squirm. My cock stood stiff and dripping upward, directly in front of her abs—those eight brutal blocks rising and falling with every breath.

Martha leaned back slightly, bracing herself on the armrests. Her shoulders and traps tensed, making her upper body even wider. Then she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and slowly, torturously slowly, pulled them down. The fabric slid over her massive thighs—each quad as thick as my torso, with deep four-head separation, veins like rivers. When the shorts were all the way down, she spread her legs even wider.

There it was: her pussy.

Extremely tight, muscular, almost like a fist made of flesh. The outer lips were thick and defined, trained down to the smallest detail. The inner labia protruded slightly, glistening wet. But what almost drove me insane: you could see the muscles working. When she flexed, the walls visibly contracted—a rhythmic pulsing, as if a hand inside was clenching and opening. The clit—now fully erect—protruded like a small cock: at least 12–13 cm long, thicker than my forearm, the glans swollen and red, veins pulsing.

"Look closely," she said in a deep voice. "This is what will milk you later. These muscles here..." She flexed again—the pussy squeezed so hard a quiet, wet smacking sound was audible. "...can hold a cock like a vise. And if I want, I'll milk you dry without you moving even a millimeter out."

She slid two fingers of her left hand inside herself—only to the second knuckle. Then she pulled them out and spread them: the vaginal muscles held them tight, pulled them back in as if unwilling to let go. "Imagine how that feels with your little thing," she whispered. "You won't get out until I'm full."

Then she turned to me. Her right hand—just the pinky—wrapped around my shaft. The finger was thicker than two of mine. She began to circle slowly, exactly at the most sensitive spot under the glans. The touch was perfectly dosed: too light to make me come, too intense to let me cool down.

Within seconds the orgasm built again—my balls drew up, the pressure rising furiously. I moaned, arched—but her thighs held me like a vise.

Exactly when I was about to explode... she clamped down.

Her pinky and thumb simply squeezed—not painful, but unrelenting. The base of my cock was pinched off, the pressure backed up, the orgasm brutally suppressed. I yelped, writhed, but her legs allowed not a millimeter of play. Tears of frustration shot into my eyes.

"Not yet," she growled. "I haven't had enough protein yet."

She waited 20 seconds—until the pressure eased—then started again: the same finger, circling, stroking, faster now. Everything built again, faster than before. Again right on the edge... and again: clamp. Finger and thumb like a steel ring. I cried out softly, begged wordlessly.

She repeated it three more times. Each time I got closer, each time she stopped me at the very last moment—sometimes with fingers, sometimes by briefly pressing her clit against my glans and then pulling away.

After the fourth time I was a trembling wreck: cock dark red, throbbing, precum dripping in streams. Martha leaned forward, her enormous pecs brushing my face.

"Now... maybe," she whispered. "But only if you're good."

Martha studied me for a long moment—my trembling, clamped cock in her hand, my face pleading, sweaty, desperate. Then she smiled slowly, predatory. "Good. You've begged enough. Now... you get what you want. But on my terms."

With one fluid motion she lifted me again—this time with both hands under my armpits. My legs dangled uselessly, my body hung limp and helpless in her grip. Her biceps swelled into inhuman mountains, the veins pulsing thick and dark as she effortlessly held me in the air. I was nothing to her—a toy, a protein source.

She turned, sat down spread-legged on the couch, legs so wide her massive thighs looked like two pillars. Then she slowly lowered me onto her lap. My back rested against her hard abs—those eight blocks pressed against me like warm stones. My legs were clamped by her quads, which immediately tensed and locked me in place. I couldn't move, couldn't even shift my hips.

Martha slid one hand between us. With two fingers she spread her outer labia—her pussy glistened with arousal, hot, inviting, but tight like a steel tunnel. "Feel that?" she whispered in my ear, her breath hot on my neck. "That's my horny, trained cunt. It's going to devour you now."

She positioned my glans exactly at the entrance. Just the tip touched the opening—it already felt impossibly tight, pulsing, hungry. Then she pressed me down gently but relentlessly.

I slid in.

The first centimeter was pure, tight heat—her trained inner muscles immediately clamped around me like a living flesh vise of lust. Warm, wet, slippery with arousal, but so strong I knew: getting out would only happen on her command. She pushed further—centimeter by centimeter my cock disappeared into her tight, greedy pussy. The walls contracted rhythmically, already milking me lightly, sucking like a hungry, wet fist. When I was all the way in—balls deep—she closed the muscles completely. A deep, wet smacking sound, and I was trapped. No millimeter of play left.

"Feel that?" she growled. "That's my pussy. Trained for decades. It can hold your cock, squeeze it, milk it... and only let you out when I've swallowed every damn drop of your hot protein."

She began to milk—slowly at first. The inner muscles contracted in waves, from root to tip, then back again. It felt like a perfect, tight, wet hand jerking me—except it was her cunt, hotter, hornier, stronger. Every contraction brought me closer to the edge. My cock throbbed, the glans swelled, the orgasm built furiously.

Exactly when I wanted to explode... she clamped down.

The muscles squeezed—a hard, unyielding ring of pure flesh around the base of my shaft. The pressure backed up, the climax brutally suppressed. I screamed, arched—but her thighs held me like a vise, her arms wrapped around my upper body from behind, pressing me against her hard pecs. I was completely pinned, helpless, trapped deep in her horny cunt.

"Not yet," she whispered. "I want more. Much more."

She waited—30 seconds, 40—until the pressure eased. Then the milking began again: wave-like, stronger now, faster. The heat in her pussy rose, she got even wetter, dripping over my balls, smacking loudly with every contraction. Everything built again—this time faster, more intense. Again right on the edge... and again: clamp with the pussy muscles. A hard, torturous ring holding me. I whimpered, begged, tears running down my face.

She repeated it four times. Each time I got closer, each time she stopped me at the last moment—sometimes with a brutal squeeze at the base, sometimes by slightly lifting and lowering herself to control the pressure, her tight cunt growing even greedier.

After the fourth time I was finished: cock dark purple, throbbing with backed-up cum, body shaking. Martha leaned forward, her gigantic pecs pressing against my back, her mouth close to my ear.

"Now," she said quietly, almost tenderly with lust. "Now you may come. Shoot everything into my greedy pussy. Give me your hot protein."

She loosened the clamp—just a tiny bit. Then she milked hard: quick, powerful contractions massaging my shaft from root to tip. The waves came unstoppable.

I exploded.

The orgasm was more brutal than anything I'd ever experienced. My cock pumped, spurted, spurted, spurted—thick, hot streams shot deep into her tight, sucking cunt. I screamed, arched, but her muscles held me firm, milked on, sucked every drop out. It didn't stop—wave after wave, harder than ever, as if she were squeezing my entire reserve out of me.

When the first climax ebbed, she didn't stop. She kept milking—gentler now, but relentless. My cock stayed hard, overstimulated, hypersensitive. The second orgasm built immediately—even more intense. I came again, spurted again, less volume but longer, shaking. Martha moaned deeply, her pussy pulsing around me, sucking greedily, getting hotter and wetter.

Only when I was completely empty—no more drops came—did she loosen the muscles. My cock slid out, limp, red, dripping. She lifted me, laid me beside her on the couch, turned to me.

Her hand ran over her flat, hard abs—where some cum had dripped out. She licked it from her fingers, eyes glowing with greed. "Good. But I'm far from satisfied. My horny pussy needs more... and you're going to give me everything you have."

Martha licked the last drops of my cum from her fingers, her eyes burning with unquenched hunger. Her gigantic, steroid-enlarged clit still stood stiff and throbbing—longer and thicker than my cock had ever been, the glans swollen and glistening with her own wetness and my juice. She stood up, the couch springing up with relief, and lifted me again—this time like a child, one arm under my knees and the other around my back. My legs dangled uselessly, my hypersensitive, red cock hung limp.

"Now it's your turn to serve me," she growled deeply. "My pussy isn't satisfied yet... and my clit needs your tongue."

She laid me flat on my back on the wide couch, my head right at the edge. Then she straddled me—a mountain of muscle towering above me. Her massive thighs descended on either side of my head, the quads tensing like steel cables, skin taut over the hard muscle peaks. She positioned herself straddling my face, knees on the couch, her weight pressing me slightly into the cushions. Her wet pussy hovered directly over my nose and mouth—hot, moist, musky with pure lust and power. The enormous clit hung down like a small cock, almost touching my lips.

"Open your mouth," she commanded.

I obeyed instantly. She lowered herself slowly—first her clit touched my tongue, then the swollen glans pressed into my mouth. It filled it completely, pulsed hot against my palate. At the same time her tight, trained pussy settled on my nose—I could barely breathe, only inhale her scent, feel her wetness. She began to grind: slow, circular movements, her clit fucking my mouth like a cock while her pussy slid over my nose, almost suffocating me.

Martha moaned deeply—an animalistic rumble vibrating through her whole body. Her abs tensed, the eight blocks grew even harder, her thighs squeezed my cheeks together. "Lick me properly, little one. Make me come... then I'll suck you dry."

I licked desperately: tongue circling her clit, sucking the glans, tracing the veins. It grew even harder, seemed to lengthen another bit, pressing deeper into my throat. Her pussy got wetter, dripping over my chin. She ground faster, harder—her hips circled, her quads tensed rhythmically, clamping my head tight. I felt her orgasm approaching: her clit pulsed wildly, her pussy contracted, a gush of wetness flowed over my face.

With a loud, deep roar she came—her whole body shook, muscles literally exploding, her clit twitching in my mouth like a living cock. She squirted lightly—hot, clear fluid into my throat, which I swallowed greedily. She ground a few more times until the climax subsided, then lifted slightly, letting me gasp for air.

But she wasn't finished.

Martha dismounted, turned around and knelt over me—this time facing my feet. Her massive upper body towered above me, the hard pecs hanging like armor plates. She bent forward, her gray hair falling like a curtain around us. Then she took my cock into her mouth.

Just the lips first—soft, hot, enclosing the sensitive glans. Her tongue—huge, strong—swirled around, licked along the shaft, sucked lightly. My cock immediately hardened again despite the overstimulation. She took it deeper, to the halfway point, then all the way—her throat was trained, tight, already milking me with the throat muscles.

She began to suck—really suck. Not gently, but greedily, hungrily. Her cheeks hollowed, lips sealing like a vacuum around my shaft. Her tongue pressed against the underside, massaging the vein while she bobbed her head—fast, deep, relentless. At the same time she placed one hand around my balls, squeezed lightly, rolled them, stimulating the prostate from outside.

The third orgasm built furiously—I was so hypersensitive it almost hurt. I moaned into her mouth, arched—but her free hand pressed my upper body down, her biceps bulging brutally.

Exactly when I came... she sucked even harder.

I exploded again—thinner but long streams shot into her throat. She swallowed everything, kept sucking, milking with lips and tongue until no drop remained. But she didn't stop. She sucked gently on, licked the glans, stimulated the tip with her tongue—and brought me to a fourth, dry, shaking orgasm. My body convulsed, I cried out softly, but she just kept sucking greedily until I was completely empty, exhausted, trembling.

Only then did she let my cock slip from her mouth with a loud wet sound. A thread of saliva still hung between her lips and my glans. She licked her lips, grinned predatorily.

"Now you're empty... for the moment. But I'm still hungry. Rest a bit, little one. In a few minutes we continue."

She stroked my cheek—her paw so large it almost covered my whole face—and sat beside me, her muscles glistening with sweat, her clit still half-hard.

Martha sat spread-legged beside me on the couch, her massive thighs spreading so wide they nearly took up the entire seat. Her body still glistened with sweat from our previous rounds, veins on her arms and shoulders pulsing lightly. My cock hung limp and overstimulated between my legs, but just the sight of her—this over 2.10 meters of pure muscle mass, gray hair wild around her striking face—made it twitch slightly again.

She grinned at me, a predatory, knowing grin. "You know what I'd enjoy right now?" she asked in her deep, vibrating voice. "A little game. Arm wrestling. You against me. But fair: you can use both arms. I'll only use my weak left one."

I laughed nervously—it sounded more like a gasp. "That's insane. You'll crush me."

"Exactly why it'll be fun," she replied and extended her left arm. The biceps already bulged in a relaxed state into a gigantic, round mountain—taller and more defined than any male pro I'd ever seen. The vein on it was thick as a pencil, skin taut. "Come on. Sit opposite me. Both hands around my arm. Show me how hard you fight."

I obeyed, knelt on the floor in front of her so my head was again level with her pecs. I gripped her left forearm with both hands—my fingers didn't even come close to meeting around it. Her arm felt like warm steel, unyielding, pulsing with power. We placed our elbows on the coffee table, hand in hand—or rather: my two hands around her one paw.

"Go," she said quietly.

I pushed with all my strength. My shoulders tensed, my biceps burned immediately, my whole upper body trembled with effort. I clenched my teeth, grunted, pressed with both arms as if my life depended on it.

Her arm moved... a tiny millimeter backward.

Martha pretended to tremble. "Oh no... you're stronger than I thought," she breathed with mock horror, her eyes sparkling mockingly. Her left biceps tensed slightly—the mountain rose even higher, the peak sharp as a diamond. But she let me believe I had a chance. For exactly three seconds.

Then she pushed back.

Effortlessly. As if I were nothing.

Her arm came up slowly but unstoppable—I pushed against it, legs braced, back arched, sweat dripping down my face. It was utterly ridiculous. My arms shook like leaves, my hands almost slipping off from sweat, but her left arm—her "weak" arm—didn't move even a centimeter backward. She simply held me, let me struggle, let me exhaust myself.

"Almost... almost had me," she murmured with laughter in her voice. "You're really strong... for a little boy."

Suddenly—out of pure boredom, as she called it—her right hand wandered downward. Without taking her eyes off my face, she gripped my cock with two fingers. The thumb and index finger of her right paw—thicker than my shaft—closed loosely around the base. She began to stroke slowly, circling, up and down, massaging exactly the sensitive underside.

I moaned, my strength fading instantly. My whole body trembled—partly from the struggle, partly from the sudden stimulation. My cock hardened again in seconds, throbbing in her hand.

"Focus," she teased. "You can't give up. Keep pushing."

I tried—really. I clenched my teeth, cried out softly with effort, pushed with all remaining strength into her left hand. But at the same time she jerked me with the right—slowly, torturously, precisely. Every stroke brought me closer to the edge while my arm wrestling grew weaker and weaker.

Martha continued pretending she was almost losing: her left arm trembled theatrically, moved a few millimeters back. "Oh God... you're actually doing it..." she whispered theatrically.

Then—with a small, amused sigh—she slowly, effortlessly pressed me all the way down.

Her left arm descended centimeter by centimeter, unstoppable. I fought, screamed, my muscles burned, tears of overload ran down my face—but it was no use. My face approached the table until my cheek nearly lay on it. Her biceps now fully flexed—a monstrous, split mountain rising higher than anything I'd ever seen.

At the same time her right hand sped up. She jerked me faster, harder—the thumb pressing exactly on the most sensitive spot. I couldn't hold it. The orgasm exploded out of me—the fifth of the afternoon. Thin but violent streams shot out, landed on her forearm, dripped over her veins, ran across her biceps.

Martha laughed deeply, triumphantly. She held my arm down for another moment—then released. My body collapsed, gasping, shaking.

She raised her left arm, turned it so my cum ran over her biceps. With her right hand she gathered it, licked it sensually from her fingers. "Mmm... your protein tastes even better when you fight and lose."

She bent down, her face close to mine. "Another round? Or do you admit you don't stand a chance against me... no matter how many arms you use?"

[diabolodiabolo]

⚡ Support Saradas

Keep the archive alive with Bitcoin

1QDxcxUx8pnsZvauyVxTqaJrWkeNhQrPdK

Donate →

[horst11]

Wow, this was amazing. Don't know how I missed it!! Thanks, hope to see more of Martha...
K+