Author: [Amnoartist] Juiced II

[Amnoartist]

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 1: Most Muscular

Peyton had never been so drawn towards a news report before. Generally it was just a whole lot of nonsense about prices going up again or the government shafting its people...again, which only permitted a derisive rolling of the eyes from the brunette. But this particular news report was different, something that actually, genuinely interested Peyton. Folding her arms, the sleeves of her denim shirt straining and pulling in earnest to keep her muscles hidden, she fazed out from reality to watch the broadcast with all her perceivable scrutiny.

The report transitioned into the montage of a large blonde woman training with such passion and energy Peyton had great cause to be envious, sweat matting every perceivable inch of her indubitably superhumanly muscular frame, large throbbing veins goading themselves larger with every pump and flex.

At that point a name started rolling horizontally into the shot: Mischa Konovalev; world's most muscular woman. There was no mistaking it was her, even from the montage's first shot, but seeing her name slowly come into view as it did only made the moment all the more exciting. Mischa had built a name for herself over the last couple of years, initially dubbed a rising starlet in the world of bodybuilding, before an entirely new division was forced into being introduced, the Mass Monster class. Mischa helped pave the way towards reinitializing the otherwise dying sport.

Peyton kept her eyes on the screen, watching the montage bleed into a live stream of Mischa accompanied by male professionals. It stood to reason these so-called heavyweights were dwarfed by the comparatively mountainous Russian. She raised her biceps into a flex, which even without a pump stood thrice the size of the professional's heads, criss-crossed with veins both thin and broad. Smiling into the camera, she heard the men struggle with the measuring tape in their attempt to take a reading of her biceps. Their previous recording stood at twenty-six point seven inches, but between the month-long wait and intense training since then, Mischa had to have climbed beyond fifty.

One of the men finally managed to take a measurement of Mischa's biceps. Judging by his expression though, it was clear she had more than exceeded his expectations. Wordlessly, he approached the camera and flaunted the measurement written on a small piece of paper.

Thirty-eight point nine inches. A twelve-inch increase within the space of a month!

Mischa relaxed, turned to face a tall dark-haired man in a sharp suit and spoke to him quietly in Russian. Peyton presumed this man in black to be Mischa's translator. Either she didn't speak good English or just preferred not to. In any case, this Mischa Konovalev was a living mystery box.

"Miss Konovalev would like to train now," the black-suited aide spoke softly to the cameraman behind the shot.

The live feed cut short, bringing the news back to its normal, nonsensical dreariness. Despite that, though, Peyton maintained a mesmerized stare on the screen, drowning out the reality that was her life, before—

"Helllloo! Are you deaf or something?"

Peyton snapped back to reality at the pretentious tones of Priscilla Avington, the richest gal in town, a friend to some but a total bitch to most. Having returned to reality made Peyton realize just how boring her life was compared to Priscilla's, even more so Mischa's. A part-time job at the local hairdresser that seemed to be going absolutely nowhere, buried up to her neck in student work, all while owning the local gym. Priscilla had riches and could probably do anything anything she wanted, and while Mischa didn't have the same degree of wealth, her popularity was equal depending on the social circle she found herself in.

"Sorry, Priscilla. What were you saying?" Peyton looked down at the blonde with feigned interest.

Priscilla rolled her eyes derisively. She hated having to repeat herself just once, always expected people to have their total attention on her at all times. However, otherwise was always to be expected from commoners, or so her father said.

"I said, that Kolotosesh chick, or whatever the frack she's called—"

"Konovalev."

"Whatever! The point is, that's really a dude in a bra. I don't see why those Russians aren't aware of that." Priscilla reached into her handbag and pulled a pink mobile phone. Of course, it wasn't just any mobile phone, but one from the Avington Tech brand. Only the rich people had them. Priscilla flicked through her contacts - Clive, Daddy, Ewan, Fiona, Georgina, Mummy - not a single text or missed call from any of them. She hated it when that happened. "They must be so drunk from all that Vodka that they can't tell the difference between a man or a woman," she continued.

Derogatory, stereotypical and often times racist remarks were common from Priscilla, things Peyton had learned to steel herself against from repeated exposure. The truth was Peyton loathed Priscilla on account of both that and her arrogant personality. Priscilla's father Warren had strictly instructed her to blend in with the common people more to dilute her pompousness, getting her hair styled in an everyday hairdresser, for instance, but it never seemed to work, instead only gave Priscilla reason to gloat.

"Anyway, can you believe my Dad said no to me about getting a new car? Said I had to work for it." Priscilla scoffed. "Me, work? With my broken nail?"

"Done." Peyton snipped the last solitary strand of hair from Priscilla's forehead, giving her a fringe to go alongside the ponytails she styled before the news started. Now Priscilla looked like a rich bitch as well as act like one. "That'll be nine pounds, Priscilla."

The blonde checked her hair in the mirror before standing, scrutinizing the cut obsessively. Everything had to be perfect for tonight, she had a bunch of her friends coming over for a party while her father and his friends talked Avington stocks. When that was all done her gentleman caller would arrive.

"Meh, it's adequate." Priscilla handed Peyton a ten pound note. Peyton knew Priscilla enough not to expect a tip, so handed that single pound coin back. Like her appearance, every penny mattered to the rich girl.

"You have a good day now." Peyton knew her courteous words fell on Priscilla's ears like water on a rock, as though the pompous girl could filter out compliments at will, discarding those from common people and only paying even just a second of attention to those that would only serve her in some way. Rich people complimenting other rich people because they could make each other wealthier. With common people they were just words.

Peyton removed her apron and hung it up next to the others, each labeled by name - Trisha, Peyton, Vivien, Lucy and Laura. Peyton was the last shift of the half-day so had to close up the shop after tidying up. The other girls couldn't handle Priscilla's personality so well as Peyton, so she had 'exclusive' access to the budding egotist, for lack of a more appropriate term. Priscilla generally didn't like socializing with the average person for fear of catching something from them, but she liked Peyton...mostly because Peyton didn't exactly listen to what she had to say and constantly agreed with everything just to be on the safe side. This week's run-in with Priscilla was surprisingly tolerable, though, even by her standards.

Peyton sighed. It was just one of those days.

***

"Da, ya ponimayu." Anatol Berezin spoke into his mobile phone in the gym's corner, where a horizontal slit window was positioned. A thin outburst of daylight cutting fiercely through it, almost blinding him. The voice that came from the phone was strict, to such a degree in fact that Anatol bit his lip anxiously. "Konechno, ser."

The voice on the other end bellowed at Anatol, forcing him to pull the phone away to dull the tirade of verbal abuse directed at him. After mustering enough courage, Anatol put the phone to his ear again.

"Sorry, ma'am. I forget we're not in the Motherland anymore." Anatol turned away from the window and observed Mischa curl a dumbbell that weighed somewhere within the one thousand pound range. An immense weight to most people but felt no lighter than a shopping bag to Mischa. "It's just—you know she doesn't like to be disturbed during her training."

"I do not care. She has a strict schedule to adhere to this week." A distant cough came from the phone; raspy, wheezy. Anatol nodded in agreement with the caller's statement, though with reluctance before he continued. "She is not to deviate any further. Do you understand?"

Anatol nodded with a moment's silence, at first, before finding the necessary courage to agree yet again. He could hear Mischa's grunting intensify between his exchange, knew it was all just an act in an effort to make her training feel more intense and no doubt get Anatol's attention. She was particularly adept at that.

Anatol ended the call and waited with hesitance for a moment, not sure it was a particularly good idea to break the news to Mischa while she worked out. Stopping, he watched her ease into the leg press, eyeballing the large young woman manipulate the one-ton weight like it was nothing. Her quads visibly expanded with each rep, pumping her outrageous, unquestionably Herculean muscles with each passing second, ballooning and pressing against the fabric of her skin-tight shorts.

Anatol gulped. "Your mother says you need to stop with the diversions. That you have a strict schedule to adhere to."

"Net, ya yeshche ne zakonchil." Mischa's voice was strained, no doubt from the focus on her training, her neck muscles bulging in tandem with her fourteenth rep. "U menya yeshche yest' neskol'ko povtoreniy, chtoby sdelat'."

"English, Mischa," Anatol scolded. Her father wasn't paying him money to teach his daughter the language only to not use it.

She rolled her eyes derisively, not finding much point in repeating herself. The leg press jolted violently back into its starting position as she threw her legs to the floor, the tendons in her calves twitching like snakes slithering through grass.

Mother always have problem with me working out."

"—has a problem," Anatol corrected.

The leg press jerked as Mischa's monumental weight peeled free from it, an imprint of her musculature fashioned into the bench's leather. That would no doubt be permanent. With a heaved breath she stood in front of Anatol and eased into a lat spread pose, the fabric of her sports bra visibly straining from the effort to keep her modest. Anatol was like a tiny mouse compared to Mischa, four times his width.

Keeping his professional composure, Anatol opened the logbook he kept with him at all times. The logbook mostly chronicled Mischa's events of the day and upcoming events, almost like a diary. "You have an autobiography signing tomorrow morning, an interview with Lee King that night and a sponsored event all of Wednesday."

"Blyad'!" Between her mother's incessant prodding and constantly being on the move, Mischa was stressed out beyond belief. She just wanted to be home.

"I know it's not what you want to hear but you have to do it." Anatol keenly observed Mischa wipe the sweat from her legs with a damp towel, the musculature of her lower body quickly forming from wet to stone-dry rock with each rub. "Get it all over with and you'll have Thursday all to yourself. I'll make your favorite dinner then."

Mischa's brow curled curiously. Before taking up the job as her personal aide, Anatol previously worked as a world-class chef, making appearances for the Prime Minister. Eventually seeking new ventures, Anatol applied to be an aide to the nation's rising starlet, unaware at the time that it would be Mischa.

"You make Zharkoye?"

Anatol smirked. "I won't just make it for you. I'll make as much of it as you want."

Msicha smiled. "You, how you say, 'have a deal.'"

***

Sat comfortably in her private limousine, Mischa crossed a foot over her gargantuan leg while texting as Anatol read through the stats she accrued over the past month. Sitting comfortably at thirty-eight point nine inches, her biceps truly were the largest in the known world, and at only twenty-two years old, there was reason to believe she still had potential for even more growth. Mischa hadn't  yet plateaued, which reinforced Anatol's presumption. He was distracted for a moment by the large girl pulling at her shorts vainly trying to cover up her thighs. While looking though, Anatol could sense Mischa's disappointment. As much as she liked his cooking, there was no denying even zharkoye wouldn't help her mood. And Anatol had yet more news to break.

"Your father's health deteriorates further, unfortunately." Anatol looked away quickly, peering out the window at the snow-capped rooftops of St Petersburg. He didn't have to look at Mischa to know how she felt about the news; it was distressing, heart-rending. Everything she done - the bodybuilding contests, private shows, webcamming and writing her autobiography - all of that was to fund the procedure necessary in helping him get better, but her father assumed it was just to gain wealth. "I heard his breathing over the phone earlier. It isn't looking good."

Mischa offered a glance at Anatol. She knew he always meant what was best for her and could depend on him if needed. But still—hearing that news tore into her soul. "Kak dolgo do—How long until he.." Shuddering, she couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence that was otherwise at the tip of her tongue.

"Doctors say we've a few weeks at most."

Mischa knew it was a hopeless endeavor at this point. All her hard work amounting to naught. At the rate things were going, all the money gained was better off being used for her father's funeral.

"Cancel appearances and signing." Mischa's foot slipped away from her thigh, her calf easing into a squelchy flex in response, thick veins criss-crossing her kneecap. "Take me home."

Anatol didn't say anything, instead he nodded in agreement before knocking on the glass pane behind him, rousing the driver's attention.

"Otvezi nas domoy."

"Srazu, ser," the driver called back.

The limo took a left turn, entering a dimly lit tunnel under a bridge. Mischa grew anxious by the gridlock ahead. The snows from last night had pummeled the city so hard that metropolis itself had bled into a deadlock. No one in a car was going anywhere.

"You understand that when the time comes, you will be heading the family, taking care of your father's accounts and debts." Anatol's eyes grew when he noticed Mischa's deathly glare. That definitely wasn't what she wanted to hear. Being reminded that the family was buried up to its neck in debt certainly didn't help thing either. Anatol was just doing his job, though he may have overstepped his boundaries with Mischa. It was best not to stay in that particular line of questioning. Better to talk about something Mischa had interest in.

Anatol remembered Mischa strained in her effort to keep her shorts over her thick thighs, looking at the broad chunks of feminine meat with a curious expression.

"How big are your thighs now?"

Mischa responded with a confused look, not sure why Anatol would ask such a question so abruptly. He was never so forward in the matters of wanting to know how large or strong she was. That said, she just couldn't resist boasting. "Pyat'desyat—fifty-two inches. Why you ask me this?"

"To keep your mind off things. How much can you lift?"

"I lift one ton."

Anatol feigned a surprised expression. Of course, it was part of his job to keep track of Mischa's measurements. Outside of keeping the girl calm, the point of Anatol's little game of trivia was to uncover just how large and strong Mischa intended on getting. Before deciding to use her muscles as the means to earn money for her father's operation, Anatol knew Mischa had aspirations of her own as well. All girls do. "Name one thing on your bucket list."

"Bucket list. I do not know this word." Mischa's anxious news returned upon believing Anatol's question to be a trick.

Anatol smiled. He always found Mischa's nervousness to be adorable. "A bucket list is a list of things you want to in life before you die."

Much thought long and hard about her 'bucket list.' Things to do in life before one dies - that was harder to come up with than Anatol would think, especially given the expense of the moment.

"I want to visit London, England. Try full English breakfast, fish and chips, custard creams—hmmm!"

Anatol burst into laughter. Mischa frowned, thinking she had embarrassed herself in some way.

"What funny? I say it wrong?"

"No, no. It's just..." Anatol smiled. He forgot the most obvious thing about Mischa, outside of her unnatural muscularity and strength. "...sometimes I forget you're an ordinary girl deep down."

Msicha smiled back, trying yet failing to hide the blush in her cheeks.

"If you really want to visit London, I'm sure something will fly your way." Anatol let out a small sigh of relief as the limo started moving again.

Mischa didn't say anything to suggest the fact but she was contented by Anatol's trivia, her anxiousness ebbed away. All while Anatol hadn't noticed she offered him a smile he hadn't seen before. She leaned in closer to him, her sports bra straining with the movement.

"I also want to try threesome," she revealed shamelessly with a giggle, looking at Anatol intently as she reached for his comapratively tiny leg. He was beginning to realise it might've been a mistake telling her what a bucket list was.

[Amnoartist]

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[nyfiken]

great stuff

[Sicod]

So prolific and so well written.

The following is not a critique, but a question. Is it common for non-American's to list their body size in inches? It might be part of the bodybuilding sport, I do not know. With the accurate use of money and I assume accurate use of language I am just wondering if that is accurate as well. Thank you so much for writing.

[Amnoartist]

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 2: Reminder

Peyton sighed. With her shift over, she could finally focus on some personal time, specifically organize her meal plan: Two chicken breasts with rice, a yogurt as a snack and a protein shake every day for the next week. Stood over the kitchen counter, she counted the breasts individually, the rice boiling away gently in the background. She'd just bought two six-packs of yogurt on the way home and would no doubt buy another before the week was even halfway through.

Grunting softly, she pulled her shirt off over her head, allowing her muscles to finally properly breathe. Just by standing over the counter Peyton could feel her biceps' tendons pull and constrict, taut from the evident lack of oxygen supplied to them throughout the day from hiding them. Her friends and colleagues knew about the muscles and even accepted them - it was from Priscilla they had to be hidden, knowing she would derogatorily mouth off. Her earlier comments about Masha Konovaleva were proof of that.

The TV was on in the background, though muted. Peyton didn't have much interest in watching network shows these days, between exclusive streaming services on the rise, her part-time job as a personal trainer and the other as a hairdresser, not to mention working out in her own time, she could barely keep up with a schedule for such things. Ironic, Peyton not being able to adhere to a timetable. Even so, the vibrant colours and flashing from the TV caught her attention, like disco music pulling in an energetic youth from the outside. Turning away from the counter, she gave the news report a moment of attention before inevitably being sucked into it like a black hole.

The report was being presented live by a man somewhere in his mid-forties dressed in a thick raincoat as light rain lashed him, stood outside the Silverlight center, a five-billion pounds sterling project funded entirely by the Avington Concern, used to host expos, theater shows and other forms of leisure.

Several black vehicles filled most of the camera's frame. Peyton found herself slowly lowering into the couch as the main headline rolled in from the right:

BODYBUILDING CONTEST CONTROVERSY - CONTESTANT ARRESTED

Seeing the headline, Peyton unmuted the TV, the full force of the report having now grabbed her attention. A sense of unease came over her, coupled with uncertainty.

"That's right, Harriet," the male reporter called out loudly amongst a gust of fierce wind battering him, forcing him to double-check his footing, "Australian amateur female bodybuilding competitor, Zara Philips, has been detained following her disqualification from the contest, which came after an inexplicable outburst of growth when performing on stage. The contest was subsequently canceled."

A female voice came through live from the news studio while the reporter adjusted his jacket, trying vainly to keep himself presentable for the live viewers across both the country and the world. "What could have caused this outburst to take place, Glen?"

"Hard to say at the moment, but from what information has been gathered since then, this ties in with the group of vehicles behind me that arrived shortly afterwards. Too soon for any outgoing call to the emergency services to arrive." Glen turned sideways to look at the vehicles curiously, the camera panning and zooming in to get a better look at the unfamiliar crest on the front door - a love heart, in side of which resided a small cross, flanked by spread wings. "It is unclear at this time which section of the law enforcement these individuals represent. Perhaps, most likely, something new, but they were aware of this incident being likely to happen."

Glen was cut short, looking at the cameraman behind the shot pointing outwards at Silverlight's main entrance where several officers representing this yet unknown wing of the law enforcement came from, escorting Zara Philips. Glen rushed to meet the group head-on, desperate to know so much more of the incident that occurred behind closed doors. But he stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed Zara.

Her muscles were still twitching from a perverse want to grow, desperate for more of the pills. Her own increase in size wanting—needing to feed on itself like a virus. Zara may have complied with the nameless group's demand in detaining her, but she never was going to be aggressive. If anything, she just wanted to ensure her victory in the contest, feeling her pecs swell outwards inches at a time just by breathing. It was orgasmic, a sensation she would've taken care of personally backstage had she not been caught doping. Arms hung at her front, her biceps creaked and bloated in their sickening desperation to grow, her peaks pressing against her hips, a layer of vascularity suddenly bursting into existence.

Glen caught the attention from one of the people escorting Zara, coming up to the camera to interrupt the otherwise perfectly flawless shot of the Asian's spurt of growth. That was when Peyton recognized the red hair and light brown trench coat. It was Detective Lily Hart, coming all this way from Southpoint - again.

Lily flashed her badge on camera, though it wasn't distinctively a police one. Rather, an exact copy of the crest found on the vehicles shown earlier. That was when the report was cut off, bringing the live feed back to the BBC offices in London.

News presenter Harriet Lane issued an awkward smile. "Sorry about that. In other news, South Korean medical firm Bright Life has come under fire for its alleged illegal use of DNA—"

Peyton's mouth dropped open in shock. That was it? Damn it. She turned the TV off and threw the remote onto the couch, trying to figure out how to make either heads or tails of what she just saw. How was Kim so big?

Then of course, there were the bigger questions. Who was Lily working with that she had to maintain such secrecy? Sure, she was a detective, but this secretive wing she worked under definitely wasn't public knowledge. It was all so stressful.

Opening the nearby drawer, Peyton looked at the lone pill bottle rolling back and forth. Then the smiling monkey face slowly came into view as if to tease her. Kim couldn't have been using the monkey pills because Peyton had the last bottle in existence. When Natalie decided to go cod turkey, she dumped the remaining bottles into the chemical waste bin. But from mere happenstance Peyton found a long-lost unopened bottle in her sister's wardrobe when spring cleaning last year. Peyton had been ploddingly taking them since then just for the thrill and curiosity. If one of the pills in the palm of her hand, she remembered her vow: when the bottle was empty, she swore that would be the end of it.

Should she, shouldn't she?

A smell filled the air, causing Peyton's current train of thought to grind to a halt. The smell was familiar, not unlike something...burning,

"Oh shit! The chicken!"

A serious doubt gnarled at Peyton's mind as she turned off the cooker, fanning the flames away desperately with the kitchen towel: It couldn't possibly have been the monkey pills that made Zara so big because looking that large when on them would've yielded countless adverse effects - internal organ failure, an abnormal outbreak of vascularity, high prospect of addiction—all the same traits a particularly different redhead exhibited a couple of years prior.

***

Depression: that was the sole feeling to have swirled within Reagan's mind for months, like flesh slowly ebbing away, decaying. Stood by the hospital window, she gazed out at the street below, longing to live the life of a free woman, but that wasn't to happen anytime soon. Even so, there wasn't much Reagan could do. Her life had changed so much in the past two years since her admission and the doctors' worked to rehabilitate her. Dale had left and her parents ended up disowning her for the freak she ended up transforming into. Though it wasn't her fault. Not exactly anyway.

The doctors worked their hardest to restore Reagan to her former self, though they weren't totally successful. The eighty-hundred-and-fifty kilo mass monster they were originally tasked with saving, pleaded mostly by Natalie, now stood by the window at ninety kilos, most of which was made up of the musculature the doctors couldn't subdue through being so solid owing to having gone full-bottle. And that wasn't even the worst of it.

Sighing, Reagan glared at the metal brace bolted onto her mangled left leg, designed purposefully to support and evenly distribute her weight. Her right leg contrasted the other; strong and muscular, layered with soft veins. The irony though was Reagan had become sickened by the strength certain aspects of her body possessed, retained from unforeseen effects brought on not just by going full-bottle but the rehabilitation procedure that came afterwards. She could walk, but no further than to the window she next to, only a few short steps away. The doctors, in turn, placed a small table and some chairs next to the window for visitors.

Her right arm throbbed, as if to attract Reagan's attention. She hated it when that happened. It was her body's way of saying 'I'm still here, you'll never get away from me. I am you!' It drove Reagan mad at times, made her realize Karma had finally decided to dole out its dues.

Upon her admission to the hospital, the doctors eventually realized the adverse effects of Reagan going full-bottle weren't just physical, but equally daunting cognitively and psychologically. When her body shut down from the abhorrent use of the monkey pills, it wasn't long before Reagan was being force-fed through a tube and on twenty-four-seven care for months, the shutdown a counteraction from the pills on the doctors' attempt to heal her.

In the months that followed her physical health returning to normalcy, Reagan experienced further problems, namely memory. She lost all semblance of knowledge or recognition from before she suffered her shutdown, failing to remember faces, names or even how to talk, spending most of her time staring blankly at the window like she was now. The memory loss was, thankfully, only temporary, but lasted long enough for certain problems to arise, particularly the relationships she had with Dale and her parents.

It took Reagan merely weeks to obtain the physique needed to enact her desired revenge on Natalie, but years to revert to normal. She was riddled with guilt gnawing on her bones and half muscular flesh. The irony of it all—

"You ready, Reagan?"

Jerking back into reality, pulling herself away from the mist of guilt, Reagan remembered. The detectives were going to question her today. A poly-something test, she vaguely remembered it being called. She agreed to it once her memory started coming back. She just hoped enough of it was back to help them. Something about an ongoing investigation involving the pills? Right?

"Yeah, I'm ready." Reagan turned to the nurse feigning a smile. Her voice was still slightly masculine. In fact, that was permanent, something the doctor's couldn't do to help unless it involved clipping her vocal cords, which they wouldn't do without Reagan;'s expressed consent. Reagan wasn't particularly up to that. Her body had gone through so much of a change already...it was maybe best to wait.

"You'll be fine," the nurse comforted.

The leg brace clicking, Reagan hobbled over to the nurse, then stopped. She had already been offered a wheelchair, but refused, insisted she was well enough to walk. She'd have to do it eventually, anyway, otherwise prolonging the inevitable.

***

"I'm done."

"What? Already?"

"We've been—"

Muffled moans and screams of pleasure. The rhythmical shaking of the bed frame. Calling out in lust as suppressed voices came from behind the locked door, which a large, burly and hairless brute of a man named Owen stood abreast of, gulping nervously as he overheard the wanton intercourse from the wall behind him. He'd never known Priscilla to have such sexual energy, though supposed it to be pent up and compensating for her comparatively mousy stature. She wasn't small—not exactly anyway—just looked like that compared to Owen.

But, I'm not done," came the voice from behind the door.

A groan followed by a dull thud and metallic clatter.

Literally hot under the collar, he tugged at the neckband of his shirt and exhaled. It felt like if he held his breath in long enough, something would happen, the inhales syncing up with the thrusts, exhales going hand in hand with the bed frame's wooden groans.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Owen saw Dayna appear seemingly out of nowhere. Though the truth was he was too mesmerized by Priscilla's passion to know the bespectacled assistant had been standing there for the last few seconds, sizing the large yet quiet giant up from head to toe.

"Lost in thought, are we?" Dayna's voice always melted Owen's heart; layered thickly with eroticism, applied deliberately when talking specifically to him. Because she knew he liked her. It was Dayna's job to keep track of things, particularly when they concerned Priscilla. Owen simply grumbled in response, the sex behind him amplifying. "How's she doing?"

"She's been at it for four hours straight. Around five men are in there with her."

Owen was surprised he managed to retain a sense of professionalism after divulging such a thing to Dayna, who he presumed to find such things either distasteful or lacking in morals, judging by her conservative dress; a black blazer suit and trousers, white shirt and a tie, almost identical to Owen's attire. But Dayna was younger than Owen, he in his mid-forties, she only just reached her twenties. That made her even younger than Priscilla.

Dayna looked down at Owen's crotch and smirked at the first obvious indication of an erection, then looked up at him with shrewdly. "Well, if you're a good little guard, I'm sure she'd be perfectly willing to make it six men—next time."

Priscilla swayed her hips in sync with her thrusts, releasing impassioned moans in the attempt to instill vigour in the man below her struggling to keep himself awake. His energy had been spent long before now, yet determined in some way or another to ensure she was satisfied. Her breasts bouncing up and down gently with each jolt, slapping into one another, she bit her lip in eagerness, staring into his eyes.

The door clicked open revealing Dayna, who casually walked past and over the sexually exhausted men strewn across the floor, some of which were bigger and longer than others, but it was clear they just didn't do the job they were paid to. No-one seemed to fit the bill. One of the men paid to service Priscilla laid droopy over the bed, groaning in a manner that seemed to indicate pain.

"Enjoying yourself?" Dayna stopped just a few inches from Priscilla, examining her naked back. No skin rash. Good. Unlike the impressively-built man below her fondling her perfect tits, his back was glistened with sweat. Curious at first glance, considering they'd been at it for hours.

"No." Priscilla stopped, looking at her gigalo in disgust. He seemed to be enjoying himself, what with the wide toothy grin plastered across his face, but it wasn't about him. It was about her. "Four hours and five dicks later, I still haven't orgasmed. Not once. Are you sure they're working as they should? Are they long enough?"

"I can assure you these men are of the highest quality."

Priscilla scoffed, sliding free from the dazzled man who just couldn't keep his eyes off her. "Whatever you say, Dayna." Between her smooth and tight bubble butt, hourglass figure and gravity-defying breasts, she was, in a word, perfect. A goddess, even. But Priscilla felt different on that matter. Never in her life had she reached climax during sex. It drove her mad at times to think she was different from other women, different from her friends who could do it anytime they wanted. She was annoyed, and it showed.

"Why are you here?"

Dayna reached into the inside pocket of her blazer and pulled out a syringe with a vial attached to its bottom. She and Priscilla looked at each other knowingly. Time for another check-up.

Priscilla nodded, then poked her male friend in the elbow. "You. Leave. Take your friends with you."

"Will I see you again?" It was clear this man—whoever he was—had become starstruck by the beauty Priscilla naturally expressed. Not that it mattered. "I think I'm in love."

"No. You're useless to me. So you won't be back. You..." Priscilla offered a perfunctory glance to the other men strewn across the floor and bed. "...or your friends."

He turned to Dayna as if expecting her to reprimand Priscilla for her cold-hearted yet honest response, but the truth was Dayna didn't feel any different on the matter. She was utterly devoted to her employer, offering an equally affronting glance that had the gigolo quickly on his feet gathering his clothes and waking his friends from their slumber.

Priscilla held out her arm, squeezing her fist a few times to get blood flowing and the veins in her arm to rise to the surface of her skin. She never questioned why samples of her blood were taken on a regular basis, having them done so ever since she could remember. It was part of her life.

"How's Daddy?"

"Busy. What with all the Bright Life shenanigans going on. He expects having to work with them through their court case. In the meantime, he wants you to work on your relations with other people."

"You mean, he wants me out the way."

"Priscilla—"

The blonde groaned, slipping back into her pair of snow-white frills and ankle socks, then searched frantically for her bra. "What did he have in mind, exactly?"

Dayna didn't immediately offer a response. Instead, she marveled at Priscilla's tight glutes as she bent down to pick up her bra from the floor. "Oh, um...nothing in particular. Although, I offered a suggestion."

Priscilla turned as the elastic of bra snapped into place across her shoulder, her interest piqued. "I'm listening."

"Peyton."

Priscilla burst into laughter. She was expected to form a friendly relationship with the fucking hairdresser? Surely Dayna wasn't serious? Of course, when she saw the expression painted across her face—

"Oh my god, you're serious. Why would I ever want to be friends with her?"

"Because she has friends." Dayna kept up with her keen observations while placing the vial of blood and used syringe into her blazer's inside pocket. "Something you, admittedly, have a severe lack in. You might learn something from her."

Priscilla's eyes narrowed. She didn't like it when people called her out on her shortage of friends, especially when such comments came from someone she otherwise wholeheartedly trusted. "Careful, Dayna. Or you will find yourself with the severe lack of a job. Maybe then you'll learn something about where you stand."

"I didn't mean to—"

Priscilla's deathly glare strengthened, a light rash breaking out across her cheeks. That alone spoke for her. Dayna stopped before speaking herself into a corner.

"Fine. I suppose it can't hurt to see just how interesting Peyton actually can be," Priscilla commented, tying her hair into pigtails. "Not that she will be, or anything."

Dayna watched the rash on Priscilla's cheeks fade gradually before feigning a smile, offering her the stick of lipstick she always had on hand. "No, of course not."

[Fluff]

Awesome chapter!! More more more!!

[MassiveMuscleGoddess]

Looks very interesting so far, and I would like to see how this series goes.

Nice introductions to the various characters so far!

[phil123]

Great chapter. Please keep going and growing

[Amnoartist]

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 3: Concerns

"Zdorov'ye tvoyego ottsa bystro ukhudshayetsya." Masha's mother Galina couldn't bear looking at her, seeing her abnormally muscular frame press against that expensive fur coat and tight black leather boots from which her calves most definitely screamed to be released. The EKG machine hooked up to Ivan, Masha's father, beeped rhythmically in the background. Galina looked into his eyes longingly, petrified by his looking back so gauntly, expressing more bone underneath than healthy flesh. "Vas volnuyet tol'ko stanovitsya bol'she."

Stood at the door, Anatoly winced. He always knew Galina to offer harsh criticisms but even he knew this particular accusation was unwarranted. Masha had already tried to interject a few times now, in her effort to explain why she acted this way - why she was supposedly obsessed with working out. She was aware of her apparent 'gift' for gaining muscle mass quickly and so sought to use that to her advantage - to accumulate the necessary funds for her father's life-saving, yet expensive operation. But Galina just couldn't see it that way, instead, believing Masha's reasoning to be an excuse to cover up her enjoyment in being rich.

Masha looked around her parents' bedroom, reminiscing in not too distant memories - her father reading her his favorite childhood book, which in turn became hers; hiding under the bed during a game of hide and seek... Her life as a child in the village was such a stark contrast to what it was now but she felt no different towards her parents. It was just Galina who felt that way.

But then, perhaps arriving at her childhood home in a limousine wasn't the best idea.

"Mama, I..." Masha stopped herself suddenly, remembering her mother didn't know a single word of English let alone be able to string a sentence together. This created yet another wedge between the mother and daughter. Masha sat on the edge of the bed and listened to her father's wheezy breaths with dread, fearing the worst could happen at any moment. She hoped her mother would eventually come around and see sense. Her father's life depended on that.

Masha sighed. Her family was in dire straits, between the crippling debt and expensive treatment for her father. Masha knew she had what it took to pull her parents out from the hole they found themselves in, particularly when it came to her father's potential therapy.

Anatoly took it upon himself to step in, to help Galina see the light her daughter was guiding her towards. Masha knew her own attempts amounted to nothing at this point but she knew first hand that Anatoly seemed to have a way with words during important situations. Resting his hand on her pumpkin'd shoulder, he smiled at Masha who decided to leave, holding back tears.

***

Anatoly didn't leave Masha's parents' cozy homestead until nearly an hour later, by which point the sun was starting to set over the distant hills. Leaning over the porch railing, he pulled out a cigarette packet from his waistcoat with a smile that seemed to suggest triumph. The family barn was just a short stroll from where he stood, its doors spread open like angel wings wide enough to see the animal stalls on both sides filled with horses and cows both.

Between the stalls was a simple hay path. Stamping the cigarette out on the porch, Anatoly made his way towards it leisurely as his ears picked up a distinctive, yet muffled sound he'd grown accustomed to hearing on a daily basis, making his smile grow until his teeth flashed. The cow nearest the barn doors mooed when Anatoly came to a halt stood squarely between them, his shadow growing with the setting sun. The muffled sound had since become clearer, metamorphosed into a grunt of effort coming hand in hand with metallic groans, steel scraping off the ground as the large machine was casually lifted by its front, the fur coat casually tossed into the pile of hay in the corner.

Masha was curling the family's tractor! Seeing this display had given Anatoly cause to stare long enough for Masha to realize she was no longer alone, which only fueled her desire to keep going. She loved it when there was an audience, after all. Wincing, she drove the vehicle even higher, listening to its grill hiss as steam was expelled from mounting pressure, the front suspension groaning in protest. The ground beneath Masha cracked as she maintained her position, shuffling her feet to widen her stance which in turn allowed the tractor to be raised even higher at an angle, almost like she was about to flip it like a tire. But that's when she stopped, turning to Anatoly with a smile.

"Like what you see?" There was no indication of struggle in Masha's voice. Keeping the tractor upright, she let one hand go free to casually flex her arm, watching Anatoly's expression shift from shocked to aroused in a matter of seconds. It certainly wasn't the first time that happened and they both knew that. He watched as her bicep casually grew a couple of inches, veins snaking up it like worms writhing in the dirt. "I've a feeling you do. This weighs seven hundred and fifty kilos or half a tonne."

To Masha's surprise and slight annoyance, Anatoly managed to regain his professional composure, adjusting the crease in his waistcoat and collar. Masha had originally set out to lift the tractor to release the pent-up frustrations concerning her mother's reluctance to the truth, but as she lifted the large machine higher and Anatoly arrived, those frustrations evolved into something more primal. Anatoly was just too much of a professional and all-round gentleman to take advantage of them. If he were to have a private moment with Masha, it would be through courting her as one should, not just when one was desperate for a fuck.

In any case, he could see Masha's frustrations had found a new target in him. Releasing her grip, the tractor dropped back to the ground in its previous position, the resounding light shockwave rippled through the woman's trousers like a sharp blade, cutting them up at the back to reveal her throbbing calves.

"What is it?"

"I managed to get your mother to see sense. That is to say, explain why you're doing all this."

Masha's frustrations seemed to dissipate as if Anatoly's words calmed her. Despite not actually saying anything to suggest the fact, Anatoly knew Masha was contented by his ability to help. Now she could focus all her efforts on getting the money needed to help her father.

Anatoly lit another cigarette but didn't immediately take a draw from it. Instead, he kept it between his fingers as the smoke flailed to and fro with the rising wind. In essence, there was a moment of silence between them. "I figured since we're somewhere private we could talk about the other thing."

Masha raised her brow in curiosity. That alone spoke for her. She watched Anatoly pull out a notepad from the inside pocket of his waistcoat. After a moment of anticipation he opened it, revealing scrawled notes - research. Scanning through the pages, he heard Masha approach his side, her steps crunching on the gravel and hay.

"You were right about the Avington Concern. It does offer the therapy your father needs, but the majority of it is owned by a South Korean megacorporation, Bright Life." Anatoly flipped through the notepad to another page of notes scrawled right into the corners. "Bright Life itself has its hands in pretty much everything worth investing in - pharmaceuticals, construction, energy. They even have a stake in a private military firm."

"What this mean?"

"It means whatever the Avington Concern owns that can help save your father, this Bright Life wants it too. And everything they own gets privatized. Depending on the shares they own, Bright Life might already have it, which means—"

"I might not be able to save my father." Masha felt her heart sting. It hurt knowing there was even just a possibility her father might not get the treatment he needed. That everything she'd done up until now could have amounted to nothing broke her.

Anatoly sympathized. He closed the notepad but had yet more news to break. "What's interesting is anytime the Concern is mentioned, through newspapers, online articles and so on, even before Bright Life made its majority stake, A Priscilla Avington pops up. Every. Single. Time."

"What we know of her?"

"Not much. She's the heiress to the Avington fortune which accumulates up to ten billion per annum, prefers the company of those who share her social status, like a billionaire's club..."

Masha's eyes narrowed, realizing Anatoly had trailed off. He was holding something back and he knew she was aware of the fact. But Masha needed to know. "And?"

"She is dangerously conceited."

"Con-consee—I do not know this word."

"Conceited. Means you're full of yourself, self-loving. She thinks she's better than everyone else."

Masha understood now, but couldn't quite place why Anatoly felt it was important to mention this Priscilla Avington in the first place. All Masha cared about was helping her father get better, using the Avington's therapy to do that. It wasn't as if Masha and Priscilla would ever meet face-to-face.

"Why tell me about her?"

"If you're serious about approaching the Avington's for help with your father, you gotta understand everything worth knowing about them. Their daughter too. She isn't to be taken lightly, a stereotypical rich bitch who isn't adverse to fighting to get what she wants. And everything she wants, she gets. If you want the therapy, you ought to get on her good side as a precaution."

Masha nodded. If she were to ever insult Priscilla, even if there was no guarantee they would ever meet, it would, by extension, be an insult to the Avington family as a whole, which would drive a wedge in Masha's hopes to save her father.

"You understand now? If you two ever meet and she asks you to, you better lick her boot. Else you won't get what you need to help your father."

Masha looked out to the farmhouse through the barn window. The things she'd do for family...

***

Priscilla looked into her compact makeup mirror, vainly scrutinizing her face from every perceivable angle for blemishes, but as ever found nothing but smooth glossy perfection. A smile crept along her face as she crossed one leg over the other, adjusting her white French beret so it sat perfectly on her head. Closing the mirror, her sigh came as a sign of boredom from having to wait so long in the traffic. Priscilla was never used to waiting on things, on anything, and today was no different.

Dayna sat on the opposite end of the limo double-checking Priscilla's plans for the remainder of the week. Dayna had tried countless times to contact Peyton about meeting up so she and Priscilla could socialize for a bit, get to know one another better, but Peyton never returned the calls. Admittedly, Priscilla was happy about the fact, but even then Dayna insisted she at least try mingling.

Priscilla's bodyguard Owen doubled as her chauffeur, escorting her to Peyton's gym on the other side of town where they would hope to find her. They already tried the hairdresser's to find it shut, locked up for the day. Priscilla had initially taken that as a sign they would just drop the plan to meet Peyton, but Dayna—

"Can't believe I'm actually doing this. Me, Priscilla Avington, mingling with the underclass?" The blonde shuddered at the thought of having to share the same air as Peyton longer than necessary. It was bad enough she had to sit near her in the hairdresser to keep her dear, lovable Daddy happy. Else she wouldn't get her hands on that beefy trust fund he promised her. "I hope I don't catch anything off her."

"Everything will be fine so long as you stick by your father's rules. You don't have to spend any more time with her than he proposed. Fifteen minutes at most. After that, we'll take it from there."

"Any less and Daddy locks me out of my own trust fund."

"Yes, but understand he's doing this for your benefit, not to punish you." Dayna watched Priscilla roll her eyes derisively as if to suggest it was foolish to believe that claim. It was.

"For his benefit, you mean. I told you, he wants me out the way while he works that court case." Priscilla clutched her skirt, pulling at it as she bit her lip in annoyance. While Dayna's earlier words were meant to comfort her, Priscilla's were truthful. Her father did want her out the way. Didn't want any potential episodes like last time. It annoyed her just thinking about it, knowing she was basically separated to save her father from further embarrassment. It wasn't as though Priscilla could chose when or when not to 'act out.'

Her phone buzzed. The smile returned when she noticed the call was coming from her boyfriend Watson Grimes, calming her. Priscilla loved Watson and hoped her father would one day give them his blessing to marry. She envisioned a future of them together as a married couple with children, living somewhere warm all year around instead of the depressing, often cold British isles.

"Hey, Watty. I'm just finishing up a few things here. After that, you and I can have some fun. I'll let you use the crop this time. Whatcha say to that?"

Priscilla wasn't used to silence. In fact, just like having to wait, she hated it. To her, silence came across as a moment where the gears in someone's head were turning, coming up with an excuse for whatever. Priscilla wouldn't have minded if Watson was caught up with something else. It would've given her the perfect reason to look for men more muscular than him to ride like the wild horses they were. She knew it would've all amounted to the same result anyway—not getting off. At this point, she did it just for the purpose of being in control. But the fact was, the nature of the silence was different.

"Priss...we're going to have to break up."

Priscilla predictably didn't take the news all that well. Breaking up with her. No-one had done that before. Usually, it was Priscilla who discarded her lovers like used tissues, not the other way around.

Her eye twitched. "What do you mean you're breaking up with me?"

"I know you've been sleeping with other men. Sometimes women too." Even though his reasons for breaking up with her were perfectly rational, Watson knew Priscilla wouldn't take the news well. He heard her breath quicken through the phone as if building up to a scream. "I'm not sure how you can expect us to have a happy life together when you're unfaithful."

"You're throwing me away just because I had a little bit of fun?" Priscilla could feel her rage build atop itself, the rash she experienced only an hour earlier returning in full force, far more violent than before. She felt it burn into her skin like a red hot poker. "I'm rich! People like me have fun like that all the time! I'm Priscilla Avington. I could have fun like that anytime I wanted!"

Dayna watched Priscilla continue her argument. It was partly Dayna's job to calm Priscilla down whenever she got worked up but she didn't honestly know what to do this time. She'd never seen the veins on the side of Priscilla's face emerge before, like fat worms burrowed under dirt squirming violently. All Dayna could do was watch.

"Well, maybe if you packed a bigger dick I wouldn't have to go looking for other men to fuck!" Of course, Priscilla's words were meaningless. Truthfully, it didn't matter if Watson possessed a bigger manhood or not, given she just wouldn't get off anyway and Priscilla knew that. She was just calling a bluff.

"There's your rage problem too. That rash you get when angry. You've probably got it right now. It—"

Priscilla winced, jolting her head to one side as the rash intensified further, deepened so the veins at the side of her face became even more apparent and violent in their flails, audibly twitching. She panted heavily before mustering enough strength to speak through barred teeth. "It's not...my...fault."

Owen glanced through the front view mirror, panicking over the sight before him. He'd heard stories about Priscilla's 'condition' but chalked it up as mere hearsay on account of others being jealous of her good looks. It all, clearly, turned out to be true though. Every word of it. He parked the car up against the kerb and maintained his stares through the mirror. He had no idea what to do. That was Dayna's job.

"It might not be your fault, but—" Watson's response was cut short by Dayna grabbing Priscilla's phone and tossing it out the window, smashing into pieces on the road. Priscilla sustained her quickened breaths even afterwards, the veins in her face throbbing ceaselessly, thick and blue.

And then—

Priscilla's breaths had built up to a scream so loud the limousine's windows cracked and smashed into pieces, the resulting shockwave causing the alarms of nearby parked cars to go off, alongside cats and dogs scurrying away in fear, barking and hissing. The deep rash and violent outbreak of veins across Priscilla's face started to fade and disappear not long afterwards, returning the girl's visage to its former blemish-free perfection.

Owen turned to Dayna slowly, expecting answers. "The fuck was that?"

"Never you mind!" Dayna scolded. "Take us home. She needs to rest."

"No," Priscilla cut in, panting softly. "No, I'm fine. I can still do this."

"Miss Avington, I'm not so sure—" Owen was cut off by a perfunctory wave of Dayna's hand. Owen knew his place. Dayna worked for Priscilla, while Owen basically worked for them both. He sighed defeatedly, though his concern for Priscilla couldn't be denied. "Alright then."

As the limo pulled forward onto the road again Dayna held Priscilla's hand affectionately. The spoiled billionaire heiress was often times against being touched, but for some reason always found comfort in Dayna. Ever since she could remember, Priscilla never questioned the nature of her condition, but was now starting to find doubts in that.

"What's wrong with me?"

Dayna smiled. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Owen glanced though the front view mirror once more, his concern shifting into suspicion.

[jstans]

Aw man, we definitely need more of this. You do really well at building a story.

[Amnoartist]

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 4: Kick-off

Reagan stared at Detective Hart apprehensively, watching the redhead sift through the files listed chronologically in a folder, a cigarette held firmly between two fingers. She'd been sitting silently in the corner for over fifteen minutes, save for the odd cough and creak from the old chair here and there.

Reagan considered breaking the silence but chose to leave the detective be. She noted the wires clung to her chest and fingers traveling across the room to the corner Hart set herself in. Beside her was a polygraph. Reagan had signed a confidentiality agreement with the detective regarding the situation ahead, yet that did nothing to ease her anxiety.

Hart closed the folder, doused the cigarette she had, then finally turned to face Reagan. It was only then the young woman realized she was face-to-face with another redhead. The slightest of humored smiles crept along her lips. But Reagan knew that was just a show.

"Yer nu 'oy dees work, roi?" Hart's thick Irish accent cut through Reagan like a knife. She didn't grasp a word of that at all, watching her casually point to the polygraph. Judging by the confused expression she offered in turn, Hart could tell Reagan struggled understanding her delivery of basic English. Rubbing her temple in displeasure, Hart repeated the phrase in her best English accent, slower this time. "You know how these work, right?"

"Oh, that's what you said!" Reagan's response was honest but her tone suggested an indication of sarcasm. Her eyes narrowing, it was clear Hart didn't take that lightly, rather as bare-faced mockery. In turn, Reagan wasn't particularly a fan of the detective's frigid glances, either, which changed her tune. "Yes, I know what they are."

"Den yer nu gettin' a negative is bad news for yer?"

Reagan's response was a simple nod. That was enough. She told Hart she could be trusted to give meaningful responses and information in the investigation about the monkey pills. Reagan was adamantly repulsed by them now and would do her utmost to stop their reproduction and selling on the streets. But that was before Hart made a comment about the drugs being part of something bigger.

The detective opened a separate folder with nothing but a piece of paper, on which was nothing but a bulleted list. They weren't the polygraph questions but all the same caught Reagan off-guard when Hart declared them individually.

"A reminder: Shud yer pass de test, you'll be allowed ter leave de 'ospital directly." Hart picked up the soft sigh of relief from Reagan but didn't immediately share in the patient's joy. "De nurses 'ill pack yer bags an' you'll be stayin' wi' a friend 'til de investigashun concludes."

Reagan realized this had to be a cruel joke. She didn't have any friends. Not anymore at least. "This a joke? I don't have friends."

"Seems ye 'av wan. Wants ter make up for de mistakes she made, or somethin'."

Surprised, Reagan shuffled in her seat, the brace on her leg squeaking in a way that imitated a girlish squeal of enthusiasm. Her heart bounded eagerly with her desire to find out who her lone friend was, the polygraph picking up her heart rate. Hart groaned, forced into resetting the contraption. Even so, that served to remind the detective to get things going.

"Ye ready?

Clearing her throat, Reagan nodded. "Yes."

"Please restrict yer responses ter yes or no."

Pulling a pen from her jacket pocket, Hart collected her thoughts to maintain her professional composure. The polygraph questions weren't listed on paper, in fact, mentally stored in Hart's head. She did this to ensure Reagan didn't somehow manage to get a glimpse of them beforehand and shrewdly craft a response Hart simply wanted to hear.

"On August 22nd 2017, did ye start takin' de monkey pills in an attempt ter git revenge on an individual?"

"Yes." Of course, Reagan knew who the individual in question was.

Nodding, Hart scribbled lightly onto the polygraph paper. A positive response. A good start at least. "Wus de nature av dis revenge an attempt ter inflict grievous bodily 'arm?"

Reagan remembered. That particular sensation of wanting to literally squeeze the life out of Natalie's lungs was something so powerful that it drove her existence and will to live. But in hindsight, especially considering her present circumstances, Reagan came to realize just how wrong it was. Even if the thought at the time did turn her on.

"Yes."

Hart scribbled on the paper again. Another positive. Almost a streak. The questions were picked out at random. The last one stuck out like a sore thumb, though. Hart even made sure to speak clearly, again putting on her English accent.

"On August 30th, did you rape one Dale Clarkson?"

Reagan blinked. What? She raped Dale? She raped him? Sinking deeper into the chair, Reagan glared angrily at her right arm as it throbbed perversely, comparing its comical size with the otherwise slenderness of her other arm. Her body was at war with itself and her mind was the battlefield. She remembered Dale, how the two of them were a happy couple. But how could Detective Hart have the audacity to think she'd rape him? She'd never do that?

Would she?

Nevertheless, Reagan's silence had drawn on long enough. Hart repeated the question with more urgency, but even then it didn't rouse Reagan into answering directly, still trying to come to terms with the accusation. Yer ex. 'e's in a wheelchair now because av yer acshuns. Dees allegashuns are serious."

"I...I don't..." The last thing Reagan remembered about Dale was the night she spent tending to the broken arm Natalie gave him.

Hart looked at the scale again curiously, then turned back to Reagan. Tears had since then started rolling down her cheeks. They weren't so quickly passed off as such by Hart, but there may have been a degree of sincerity behind them.

Simply put, Reagan literally had no recollection of ever having raped Dale. Even then, she couldn't tell whether that was for better or worse.

Reagan stared blankly.

**

Meanwhile, Natalie waited in the reception area for Detective Hart to return from her 'interview' with Reagan, watching the wall-mounted TV to pass the time, although muted. Like her younger sibling, Natalie didn't care much for TV but found the news report being broadcast particularly interesting. She wasn't as up to speed on the subject like the others, but it was fairly straightforward from the headline alone:

LIVE FROM SEOUL: BRIGHT LIFE WINS COURT CASE

From what she garnered previously, Natalie understood Bright Life was under criminal investigation for its apparent employment of gene editing in animals, first in monkeys, making them stronger than they would otherwise be, exceeding their natural plateaus. Then they went on to experimenting with different animals, bloating guinea pigs up to five times their normal size. It was all unethical and Natalie knew that. Regardless, Bright Life seemed to have gotten away with what they did.

Despite her repulsion, the brunette continued watching the silent report unfold as two sharply-dressed men exited the Supreme Court, one of which was Caucasian, easily in his mid-fifties with graying hair and horn-rimmed glasses. The other man was Asian, shorter but somewhat younger, also wearing glasses. Natalie couldn't make heads nor tails of whom the taller man was but didn't struggle with working out the Asian man was Bright Life's CEO, Tam Jae-Yong, who didn't even bother hiding his smug grin as he looked into the camera when they stopped next to the lectern.

Natalie was never any good at reading mouths, so there was no surprise she struggled with understanding what the taller man said. Despite that, she was able to piece together the fact he represented Tam Jae-Yong in some capacity. Perhaps his lawyer or aide.

Then his name rolled in from the right and it all seemed so obvious:

WARREN AVINGTON: LEGAL REPRESENTATIVE

He was Priscilla Avington's father, representing Tam Jae-Yong throughout the legal case. Natalie had heard and read about Warren, how he managed to accumulate a degree of personal wealth as a lawyer that would see him and his family flourish for decades. He could've retired years earlier, but Bright Life buying a majority stake in the Avington Concern quashed those plans.

Natalie was so drawn by the report that she didn't hear her name being called out, hearing nothing but muffled jabbering instead. It took a rather forceful shove before Natalie was brought out of her trance. Blinking, she turned in the seat to find Detective Hart stood to the side with Reagan, who looked down at the brunette with the slightest grin holding crutches.

Admittedly, Reagan had no idea Natalie was the 'friend' Hart referred to earlier. But it made sense. Even to this day, Natalie felt guilty for what she did that drove Reagan down her path of retribution. If it wasn't for Natalie's former addiction to the monkey pills, Reagan wouldn't be in the situation she was now. Of course, there was that tingling sensation within the redhead that made her think Natalie saw Reagan as penance for her own mistakes. But that was water under the bridge now. They were both very different people and better for it.

"She's yers nigh, but de investigation's ongoin'." Hart gestured for Reagan to stand alongside her new housemate, watching her hobble along and listen to the leg brace creak and groan. Hart was initially hesitant in her decision to let Reagan leave with Natalie, but she and the brunette had already agreed on it. "Don't leave town 'til 'tis over. I'll stay in touch."

"Obviously." Natalie grabbed the duffel bag at her side packed full of new clothes for Reagan as she stood up. Seeing one of the redhead's arms and legs being much larger than the other was a real turn up for the books. Natalie had no idea things for Reagan were that severe. No wonder she was alienated from her family.

And to think it was Natalie's fault.

Hart parted ways after offering a confident nod. She trusted Natalie a lot more than Reagan.

"How the hell did you manage to understand her?" Reagan inquired, baffled.

Natalie chuckled.

***

The clanging of steel on steel was almost rhythmical, coming in partnership with Peyton's velvety grunts of exertion, beads of sweat rolling down the nape of her neck and back. The dumbbells' metallic scent teasing her nose, she sniffed.

The gym was empty, closed up in preparation for Priscilla's arrival. As much as she preferred the overindulged 'princess' not sully the brunette's pride and joy with her presence, Peyton needed the money for bills and the establishment's upkeep. Memberships were steady and keenly being renewed but there weren't enough to justify Peyton's claim she would be able to keep it running for years to come.

Simply put, Peyton needed money, which Priscilla had more than enough of.

The dumbbells loaded back into the rack, Peyton pulled into a crab most muscular, watching light yellow veins powered by the monkey pills rise to the surface of her thick bullish neck.

"Yeah, that's it." Peyton's voice was practically charged with arousal, her heart beating like a drum, stomach knotted from ferally eye-fucking the deep grooves and indents that made up her thick pecs. "Show 'em how it's done!"

She extended her right leg out to the side, pulling into a front double bicep pose, eyeballing the same yellowish veins pop across her peaks. While that happened, so mesmerized by her own body's display to have paid any attention to it, a door distinctively clicked shut behind her, revealing Priscilla, Dayna and Owen. The trio watched Peyton continue her routine in silence. Dayna was less than happy with the lack of a proper welcome, while Priscilla laughed humorously at Peyton's posing. She was so oblivious.

Owen folded his arms over his chest, a clear indication of both his having to wait and noting Peyton's lack of respect for their presence, while Dayna checked over Priscilla's schedule once again, doing her utmost to maintain a professional composure.

It was only when Priscilla's laugh swelled louder that Peyton finally caught a glimpse of the trio watching her through the mirror. But even then Priscilla's mocking chuckles continued.

"Sorry about that," Peyton said, rubbing her neck in embarrassment. "Had no idea you were here."

"Clearly," Owen retorted. He didn't even bother attempting to hide the annoyance behind his gruff tone.

A concerned expression was painted across Dayna's bespectacled face as she examined Peyton closely, scrutinizing every inch of the bulky girl's frame from head to toe. This was Dayna's first encounter with Peyton, and so far first impressions weren't going well. "Had you forgotten about the little arrangement we made? Priscilla was to work out with you in an effort for her to make some friends."

Priscilla rolled her eyes, grumbling. As much as she was willing to see it through to the end, she didn't need the reminder—again!

"Well, there's nobody here except me right now, but sure, if the money's right." Peyton instinctively looked sharply at Dayna, expecting her to be the one who handled all of Priscilla's wealth and accounts. "I won't do it for free."

Dayna rolled her eyes derisively, clearly unimpressed by Peyton's supposed money-grubbing. But of course, the reality was Peyton just had sizable bills to pay. Not to mention it was basically her job to work out with people.

"Twenty quid an hour for as long as she wants," Peyton mentioned.

Dayna looked at Owen, expecting him to muscle in on Peyton's demand. Dayna knew Peyton wasn't exactly in a position to make demands, especially in her shithole gym. But Owen was sympathetic, knew Peyton was just trying to make a living. Something Priscilla knew nothing about.

Priscilla smirked. "Fifty an hour for two hours. How does that sound?"

"Deal." Peyton looked over Priscilla's outfit. Between the white French beret sitting on her perfect blonde hair at an angle, the skirt pressing tightly against her bubble butt showcasing her smooth bare legs and the black blouse, she wasn't exactly workout-ready. "You're gonna have to change into something more appropriate though. That outfit of yours isn't suitable for working out in."

"I'll stick with this, thank you very much," Priscilla rebuked in an undignified tone. "Don't need someone like you telling me what I can or can't wear."

"Fine," Peyton rolled her eyes knowing the next couple of hours were going to be particularly difficult. She turned to Dayna and Owen. "What about you? Wanna join in as well?"

Dayna offered a mock grin. "We'd prefer to watch, stay on hand in case anything should happen."

"Right. Well, I guess you could sit over there." Peyton pointed behind Owen at the water fountain in the corner beside the vintage bodybuilding posters. "Drink some of the water while you wait."

Peyton turned to find Priscilla looking at  the dumbbell rack, mulling over what pair to grab. Judging by the glint in her eye, it was clear she fancied going for the heaviest first.

"Woah, woah, woah! Easy there. Gotta start small. You know, light." Peyton grabbed the pair of 2KG dumbbells off he rack. "Try these. they should do nicely to start off with."

Priscilla begrudgingly took the weights from Peyton and hastily started curling, albeit with obvious poor form. Peyton watched from the side, scrutinizing her technique. It was all the place.

"No, you're doing it wrong." The brunette grabbed the larger, 8KG dumbbell off the rack and began exemplifying proper form, taking in manageable steps for her obviously eager 'client.' "Keep your back straight. Raise the weights until your biceps are fully contracted and the dumbbells come level with your shoulders. Then hold the position for a brief pause as you squeeze your biceps. Like this."

Priscilla watched as Peyton curled the weights with ease, eyeballing her arms contracting and veins bulging across her peak, mesmerized. When done, Peyton restacked the dumbbells and couldn't resist the temptation to instinctively rub her arm, feeling its rocky hardness.

"Okay, your turn. Remember: Keep your back straight," she said.

"Got it." Priscilla straightened her back ordered, mentally picturing the motion Peyton showed her, endeavoring to repeat it with perfection. She winced and grunted between reps until Peyton raised her hand up as an indication to stop a few minutes later.

"Okay, you're off to a good start." Peyton's voice was laced with an imprint of respect as if Priscilla's determination had made an impression on her. Peyton had seen some people manage to pull off sets before, but Priscilla didn't even break a sweat. "Usually you take a thirty-second rest between sets, but those weights should be light enough for you to keep going."

"God! I feel like I'm stronger already!"

Priscilla's enthusiasm made Peyton smile, but she'd heard it all before. It was just the rush of one's first achievement rushing through their veins. They wouldn't be so quick to say that again when the harder stuff kicked in. "You say that now, but I reckon by the time we're done here, you won't want to come back," she joked.

Priscilla was quick to negate her tutor's claim, however, rolling up her blouse's sleeve to reveal a clear-cut lemon-sized bicep complete with an evenly proportioned split down the peak. It wasn't there before, but Priscilla didn't seem concerned by the obvious sudden change in her figure.

"Woah, look at my pump! That's what you call it right, a pump?"

Peyton didn't share in the smaller girl's enthusiasm, however, understandably jolted by the revelation presented to her. She listened to Priscilla's girlish chuckles as she repeatedly flexed her bicep, watching it contract and ripple.

"When do we start using the heavier stuff?" Priscilla inquired.

Peyton hid her concern behind a chuckle, believing Priscilla's arm being slightly larger to be the result of her pump. It had to be, surely. God knows what would happen if she found out she was an easy gainer like that Russian chick on TV. "You gotta work for it. Do enough reps with the lighter weights and you'll...start seeing changes in your strength and size. That'll be the motivation you need to move onto the heavier stuff."

Peyton felt a distinctive pain fill her. Deep down, she knew Priscilla's pump simply wasn't. The brunette was lying to herself in assuming otherwise. Priscilla had grown there was no doubting that. It was just a question of how - was she an easy gainer or on the monkey pills like her?

"Can we try them now?" the blonde queried with a chirpy tone, pulling her sleeve back down over her arm. I already seemed tighter.

Peyton wasn't quick to indulge in Priscilla's want, responding sharply, in no way hiding her obvious annoyance. "Sure, if you wanna break your back.

Priscilla glared at Peyton, knowing her comment was sarcastic. The overindulged girl was nevertheless persistent in her desire to lift something heavier, not wanting to be treated like a child. She had enough of that already at home. Time to bring in the big guns.

"I wanna do it now! Dayna!"

Dayna jumped to her feet with Owen in tow. It was obvious she was fearful of a display similar to what happened in the limo only twenty minutes earlier.

"What is it?" the aide asked. "Something wrong?"

"I wanna lift something heavier but Peyton here's treating me like a child," Priscilla complained.

Peyton scoffed. The gall on that spoiled bitch was unbelievable. "I'm not treating you like a damn child! It's part of my job to make sure you don't hurt yourself." Of course, the reality behind Peyton not wanting Priscilla to lift anything heavier was that she didn't want to play out the risk of her getting carried away with working out and growing. Peyton had a reputation to uphold. She turned to Dayna in the hope she would understand. "I don't quite fancy getting sued because she's strained her back from not listening to me. She'll have only herself to blame."

"She has a point," Owen said.

"But I wanna—!"

"Priss!" As much as she knew Priscilla would be disappointed by the fact, Dayna knew Peyton was right. Neither party would be willing to put Priscilla in harm's way. Peyton was just doing it for the money and the gym's upkeep, while Dayna knew Priscilla's father wouldn't be particularly happy if he found out she was hurt. And it'd be Dayna who got the blame. Not to mention certain facets regarding her were to remain veiled. Dayna didn't want to risk that. Rubbing her temple, the assistant nodded. "Agreed. We should've thought this through in greater detail before deciding to make contact. You'll still be paid, of course."

Peyton shook her head, waving her hand in refusal. She didn't want Priscilla's money. It would remind her too much of what she saw. Best they just part ways - completely. "I'm done with you people. Done with her. She can get a new hairdresser too. Or grow her hair out for all I care."

Dayna understood. Priscilla was a handful and people could only handle so much of her before they decided enough was enough. It was partly why she didn't have any friends. "Of course."

"Good. Now get out." Peyton pointed to the door. "Don't come back."

As they left, Owen tucked his warm arm around Priscilla's waist in his effort to keep her calm and prevent her from bursting out into a fit of rage like earlier. Peyton didn't need to see something like that and would only validate her excuse for wanting them to leave. But even then Priscilla knew her father wouldn't be particularly pleased to hear she failed in her attempt to make a friend. Other people made it seem so simple, instilling jealousy in her. Of course, she could have paid them to be her friend, but Peyton was different. Not wanting the money from the initial payment due proved that.

Priscilla groaned as she crossed the gym's threshold, hearing bees buzzing in her head, driving her mad, threatening to scream on account of Peyton knocking her back like the others did.

As the door clicked shut Peyton sighed with relief, thanking God that was over.

***

Half an hour later...

The rhythmical clicking of heels were drowned out by the screams, thuds and smashes echoing throughout the manor. The butler and maid looked up the wide staircase from either side, fearful of the unearthly sounds coming from the bedroom. They looked at one another with the same expression befitting their emotion as the lady of the house came between them, unnaturally tall with long smooth and slender legs, the black heels scuffing off the fine wooden flooring. She glowered at the servants before taking to the stairs.

Owen and Dayna stood outside the bedroom from where the cacophony of hellish noises came, hearing glass smashing, wood cracking, material tearing. Owen glanced at Dayna knowing she was far more enlightened in this particular situation than him. Even then, Dayna had never seen her quite like this before.

The tall woman stopped at Dayna's side, looking at the door trying to create a mental picture of the scene beyond it in the hopes that her depiction of it would be worse than the reality. Owen looked up at the new arrival but said nothing. He could never get used to the fact Mrs Avington, Lily, was taller than him, at least six-foot tall with pornstar-shaming tits threatening to burst from her blouse, a mane of glistening blonde hair rolling down her back. And of course there was the fact she was considerably younger too, even more so than her husband Warren.

"You've been keeping tabs on her blood samples, correct?" Lily's vocal tone matched her appearance; youthful, oozing with sensuality even when that wasn't the intention. It got most men hard just with a few words sometimes.

"Yes, Missus Avington," Dayna returned. She felt so useless. It was her job to keep track on incidents like this so they wouldn't get so out of control as they were, yet she drew blanks.

"I told you before, Dayna. Call me Lily."

"Yes, Miss—erm, Lily."

Lily opened the door just enough for her to peek into the bedroom. She saw the curtains had been ripped clean off the wall, some ornaments smashed against the mantle. That was fine - at least she could see that. What she couldn't see was her daughter. That was what worried her, compelled the woman into pushing the door open further, her large breasts brushing against it as she forced herself through the space into the room.

Lily paused, getting her bearings. She never expected to see Priscilla's bed somehow completely flipped onto its side. It would've taken a great deal of strength to do that. At least five men. Wood jutted out from it, splintered and cracked, coincidentally sharpened to points from the splits. Inches-deep holes were punched— piledriven into the wall that had cracked across the middle, deep crevices splitting off into different directions, even into the flooring itself.

Hearing a sniffle drew Lily to look in the corner where she saw Priscilla huddled, rocking back and forth with her hands gripped around her legs. Lily approached slowly, squatting in front of her just within arm's reach but didn't say anything. Just looked at her pitifully.

Lily inched in closer, a beam of light coming in between them, the two women looked at one another where the stark differences and similarities between them could be made. Lily looked strangely youthful for a woman in her mid-forties. So young, in fact, she could easily be mistaken for being Priscilla's older sister, with jade green eyes, flawless skin and round lips. Priscilla was different. The veins in her face were distinct again, quietly throbbing and twitching. With a wince it became apparent it was painful this time. That was new.

"I just want a friend." Priscilla sniffled, pulling her arm up to wipe the snot away from her nose with the sleeve of her blouse. "How bad is it to want a friend, to not want to be alone?"

Lily glanced at Priscilla's sleeve, seeing the fabric had been busted exposing her bicep, except, it looked larger than it did after working out with Peyton, the detail more apparent, a slight layer of vascularity showing under the skin. Seeing this, Lily looked back and forth at the mangled bed and her daughter's larger limb, connecting the dots right in front of her like a dangling carrot.

Lily reached in to cuddle Priscilla, who openly embraced her mother's love bursting into a louder sob that only served to intensify the pain her emergent veins brought, as though the salt from her tears themselves were responsible.

Lily looked up at the wall-mounted TV. Its screen was cracked but evidently still worked, as evidenced by a news report showing on screen. Something about a Russian female bodybuilder seeking Bright Life's help for her ailing father. Priscilla eventually looked up as well, seemingly perking up as Masha Konovaleva showed up on screen.

"See her? She's the world's most muscular woman." Priscilla continued watching the report, seeing it cut to a live feed with Masha being interviewed in a large luxurious room. "Can't imagine how many friends she has from being so popular."

Lily noted her daughter's interest in the Russian and came to a conclusion.

"I think I know what to do, honey."

[sw1ngy]

Great chapter. Priscilla may have been better off trying to imply attempts to subdue her more obnoxious instincts at the beginning of her session with Peyton if the path was her ultimately being upset she can't make friends.

[Amnoartist]

Great chapter. Priscilla may have been better off trying to imply attempts to subdue her more obnoxious instincts at the beginning of her session with Peyton if the path was her ultimately being upset she can't make friends.

Oh definitely, though her failure in that regard is more on Peyton.

[sgsg69]

Great chapter! This is a really interesting path you are following, can't wait to see more! K+++

[Amnoartist]

Juiced II
Written & edited by Amnoartist
Chapter 5: A Helping Hand

Masha looked out over her penthouse balcony to the moonlit streets of St Petersburg, a glass of wine in hand. A depressive sigh escaped her lungs as snow gently fell from the heavens. She always loved snow, but even that, today, didn't seem to help placate her, feeling trapped. Masha had honestly never thought she'd have to call out publicly for help for her father. It was Anatoly's idea, and all in good faith, but the girl just hadn't expected herself to stoop so low.

At the close of taking a sip of wine she cocked her head to the side, feeling her trusting aide's presence behind her with his hands clasped behind his back, stood straight, seemingly waiting. "Da, chto eto?" she inquired, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in her tone.

"Forgive my intrusion, Miss. It's just...you've hardly ate." Anatoly didn't want to bring up the extent of his employer's seemingly deliberate lack of appetite. She'd hardly eaten a thing for the past week, and it was beginning to reflect on her energy. He glanced at the pork roast presented on the table with the briefest of frowns before further voicing his concerns. "Is it not what you wanted? I could make something else if you wish."

"Net, it's fine." Masha, of course, knew Anatoly was well-intended but his constant prodding of the matter on eating was beginning to irk her. She didn't want to take her frustrations out on him, but should she be pushed to the edge... the fact was she just had a lot on her mind. She took another sip from her glass, watching the distant cars roll by as Anatoly's footsteps retreated.

Masha just simply didn't know how to move on, felt powerless in spite of having such physical strength, which meant next to nothing in the matter of helping her father find a solution to his ailment. It had been days since she made the public press conference pleading for help, but none was extended. Her father's life was balancing on a very thin tightrope right now.

She felt anger fill her bones, barring her teeth together, closing her fist around the glass until it exploded into pieces. The shards of glass that remained slipped between her fingertips, her palm gashed and smeared with blood. She felt the slashes cut into her, but they were only slight nicks, nothing to worry about. All the same, Masha retreated from the balcony and wrapped a dish cloth around the wound, not wanting Anatoly to see it, as he'd predictably freak out. Funny - the one moment he's not there and she cuts her hand.

That was when her ears picked up the familiar ping sound from her laptop next to the roast dish. An email, to be exact. Masha didn't have an extensive email contact list. That being so, she rarely received emails at all, mostly from her sponsors or companies who wanted to become one, her photo shoot agent, businesses looking to broker deals with her, who'd give their latest products to her for free, and even the occasional stalker.

But this email was different, stood out from all the rest on account of whom it came from: a Lily Avington. It didn't take Masha long to figure out this Lily Avington was to some degree related to Priscilla Avington, whom seemed to be at the center of everything related to the Avington Concern, which presumably had the means to help Masha's father get better. Assuming Bright Life hadn't already absorbed the Concern, that was.

But Masha didn't dare think about that, taking a seat to read through the email:

To: You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login
Subject: A Helping Hand

You do not know me, as such, please forgive if the arrival of this email comes to you rather unexpectedly in a most affronting manner. Though I do hope you have the benevolence to see this message as one that would provide an opportunity most beneficial to us both.

In recent days you held a press conference pleading for help with your father's ailing health. A public display such as that requires a great deal of courage, which you undoubtedly exhibited. Truly, that is the hallmark of someone great. The confidence and influence of your speech did not go unnoticed, particularly amongst those within the Avington Concern.

The Concern is most prepared to offer its hand in aid to help your father with his illness, which I suspect will be splendid news to you. Nevertheless, the certainty of the Concern's willingness to help does itself come at price. It is likely you know of my daughter, Priscilla, if not personally then surely by name. With the exception of her immediate family she is lonely, without friends. The Avington Concern will offer aid for your father upon your agreement to being Priscilla's companion for the duration of your visit while your father's medicine is prepared, which might take some time.

The nature of your companionship with Priscilla is one she will determine. If desired, she may seek you as a lover. This may come as a surprise to you, but reflect upon your father's wellbeing. I trust you will make the right decision.

Upon agreeing to the sole condition you will be flown out to our stately mansion, where you will spend the duration of your visit. A plus-one is permitted for company.

Masha squinted, reading over the email a second time, though had to go through the paragraph about being Priscilla's companion at least four times. Potentially being her lover? Masha honestly wasn't sure if she could even swing that. She'd always asserted herself as heterosexual, so couldn't say for sure if bedding Priscilla, if it even came down to that, was something she could do. She guessed it could be faked but had a sinking feeling Priscilla would somehow know. Masha had to do it, though, for her father. Worse still, she'd have to tell Anatoly, who most likely wouldn't react all that well to the fact, the news she'd already accepted without his guidance.

She hit Reply and started typing her simple answer, not wanting to embarrass herself with her still broken English, which still needed some serious work:

I accept, bring Anatoly with me.

Hitting Send, Masha sighed with relief. There was hope yet. Another upside was at last she'd be able to visit Britain and try custard creams.

***

Reagan stared at her reflection in the bathroom cabinet mirror, a miserable expression obviously painted across her face. She'd been Natalie's house-mate a few days now but never got any closer to being used to it. All she seemed to focus on was what Detective Hart said with such conviction - that in her monkey-pill-fueled addiction she at one point raped her boyfriend Dale, which Reagan was so sure never happened.

She looked at the pill bottle resting on the sink. Doctor said they'd help repel any twitching her muscles might do. Fat lot of good they were - she was halfway through her second bottle already and the twitching hadn't eased at all, let alone stopped. It was irritating.

Raising her arms up, Reagan just couldn't resist the temptation to flex, although not with the same smugness as when she started growing, instead replaced with discontent. One arm was four times larger than the other, yet the smaller one was somehow more defined, her torso almost sloping on account of the imbalance in size. Her legs were no different, of course, her leg brace squeaking as she dared to turn to a side chest pose, her smaller leg nearly dipping on account of the force applied from the larger one.

She was a freak. There was no other way of describing her. Regan was honestly inclined to agree with her parents' desire to cut her loose. Why would anyone want to mix with her? Why would—

Rhythmical knocking from the door roused Reagan from her swamping self-hatred. Natalie, of course. The slightest of smiles formed across Reagan's face, happy to know she had at least one friend, even if Natalie was acting this way owing to feeling accountable to how Reagan found herself.

"You alright in there?"

"Uh-huh." The masculine tone of Reagan's voice cut through her like a bone saw. It was so...not her, like she'd been living someone's body. Her mind, at least from what remained of it, was her, but her physicality was a completely different story. Two people living in one body. She felt a teardrop form at her eyelid and let it roll down her cheek and curve down her lip, choking back the urge to cry. "I'll be out in a minute."

Natalie stood outside the bathroom in wait, car keys in hand ready to leave for her 'expedition' with Reagan, whom it was personal to. The quick hiss of tap water and the shuffling of feet came next, then the door clicked open.

Natalie scrutinized Reagan from head to toe. First the leg brace. Still tight, good. A pair of custom-fit denim button-up shorts, inside of which her quads were squeezed, already starting to tear at the fabric. Plain white crop top allowing the redhead to flaunt her powerful midriff, even if she despised having it, accompanied with a neck so thick with muscle it wouldn't be so remiss to think she could actually swallow a rock whole. And then there was the dainty pair of black swede boots, the smallest things on the redhead.

"So...you sure you wanna do this?"

"Nat, please. I've already to—"

"Okay, okay. Just wanted to make sure you didn't have any second thoughts. That's all." Natalie smiled. She was happy Reagan thought about doing this. It meant she truly had changed as a person, like she did. "Where'd you wanna go first?"

Reagan didn't even have to think about that one.

"Dale's."

***

Masha had never been outside the Motherland before, so to set foot on a private jet was unique enough an experience for her, let alone cross the Baltic and North seas. Her flight was nearing its end, having been in the air for nearly four hours, traveling direct from Sheremetyevo, twenty-nine kilometers North-West of central Moscow. She was mentally torn, however. A part of her was excited about finally visiting a foreign country, while another part of her couldn't shake the need to focus on helping her father.

She looked out the plane window at the passing clouds, hearing Anatoly type away on his laptop in silence. As to be expected, he wasn't particularly content with Masha's rash decision in agreeing to the Avington's contract. It sounded simple - befriend their daughter in exchange for help with her father - but a request so undemanding isn't without its suspicions. It was almost as if Masha hadn't paid any attention to Anatoly's previous comments and thinly-veiled warnings about Priscilla. Nevertheless, he understood why Masha accepted. She was always one to help family.

Anatoly looked at the picture that popped up on his laptop screen, unable to hold back the scowl that inevitably formed. Masha could see his expression from the corner of her eye but didn't immediately react. Perhaps it was nothing that concerned her, after all. Besides, she wanted to marvel at the sun cutting through the clouds. The picture Anatoly looked at wasn't a cause for alarm, but, however, did rouse curiosity. It was a group photo, a perfectly innocent one too, at first glance. showing a young bespectacled man in a suit shaking hands with an Asian man. At their respective sides were women presumed to be the men's wives.

The bottom of the picture was typed text listing the names of the people in it:

Lily Avington, Warren Avington (Avington Concern CEO), Tam Jae-Yong (Bright Life CEO), Cho Jae-Yong. August 1st, 2000.

But perhaps most interesting was the little blonde girl at the front stood smiling toothily. Anatoly didn't have to guess who she was, even if her name wasn't listed on the photo likely for safety reasons. All the same, Anatoly couldn't stop himself from visibly recoiling.

"What is it?" There was a tinge of concern in Masha's voice but Anatoly chose to keep quiet. The large blonde presumed his intention in doing so was an indication of still giving her the cold shoulder on account of earlier misgivings, but the reality was—

Anatoly closed the image and shut down his laptop. "Nothing. Just some news on Brexit."

—Anatoly just didn't know how to react.

The plane's intercom crackled just before the gruff voice of an Engishman called out. "We'll be arriving shortly."

Masha smiled, looking out once again as the first signs of British civilization came into view in the form of small rural crofts.

***

A limousine was parked on the field flanking the Avington's private runway, gentling rocking to and fro with the telltale sounds of impassioned moans and grunts. A palm pressed against the window, the fuzzy shape of a tall blonde following suit. A warm giggle next.

Lily Avington and her chauffeur, stereotypically named Jeeves, had been at it together since they arrived, she taking the man at least thirty years her senior for the ride of his life, he he clinging onto the leather for dear life watching the unusually tall young woman bound like a dog in heat, jewelery jangling, her head thumping off the ceiling. It all brought back so many memories for Jeeves.

Lily had always intended on arriving at the runway early, ever being the most punctual of the family, but doing so a full half-hour before Masha was due to arrive was intentional, so she could get a decent fuck in. It had been months since Warren last spoke dirty to his young wife, let alone touched her. The fact he was always working abroad, particularly with Tam Jae-Yong at Bright Life, certainly didn't help. Priscilla's bodyguard Owen wasn't Lily's type, either, to to mention she was very specific about no one being allowed to have her 'new toy,' so he was off-limits.

Jeeves more than sufficed anyway, to say the least. He jolted in a slight spasm as Lily's mouth engulfed him without so much as a second thought, going balls-deep in the first stroke, her tongue teasing the fullness of his wrinkled sac. His eyes rolling back, he thanked God for such a blissful moment to transpire, feeling Lily's soft hands move under him to squeeze his naked arse. She was just as grateful, if not even more so. She swallowed, taking Jeeves' load. He didn't have much to offer, sadly, though beggars couldn't be chosers.

Sitting up with a toothy grin showcasing the older man's cum cemented into her teeth, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a pill box as Jeeves fastened his belt. The capsule she held in her palm was translucently pink, positively girlish. Upon swallowing it, she ran the same palm across her cheek and smiled.

"You don't think your husband would ever find out about us, do you, Missus Avington?" Jeeves hated to ruin such a moment with his young lover, but his question warranted an answer. Warren was at times known to flaunt what was his.

"Oh, don't worry about him," Lily answered, her voice characteristic of her youthful visage. She knew Warren was now too focused on the Concern's wellbeing to actually give a shit what she did. They still loved one another, in a way.

Jeeves started climbing back into the driver's seat when he saw Masha's plane begin its descent. "They're here, Ma'am."

"Ah, good." Lily combed her hair roughly. It was all about presentation and impressions now. Everything mattered - the way she spoke, what was talked about...

Lily and Jeeves exited the limo together as the plane stopped and its doors folded out to reveal the powerhouse Russian blonde warily standing at the threshold looking out at her welcoming party of two. Lily had seen Masha once before, but not like this, not up close and personal. To say she was out of this world would probably not do her justice. Lily was obviously taller than her, taller than everyone in the vicinity, actually, but Masha's width could have easily given the Avington woman's height a run for its money in comparison with the way her lats seemed to casually stretch the fabric of her outfit as she disembarked.

Anatoly followed, though his eyes were fixed on Lily. He knew from her facial structure and large breasts she was Priscilla's mother, remembering the photo he looked at on the plane, but couldn't quite place how she was so unnaturally tall and had such youth uncharacteristic to what he saw in the picture. It was as if she hadn't aged a single day over the last nineteen years.

When Masha stopped just a few inches from her, Lily couldn't stop herself from smiling down at the girl, reaching out and squeezing her broad pumpkin'd shoulders like a pervert groping a pornstar's fake tits. Unsurprisingly, Masha wasn't the slightest bit creeped out by the woman's actions, knowing her muscles were what most people recognized her for. Helping her drive the point further, Masha raised an arm up into a flex before both listening and watching her bicep casually bust through the sleeve of her top, revealing her peak in all its vein-caked glory.

Lily's smirk suggested the Russian's feat made an impression her. "My, my! You are a big girl!"

Her arm relaxed, Masha craned her neck back up to meet Lily's eyes, a deep jade green. "Same could be said for you. You're tall like a, how you say, giraffe."

Lily chuckled heartily. It felt strange to realize that because she hadn't genuinely laughed in a long time. Must've been months ago she last  laughed at something. And even then it was because Warren was there, so it was more an obligation than a desire. "Like a giraffe," she repeated.

"You want to be friend? I do this for father. You help him—"

"Woah, easy there," Anatoly cut in. He knew he should've said something sooner but was too caught up with the mystery that was Lily to even notice Masha was speaking. "This is Lily Avington, Priscilla's mother."

"Ona vyglyadit dostatochno vzrosloy, chtoby byt' sestroy (she looks old enough to be a sister)" Masha whispered to Anatoly in confusion.

"Sorry, you will have to speak in English. I don't understand Russian" Lily commented softly, her words more a friendly reminder than an act of caution.

"Sorry. I say you are beautiful," Masha replied, smiling. "Beautiful as heaven."

"Why, thank you. That's very sweet." Lily only just managed to hold back the blush building within her, taking the following moment of silence to adjust herself mentally. "Shall we go? The day draws closer to an end the longer we stand around here, and I can't keep this secret from my daughter that much longer."

"Of course. Lead the way." Anatoly gestured with his hand.

Jeeves opened the passenger door for Masha, watching the blonde practically struggle in her effort to squeeze through the small space, seeing a single vein rise up her calf. Once inside, she fastened her seatbelt then turned her nose up in equal parts curiosity and disgust.

"There is a smell."

Jeeves blushed, offering a casual glance at Lily who simply gave him the death glare in return.

"Sorry, bad lunch" the tall blonde called back from the front.

"No, this smell familiar, not like bad kotleti." Masha kept up with her investigative sniffing, coming close to pinpointing the scent. "Smell like...like sex."

Anatoly covered his eyes with his hand in embarrassment.

[sw1ngy]

I get the sense Reagan is about to make things worse with Dale