GITJ Post 296: Painting His Apartment, p2

She was right. The shower…the shower had felt good. I was able to wash the crud off of myself, and all this paint. I even got it out of my hair, I think. She - Melissa - had been the one that ran the roller up and down my arms, across my face, pushed me up against the wetly-painted wall. Just her being playful? Sure, I tell myself that now, and as I dried myself off after scrubbing it all away and down the drain I tried to chuckle and forget how submissive I’d been earlier. I wrapped my thin towel around my thin waist and bony hips; I’d forgotten to bring new clothes into the bathroom with me, so I’d have to go out there and grab some.

I stepped out of the bathroom uncertain of what to expect. Would she have continued painting? Maybe she’d be relaxing on the couch, waiting for me? I had heard the television come on again. But, when I did emerge, I immediately stopped in the doorway and simply stared; my mind, my conscious ability to think was overwhelmed by the vision in front of me. The rainy afternoon had darkened and the lights from a single overhead recessed can was casting dramatic lighting down onto Melissa, who stood ten feet across the room, her back to me. She was looking into the full-length mirror on the back of the door that led out into the hallway, standing quite a bit back from it. Although the sheer breadth of her back and shoulders eclipsed much of it from my view and I couldn’t see her face, she seemed to be in repose, maybe having been watching TV. While I had been cleaning up in the bathroom she had also apparently decided to change. Well, I should say: gone, I saw, was the pink sweater. She still wore her jeans but Melissa's upper-body physique stood revealed, shockingly powerful, clad only in her custom-made black bra, the overhead light sculpting the dramatic lines, curves and contours of her body into shadows. What I saw made my jaw drop.

Indeed the television was on, again playing live coverage of the marches and demonstrations downtown. They’d all assembled in the city square, filling the streets, thousands upon thousands upon thousands of women. The camera was on a speaker addressing the huge crowd. Televised, all day, just like similar rallies all across the country, in cities big and small. But neither Melissa nor I were currently paying the news any mind. She was silently gazing at herself in mirror, not saying anything, and my eyes were riveted on her and her fucking muscles.

Rather than just stand and stare, I tried to announce myself; cough, speak, anything, but the breath stuck in my throat, hypnotized by the display of feminine - yes - brawn. From where I stood, with this lighting, gazing at her bare back, she looked enormous. The muscles of her shoulders and back were far thicker than I’d remembered. Had she been standing here, while I showered, flexing, pumping herself up into…this? Good god. In my private moments, all my life, I had wondered, dreamed, fantasized about a body like the one in front of me, and to finally see it come to life, have it right here…my mouth was still gaping, and I felt a submissive shiver run through my bones. This was a woman many times my physical equal.

She was, as I stared, putting her hair up into a ponytail, the action bringing her upper body into motion. Above the straps of her bra, lats wide enough to eclipse my view of anything in front of her extended to either side as shoulders like bowling balls pulled in, causing her traps to form a crescent moon of pure muscle framing her neck. From her powerful arms, biceps the size of grapefruits flexed in symphony against hewn triceps as she tended to her hair, glancing now over to the television to her right.

“I think,” said the speaker at the podium, a woman of handsome confidence, her voice strong as she spoke to thousands, “that evolution to this point has made a mistake. I think all women should be taller and stronger than men...”

The crowd cheered. The woman smiled.

“…and. And!” the woman continued, her voice rising with the swell of the crowd, “with new legislators, with the help of our partners in industry, in food production and fitness, in pharmaceuticals, I think we can start to fix that, get evolution on the right track!” The masses of women exploded again, fervent, determined, a plainly powerful force. “We just need your votes on Tuesday!”

The implications of what I was hearing barely registered with me, but nonetheless I shivered again.Then, as though detecting my presence, Melissa's head turned and looked over her mesomorphic right shoulder at me. Dropping her arms to her sides, she swiveled in place at the hip and for a moment we stared at each other. She watched my eyes goggle at what she knew to be now the even more dramatic figure she cut, her massive breasts held high on her chest, her powerful upper body narrowing to an impossibly tiny waist which then flared to womanly hips and an ass like a mountain. In her jeans her strong lower body, long of legs, looked ready to brush off a hurricane. Standing at rest, the sides of her calves grazed against one another beneath thighs like sides of beef, each one seemingly thicker than her wasp waist.

It was then that I noticed, in the mirror, the wide rip across the front of her right thigh. That was new.

“You, uh…r-ripped your jeans?” I spoke, finally finding the nerve to break the silence.

“Yes, I did,” she said, coolly, briefly glancing down to survey the damage before returning her eyes to study my face. She turned now more towards me, allowing me to see how her herculean right quadriceps had shred apart the thigh of her jeans. Tanned, perfect skin and bulging muscle flexed and quivered out from the split, threatening to tear it even further asunder. The fibers of the jeans, white threads, held on desperately, tenuously around her massive right thigh at the margins of the gaping tear. She looked on with interest as I stared at her leg, cocked her head at my dumbfounded expression.

She turned a bit more, now presenting her left leg, still encased in the thin denim of her faded, aged jeans. It seemed, also, ready to burst out at the seams there. “Watch,” she directed me, and bent her left knee a fraction, the toe of her bright white sneaker flexing just a bit as she raised her heel from the ground. She was flexing her left thigh and suddenly, with a tearing sound, the time-worn denim ripped across the thickest part of her leg. She bent her knee further, lifting her foot from the ground until her thigh was near-parallel to it, and the fabric just tore completely across her thigh as her quadriceps burst forth from restraint. She placed her foot back down on the ground, her eyes never having left my face or ceasing studying my reaction, and now both legs were near-bare of thigh, the jeans rent to tatters by the flexing musculature of her massive lower body.

Next, she turned back again, to face the mirror, and to let me now gaze at her in rear-view. Looking into the mirror but now shifted so that she could see my face in reflection, she went up onto her toes in her cute, white leather sneakers. From her slender ankles, exposed beneath the cuff of jeans too-short at the inseam, corded tendons climbed briefly before disappearing under denim and ballooning into calves larger than I had ever seen. It was as though mini, rippling footballs had been sewn under her skin and the overmatched fabric did nothing to disguise their girth or sculpted shape. As she shifted her weight slightly to her right leg the muscle bunched and flared underneath, taking on the weight of the body it was supporting - and tore the denim: RRRRRrrrriip! Right across the calf. And then, shifting to her left leg, the same thing: RRRRrrriip! Right across the left calf.

“Jesus…” I found myself muttering, after thus far being rendered speechless.

Above her now-exposed calves, her legs narrowed briefly into her knees before exploding outward once more into the backs of her thighs. Even at rest her hamstrings were impressively large, hinting at the strength they contained. Although I was behind her, the sheer bulk of Melissa's quads was such that they were visible as they overhung her knees, creating a slight concavity before they met up with her hamstrings. Even with her legs slightly spread and on tip-toe, no gap appeared between the two mighty pillars as her adductors swelled inwards. Her jeans - though torn across the thigh in front - were still tautly stretched and over-matched by her hindquarters. Her legs finally met at a perfectly rounded, perfectly enormous butt and wasp waist forming the central point for the unbelievable hourglass that was her physique. My eyes, riveted to her ass, suddenly had to follow it down as - putting her hands on her knees - she slowly lowered it, bending down into a gradual little crouch which brought sounds of distress and strain from her jeans and finally -

RRRRrrrriiip!!

Her jeans ripped apart at the ass, her squat splitting them apart from the flesh of her glutes. A black thong disappeared between two cheeks like planetary globes, which squeezed out from the tear, denim material fraying into white threads. Though we were separated by a good eight-to-ten feet, I stepped back in shock, my heart racing. Good lord! She was tearing herself out of her clothes! By merely flexing, merely moving!

At the sound of my gasp, she stood once more, and again turned back at the waist towards me and waited for my reaction. .

“h-holy god, Melissa…” was all I could say, as my eyes now drifted up from her legs in her shredded jeans, up her toned abdomen, over her enormous breasts and swollen shoulders. I glanced from arm-to-arm, staggered by the strength of them, like the rest of her physique still accentuated in high relief by the single overhead light. “Wh-whu-what’s happening…?”

“Come over here,” she spoke, not answering me and turning back to the mirror, “come to me, Jay. Stand in front of me.” Her voice seemed deeper.

Without a pause but with racing heart I stepped forward, walking over to where she stood. She laid her hands on my bare shoulders and, gently turning me to face the mirror with her, stood me in front of her. My breath rattled in another gasp as I looked at the two of us in the long mirror on the back of my door. The single can light from above cast dramatic shadows down our bodies, but there was no disguising that she absolutely overwhelmed me, her body wider and bigger than my own thin one on all sides, taller by a huge margin. My head was even with her breasts, whose warmth and softness I now began to feel as she drew me slowly in towards herself, with strong hands on my shoulders. We both stood there, silently appreciating the height difference between us. I looked not only so short but so weak, my skin pallid and drawn over my ribs, across my bare, thin, nearly hairless chest. My arms looked like twigs, my neck scrawny. She, on the other hand, had her hair drawn up in a ponytail, allowing me full view of her broad shoulders, built and powerful, the cords of her neck strong. Though she had her hands on my shoulders I could see her biceps and the muscles of her forearms bulging, moving, alive with strength. She was..so fucking big. So fucking strong.

“You like the way my body looks like this?” she asked, coming back to my question, beginning to explain, “This is the way I look, at the gym, when I work out. I get all…pumped up.” She watched my face, watched me still gaping at the contrast in our sizes. “It happens, sometimes too, when I get…excited.”

Just then, the voice of the speaker on the television became louder, more animated. I glanced its way. “Men, face it,” the woman at the podium began, addressing not only the smattering of the men in the female-dominated crowd before her, but all those who were at home like me, “you’re not the man you used to be. None of you are…” Men: she was grouping us all together. What we didn’t know, or couldn’t accept, those of us comfortable on our couches, in our living rooms, listening in our cars, was that this was our future starting to coalesce right before our eyes and ears. “...We’ve grown to become not only the caregivers but the breadwinners, the leaders and bosses, the superiors.” I glanced up at Melissa, her reflection in the mirror; she’d been watching me this whole time. I looked back at the television. “You, meanwhile, have receded, become the inferior. You’re not the man you once were, are you? But us? We’re becoming more woman than you could ever imagine.”

The crowd again cheered, energized, electrified, empowered. It made me shake. I hadn’t paid too much attention to all this, politics, what was going to happen in the election, up to this point. I had my own shit to worry about. But now…despite myself, I was shaking.

Our eyes met again in the mirror. She had a strange smile on, was regarding me, watching me.

I spoke first.

“Is…is that what’s exciting you?” I asked, my voice small, tremulous, “Wh-what these women are saying?”

At that, Melissa chuckled, and thought for a second. I felt her pull me into her a bit more firmly, and felt the possessive warmth and strength of her arms, her torso, her legs. “That, yeah…I don’t know if you realize how exciting it is for all us girls, the thought of things finally changing,” she said, now rubbing my shoulders with tender strength, “And it gets me excited, sure. When you were in the shower I started listening…and I started swelling, thinking of what it’s going to be like, when we win. It gets me excited, thinking of the changes…but not as excited as the thought of, through all of it, being with you.”

My heart fluttered, my throat caught.

”oh my god, Melissa…” I croaked, voice quavering. Was it that, really, that inflated her body like this? Swelled her musculature? Thoughts of…me? If so…if just the idea of being with me could do this to her, I was willing, I was darkly thrilled. What would it be like if I-?

”Can you handle it?” she asked, searching my face, reading my thoughts.

”h-handle it?” I replied, “handle what?”

She smiled a strange smile. “Like I’d said earlier, about how my emotions have been getting stronger, along with my body,” she began. Again her voice, somehow, seemed deeper, more resonant now than earlier. Like it had grown along with her, and was now reverberating through my body from behind, using me like a tuning fork. “This all…” she continued, as she - to my goggling eyes in the mirror’s reflection - raised her right arm and flexed her bicep for me. The thing was nearly the size of a small melon. “...this all seems to happen at once. Can you handle a girlfriend that…that looks like this?” At that she brought up her other arm, now in a double-biceps pose and flexed again, casually watching me look at her in dumbfounded awe. She then placed her hands on her hips and flared out her lats while drawing in a deep breath. I stared as, behind me, she seemed to swell taller and bigger and wider and holy shit…she became enormous. She looked down on me imperiously, watching my reaction as I felt myself seem to shrink right there, in front of her. “Can you handle a girlfriend that can sometimes get…too excited?” she asked, “Too emotional?” She paused, hands still on hips, back still flared, standing tall as a titaness. “This big?”

I was shivering, quaking, just looking up at her in the mirror as she looked down at me, her silhouette like a giant hooded cobra behind me. I…I was speechless.

“Hm?” she pressed, “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

The term…the word…it surprised me. We, Melissa and I, silly as it sounds, hadn’t made it official. Yes I was her boss. Yes, we were friends. But…is that what we were now, also? “I’m…I’m your b-BOyfriend now?” I asked, dismayed at how timid my voice sounded, and how it cracked like a teenager’s.

“Yes,” she answered with confidence, allowing herself a girlish <giggle>, “And I’m your girlfriend. I’ll cook for you. Clean your clothes, do your laundry.”

“That, uh…that sounds nice,” I somehow managed, still staring at how she still posed for me, hands on hips, lats flared out like two great fucking wings, “But you don’t have t-”

“But I want to,” she said, plainly, “and I want what I want. I want to be the best girlfriend ever.” At that, her hands came off her hips, and came back to my shoulders.

“Oh, uh…ok…” So, uh, she was going to do all that for me? This giant beautiful Amazon? K-keeping house?

She took a moment to fuss with my hair, straightening a few locks still wet from my shower off my forehead. Her big hands went back down to my shoulders, began to rub them. “And…I’ve decided,” she continued, “that you’re going to learn how to be the best boyfriend you can possibly be.”

Her touch felt incredible, and I knew what I’d see when I glanced down at myself in the mirror: my erection, beneath my thin bath towel, was tenting.

“Do you want that?” she smiled, “Do you want to be the best, best boyfriend?”

“o-of course,” I answered, surprising myself with how little hesitation I had.

“Good boy,” she smiled, “that’s my good boy…”

I shivered at the term, all my submissive little gears turning and churning. “Wh-what, then…do I have to do for you?” I asked, finding a small, timidly wry smile to offer back to her, “To be the, uh, ‘best boyfriend’?”

She giggled.

“It’s easy,” she said, her hands now sliding down from my shoulders, down onto the thinness of my wan chest,“You just have to make me feel…big.” Her hands explored my non-existent pectorals.

“B-big? You want to feel…big?” I asked. I’m sure I sounded a bit confused, and she giggled again. “What do you m-?”

“Girls these days…honey…you know what’s happening,” she said, in a voice that sounded like it was explaining the obvious, “We all want to be huge.”

“H-h-huge?” I stammered, caught off guard by her frankness.

“Yes. It’s not a secret. That’s the fashion, for girls. Huge…” she purred, leaning into me a bit more from behind, her hands drifting down from my chest, down my belly, “...huge and strong.”

“Uhhh…o-okay…and how do I d-do that?” I asked, my cock straining now, throbbing under my towel, already anticipating what those hands that approached had in mind, “How can I make you f-feel…’huge and strong’?”

“Oh, we’ll find ways, hun,” she chuckled, a deep, suggestive smokiness to her voice as, with the delicate grasp of the fingers of her right hand, she took the hem of my towel, where I’d wrapped it around my hips. Wasting no time, she pulled it away and we both watched in the mirror as the towel fell into a pile at my feet, my cock springing loose, upwards past my navel, all nine thick, throbbing inches suddenly dominating my shrunken frame. “Well, what do we have here?” she asked, coyly giggling.

I flushed in submissive arousal, absolutely cognizant of the fact that I was now standing, absolutely naked, in front of this towering, clothed woman. She surveyed me like she was sizing me up, my reflection, inspecting what was hers.

And just like that she grabbed my penis. My fully erect member was seized in her big right hand, forthrightly but in the most tender of ways. I let out a soft moan, and then she started to gently stroke me, pulling it, sending shivers through my spine. She was now masturbating me with her right hand, her left caressing my shoulder and chest from behind, big warm breasts pressed into my nape and upper back. I groaned, and felt how my knees had started to tremble, how I knew I wouldn't be able to take this, at least not standing. All of this arousal was going to make me fall into the ground if I came to climax. And, yes, as I took in a deep breath and filled my lungs with her perfume I suddenly felt that I was sure to come…and I didn’t want to collapse.

In the background, barely registering with me, the speaker of the television continued to voice the fulminations of the women assembled in their rallies. “Seriously, why do we women still need men? We´re the ones who work, who drive, who take care of the bills… you men don´t even have to get a job.” If one listened closely they might hear the crowd laughing, cajoling what they obviously now saw as the weaker sex. “I mean, c’mon. You could live the rest of your days inside our purses while we get things done. Or…”

But again, I barely heard the diatribes being launched upon my race and emanating from the TV’s speaker. Instead, I was wrapped up in the pleasures of Melissa’s soft hand, and had let her already bring me to the point where my climax was imminent, where my knees, now, were buckling…

“That’s okay, sweetie, let it out,” she said, her left hand wrapping around my chest, nearly palming it, pulling me into her for support as if she’d read my mind, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall. Mama’s got you.”

I gasped, and immediately I felt the perfume around me densen, become thicker, and I bucked my hips once into her hand. I let out a loud moan and suddenly I just came, so quickly, my fluids spreading all over her clenched fist.

“Oooooo! Well, what do we have here..?” she laughed, a bit surprised herself that I’d come so easily, “it looks like someone was a little extra eager for this hmmm..?” She purred at me, clucking, held me tightly to her so I wouldn’t fall, all as the warm fluid of my loins bubbled out and dribbled down her hand. My legs felt like rubber bands. “I’m going to have a lot to clean up…”

I may be smaller than I once was, but as I watched myself in the mirror, shaking in her embrace, I could see that the load I let out was still  impressive. It gurgled and ran, messing her hand, gooping down onto the floor. “S-sorry” I replied, timidly, even as the pulses of my orgasm still shivered through me.

“Awww, that´s cute,” Melissa cooed to me, “there´s no need to apologize, it´s completely normal. Just relax, I’ve got you…”

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