She nestles her head on the little nook between your chest and your bicep. She’s beautiful when she’s comfortable. You run your fingers up and down her lower spine to the crease in between her ass cheeks. Both your bodies are still warm from the love session that just ended. Your heart rate is starting to slow down. You kiss the top of her head and take a whiff of her luscious, curly hair. You don’t know the brand of shampoo she uses, but you know the scent. It’s one of those rare moments in life when you’re completely content.
“I love how big and strong you are,” she says.
“Yeah? You think I’m strong?” you ask with tiny bit of coyness and a lot of cockiness.
“Yes. You have a big chest and arms. I love how broad your shoulders are and how secure I feel with your big body protecting my little one,” she responds.
You smile and showboat your Popeye-sized muscles by flipping on top of her and kissing her passionately. You look deeply into her eyes and then analyze her body. She’s such a fine example of femininity—her ample breasts, bountiful booty, the slight pudge on her belly that she’s insecure about (but that you love), and a freshly shaved pussy. You flex your biceps and order her to feel your weapons of mass destruction. She places both hands around one of your biceps, but it still eclipses her reach. She smiles warmly as she appreciates the years of hard work you’ve put into building yourself from a scrawny kid into a beast.
Many moons before, you were an average, slothful kid with no muscle. You were slim and weak. You had a sinkhole for a chest and biceps you could wrap your fingers around. You couldn’t run half a mile without gasping for air. You couldn’t pull up your own body weight or bench-press the 45-pound bar.
Then one day you were introduced to the weight room, the Temple to the god Brodin, he who bequeaths swoleness to those who pay tribute. It was a sanctuary that would eventually save your soul and body from the masses, whose weak minds and weak willpower keep them either gluttonous or scraggly.
The first few months are the worst. Your body is constantly sore, and you instantly pass out after you get home. You struggle to get up in the morning. Your body screams at you, ordering you to not get up, insisting that it’s unable to muster the strength to do another day in Beast Mode. Still, you get up. As shitty as it feels, there is a strange addiction to the pain. You feel your muscles being torn apart, but you also feel them rebuilding and getting stronger.
One day you pass by yourself in the mirror and in the reflection notice muscles that weren’t there before. You pause, flex, and analyze every inch of your body: a little vein there, a small rip there, a quarter-inch lost in the gut, an extra thickness in your legs, and even the hint of pecs developing.
As months and years pass, your body gets bigger and bigger. You’re growing into a man, and with that come a new source of strength and maturity not possible in your early years. One day it happens: Someone describes you as a big dude. “Am I that big?” you wonder.
No fucking way. Your childhood heroes are big: Schwarzenegger, The Rock, Batman, Stallone, Hulk Hogan, The Undertaker, Bret “The Hitman” Hart, Balrog, Wolverine, Punisher, and Duke Nukem. They’re big men; you’re just slightly above average, right?
Little did you know that throughout the months and years working out, you surpassed your peers. Their glory days are behind them, their guts formed by shitty eating and drinking habits gone unchecked while you’ve been paying tribute to Brodin.
One day she appears. She’s a petite little thing. You’re working as a bouncer while you figure out your shit. She smiles at you as she watches you work. She gazes at your biceps, blessed upon you by Preacher Curl and the Chin-Up Chorus. Your bulging chest and triceps are a gift christened to you by Saint Benchen. She slyly gazes at your firm buttocks and traps, a gift you have yet to fully earn from the Sister Angels, Squaterious and Deadliftfium.
She flirts with you. She sizes you up, and it turns her on that you’re twice as big as she is. She’s been with small, weak men before and has been disappointed. She wonders what it would be like to be with you, a big dude. In spite of your weak-ass game, you easily acquire her number.
Her clothes are on the floor. You wonder for a moment if this is really your life. Such a gorgeous being wants to sleep with you—the type of your fantasies and dreams.
She’s the type you sought to impress when you were first learning how to properly lift weights back when you were a slim, pimply teenager playing high-school football.
She’s the type you deeply thought about when you were running three miles to the gym, lifting weights, and running three miles back home while training to join the military.
The type that caused you such heartache while you were deployed. You disappeared into the gym for hours and hours, lifting heavy things and putting them down, eating 4,000 calories of food a day so when you got back, she could see what a fine specimen she allowed to escape.
The type you sorely missed on those long dry spells when you were at the gym at 1AM because you had no one who felt romantic toward you or even a solid prospect whom you could playfully text.
The type you wished would be in the little nook between your chest and arms, appreciating your hard work as you fell asleep at night.
You’re on top of her; she feels your weight pressing down on her. She loves it. You can easily pick her up and throw her around like a rag doll. She pretends to resist, but she has no chance. It makes her horny to feel so powerless. You kiss her, bite her, lick her, and smack her ass. When the moment is right, you thrust into her and show her your true power.