Chapter 4: Sasha's Submission
The alley air was cool on his bare skin, carrying the distant sounds of traffic and city life—a world still operating under its old, puny rules. Braden stood for a long moment, simply existing in his new scale. The bricks of the building beside him, once imposing, now felt like something he could casually shoulder aside. The dumpster was a toy box.
A need, sharper than hunger, cut through the lingering buzz of transformation. It was a target for his ambition. He thought of the lean, sharp-tongued woman from the studio, the one with the black hair and eyes that had sliced through him with dismissive amusement days ago. Sasha. Her name was a flavor in his mind—spicy, challenging. She’d called his lifting form “cute.” Had arched a sculpted brow at his protein shaker. She represented a world that hadn’t yet bowed.
He wanted it to bow. Specifically, he wanted her to bow.
Reaching for the shredded remains of his gym shorts, he fumbled in the pocket. His fingers, thick as bratwursts, nearly crushed the smartphone he pulled out. He squinted at the screen, the device ludicrously small in his palm. Typing was an exercise in monumental patience. Using a single fingertip, he laboriously tapped out a message.
Hey. Its Braden. Come over. Now.
He stared at the words. They felt insufficient. They lacked the weight he now carried. He deleted them. The green glow of the amulet pulsed against his chest, as if whispering. He tried again, his simple mind filtering the vast, greedy want through the only lexicon it had.
Sasha. My place is wrecked. Come to yours. Need to show you something. You won’t believe it.
He hit send. The message whooshed away into the digital ether, a mundane carrier pigeon for a demand that felt tectonic. He imagined her receiving it, probably in some clean, minimalist space, maybe rolling those green eyes. She’d think he was talking about a new muscle group, a petty achievement. She had no idea.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He knew, with the amulet’s certainty thickening his blood, that she would come. It was a pull as fundamental as gravity. He began walking, his bare feet slapping the pavement with authoritative thuds. The journey to her apartment building, a few blocks away in a trendy renovated district, was a parade of surreal moments. A woman walking a small dog froze, the leash going slack in her hand as he passed, her head craning upward, her mouth a perfect ‘O’. A delivery driver dropping off parcels simply dropped one, the box thumping to the sidewalk. Braden ignored them. They were scenery, already rendered insignificant by his scale.
Sasha’s building was a converted factory, all exposed brick and steel casement windows. The main door was a heavy thing of oak and iron. He pushed it, not with the handle, but with the flat of his palm near the lock. The deadbolt, solid as it was, tore through the frame with a squeal of protesting metal and a shower of wood splinters. He stepped into the minimalist lobby, the track lighting above feeling suddenly too low, the potted ferns looking like fragile toys.
He took the stairs, not out of necessity, but because the elevator would have been a comical confinement. Each concrete step groaned under his weight. He reached her floor, the fourth, and turned down the hall. Her door was at the end. He could already smell it: lavender, sweat, the chemical tang of supplements. His mouth watered. It smelled like potential.
He didn’t knock. He placed his thumb against the deadbolt and pushed. There was a metallic snap, clean and final, and the door swung inward.
Sasha’s apartment was a reflection of her dual nature: part serene yogi, part obsessive body cultist. One wall was a calm sage green, adorned with a single framed mandala. Another was a chaotic collage of magazine pages—glossy photos of freakish pro bodybuilders, of cartoon women with physics-defying curves, of grainy underground comic art depicting hyper-exaggerated forms. Dumbbells rested on a plush rug. A blender, its glass jar ominously labeled “Growth Serum (Do Not Ingest)”, sat humming on the kitchen counter, churning something thick and pale.
She stood in the center of the living room, having just spun around at the sound of her door being violated. She was dressed in tight black leggings and a sports bra, her lean, defined musculature on full display. Her long black hair was in a severe ponytail. In her hand was her phone, the screen still lit from his text.
Her reaction was not Tiffany’s stunned, immediate submission. It was a rapid-fire sequence that fascinated him. First, shock at the intrusion, her green eyes flashing with anger. Then, confusion as her brain tried to process the thing that had intruded. Her gaze traveled up from his shattered-door feet, past the tree-trunk legs, lingered with a flinch on the monstrous appendage swaying between them, up over the etched geography of his abdomen, the barrel chest, the caps of his deltoids that nearly brushed the doorframe, and finally to his face, which wore that familiar goofy grin, now rendered horrifying by the context of the skull it was attached to.
The anger dissolved. The confusion melted into sheer, disbelieving cognitive dissonance. Her sharp tongue failed her. “What… the… fuck.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an autopsy of her understanding of reality.
Braden stepped fully inside, having to turn his shoulders slightly to fit. The room shrank around him. The ceiling, once lofty, now felt like a hat. “Told you,” he rumbled, his voice a sub-bass vibration that made the glass in the blender jar shiver. “You wouldn’t believe it.”
Sasha took an involuntary step back, her heel hitting a dumbbell. She stumbled, caught herself. The fear was there, bright and sharp in her eyes, but beneath it was something else—a fierce, trained assessment. A bodyworker’s eye trying to comprehend the anatomy. A fanatic’s eye recognizing the ultimate iteration of the fantasy on her wall. “How?” she whispered. “Photoshop? Some… some insane synthol and saline cocktail…?”
He laughed, a sound that rattled the light fixtures. “Better.” He tapped the amulet with a clink of fingernail on stone. It glowed, a pulse of deep emerald that painted the sage wall in lurid color. “Found it. It… fixes things. Makes ‘em right.”
“‘Right’?” she echoed, her cynicism fighting its way back, a survival mechanism. “You look like a walking anatomy diagram from a fetish forum. You broke my door.”
“You said my form was cute,” he said, the words simple, a child stating a grievance with the power of a tyrant.
He took a step forward. The floorboards bent. She didn’t retreat this time. She held her ground, her eyes locked on the amulet. He saw her mind working, connecting the dots between the photos on her wall, the serum in her blender, the impossible man before her. The want in her—the deep, unacknowledged want for extremity, for transcendence of the mundane limits of flesh—met the reality of his power halfway.
“What does it do?” she asked, her voice hushed.
“Whatever I want,” he said. He flexed his right arm. The biceps erupted, a globe of striated muscle webbed with throbbing veins. The triceps swelled behind it like a separate ham. The movement was so forceful it stirred the air.
Sasha’s breath caught. Her clinical fascination was drowned by a wave of pure, visceral arousal. He saw it—the quickening of her breath, the faint flush on her chest, the way her eyes didn’t leave the monstrous peak of his arm. The cynic was being unmade by the fanatic.
“Kneel,” he said.
It wasn’t a shouted command. It was a low, resonant suggestion, infused with the amulet’s compelling energy. It bypassed her thoughts and spoke directly to her spine.
For a second, defiance flickered. Then her knees buckled, not in a collapse, but in a slow, deliberate sinking. She went down on the polished hardwood floor, the dumbbell cold beside her knee. She looked up at him, from this new, lower angle. He was a mountain range against the ceiling.
“Worship it,” he said, nodding towards his flexed arm.
Hesitation trembled through her. Then, with a shuddering exhale, she leaned forward. She pressed her lips, soft and unsure, against the cool, hard curve of his lower quadriceps. The touch was electric for both of them. For him, it was validation in its purest form. For her, it was the crossing of a Rubicon. She kissed the muscle, then, driven by a deepening hunger, she opened her mouth and touched her tongue to the thick, ropey vein that snaked down his thigh. The taste was salt and skin and something else, a faint, ozone-like charge from the amulet’s magic.
A low moan escaped her. It was one part shame, two parts burgeoning addiction.
“More,” he grunted.
She moved, crawling on her knees, her earlier grace replaced by a clumsy reverence. She placed her hands on his shins, her fingers spanning only halfway around. She nuzzled the dense vastus medialis of his thigh, then worked her way up. She kissed the sweeping tear-drop of his quad, licked the striations that cut across it. She was studying him with her mouth, learning the texture of his power.
“The arm,” he reminded her.
She shuffled around, her ponytail swaying. She faced the monument of his right arm. Up close, it was terrifying. The vascularity was a roadmap of blue and green beneath skin stretched paper-thin over solid granite. She leaned in, her nose almost touching the skin. She kissed the round head of the biceps. Then, tentatively, she traced the largest vein with the tip of her tongue, from the crook of his elbow up towards the peak. The vein throbbed under her tongue, a river of rampant life.
Braden flexed again, deliberately. The muscle jumped and hardened, a sudden contraction that pushed against her face. She gasped, pulling back slightly, then pressed forward again, more insistently, kissing and licking the swelling flesh, her hands coming up to frame it, her fingers unable to come close to encircling it.
“Harder,” he said, his voice thick.
She obeyed, her kisses becoming more open-mouthed, her tongue painting wet trails across the sweating sinew. She was panting, her own body responding, her lean frame trembling not with fear now, but with a desperate, accelerating need. She worshipped the deltoid, a shelf of muscle she could have rested her chin on. She nuzzled into the crevice between his pectoral and anterior deltoid, breathing him in—the musk, the sweat, the raw, metallic scent of transformative energy.
“Chest,” he commanded.
She looked up at the wall of his torso. His abs were a brutalist sculpture. She placed her palms flat against the lower ridges, her warmth a faint contrast to the cool, hard surface. She leaned in and pressed her lips to the center line between his pecs, just below the glowing amulet. She stayed there, as if in prayer. Then she dragged her mouth downward, tracing the deep groove of his abs, her tongue dipping into the valleys between each rock-solid ridge.
He let out a contented growl. The sound vibrated through her, from her lips down to her core. Her movements became less reverent, more frankly sexual. She was grinding her hips against the empty air, a soft, rhythmic motion. Her hands left his abs and, after a moment of hovering, reached for the most intimidating part of him.
Her fingers brushed the thick, hot shaft. A full-body shudder wracked her. She wrapped both hands around it. They didn’t meet. Her fingers spanned maybe two-thirds of the girth. She stared at the impossible measurement, her mind finally, fully breaking. The cynic was gone. Only the devotee remained.
She began to stroke, a tentative, awkward motion due to the sheer size. She used both hands in a tandem motion, her thumbs rubbing over the throbbing veins. She leaned forward and, without being told, kissed the blunted, purple head. The taste was preternatural, salty and sweet with power. She took as much of it into her mouth as she could, which was laughably little, and swirled her tongue.
“You like it,” he stated, looking down at the top of her head.
“Yes,” she gasped, the word muffled against him.
“You want it?”
“God, yes.”
“You want to be worthy of it?”
This gave her pause. Her green eyes, glazed with lust, found his. “Worthy?”
“You’re small,” he said, not as an insult, but as a simple fact, like noting the weather. “Skinny. Sharp. I wanna feel you. Really feel you.” The greed in his eyes was focused, directed. “You wanna be a real woman? A woman who can handle this?”
He thrust his hips slightly, a small movement that pushed more of his cock against her face. The implication was clear. In his new logic, only a woman of comparable, exaggerated scale could possibly hope to accommodate him.
Sasha’s gaze flickered to the collage on her wall—the impossible curves, the cartoonish proportions. A fantasy she’d hungered for in two dimensions. Now it was being offered in three, by a living god. The last thread of her old self snapped.
“Yes,” she breathed, and the word was a vow. “Please. Make me… make me big. Make me soft. Make me something you can use.” The confession tumbled out, raw and obscene. “I’ve always wanted it. I’ve mixed… I’ve trained… nothing worked. Please. Do it.”
Braden’s grin widened. This was better than Tiffany. Tiffany had been clay. Sasha was a willing convert, begging at the altar.
He placed a massive hand on her head, not pushing, just claiming. “Ask nicer.”
She didn’t hesitate. She released him and slumped back on her haunches, her hands clasped before her like a supplicant. Her sharp, beautiful face was a mask of desperate need. “Please, Braden. Use your… your amulet. Make me huge. Make my tits so big I can’t see my feet. Make my ass so wide I can’t fit through doors. I want to be… jiggly. I want to be soft and massive and yours. I want to be a curve. Your curve.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I wanna feel small underneath you, even when I’m not.”
It was the perfect prayer. It resonated with the amulet’s core desire. The stone blazed, lighting the entire apartment in a pulsating, vegetative gloom. The light didn’t just shine; it poured into Sasha.
She gasped, arching backwards as the energy hit her. It wasn’t a violent shudder like his own growth, but a deep, internal wave of heat that bloomed in her chest and pelvis.
It started with a tightness in her sports bra. The fabric, designed for compression, groaned. The seams along the sides strained. Sasha looked down, her eyes wide. The lean, athletic swell of her breasts began to push outward, not just growing, but blossoming. The tissue softened, becoming dense yet pliable, losing its muscular tautness for a lush, heavy fullness. The sports bra darkened as it stretched, the logo distorting. An inch of expansion. Then two. Then a profound, swelling roundness that pushed the fabric into a taut, straining dome.
She cried out, a sound of shock and pleasure as the sensation intensified. The growth wasn’t just size; it was weight. A delicious, anchoring weight that pulled at her shoulders, changed her center of gravity. She fell forward, catching herself on her hands, as her chest became a burden.
The amulet’s light swirled lower. Her leggings, tight across her rear, began to protest. The sleek, firm contours of her glutes dissolved into something wider, fuller, rounder. The fabric stretched sideways, the sound a persistent, ripping whisper. The curve of her back extended, her ass inflating into two immense, perfect hemispheres that fought against the constricting lycra. The weight of them was immense, pulling her pelvis backward, forcing her spine into a deeper, innate arch.
She collapsed onto her side, unable to support the sudden, delicious mass on her hands and knees. “Ohmygod… ohmygod…” she chanted, her hands roaming over her own body, disbelieving. She cupped a breast, her fingers sinking into stunning, yielding softness that spilled over her hand. She squeezed, and a moan of pure bliss tore from her throat. It was everything she’d secretly craved—the ultimate femininity, exaggerated into absurd, wonderful reality.
Braden watched, his cock achingly hard. He saw the lean yoga instructor vanish, replaced by a growing monument to his will
Her lean frame softened, then swelled. The sports bra gave way with a sharp snap of elastic, torn seams whipping against her swelling skin. Her breasts burgeoned outward, heavy and pendulous, their weight a tangible force that strained her collarbones and pushed her shoulders forward. They settled against the floor with a soft, fleshy impact, each easily larger than her head had been moments before, their pale skin stretched taut over dense, milk-heavy tissue.
Her ass continued to expand, the lycra of her leggings dissolving into torn ribbons around her widening hips. The globes rounded, jutting backward with such pronounced volume they lifted her lower back from the floor. Cellulite dimples appeared, then smoothed into perfect, swelling curves. The transformation wasn’t just size; it was a fundamental recalibration of her physics from tensile strength to overwhelming, jiggling mass.
She panted, her fingers digging into the new, pillowy softness of her own hips. “It’s… it’s still happening,” she breathed, feeling the internal heat of the amulet’s magic continuing its work. A fresh wave of expansion rippled through her chest, adding another devastating inch of cleavage that spilled across the hardwood. The areolas darkened and widened, the nipples thickening into sensitive, prominent nubs.
“Don’t stop,” Braden commanded, his voice a low rumble of pleasure. The amulet pulsed in time with his heartbeat, with her gasps. He watched, utterly rapt, as her body became a landscape of his specific desire. Her thighs, once defined and muscular, thickened, their inner seams kissing as soft fat layered over the muscle, eliminating any space between them. Her arms softened, the triceps and biceps losing their cut, becoming rounded, lush. Even her feet seemed to soften, the arches becoming less pronounced.
The process slowed, then ceased. The green light receded back into the stone, leaving the room in the sudden, stark contrast of the setting sun through the windows. Sasha lay on her side, a monument to exaggerated femininity. She was trapped by her own new form. To sit up, she would have to fight against the anchor of her chest. To roll over, she would need to contend with the massive shelf of her ass.
She was breathing hard, tears of overwhelm and ecstasy streaking her mascara. She tried to move an arm, to push herself up, but the motion just made the vast expanse of her breast wobble ponderously. A helpless giggle, edged with hysteria, bubbled from her lips. “I can’t… I can’t get up.”
Braden took a step forward. The floorboard screamed in protest. He loomed over her, a skyscraper of vascular muscle gazing down at a valley of soft, rolling hills. “Don’t need to.” He reached down, his hand, so large it could pal one of her breasts entirely, wrapped around her upper arm. He pulled.
She came up from the floor with a gasp, not like a person rising, but like a planet being hoisted by a god. Her body settled into a kneeling position, but it was ungainly. Her breasts hung down, their weight pulling her forward, their undersides resting on the swell of her stomach. Her ass made a soft, spreading contact with her heels. She had to brace her hands behind her on the floor to keep from toppling forward, her back arching deeply to accommodate the twin burdens.
“Look at you,” he murmured, not with tenderness, but with the awe of a sculptor stepping back from a wet block of clay.
“I’m…” she began, then stopped, her green eyes searching his face. The sharpness was gone, melted into a dazed, submissive wonder. “I’m what you wanted.”
“Not yet.” His grin was back, that goofy, terrifying slash of white. “Gotta test the materials.”
He sank to his knees before her. The impact was like two sacks of cement hitting the floor. He didn’t touch her with his hands. Instead, he leaned forward, bringing the broad, hard plain of his chest against the yielding softness of her breasts. The contact was electric. She cried out, a sharp, punched-out sound, as the sensitive, swollen flesh was compressed against the unyielding granite of his pectorals.
He began to move, a slow, grinding rock of his torso against hers. The friction was immense, sending shockwaves of sensation through her. Her new body seemed wired for this, every nerve ending screaming to life under the abrasive massage of his skin and muscle. She could feel the individual ridges of his abs scraping against her softer middle. The amulet, cold and hard, pressed into the cleavage it had created.
“Braden…” she whimpered, her head lolling back.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his own breath becoming ragged. “You feel how soft you are? How you just… give?” He increased the pressure, leaning his weight into her. She squealed, her body flattening under his, her ass spreading wider on her heels. The sensation was overwhelming—a glorious, crushing pressure that felt like being molded all over again.
He pulled back slightly. His cock, an intimidating pillar of flesh, stood rigid between them, its head level with her face. A drop of clear fluid beaded at the tip. “You wanna be worthy?” he asked, his voice rough.
She didn’t speak, just nodded frantically, her hair sticking to her sweaty forehead.
“Then earn it.”
She understood. With a groan of effort, she shifted her weight, trying to maneuver her new, cumbersome body. She couldn’t lean forward; her breasts were in the way. Instead, she pushed herself up on her trembling arms, raising her torso just enough to bring her mouth to him. She opened wide, straining her jaw, but could only manage to take the flared, purple head between her lips. The taste, musky and primal, filled her mouth. She swirled her tongue, her eyes closing in concentration, in worship.
It wasn’t enough for him. With a growl, he placed a hand on the back of her head. Not forcefully, but with undeniable guidance. He pulled her forward, sliding more of himself into her mouth. She gagged instinctively, tears springing to her eyes, but he held her there, letting her adjust, letting her throat stretch. The feeling of her gagging around him, of her utter, choking submission, sent a jolt of pure power straight to his core.
After a moment, he released her. She pulled back, gasping, saliva coating her chin. Her eyes were watery, but they burned with a fervent need. “More,” she rasped.
He stood then, a tower rising from the floor. He looked down at her, at the breathtaking, helpless spectacle of her new form. “On your back,” he said. “Try.”
It was a struggle. Rolling over was an epic battle against gravity and her own absurd proportions. Her breasts spilled to the sides as she rolled, each one a warm, heavy weight pinning her slightly. She finally landed on her back, staring at the ceiling, her massive ass flattening beneath her, her legs falling open partly out of intent, partly because the sheer width of her thighs made keeping them together impossible. The position made her feel utterly exposed, utterly vulnerable. A feast presented on a trembling platter of her own flesh.
Braden stared, his gaze a physical heat on her skin. He drank in the sight: the way her stomach formed a soft, rounded mound between the mountainous shelves of her breasts and the thicket of dark hair at her apex; the way her ass spread out beneath her, a vast, pale cushion; the way her thighs, now so generous, framed the slick, pink evidence of her arousal. She was everything from the most extreme fantasy, made real and breathing and waiting for him.
He didn’t kneel. He stepped over her, one foot planting on either side of her hips. He looked down the length of his own body, past the colossal V of his torso, to where the tip of his cock hovered over her center. The sheer scale difference was obscene. It seemed a geometric impossibility.
Sasha saw it too. A flicker of genuine fear crossed her face. “It… it won’t fit,” she whispered.
The amulet glowed on his chest. “It’ll fit,” he said, the words imbued with a magic that was more than just promise. It was a command to reality itself.
He lowered himself, not onto his knees, but into a deep, powerful squat, his quadriceps bunching into mountains of their own. He guided himself with one hand, the other bracing himself on the floor by her head. The initial pressure was immense. She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound, as he pressed into her. Her body, already reshaped by the amulet’s will, resisted, then yielded, stretching in ways that defied anatomy to accommodate him. The sensation for her was a blinding supernova of pain and pleasure, a feeling of being utterly filled, opened, and claimed. For him, it was a hot, impossibly tight sheath, a velvet vise molded perfectly to his form.
He began to move.
It started as a slow, deliberate rocking of his hips, a testing of this new, impossible geometry. Each thrust made her entire body shudder. Her breasts wobbled violently, a mesmerizing cascade of jiggling flesh. Her ass, compressed beneath their combined weight, flattened and spread with each impact. The sounds were visceral: the wet, sucking rhythm of their joining, the sharp slap of his lower abdomen against her soft mound, her choked gasps and pleading moans that formed no words, just raw vocalizations of overwhelming sensation.
“You see?” he grunted, his own control beginning to fray. The visual alone was shattering his mind. The way her softness deformed around his hardness, the way she bounced and jiggled with every pound of his force. “You see what you are now?”
She could only nod, her eyes rolling back, her hands clutching at nothing in the air before finding purchase on the dense, vibrating cords of his forearms. Her nails dug in, leaving faint red trails.
He picked up the pace, the slow rock becoming a driving, powerful piston. His squat was deep and stable, allowing him a brutal, unrelenting angle. The apartment filled with the noise of it: the pounding of his thrusts, the creak of the floorboards, the constant, liquid slap of flesh on flesh, the rhythmic jiggle of her enormous chest. Her moans became screams, high and ragged, each thrust punching the air from her lungs. She wasn’t a partner; she was a topography he was conquering, a landscape of curves and softness he was ruthlessly mapping.
“Mine,” he snarled, the word torn from him.
“Yours!” she screamed back, the affirmation a surrender so complete it was euphoric. “All yours! God, please!”
The amulet burned against his chest, feeding on the raw energy of the act—the domination, the submission, the extreme physicality. Its green light pulsed in time with his thrusts, casting their heaving, colliding shadows on the sage-green walls, making the collage of fantasy images seem to dance.
He could feel his climax building, a tidal wave of pressure starting in his colossal thighs and surging upwards. He fucked her with a final, frantic intensity, his movements losing all rhythm, becoming a frenzied, animalistic drive for release. She was sobbing now, her body convulsing around him, her own pleasure peaked and re-peaked into a continuous, shattering plateau.
With a roar that shook the windows in their frames, he slammed into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt. His release was not a spurt but a flood, a seemingly endless torrent that filled her, warmed her from the inside out, a claiming as profound as the transformation itself. He held himself there, shuddering, as her internal muscles milked him in frantic, fluttering waves.
The apartment fell silent but for their ragged breathing and the faint, receding hum of the amulet.
Braden, still in his deep squat, looked down at the wreckage of the woman beneath him. Sasha was a beautiful mess—sweat-slicked, tear-streaked, her hair a dark fan around her head, her made-up face smeared. Her body, already transformed, seemed even more pronounced in its post-coital languor, every curve relaxed and gloriously sated. She looked utterly used, utterly broken, and utterly blissful.
He pulled out slowly. The sound was obscenely wet. He stood up, his legs unbending with the creak of overworked hydraulics. He looked at his own body, glistening with sweat, more vascular than ever, the pump from the sex making every muscle look carved and defined. He felt stronger. Bigger.
He looked at Sasha. She lay still, eyes closed, a small, trembling smile on her lips. One hand lay across her stomach, the other draped over the mountainous curve of a breast. She was whispering something. He leaned closer.
“More,” she was sighing, a dreamy, ecstatic chant. “More… more…”
Braden’s grin returned. He understood. The itch wasn’t gone. It had just been… fed. And now it was hungrier. He looked from Sasha, his perfect, submissive creation, to the broken door, to the city lights beginning to twinkle outside the window. The hunt wasn’t over. It had just found a new, more powerful scent.
He took a deep, satisfied breath that filled the room. It was just the beginning.