Chapter 6: Private Tutoring
The ache in Jim’s jaw was a permanent, dull throb, a reminder of hours spent in devoted service. His shoulders, back, and thighs were a tapestry of soreness from supporting weights he had no business handling. Beth’s training had been intense, but it was a primer. What followed was a masterclass in exhaustive application.
A text, not from Beth. An unknown number with a commanding message: Penthouse 6A. Friday, 8 PM. Bring your kit. You’re mine for the weekend. – S.
He’d heard of Stephanie Scheider, of course. She was campus legend, a junior whose progression photos were studied with reverent terror. When the elevator doors opened directly into her penthouse, the scale of the legend became physical, and it stole the air from his lungs.
The space was vast, a luxury loft repurposed into a private gym and living quarters. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the sprawling campus below, now twinkling with evening lights. The air was warm, humid, and scented with lavender oil, chlorine from a corner hydro-pool, and the unmistakable iron-and-salt smell of intense exertion.
And there she was.
Standing by the windows, she turned. The word ‘woman’ seemed insufficient, a category too small to contain her. She was a monument. Seven feet and then some of sheer, curated mass. Long, straight blonde hair cascaded over shoulders that were round and capped with deltoids like small boulders. Her chest was a breathtaking shelf of muscle and mammary tissue, stretching the fabric of a white ribbed tank top into a topography of curves. Her waist nipped in dramatically before flaring out into hips and an ass so pronounced it cast its own shadow on the polished concrete floor. She was, quite simply, the largest human being he had ever seen up close.
“Jim. Right on time.” Her voice was a smooth alto, surprisingly melodic given her size. She walked toward him, each step a deliberate, graceful motion that made the floor feel less solid. She loomed over him, a warm, scented mountain. “Beth says you’re trainable. Says you understand… nutritional support.” A smile played on her full lips. “I’ve just finished a growth cycle. Put on two inches and twenty pounds of what the metrics call ‘positive tissue.’” She placed her hands on her hips. “I need to bond it. Set it. That requires constant, specific stimulus. And calories. So many calories.”
She gestured to a low, wide sofa. A duffel bag—his kit—sat beside it. “You’ll sleep there. Meals are delivered every three hours. In between, you work.”
The first delivery came at nine: a triple-order of a cafeteria steak platter, six sweet potatoes, and a pitcher of something thick and green. Stephanie devoured it with a focused, mesmerizing efficiency, barely speaking. When she finished, she wiped her mouth and looked at him.
“The new mass is greedy. It needs blood flow. Oxygen.” She reclined on a vast sectional, patting the space between her legs. “Start with my feet. Then work up.”
It began as a massage. His hands, kneading the dense, powerful muscles of her calves, her thighs. She guided him, her instructions clinical. “Deeper. Use your elbow on the quad tendon. Yes. There.” But as his hands neared her inner thighs, the clinical edge vanished. She shifted, spreading her legs wider, the sheer size of her overwhelming his field of vision.
“The new weight settles in the glutes and upper hips,” she said, her voice dropping. “It creates tension. You need to release it.”
He understood. He helped her roll onto her stomach. Her back was a sweeping landscape of latissimus dorsi and trapezius. Her ass was two immense, perfect hemispheres, barely contained by tight black shorts. He began to knead, and she groaned into the cushion, a sound of profound relief. “Yes. Oh, fuck, yes. Right there. It’s like… unkinking a hose.”
This continued for hours. Massage. A meal delivery—a mountain of pasta and ground beef. More massage. She directed him to her chest. “The pectorals are locked up. Support from underneath.”
He sat before her as she remained on her stomach, his hands sliding beneath her to cradle the unbelievable weight of her breasts. They spilled over his forearms, warm and heavy as water balloons filled with sand. He pressed and rubbed the muscle where it met her ribcage. She shuddered.
“Good. Now, the tissue itself. It’s engorged. Needs mobilization.”
He was hard, painfully so, his jeans constricting. She rolled onto her back, looking down at him. “You can use your mouth. It’s more efficient.”
There was no teasing, no challenge like with Beth. This was pure, pragmatic need. He leaned in, taking one thick, brown nipple into his mouth. He suckled gently, then more firmly, mimicking the rhythm she’d soon require for actual lactation. His jaw protested immediately, the sheer girth of her areola stretching his lips. She tangled a hand in his hair, not guiding, just holding.
“The other one. Don’t stop.”
He switched, his tongue working in circles. A soft, sweet gasp escaped her. “They’re so full,” she whispered, almost to herself. “You can feel it, can’t you? The pressure building behind them.” She began to rock her hips slowly, a low grind against the air. “It’s all connected. The ache here…” She moved his hand from her breast to the damp heat between her legs, over the fabric of her shorts. “…is the same as the ache there. It’s one system. Unlock it.”
He obeyed, peeling the shorts down. She was completely bare, shaved, her labia already swollen and glistening. The scent of her, musky and deep, filled his senses. He buried his face in her without hesitation, his tongue seeking her clit. She gasped, her abdomen clenching.
“Yes! Just like that. That’s the stimulus. That’s the bond.”
He ate her with a desperate focus, his jaw screaming in tandem with the one working on her breast. Her hips began to piston, fucking his face with slow, immense power. Her moans grew louder, echoing in the cavernous space. Her hands fisted in his hair, holding him captive as her movements became more erratic.
“I’m gonna come. Right now. Swallow it. It’s part of the cycle.”
Her orgasm hit like a seismic event. Her whole body arched, lifting her shoulders off the couch. A guttural, ragged cry tore from her throat as she flooded his mouth, her thighs clamping against his ears. He drank her down, the taste salty and complex. She collapsed, breathing in huge, shuddering gulps.
Saturday was a blur of repetition. Meal. Massage. Oral worship on her breasts, which grew more tender, more sensitive. His tongue and lips were raw. The second time she came on his face, she then turned and impaled herself on his cock without warning, riding him with a slow, devastating roll of her hips that made him black out at the edges of his vision. She took what she needed, her internal muscles milking him dry, then dismissed him to clean up before the next meal arrived.
By Sunday morning, he was a shell. His entire body was a single nerve of exhaustion. Stephanie stood by the window, naked in the dawn light, examining herself. She cupped her breasts, her expression one of focused curiosity. She squeezed gently.
A single, fat, pearly drop of liquid welled up at the tip of her right nipple. Then another. It trembled for a moment before tracing a slick path down the colossal curve.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. She turned to him, her eyes gleaming.
“Look at that,” she said, her voice hushed with awe. She padded over to the couch where he lay, movements fluid in her new, settled mass. She leaned over him, one mammoth breast hovering above his mouth. The droplet hung, suspended, catching the light.
“The first yield,” she whispered. “The system is optimized.” She lowered herself, the droplet brushing his lips. “Taste it. Taste the conversion.”
The flavor was faintly sweet, rich with fat, underpinned by the same metallic hint of the catalysts. It was the taste of the process made perfect, of input becoming output, of need becoming fact.
As he swallowed, she settled beside him, her immense body curving around his depleted form, one heavy arm thrown over his chest in a possessive, satisfied sprawl. Outside, the campus began to stir, oblivious to the alchemy achieved high above in the penthouse. The weekend was over, but Jim understood, with a deep, bodily certainty, that his role had just been irrevocably defined. He was no longer just a participant. He was a necessary tool, a component in a magnificent, hungry machine. And the machine was only getting bigger.
The machine was only getting bigger. The proof was standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows, backlit by the Monday morning sun, and Jim’s sleep-deprived brain struggled to reconcile the silhouette. He’d spent forty-eight hours worshipping every curve, every hardened plane, but now, with a few feet of distance, the cumulative effect was staggering.
Stephanie stretched, a long, sinuous motion that made vertebrae pop. The light outlined new, impossible gradients on her body.
“Fuck,” she breathed, looking down at herself, her voice rich with satisfaction. She ran her hands over her own flanks, from the indent of her waist out to the swell of her hips. “I can feel it. The weight’s settled.” She turned, a deliberate, slow pivot that felt tectonic. “Well? Don’t just stare. Get up and look at your work.”
He pushed himself up from the couch, his muscles protesting. Standing before her, the difference was visceral. Before, her breasts had been at his eye level. Now, his gaze was level with the dense undercurve where they met her ribcage. The pale skin there was stretched even tighter, a map of faint blue veins more pronounced. The areolae seemed wider, darker.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
A genuine laugh burst from her, low and warm. “Not Jesus. Just good chemistry and better service.” She cupped one breast, hefting its impossible weight in her palm. “The lactation protocol… it’s not just for milk. It super-charges the cellular uptake. Everything I ate this weekend?” She gave the breast a slight, proud squeeze. “It’s all right here now. Locked in.”
She seemed even bigger after the weekend 'treatment'. It wasn't just imagination or scale. The twenty pounds of “positive tissue” she’d mentioned had found its home, adding a profound, dense fullness to her thighs, a heavier hang to her ass, a thicker, more solid presence to her very being. She was a sculpture that had been fired again in a hotter kiln, the final form emerging denser, more definitive.
“I need a shower,” she announced, already walking toward the ensuite bathroom. “And you reek. You’re coming with me.”
The bathroom was a tiled expanse centered around a shower big enough for four normal people. For Stephanie, it was just adequate. She turned the water on, steam quickly billowing. She stepped in, then looked back at him, still standing dumbly by the door. “Are you waiting for a formal invitation? Get in.”
He stripped off his clothes, which smelled of sweat and sex and her, and joined her under the near-scalding spray. The water sluiced over her, highlighting the sheer acreage of her. She took up so much space, the spray curving around her hips and shoulders like a river around monuments.
“Wash me,” she commanded, handing him a bar of rough, sage-scented soap.
He started at her neck, working the lather over the powerful trapezius muscles. His hands moved over the cap of her deltoid, down the deep channel of her spine. He soaped the colossal rounds of her glutes, his fingers sinking into the firm, giving flesh. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the tile, presenting the full, breathtaking expanse of her backside to him.
“Good,” she murmured. “Now, between. I’m still sore from yesterday.”
He nudged her legs wider with his knee. His soapy hand slid into the cleft of her ass, then forward through the slick folds of her cunt. She was hot, even hotter than the shower water. He pressed two fingers inside her, and she clenched around them immediately, a low groan echoing off the tiles.
“Yeah,” she hissed. “Right there. It’s still so… sensitive. Everything’s buzzing.”
He worked his fingers in and out, slowly, feeling the thick, internal muscles grip him. He used his thumb to press circles on her clit, and her knees buckled slightly. “Fuck, Jim. Don’t tease. I’m fucking hungry again already.”
She turned suddenly, water flying, and pushed him against the wet wall. Her hand wrapped around his cock, already hard despite his exhaustion. She stroked him with a firm, knowing pressure. “You see what you do?” she said, her face close to his. “You kick the whole system into gear. The feeding, the fucking, the growth. It’s a loop. And you’re in the loop now.”
She released his cock and instead hooked her hands under his thighs, lifting him with an effortless, terrifying strength. “Wrap your legs around me,” she ordered. He did, locking his ankles at the small of her back. She supported him with one arm braced under his ass, her other hand guiding the broad head of his cock to her entrance.
She sank down onto him in one fluid, relentless motion.
The feeling was utterly consuming. She was so deep, so tight, the hot water mingling with her own slickness. She pinned him to the wall, his full weight nothing to her, and began to move. It was a slow, powerful, vertical grind. She used the muscles of her thighs and core to lift and lower herself, each descent a controlled, perfect impalement.
“Oh god, yes,” she moaned, her forehead resting against his shoulder. “This angle. It goes so fucking deep.” She picked up the pace, the slapping sound of their wet bodies lost in the drumming of the shower. Her massive breasts crushed against his chest, water streaming between them.
Her breathing grew ragged. “I can feel it… the shunt…,” she gasped, her rhythm becoming irregular, more frantic. “The nutrients… going right where they’re supposed to…” Her voice broke into a sharp cry as her orgasm ripped through her. Her cunt clamped down on him in a series of intense, rhythmic spasms, a milking pulse that pulled his own climax from him in a violent, shuddering rush.
She held him there, shuddering, as he emptied inside her, the water cooling around them. Slowly, she lowered him until his feet found the floor. His legs wouldn’t support him; he slid down the wall to sit on the shower floor, spent. She looked down at him, water plastering her blonde hair to her skull, her body steaming.
“We’re done,” she stated, turning off the water. She stepped out, grabbing a towel large enough to be a bedsheet. She dried herself with brisk, efficient strokes, then tossed the damp towel to him. “My first class is Advanced Tissue Synthesis in twenty minutes. I need another four thousand calories before then.”
She walked, naked and magnificent, into the bedroom, leaving him sitting on the wet tiles, the evidence of their coupling already washing down the drain between his legs. From the other room, her voice called out, casual as ordering coffee.
“Jim? Be a gem and put in my meal order. The usual post-cycle stack. And tell them to double the oats this time.” A pause, followed by the sound of a drawer opening. “Looks like none of my bras fit. Again.”