Chapter 2: The Claiming
The cold, hard bench pressed against her cheek. The world had tipped, and now there was only the chill of molded plastic, the smell of antiseptic cleaner, and the overwhelming heat of him at her back. He had moved with a shocking, fluid speed. One moment she was straddling his thighs, frozen; the next, his hands—those colossal, possessive hands—had flipped her onto her stomach as if she were a pillow.
Her breath came in ragged gasbs, fogging the bench beneath her. Her arms were splayed forward, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface. The full, heavy weight of her rear was now elevated, presented, spilling over the edges of the bench in a way that made her face burn with a shame that was also, horrifyingly, a thrill.
“That’s it,” his voice grated from behind her, a sound of pure appreciation. “Look at that. A fucking masterpiece.”
She could see them in the mirror ahead—a distorted, lewd tableau. Her own wide, terrified eyes stared back from beneath a fringe of tousled hair. The immense, pale moons of her buttocks, barely contained by the black Lycra, dominated the lower half of the reflection. And behind her, kneeling like a devotee at an altar, was Magnus. The muscles of his back and shoulders were a landscape of shadows and sharp planes in the harsh light. His face was a mask of focused hunger, his gaze fixed on the prize before him.
One hand, heavy and warm, came down on the small of her back, pinning her in place. It wasn’t cruel, but it was absolute. She was not moving unless he allowed it.
“All that bounce,” he mused, his other hand smoothing over the curve. He palmed one cheek entirely, his fingers digging in with a clinical possessiveness. “All that jiggle on the treadmill. Driving me insane. You knew what you were doing.”
“I didn’t—” she started, but her protest was cut off by a sharp, startled cry as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her leggings.
The fabric, already strained, tore. Not a delicate rip, but a yielding, synthetic shriek as he peeled it down in one firm, relentless motion. Cool air hit her exposed skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his gaze. She was completely bare to him now, exposed in the cold, mirrored room.
“Better,” he breathed. The word was a husk of sound.
His hands returned to her skin, and the touch was different now. No barrier. His calloused palms were rough against the softness of her, mapping, claiming. He squeezed, lifted, kneaded. He spread her, and she buried her face in her arms, a moan trapped in her throat. It was obscene. It was exhilarating. Her body, despite the fear, was responding, warming, betraying her with a slick readiness she couldn’t hide.
“See?” he said, his voice thick. “It knows. It’s been waiting.”
She heard the soft, wet sound behind her. A glance in the mirror showed him stroking himself, his fist slowly pumping the enormous, gleaming length. The sight was paralysing. It was impossible. The mechanics of it, the sheer scale, defied reason. A fresh, sharp terror lanced through her.
“Magnus, wait—”
“Done waiting.”
He shifted his knees, the movement causing the bench to creak. The blunt, swollen head of him pressed against her, not entering, just resting there with a promise that felt like a threat. The heat of it was shocking. The pressure was immense, even just that.
“Please,” she whispered, though she didn’t know what she was asking for.
“Please what?” he grunted, applying a fraction more pressure. Her body yielded, just a little, a tight, stretching ache beginning. “Please stop? Or please give it to you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He began to push.
It was a slow, inexorable invasion. There was no sudden breach, only a gradual, crushing fullness that stole the air from her lungs. She cried out, a sharp, fractured sound. Her fingers clawed at the bench. It was too much. It was splitting her apart. The stretch was a bright, white pain at the edge of pleasure, a threshold being violently crossed.
“Fuck,” he growled, his own breath hitching. “Tight. So fucking perfect.”
He paused, buried not even halfway, letting her body convulse around him. She felt impossibly full, stretched to a breaking point she had never imagined. In the mirror, she saw her own face, tear-streaked and slack with shock. She saw the monstrous thickness of him, the way her body strained to accommodate it.
Then he moved.
He pulled back, almost out, then drove forward again.
A scream ripped from her throat. It was a sound of pure, brutal sensation. The pain was still there, a fierce burn, but beneath it, deep within the core of her, a spark ignited. A deep, internal spot was being struck with each relentless thrust, a shockwave of pleasure-pain that radiated out to her fingertips.
His pace began, a steady, pounding rhythm. The bench scrapped against the tile floor with every drive forward. The sound of their bodies meeting was a wet, rhythmic slap that echoed off the lockers. Her own flesh jiggled and shook with the impact, a tumultuous, bouncing wave that he watched with rapt, greedy eyes.
“Look,” he commanded, his voice strained. “Look in the mirror. Look at us.”
Her eyes, glazed, focused on the reflection. The sight was grotesque. Beautiful. Him, a mountain of muscle driving into her. Herself, a soft, yielding landscape being utterly dominated. The contrast was obscene. It was the most potent thing she had ever seen.
“That’s you,” he grunted, pistonning into her with a force that shook her vision. “That’s what you are. Mine.”
His words unlocked something. The last resistance crumbled. A guttural sob escaped her, but it was a sob of release. Her body arched, meeting his thrusts, the pain dissolving into a torrent of raw, mindless sensation. The pleasure was catastrophic, building from that deep, hammered spot, spreading through her in convulsive waves. She was babbling, meaningless sounds, as the world narrowed to the slam of his hips, the creak of the bench, the obscene, wet sounds of their joining.
He was changing.
His rhythm became jagged, frantic. His breaths turned to ragged, animal grunts. The hand on her back clamped down harder, his fingers digging into her flesh. A new, unsettling sound entered the mix—a low, tearing sound. Not from her. From him.
She saw it in the mirror. The seams of his tank top, already strained, were pulling apart across his shoulders. The dense slabs of his deltoids seemed to swell, pushing against the fabric. The vascularity on his arms grew more pronounced, the veins rising like cords.
“Oh, shit,” he gasped, his thrusts becoming deeper, more possessive. “Oh, fuck, it’s happening.”
“What?” she managed to cry out, terrified of the answer.
“Growing,” he snarled, his eyes wild with a feral ecstasy. “Told you… another spurt…”
He shuddered, and she felt it. Inside her, around her. A deep, thickening pulse. He was swelling, expanding within her, the already impossible stretch becoming an exquisite, terrifying agony. The bench groaned in protest. His bicep, braced next to her head, seemed to inflate, the muscle hardening and rising under her dazed gaze.
With a final, roar that echoed off the tiles, he buried himself to the hilt and held there. She felt the hot, liquid rush of his climax, a seemingly endless flood that mirrored the feeling of his flesh expanding against her own. Her own body shattered, a silent, screaming peak that whited out her vision and left her trembling.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing and the faint ping of a distant pipe. He slumped over her, his expanded, heavier weight pressing her into the bench. The heat coming off him was furnace-like.
Slowly, he pulled out. The sensation was a slow, deflating ache. She felt empty in a way she had never known, a used and gaping void. Cool air touched her, a shocking contrast.
She heard him stand, a series of heavy, solid movements. He loomed above her in the mirror, a truly terrifying sight. He seemed larger. More defined. The torn shirt hung off him. He looked down at himself, at the still-impressive, glistening evidence of their union, and a slow, supremely satisfied smile spread across his face.
He looked at her, crumpled and exposed on the bench, and the smile turned into something darker, hungrier.
“Just the start, Milly,” he rumbled, his voice deeper than before. He flexed one arm, watching the muscle ripple and bulge with a new, shocking density. “Just the start.”
He remained there, a tower of spent muscle and simmering intent, his shadow swallowing her. The cold from the bench seeped into her bones, a sharp contrast to the molten ache between her thighs. She felt hollowed out, a vessel used and discarded, yet every nerve ending still sang a frantic, discordant tune.
In the mirror, her reflection was a ruin of smudged mascara and flushed skin. His was a monument, improved. The tears in his shirt framed new knots of granite-like flesh. He traced a vein, a thick blue river snaking down his bicep, watching it pulse.
“Feels different,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Tighter. Fuller.” He turned his hand, making a fist. The forearm musculature popped, a new ridge of brachioradialis seeming to define itself before her eyes. It was subtle, but undeniable. He was still expanding.
Milly tried to push herself up. Her arms trembled, failed. The movement made her aware of the slick, cooling mess on her thighs, the deep, throbbing tenderness inside. A sob hitched in her throat, part shame, part overwhelm.
“Don’t cry,” he said, but his voice held no comfort. It was clinical. “That was just the warm-up. Getting you ready.” He knelt beside the bench, his newly massive frame blocking the light. His eyes, those pale, hungry discs, scanned her exposed body. “Look at you. All that perfect, soft fucking raw material. You’re not even fully broken in yet.”
His hand, even broader now, palmed her rear again. The touch wasn’t gentle. It was a reassessment. A recalibration of his property. His thumb rubbed over the stretched, sensitive entrance he’d just vacated, and she flinched, a fresh jolt of sensation sparking through the ache.
“Still twitching,” he observed, a grin spreading. “See? The engine’s still hot.”
“I can’t,” she whispered, the words scraping out. “Magnus, please. It’s too much.”
“Too much?” He leaned in, his breath hot on her ear. “You took it all. Every inch. Felt you clamp down when you came. That wasn’t ‘I can’t.’ That was ‘give it to me.’” His fingers pressed, a little harder. “Your body’s smarter than you are. It’s already asking for the next round.”
Her mind screamed in denial. But a traitorous heat was pooling again in her belly. The memory of that catastrophic fullness, the shameful bloom of pleasure amidst the pain, was a ghost haunting her nerves. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary shift against the bench, seeking pressure.
He saw it. Of course he did.
“There it is,” he breathed. He stood up, the movement fluid and powerful. He looked down at himself, where he was already stirring back to life, thicker, darker, more imposing than before. The growth wasn’t just in his muscles. The evidence was blatant, terrifying, promising another impossible stretch.
He took himself in hand, giving two slow, lazy pulls. His gaze never left hers in the mirror. “See what you do? This is your fault. You and all this…” He gestured at her curves with his free hand. “You built it. You feed it.”
He stepped closer. The damp, formidable head of him brushed against the back of her thigh. It was hotter than before. Like brandished iron. She whimpered.
“Gonna give it to you again,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly promise. “Right here. But you gotta say it.”
She shook her head, tears spilling over.
He applied the slightest pressure, just a nudge against her sore, swollen flesh. It was a threat and a tease. The sheer size of him now made the first invasion seem like child’s play. A fresh, sharp fear clenched her stomach.
“Say it, Milly.”
Her mouth was dry. Her body was a traitor, aching, empty, craving that brutal fulfillment only he could provide. The conflict tore a moan from her lips. The words fought their way up through shame and need, breaking like a dam.
“Please,” she gasped, the sound ragged and raw. “More. God, please, give me more.”
The raw plea hung in the humid air, a surrender that seemed to make the lights buzz louder. Magnus’s grin was a white slash in the shadow of his face.
“Now we’re talking,” he rumbled.
His hands clamped onto her hips, fingers digging deep into the softness, and he yanked her back onto him. There was no slow entry this time. He was thicker, impossibly so, a brutal expansion of living flesh that tore a ragged scream from her lungs. It was a violation of scale, a breathtaking invasion that locked her spine. She was pinned, utterly speared, the bench creaking beneath their combined weight.
“Breathe,” he commanded, his own voice tight with strain.
She gasped, her body acclimating to the new, punishing diameter. The stretch was a bright, constant burn. He gave her no quarter, beginning a deep, rhythmic pumping that shook the entire structure. Each withdrawal was a tantalizing relief; each driving return was a conquering, a reclamation of territory.
His pace was a brutal, measured pound. The wet, meaty sound of their connection filled the tiled room.
Then his hand left her hip.
It came down not as a caress, but as a declaration. A sharp, crisp crack of palm on flesh that echoed off the lockers. The impact blossomed into a stinging heat that seeped deep into the muscle beneath the fat. Her entire body jolted forward, a wave of shock rolling through the pillowy mass of her rear. The jiggle was violent, a tumultuous quaking that lasted long after the initial slap.
“That,” he grunted, driving into her on the follow-through, “is for the treadmill.”
He spanked her again. The other cheek. The sound was louder now, a percussive beat underlaid by the wet slap of his thrusts. A rosy bloom appeared on her pale skin. The pain was sharp, clean, somehow clarifying. It anchored her in the storm of sensation. She cried out, a mangled sound lost in the rhythm.
“That,” he said, his breathing becoming more ragged, “is for pretending you didn’t want this.”
He settled into a pattern. A deep, plunging fuck, then a stinging spank that made her flesh tremble and dance. Then another thrust. Then another slap, alternating cheeks. The sting built upon the deep, internal ache, layering sensation upon sensation until she couldn’t separate pleasure from punishment. Her skin burned. Her insides were molten.
“Look,” he snarled, forcing her head up toward the mirror.
Her own debauched reflection swam in her vision. Tear-streaked, mouth slack. Her colossal ass, painted with red handprints, was bouncing wildly with every impact, every drive of his hips. Each spank sent a fresh, mesmerizing ripple through the soft terrain, a jiggling earthquake he orchestrated.
“See how it moves?” he panted, admiring his work. His thrusts became faster, harder, punishing. “See what I’m doing to you?”
She could only moan, a stream of broken, avian sounds. The spanking wasn’t subduing her; it was winding her tighter. Each strike coiled the spring in her gut, the dual assault of sting and fullness pushing her toward a cliff. Her previous climax felt like a faint memory. This was building into something monolithic.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice guttural. His spanks lost their rhythm, becoming frantic, open-palmed smacks that lit up her entire nervous system. “Gonna fill you up again. You feel me getting even bigger?”
She did. There was a profound, thickening pulse within her, a final, aggressive swell that stretched her to a silent scream. His final thrust was a burial. He slammed home, pinning her to the bench, one hand a vice on her hip, the other spread possessively over a burning cheek. His roar was raw, punctuated by the sharp, wet crack of his palm delivering one last, searing spank as he pulsed inside her.
The vibration of that last impact seemed to trigger her own undoing. Her vision tunneled. A silent, seismic orgasm wrecked her, her internal muscles milking the impossible fullness in frantic, helpless waves. She shook, her punished flesh quivering under his stationary hand.
He stayed like that for an eternity, his weight a mountain. Then, with a wet, final sound, he withdrew.
She collapsed onto the cold bench, a used, trembling thing. The air felt glacial on her heated, stinging skin. She heard him step back, then the sound of running water from a sink.
He returned. A cold, wet paper towel dabbed roughly between her thighs. The clinical gesture was more intimate than anything that had come before. He tossed it aside.
She forced her head to turn. He was staring at his reflection, flexing his right arm. The bicep was definitely larger, the peak sharper, the vascularity a road map of blue. He looked from his arm down to her battered form on the bench, then back to the mirror.
A low, satisfied chuckle rolled out of him.
“Told you I was still growing,” he said, his voice a deep, new instrument. He leaned down, his shadow consuming her. He kissed the burning skin of her shoulder, a surprisingly soft contrast.
“Get dressed,” he said, his tone casual, already moving on. “I’m hungry. You’re buying me a steak. Gotta feed this.” He patted his stomach, the slabs of his abdomen hard and defined.
He walked toward the door, a colossus in a torn shirt. He stopped, not looking back.
“You did good, Milly.”
The door hissed shut behind him.