Wike wif? (Like... this?)

Her freckles brightened when she looked up, a little breathless, at the end of him still between her teeth. “Ffflex… mphh—wike wif?” she mumbled around it, eyes laughing as if she knew exactly what that sounded like.

You understood that muffled question and nodded. “Show me.”

She backed halfway out and curled her arm. The biceps rose like a tide, not a sharp peak but a heavy, rounded dome that kept climbing until skin shone tight and the veins strutted across the crown like braided rope. Triceps hung thick behind, a clean horseshoe that bit into her lat. Even kneeling, she seemed to grow upward—delts doming, pecs lifting into high, dense slabs that made the strap of her pastel top hike a notch with every breath.

“Mm—Nghhhh!” She clenched, just a touch harder.

It was obscene—in the best way. Striations feathered across the inner pec tie-ins, the centerline sharpening as the chest squeezed, then bounced once, slow and seismic, before settling higher. Her abs stacked in crisp bricks, obliques cutting sharp gullies down into the waistband; serratus plates stepped out like armor along the ribs. A faint tremor flickered under your fingertips when you reached to trace a vein; heat rolled off her like a sunlamp.

You swallowed. “Hold it.”

She did—eager to please—face flushing as she fought to keep the pose perfect. The longer she held, the more detail emerged: tiny ripples chasing each other across the biceps, a new vein shouldering its way along the clavicle, the pecs answering every micro-adjustment with another steady, obedient swell. She tried to catch her breath as her cheeks grew pink.
“How wong?” she whispered.

“Until I say stop.”

She smiled with her eyes and shifted into a single-arm most muscular—forearm braced to thigh, the other folded in, chest compressing into a deep, surgical canyon. Veins leapt up her neck, tracing the jawline before diving between the slabs. The pose was devastating; the sweetness in her expression made it worse.

“Good girl,” you said, and the praise hit her like a second pump. The pecs rose higher without moving an inch, blood answering command, surface turning glassy with effort. She breathed through it—short, controlled—letting you watch the living machine do its beautiful work.