In Her Arms

I still remember the feeling when I saw her the first time. It wasn't just surprise -- it was that sudden rush, a kind of thrill that hit me straight in the body before the mind even caught up. One moment I was adjusting my son's bag strap, the next, my gaze had locked on a woman across the road who didn't just stand there -- she claimed the space.

It was morning, just like most days. I was at the bus stop with my five-year-old son. Sleepy, underdressed, holding his lunchbox, waiting for the school bus. We lived in the suburbs -- quieter, slower -- and with my university job running on hybrid mode, I was home a lot these days. Life had settled into a predictable rhythm. Morning bus stops, work calls from the study, light dinners, early sleep. Not boring, just... neutral.

She was standing across the road, talking animatedly with a group of mothers. Loud, relaxed, laughing without holding back. There was nothing performative in her body language -- just someone entirely at ease, and louder than the rest. She stood out immediately, not because she was trying to, but because she couldn't help it. She was taller than everyone else there -- by at least a head. 6'3", I guessed. Maybe more. She looked Indian, which threw me a little. You don't expect that height and frame in Indian women. Two of her friends were clearly Scandinavian -- tall and big in the usual way -- but she still towered over them, and somehow looked more physically solid.

I'm 5'7", lean build, not muscled or anything. Fit enough. Smooth skin, clean-shaven, not much body hair. People usually say I'm pleasant, nice, decent -- the kind of man who gets called soft-spoken in performance reviews and friendly by neighbours. I've always come across as non-threatening, which oddly enough has worked in my favour. I've had relationships -- not wild, but real -- because women felt safe around me. But deep down, I've always wanted something different. Not safety. Not balance. Just raw, physical power. The kind of woman who could overwhelm me, take control, make my body feel small in her grip. And this one -- she shook something awake in me that had been quiet for years.

She wore a short, snug skirt that hugged her thighs and curved around her backside in a way that felt almost structural -- like the fabric was being tested, and barely passing. There was no flab, no softness -- just full, tight form, like muscle wrapped in skin, firm and unbothered by effort. Her legs were thick and clean, shaped like pillars that didn't need permission to exist. She didn't stand like she was posing. She just stood. Still. Balanced. Relaxed. But everything about her legs -- the taper, the posture, the natural tension -- screamed control. Her shirt was loose, a breezy, casual thing, but it didn't hide much. Her breasts were full and high, round and perfectly steady, not forced up or propped -- just... there, holding their shape under light cotton. Her waist was wide but tight, flat at the stomach, maybe faint lines of muscle underneath, but not the gym kind -- the natural kind. Her arms were thick and smooth. Not veined, not cut, but big and strong. Healthy in a way that made you think about weight. Not her weight -- but yours, in her grip.

She looked like she could lift me. That thought landed quietly, without ceremony. Just a flash, a sentence in my mind. I didn't dwell on it. But it didn't leave either.

She turned toward me then. Her eyes met mine -- maybe because we were the only two Indians around, or maybe because I'd been staring longer than I thought. Her expression didn't change much. Just a tilt of the head. She clocked me. Saw my gaze. Saw that I wasn't looking politely. I froze, caught mid-step in a nod that didn't finish. My hand twitched like it wanted to wave and changed its mind halfway.

Her face didn't break into a smile. She didn't frown either. It was that kind of look -- unreadable, detached, maybe faintly amused. Then she turned to her friends and said something. They laughed. I don't know if it was about me. Probably was. It didn't feel cruel. Just... visible.

The bus came. My son climbed in. I waved, not really watching. The moment had already left the stop, but something in me hadn't moved.

There was no romance, no story, no conversation. Nothing happened. But something had started -- in me. A tension that pressed at my chest, and lower. The kind that didn't need explanation. Just presence.

That morning stayed with me the entire day. Not because of what she did. But because of what she was.

And for the first time in a very long time, I found myself imagining -- not wildly, not obsessively, just instinctively -- what it would feel like to be lifted by someone who actually could.

The bus had gone, but I had no intention of driving off just yet. My car was parked a little down the lane, but I lingered, pretending to check messages, letting time stretch. I wanted to follow her -- my tall goddess, if that's what she was. Not beautiful in the usual sense. Her face was pleasant, even plain in places, but strong-featured, clean-skinned, and alive with confidence. Laugh lines framed her eyes -- the kind that come from knowing pleasure, not performance. She looked like someone who didn't apologise for taking up space.

I didn't want to lose sight of her. I just wanted to stay near her for a little longer. When she turned with her friends and headed toward the supermarket, something in me sparked. That was enough of a reason -- a public space, a neutral follow. Just another dad grabbing milk after drop-off.

Their group broke up casually near the entrance, each mother peeling off into her own orbit. Only two stayed with her -- the tall Scandinavian and a shorter, curvier blonde. I exhaled. Still casual. Still plausible.

I picked up a cart and followed at a careful distance, steering into parallel aisles. Just close enough to stay inside her orbit. I drifted along the rows, crossing hers every now and then, slow and quiet. It wasn't just attraction now. It was hunger -- anchored in rhythm. The way her breasts moved beneath the shirt, heavy but steady. The sway of her hips, full and slow. Her backside under that skirt -- tight, high, impossibly built -- flexing with each step. She wasn't walking to draw attention. She simply was attention.

I barely registered what I threw into the cart. Pasta. Shampoo. A loaf of bread I didn't need. My hands moved, but my mind was low in my body -- pulsing with every roll of her step, every subtle movement of her wide shoulders and confident gait. She looked like someone no man had ever dared patronise.

Plans were forming in fragments. Maybe I'd catch her at checkout, mention the bus stop, offer a line. Or bump into her by the apples and act surprised. Or maybe just speak plainly -- say I'd seen her around, that we both had kids at the same school. Nothing more. All these little scripts overlapped and congealed into something real: intention.

But my body was ahead of me. That unmistakable tension had returned -- hard now. Pressed against the inside of my pants with the kind of urgency that made walking uncomfortable. I breathed through it, slow and steady, trying not to show what was already too clear. I pushed the cart slower. My jaw was tight. My heart was faster than it had any right to be.

And now -- the moment. The group was thinning. Only the shorter blonde remained with her. The tall one had peeled off. They were heading to checkout, loading the belt. I slowed my steps. Should I go now? Say something? Make the moment count? Or let it go and wait for tomorrow?

Barge in -- or hold?

My legs kept moving. I didn't even decide.

They were finishing up -- a few more items left on the counter. Her tall friend had vanished near the exit. Just the blonde remained beside her, casually chatting as they bagged items. I didn't go to them. I stayed nearby, pacing quietly, cart wheels faint on the linoleum. No real excuse left. But I wasn't leaving. Not yet. And then she turned.

Not just a glance. She turned to me. Her eyes found mine directly -- steady, calm. Then she smiled. Not polite. Not dismissive. Intentional. Small, but unmistakable.

"We've seen each other at the bus stop, right?" she said.

I nodded, caught. "Yes... I think so. You're usually with your daughter?"

She nodded back, that same smile. "And you with your son. Mine's in Grade 5. Yours?"

"Prep. Just started. We're new to the school."

"Same here," she said. "I like doing the morning drop."

Her voice was smooth. Normal. Her friend didn't even look up -- just bagged silently, unbothered. But my body registered every second. She stood relaxed, firm on both feet. Not one shift. Not one self-conscious adjustment. Her shirt hung light over her chest, but the shape underneath was full and high, two solid mounds that moved only when she moved. Her arms -- thick and dark -- looked heavier from up close, and her thighs under that tight skirt seemed carved into her stance. She wasn't performing. Just existing in her weight. I could barely breathe.

She glanced at my half-empty cart. "Looks like you've done less damage than I have."

I smiled. "That's what happens when you shop without a list."

She nodded, once. "I'm Kavya, by the way."

I told her my name. No handshake. Just her eyes -- holding mine for an extra second before she turned to her friend again, finished her bagging, and walked out without a pause.

Like it was any morning.

But my heart was pounding. My erection wasn't going anywhere. And I stood there, cart forgotten, jaw clenched, groin aching -- already memorizing the line of her back, the curve of her legs, the size of her.

And the fact that she had spoken first.

The evening and the next morning passed in a kind of haze -- anxious, charged, pleasurable in small, restless ways. I went through the motions like always -- laptop on, dinner arranged, quiet time with my son -- but underneath it all, there was a low heat simmering that I couldn't shake off. My mind kept wandering to the moment at the store. The way she'd looked straight at me. The ease with which she'd spoken. Her size, her body, her voice. The confidence that didn't try to impress -- it just existed. I kept replaying it without meaning to. That faint smile. The line of her breasts under her shirt. Her arms. Her voice. Her presence.

By morning I was half buzzing. I rushed my toddler through breakfast, helped him with socks and shoes, packed his lunchbox without really seeing what I was putting in. My groin was tight again, the sort of morning ache that lingers and distracts and feels too exposed under soft trackpants. I was already flushed before I left the house. My thoughts kept looping -- how would I greet her today? Would I move directly toward where she stood? Should I wait for her to acknowledge me again? Should I offer something -- a line, an invitation, a smile? Was it too soon to suggest coffee? Breakfast? A walk? Would it be strange to ask her over? What was the line between casual and forward when you already knew what her presence did to your body?

And then there she was again.

Standing near the bus queue, tall as ever, but dressed differently this time -- a pair of loose denim dungarees over a dark T-shirt, casual and unstyled but somehow more arresting than anything fitted. Her frame looked even bigger this way -- fuller, broader, more solid. The shape of her thighs under the fabric was unmistakable. Her shoulders seemed wider now that I was looking with clearer memory. She was talking animatedly with the same friend from the store, laughing again -- that deep, warm laugh that came from the belly and filled space without apology. But this time, she caught sight of me quickly.

She smiled fully -- no hesitation -- and gave a short laugh, like the kind people give when something they'd expected actually happens. Then she waved.

I waved back. Nothing dramatic. But I felt my heart knock once, hard, under my shirt.

She didn't call me over. She didn't step away from her friend. She just stood there -- confident, relaxed, completely present -- as if she knew I'd come to her eventually.

And the truth was... I would.

I pushed my son gently forward, toward her, into her orbit, as though something in the air between us had formed a pull I couldn't step out of. It felt strange, deliberate, but not avoidable -- like I was being drawn toward her by something stronger than intent. My heart was thudding hard in my chest. This couldn't stay as a half-formed exchange. That first encounter had weight, and if I didn't sustain that momentum now, if I let it slip back into silence, I knew how easily it could vanish. People forget. Space closes. The moment dries up and you're back to square one -- the man who stares and never acts. And I didn't want that. I didn't want to stand across from her every morning and just watch from the sidelines. If I didn't move now, I'd stay stuck there -- ogling, imagining, and never even close to touching anything real.

But how? What do I say that doesn't sound planned or desperate? How do you cross into her space when she's already deep in conversation, surrounded by friends, laughing, loud, relaxed? How do you pull someone like that aside -- without awkwardness, without exposing the desire that's pressing hard and fast in your chest and lower? I didn't know. I didn't have the answer. But my son -- in his innocence, in his glow -- often got me the first pass.

I stepped in beside her casually, nudging my boy forward with a faint smile, and she turned toward me almost immediately. I said something -- a remark, halting, probably nothing memorable -- and she welcomed me into the circle with ease. I got introduced around. Names were said, nods exchanged. None of it stuck. My head was buzzing. My body was hyper-aware. Her friends were friendly, warm, loud in that suburban-mom kind of way -- but none of them registered past the sound of Kavya's laugh, or the smell of her shirt as she turned, or the quiet confidence in the way she stood.

And then, as if sensing I needed more to hold onto, my son saved me again. He smiled, looked up at her with that easy charm toddlers have, and her friends melted. They bent toward him, touched his cheeks, gushed, asked questions. He answered in the vague half-sentences children offer when they know they're being admired. Kavya looked down and smiled again, then gestured toward a girl standing a few feet away -- tall for her age, with a firm stance and pigtails, holding a water bottle like it was a baton. "That's my daughter," she said, proud but casual. "Why don't you say hello?"

The girl gave a half nod, polite but distant. She was maybe ten or eleven -- tall already, shaped like her mother, with that early maturity girls sometimes have when they sense adults watching. She deigned to meet my son with the kind of air children reserve for much younger kids. Not unkind, but clear -- she wasn't here to make friends. She was just tolerating the ritual.

Kavya smiled again, this time looking at both of them, then back at me -- not with warmth or invitation, exactly, but with that same amused detachment she'd worn at the checkout line. I felt it again -- that quiet electricity under the moment. That reminder: she was seeing me.

The children got on the bus, the noise dipped, the vehicle pulled away with its usual rattle of brakes and shouts. One by one, the parents began to scatter -- toward cars, errands, calendars. But I didn't move. I lingered in her orbit, just a few feet away, pretending to fuss with my son's bag, pretending to check my phone. The moment had passed, but my body hadn't moved on. She was still there -- talking lightly to her friend -- and I kept stealing glances, just enough to keep the ache alive. I didn't want to leave. I couldn't.

One button on her shirt -- near the collarbone -- had come undone at some point. It didn't reveal much, but what it revealed was enough. The soft cut of a valley. The rise of skin that curved upward into a firm shape. A faint line at the top of her chest that caught the light just once when she bent toward her daughter. It shouldn't have hit me the way it did, but it did. I had to look away, had to shift my weight. The image didn't fade. It bloomed -- behind my jaw, in my breath, between my legs. I was hard, painfully. Fully in my body now, and it didn't want to let her go.

And then she turned to me -- not dramatically, just casually -- as her blonde friend peeled off toward a waiting SUV. She looked amused, head slightly tilted, like she'd been aware of me hovering but didn't mind the show. "You look flushed," she said. "Off to the supermarket again?"

I opened my mouth -- maybe to nod, maybe to deflect -- but then she added, voice just a shade lower, just enough to burn, "Or will you again follow if I will?"

The words didn't tease. They landed. Heat. Plain, unvarnished. And calm. Like she'd already noted the pattern and was simply stating it. She didn't mock. She didn't flirt in the usual way. She was clear. And something inside me buckled.

"Oh, you noticed?" I stammered. I tried to laugh, to pass it off. "No, not really... I just saw you going and remembered something I had to pick up." I heard it as I said it -- hollow, transparent -- and so did she. She laughed, fully now, not cruel but open, and said, "Just joking. I thought maybe you'd decided to follow." That same half-mocking smile -- friendly, but watching. Like she wanted to see what I'd do with the moment.

I took the step. "I thought... seeing an Indian there -- I was curious. Wanted to somehow get to know you better." She tilted her head, and her face shifted -- not cold, but edged. "An Indian," she repeated. "That's the reason?" Then added, a half beat later, "Indians should stay in India if that's the case." She smiled to dull the blade. I smiled too, helplessly, stupidly. "I don't know how I could've said the thing I felt when I saw you," I said softly. It wasn't a line. It was the only thing I had left.

She didn't push. She looked at me for a moment, then bent to adjust a bag she was holding. Her breasts shifted naturally with the bend -- weighty, still high in the shirt, and I had to look away again. My breath had started catching in ways I couldn't manage.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Are you heading back home now?" She nodded, not giving away much. And then I tried one last time. "Or if you have a little time... maybe we could grab a coffee?"

I felt the silence. Not hesitation -- assessment. Her eyes didn't soften. Didn't flick. She looked at me fully, then down at her bag, shifted it in her grip, and said, "I don't usually do random coffee with bus stop strangers. But..." And here, something turned. She wasn't weighing safety. She was weighing interest. "I stay nearby," she said. "If you're not in a rush, you can help me carry this to the car. And then maybe... you could join me for coffee. At home."

It landed low, thick, full. Not a flirtation. An invitation. I nodded before my voice caught up. "Of course," I said, too fast.

She turned without another word, walking toward the end of the parking lane in those same long, full strides. I followed beside her, silent, dazed. Her hips moved in a slow rhythm under snug denim, not exaggerated, just there. Her shoulders -- wide, loose, unbothered. I walked in her shadow and didn't want to leave it. "Not far," she said, shutting the boot. "Just follow me. You'll be fine to park outside." I climbed into my own car, pulled out behind her, and followed.

Her house stood at the end of a quiet lane, framed by hedges trimmed with care -- not showy, not cold, just that kind of polish that told you someone lived here who liked comfort and quiet control. And there she was -- already by the front step, holding the door just slightly ajar. Her eyes met mine, steady and unsurprised, and she smiled -- not welcoming exactly, but expectant, like I was meant to follow. And then she reached out and took my hand.

Something went straight through me, sharp and hot. Her palm was large, warm, the skin smooth but not soft, her fingers wrapping around mine easily. Not tight, not crushing. Just sure. Her grip didn't ask permission. It steadied. It claimed. It made me feel smaller than I'd ever admit -- not in a bad way, just suddenly less certain of my weight in the world. "Come inside. Welcome," she said, and I muttered something -- a yes or thanks or nothing at all. I barely noticed the windows, but still glanced toward them, a reflex -- half-expecting a watching presence, a husband, a child. But there was only stillness. No one else. And when I turned again, she was closer -- not touching me, but close enough that her size and presence wrapped around me like weather.

Inside, the quiet was padded -- not silent, not echoing, just thick with calm. The door clicked shut behind us, and I followed her through a wide hallway, trying to take in the walls, the low furniture, the muted lighting -- but none of it stayed. It was all backdrop to her body, moving ahead of me. She walked like she owned the space, but not with performance. She just filled it. Her stride was easy, her size undeniable, but she didn't flaunt it. She moved like someone used to strength, someone who didn't need to signal it.

We came to a hallway lined with photographs -- large, full-colour frames, not dainty keepsakes, but anchored like memories meant to stay. She moved beside me now, slower, pointing without insistence. "That's my daughter," she said. "Third birthday. That one's my niece. And this... that's our old place in Mumbai before we moved here." Her voice was relaxed, low. But as she leaned in slightly to gesture toward one frame, I caught it -- her scent. Something floral, but thick, musky, not light. It hit my nostrils and went straight through me, dropping like heat into my chest and groin. My body reacted before thought could catch it -- a shift in stance, a sudden tightness between my legs, a slow tension waking up deep inside me.

She kept talking, pointing, leaning just close enough that her arm brushed mine. I felt it -- the steady bulk of her shoulder, her warmth, the weight of her body beside mine. I didn't pull back. My body leaned toward her like it wanted contact, like it didn't care if my mind was ready or not. She didn't pause. Maybe she didn't notice, or maybe she did. Her breath passed my cheek as she pointed again, and I could barely follow the names she said. I just stood there -- slightly tilted toward her, close enough to feel the heat of her skin, the way her chest moved with breath, the solid line of her body against the edge of mine. I wanted to stay in that posture forever -- not moving, just absorbing.

The question came out half-broken. "How tall are you?" I asked. "You're... really tall." The word I wanted to say was overpowering. But I couldn't. It would've been too much. She turned her face toward mine, smiling -- the same smile I'd seen at the bus stop. "I knew you wanted to ask," she said. "It was written all over you. But let me guess -- you don't want to know how tall I am. You want to know how tall I am... compared to you." Her voice wasn't teasing exactly -- there was a kind of weight behind it. She turned, nodded down the hall. "Come," she said. "Let's take stock."

And without pause, she reached for my hand again. Her fingers found mine like they'd been there before -- warm, steady, not pulling but guiding. She turned and I followed, my legs moving without command. The hallway opened gently into what had to be the master bedroom. High ceilings, soft floors, pale walls. A bed -- wide, low, unadorned. Nothing cluttered. Just space, stillness, and light.

But I barely saw any of that. Because across the far wall, mounted with clean simplicity, was a full-length mirror -- tall enough for her, wide enough for two. And we were already walking toward it.

She stepped into the center of the room and gestured. "Come here," she said, turning to face the glass. Her hand was still holding mine -- casual, but steady. I moved beside her, unsure of what she wanted to show, until I looked. The mirror hit me harder than expected. Side by side, fully lit, there was no ambiguity left. My head didn't even reach her shoulder. Her body beside mine was just... more. Her hips were wider, her shoulders broader, her arms thicker -- not exaggerated, just solid, real. I didn't look small, exactly. Just... outweighed.

She folded her arms, standing naturally. Her shirt was soft, but the way it pressed against her chest, the way the fabric settled around her breasts and upper arms -- it made her look even larger. Not bulky. Just... present. She wasn't performing. She was just being. And her body took up more space than mine, without even trying. I straightened a bit, not obviously, just enough to match her frame more evenly. She noticed. "Stand naturally," she said, voice calm. "Don't perform. Just look." Her tone wasn't scolding. But it was... clear. I let my shoulders ease, tried to stand as I was. She stayed next to me -- arms folded, weight balanced, amused.

Still, I found myself rising again -- barely, just onto the balls of my feet, a silent instinct, trying to reach up to that warm, breathing power beside me. Her hand came down without ceremony. She placed her palm on the top of my head and gently pressed it back into place. "No cheating," she said. Not unkind. Not mocking. Just certain. My body yielded, as if wired to obey. That quiet press of her palm -- warm, steady -- sent a shiver through me. I lowered without argument, spine softening into her control.

I smiled, tried to recover. "You're probably cheating too," I said, and placed my hand on her far shoulder, gave a playful push. But the moment I did, I knew. She didn't move. Not an inch. Her body was warm, round, but solid -- no give under my palm. Muscle under softness. Strength that didn't flinch. She turned slightly toward me, her smile changing. Not playful now -- just knowing. "Wait," she said, and without waiting for an answer, crouched smoothly and lifted my foot by the ankle.

She unlaced and removed my shoe before I could react. I stood frozen, my hand still on her shoulder, now feeling the full swell of it -- her balance, her strength, the ease with which she bent and straightened. She rose slowly, her body full beside mine, and we were barefoot now, level. The difference was plain. My eyes met her collarbone.

I looked up and gave a sheepish grin. "Still taller," I muttered. "But maybe... not by much?"

She tilted her head. "That sounded like a challenge." And just like that, the play resumed. I stepped in slightly, my chest brushing her arm, rose again on my toes. "Now?" I asked.

Her palm returned -- gently, inexorably -- and pressed my head back down. "No tiptoes," she said, quietly. "Just own it." This time her touch lingered longer. I stood still beneath it, breath slowing. I didn't fight it. My chest pressed softly into her side. My hands lifted to her waist, not gripping, just making contact -- the feel of her hips through the cotton, the warmth beneath. I didn't say anything. Just stood there, touching, listening to her breath.

The game didn't stop. I rose again. She laughed, pushed me down. Our bodies were closer now. I leaned in further, exaggerating the difference, shoulder nudging lightly against the side of her chest. Her hands came to my arms, large and steady. She wrapped her fingers around my biceps -- not hard, just enough to show me that she could hold me still anytime she wanted. "Trying again?" she asked, voice low. I met her gaze. Something had shifted in me -- and I knew she saw it. It was no longer about comparison. It was about wanting. Her eyes held mine. Her grip tightened. I leaned into her slowly, arms sliding higher across her back, until I was fully resting -- not just touching, but leaning. She didn't move. Her stance widened slightly, feet grounding. Her body took me in like weight added to an already strong frame. One arm slipped around me, just above the hips, fingers spreading firmly. Not playful. Not light. Anchoring. I wasn't holding myself anymore. I was being held. And not because I collapsed -- because she welcomed the lean, absorbed it, gave me the space to stop pretending. I let my face tilt into her neck. I could feel her breath against my temple. Mine was fast now. Hers stayed steady.

I didn't even notice how far I'd leaned into her until her hands shifted -- one firm at the small of my back, the other settling just above my knee. Her grip was strong, easy, like she'd done this before. She gave a slight roll of her shoulders, like stretching before a set -- and then, in one smooth motion, she lifted me slightly off the ground. Not a full carry, not yet -- just enough for my heels to float, for my body to feel the shift. I sucked in a breath. My thighs tensed around her. Her arms locked steady around my legs and back, keeping me upright but not standing. I wasn't in control anymore. She was holding me.

"You really are light," she said, glancing up with a smile. There was teasing in it -- but also something slower, more focused. "I barely need to try."

I didn't answer. My hand was already resting on her shoulder, the other sliding behind her neck. The heat that had been building in me was no longer subtle. I was flushed, breathing harder than I should've been -- and we both knew it wasn't a joke anymore. Not for me. Not for her, either. Then she moved again -- a simple shift of stance -- and lifted me fully. My legs came off the floor, bent at the knees, her arms wrapped securely beneath them and around my back. My chest pressed firm into hers, and I felt everything -- the lift, the body-on-body pressure, the solid wall of her torso under mine. My groin grazed her hip and I tensed, instinctively embarrassed by how hard I was. She didn't flinch. She just looked at me, her expression calm, amused. "This okay?"

I nodded. I couldn't speak. My body was already wrapped tighter around her, like I was trying to hold myself together. She flexed slightly -- not to show off, just to adjust -- and I felt the full power of her frame under me. Her arms, her hips, her thighs, her chest -- every inch of her holding me firm. I let go. Just a little. My breath slowed. My head dipped against her neck. And she held me like that -- strong, steady, patient.

I gave a short, awkward laugh, half trying to ease the tension. I shifted slightly, pretending I wanted down -- but the second I moved, her grip hardened. Her arms didn't even strain. I was locked in. "Hey--" I muttered, wriggling uselessly.

"You want down already?" she grinned. "Didn't you just get up?"

I pushed at her shoulder, half-hearted, still holding onto her neck. She laughed louder, then bent her knees again and lifted me higher -- one fluid motion -- and now I was perched across her shoulders, my legs straddling her neck, her hands gripping the backs of my thighs. Her posture didn't even shift. She walked us casually toward the mirror. The view was dizzying.

"Better angle?" she said.

I squirmed in her grip, red-faced. She only chuckled and held me tighter.

"Relax," she said, her voice low, her arms unmoving. "I can carry you however I want." And she proved it.

She hoisted me forward -- one arm catching my waist, the other sliding under my chest -- and tossed me across her body, stomach-down, like she was shifting a bag of clothes. I gasped, not from pain -- just the shock of being handled. One arm secured my legs. The other spread wide across my ribs. Her arms were thick, her chest and shoulders pressed into my side, the scent of her skin rising hot into my nose. She flipped me again -- headfirst for a moment, dangling, then caught me clean at the waist and lifted me upright.

Now I was in a front straddle again -- legs locked around her waist, chest to chest -- my cock hard and pinned embarrassingly against the rise of her breasts. She didn't break rhythm. Her hand stayed firm beneath me. She looked down, that same half-smile in her eyes. "You're getting comfortable."

I was. Too comfortable. My arms clung around her neck, forearms pressing into the broad slope of her shoulders. I could feel her breath in my ear now, steady, focused. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came. My thighs clenched against her hips, my body pulled in tight against her -- and I could feel her breasts now, not soft, but full and tight, pressing into my chest with every slow breath she took. My erection throbbed between us, trapped but fully alive.

She felt it. I know she did. But she didn't say a word. She just held me -- strong, silent, in control -- as I let myself melt into her, inch by inch, breath by breath. It was no longer playful. She was carrying me. And my body didn't want to leave her arms.

She shifted slightly, and my body moved with her -- not from choice, but instinct. My legs were wrapped around her waist, and she held me there like it was nothing, her arms locked under my thighs, all the weight of me resting in her grip. She bounced me once, light, easy, just to test her hold, then turned us back toward the mirror. Her breath was calm. Mine was fast. With each step, her chest pressed against mine -- full, hot, steady -- and her breasts didn't give way, they pushed back, brushing against my nipples through my shirt, each contact a jolt. I was hard, trapped against her stomach, rubbing with every small shift of her arms. Then she looked at the mirror -- not at me -- but at herself. Her strength. Her shape. My body in her arms. She liked what she saw.

She smiled, then peeled off my shirt with one hand, still holding me balanced in the other. "You're lighter than you look," she said -- her voice thicker now, something deeper behind it. I gasped as she moved again -- one arm sliding under my ass, the other behind my back -- and lifted me higher, my chest pressed to her face, her mouth grazing my skin, not kissing, just warm breath on bare flesh. I clung to her neck and slid my hands under her shirt -- heat met heat -- and all I felt was dense, solid muscle beneath her smooth skin, layered and wide and unrelenting.

She turned, and with one sharp motion, flipped me over her shoulder. My chest hit her back, my legs hanging down, and I felt her fingers hook my waistband and strip everything off -- pants and boxers gone in a single tug. My cock swung free, brushing against her collarbone as she turned again, and I heard her soft, low moan -- not from pleasure, but from the fact of what she was doing. "Look at me," she said, facing the mirror again. She dragged me up into a front straddle -- skin on skin -- my thighs locked around her, my cock resting hard against her stomach, thick and full, her breasts now high and bare, lifted by breath and muscle and nothing else.

I pulled her shirt up and over, revealing all of her -- wide shoulders, hard belly, heavy, dark-tipped breasts that didn't drop, didn't shift, just stayed. She leaned forward, and I gasped as my cock slid between the weight of them, trapped and hot, pressure rising instantly. She moved again -- lifted me under my knees, cradling me like a baby, her arms bulging with the hold -- then flipped me head-down, her palms gripping my thighs, my cock pointing up past her collarbone, bouncing with every step.

I was gone. My thoughts, my control, my voice -- all drowned in her. Her breath was hot on my belly, her voice low, aroused. "I can do this all day," she murmured, pressing a kiss into my side. Then she turned me again -- across her shoulders, my back bent, her arm around my chest, the other wrapped under my legs. She held me like a weight bag, solid and easy, and her hand slid up over my chest, found my nipple, flicked it gently. Then lower. She grabbed my cock -- fully hard, heavy now, slick with sweat -- and pressed it tight against the swell of her breast as she walked.

She was solid everywhere -- thighs like carved wood, arms like cables, and breasts that didn't bounce, just held. I wasn't standing. I wasn't holding myself up. I was in her hands.

She turned slowly, body hot and focused now, and carried me upright again, her arms locked under my thighs, lifting me like I was nothing, like I belonged there. My arms clung around her shoulders, my chest pressed full against hers, and for a second she leaned her forehead into mine -- breathing steady, eyes half-lidded, watching what I was becoming in her hold. Then she shifted slightly, bent her knees, and lowered me just enough for my cock to drag across the tops of her breasts -- bare now, full and warm, skin slick with heat. She pressed them together around me and began to move, a slow rocking of her shoulders, her arms rising and falling to let me slide between her breasts, the friction unbearable. I gasped, trying to breathe through the pressure as my shaft throbbed against her skin.

My hands slipped down to grab her hips, trying to anchor myself, but they were rock solid under my fingers -- wide, muscular, firm all the way through. I tried to dig in but she didn't shift. She just smiled, slow and dark, and with one arm under my thighs and the other around my back, she hoisted me higher, lifted me against her chest. Then she dipped her head and took me into her mouth -- slow, wet, her lips dragging across the tip, her tongue curling underneath. I jerked hard, groaning, my body tightening around her. She sucked once, gently, and then lifted me again with a little bounce that sent me sliding up her body.

Then she shifted again.

She pressed me into a front straddle, my legs clamped around her waist, and held me steady with one hand under my ass. The other guided me into her. No pause. No warning. Just the wet heat of her, and I was inside. Buried. We groaned at the same time. She rocked her hips forward, once, twice, holding me tight to her belly. My arms curled around her shoulders, my mouth on her chest now, sucking hard at one nipple, then the other. They were round, high, firm -- just enough give to fill my mouth without softening. Her grip tightened and I felt her breath hitch.

She moved again -- strong arms slipping inside my thighs -- and lifted me higher, locking my legs over her shoulders, my back arching from the stretch, my cock still deep inside her, throbbing with each thrust. I wasn't just clinging anymore -- I was wide open, suspended, fully in her control. She carried me like that, like a weight she'd earned, her steps steady, breath even, her hands gripping the back of my thighs as she fucked me, still standing, still strong.

I couldn't hold it. My body shook, helpless. My hands gripped everything I could -- her breasts, her shoulders, the back of her neck -- anything to stay connected as the finish tore through me, rising hard and fast, unstoppable. She grunted softly as I came, loud and broken, spilling into her, legs trembling, chest heaving. She didn't let me go. She just stood there, her arms barely trembling, holding me until I went still in her grip.

"That," she whispered near my ear, breath warm against my neck. "That's what I wanted."

And I was done. Spent. Limp in her arms. And for the first time in my life, I didn't want control. I just wanted to stay where I was -- in her arms, carried, kept.