Honey

"Honey" was published for my Patrons on 2026-10-05 and made free to everyone (and submitted to Literotica) on 10-22.

Author's note: This story is riffing on/in conversation with Ro_burr's "Honey and Cum", found over at BRK's excellent (male/male-focused) site Metabods. That story is great, and highly recommended! I just wondered why the husband should have all the growing fun, and decided to write a take that scratched a few more of my personal itches.

There's a point in the middle of the story where one of the characters has a very clear sense that two paths lay ahead of them. Someday, I may return to this scenario and write what would happen on that other path. For now, enjoy "Honey"!

Honey

"So. The question I've been dying to ask."

Retta rolled her eyes. Her best friend was leaning across the patio table, brown eyes gleaming beneath the sharp eyebrows, and Retta knew what was coming. "Please, Nicole, we don't have to--"

"Have you fucked yet?"

Retta hissed like a cat as she spun around to see if anyone else in the coffee shop's outdoor seating had heard Nicole's indiscretion. "Come on, Nikki, we're in public."

"Mmhm. Yeah. And at least three of the guys would love to help you with your little problem, you smokeshow." She waggled her eyebrows. "And maybe more than one of the ladies."

"It's not a problem, it's just..." Retta trailed off. She didn't want to lie to Nikki, which now meant she couldn't lie to herself. It was a problem. It shouldn't have been, but it was. She had a hollow feeling deep in her core, and it was harder to ignore every day. She wanted something that only Tom could give her, and he was steadfast, if subtle, in his refusal.

It had started early on in their relationship. They'd met her first summer in the city, right out of college, at a social dancing club. Friends had dragged each of them. Neither wanted to dance. By the end of the night, they were one-upping each other with silly little shuffle steps, inventing ridiculous names and making each other laugh, and she'd fallen a little in love with this boyish graphic designer. They'd taken a rideshare back to her apartment together, and when she looked into his quartz-pale blue eyes, she'd been sure she was going to get laid. But when she invited him upstairs and gave him her best come-hither lip bite and lash flutter, those eyes had gone wide. He choked on one last joke and then fled back into the car.

She'd spent the night confused and hurt, texting Nikki, spending a long time looking in the mirror wondering what was wrong with her. But the the next morning he texted her like nothing had happened, thanked her for a lovely night, and asked her out for drinks. She'd said yes.

First, she'd thought she'd misread it and he wanted a friend, but he brought flowers to that first-or-second date and called her beautiful. He paid for her drinks. She carried the grocery store bouquet with her the whole night and, falling prey to a sentimental urge, hung one of the carnations up in her closet to dry, just in case they went the distance. Just in case.

Then she'd thought it was a "territory" thing. She wasn't promiscuous exactly, but they weren't exclusive for the first three months, and he knew she was seeing other guys. She was in touch with her body, knew what it wanted, what it needed, and every few weeks what what it needed was to be fucked so hard she couldn't walk straight for a day and a half. They kept hitting it off, though, and he used the L word first, asking her to be exclusive after they went to an indie theater thing together. She'd happily agreed, figuring now he must be ready to give her the D word.

No dice.

The next rationalization she'd come up with was religious trauma. He'd grown up evangelical, maybe he still had some of that purity culture bullshit knocking around in his head. They'd make out, she'd grind against him, he'd yank down her collar and lavish the tops of her breasts with kisses. She'd even get off from their grinding every once in a long while, when her bean had gotten blue enough, but he'd make an excuse to escape every time she reached for his waistband. She didn't think he was ace-- most of the time, he'd run to the bathroom right after, and she'd go in later to find the smell of spunk and some suspiciously wadded tissues in the little trash can.

She got used to it. It was just the way he was, and she accepted it. Maybe it was some form of asexuality she hadn't heard of before. Or he was a never-nude, which she didn't think was a real thing, but she certainly never saw him all the way naked. Eventually, it felt like it would be too weird to ask. He would have offered, if he'd wanted her to know.

And it wasn't terrible. She got off. She wasn't shy about masturbating. Tom even helped her, sometimes, as least until she pulled out a dildo. He seemed reluctant to engage with those, for some reason.

Everything else about him was perfect. He loved her, and she loved him. They laughed together. When she needed to cry he held her, let her clutch his bony frame to her so hard she worried she might crack his ribs. He'd stroke her hair and tell her it was going to be okay. When his mother died, she'd been there for him too, traveling to New Mexico at the drop of a hat while he sorted out her estate, coming back to the extended stay suite hollowed out and needing a hug more than he needed air. He supported her when she got certified as a paralegal, celebrated honestly and freely when the partners made her office manager. He trusted her with his anxieties over his freelance career, that his success would dry up in a heartbeat, and she'd comforted him as best she could.

So when he'd asked her to marry him, she'd thought long and hard for about 30 seconds and then said yes. She'd never met anyone who fit her so well (except for the one way in which he refused to fit into her), and, well, what red-blooded male wouldn't ravish his bride on their wedding night?

Tom, apparently.

And now, three months and a deferred honeymoon later, Retta found her frustrations coming to a head (which Tom had gently but nervously declined every time she'd offered it).

"Okay," she said. "It's a problem." She put her head into her hands and gave a long, low groan. "Oh, Nikki, what is wrong with me?"

"Absolutely nothing, darling," Nicole said. She reached across the table and patted Retta on the shoulder. "It's him, one hundred per cent. One thousand."

To her deep embarrassment, Retta felt tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. "I just don't understand. He stares at me and I can see he wants me, but he just..."

"Won't fuck you."

Retta nodded and dropped her hands to her lap. Nicole shook her head. "Look, my cousin had something similar with her boyfriend a while back." The white woman took out her phone and started tapping away. "But she fixed it, and in a big way." She looked up and gave Retta an intense stare. "Do you trust me?"

The question took Retta by surprise. Of course the answer was yes, but Nicole had never needed to ask before. What was she about to do? She looked deep into her friend's eyes, but couldn't find any hints there. "Yes," she said finally.

"And you want this to be different."

"More than anything."

Nicole nodded and made a final tap on her phone. "In a week or two, you'll get a package with a little bottle, like one of those gas station energy drinks."

Was this a joke? Retta felt a nervous smile growing on her face. "Okay?"

"Make sure Tom is around and you've got some free time, and then drink it."

"Seriously?"

Nicole reached over the table, her eyes still locked on Retta's, and waggled her black-nailed fingers. Retta put her hands in her friend's.

"Seriously," Nicole said. "It'll work.

"I promise."

That was three weeks ago. Now Retta was standing in the kitchen of their two bedroom apartment, looking at an unassuming little vial. She'd found the package in their mailbox on her return from a frustrating day of work, and she hadn't even dropped her purse before she tore open the thickly padded envelope. It could only be one thing.

The bottle was unlabeled brown plastic and it was light, not much heavier than it would have been empty. She could feel it (whatever it was) sloshing around inside, though. She heaved a deep sigh, put the bottle on the counter, and threw the envelope into the recycling bin. She wasn't really going to do this. Nicole was playing some cruel joke on her, and she wasn't going to fall for it.

"Tom?" she called.

"In the bedroom, Retta!"

She set her purse down next to the bottle, took a deep, bracing breath, and went to say hello to her husband.

He was stretched out on their neatly made bed, legs crossed at the ankles and head propped up on the headboard, holding a battered paperback book in front of his glasses. It was an old favorite of his, a German fantasy novel for kids. She hadn't read it yet, but he'd made her watch the movie. The flying dog thing was adorable.

She leaned against the doorframe and admired his rangy form. God, he was cute.

"How was your day, Tom?"

He put the book down, marking his place with near the middle of the book with his thumb, and turned his blue eyes to her. They were calm, and happy, and full of love, and she felt a little guilty for the complaints she'd made to Nicole and for that little bottle in the kitchen. "Pretty good," he said. "Made good headway on that logo redesign for the restaurant, and had a call with a law firm about a new identity package."

She smiled back at him. "Helping the competition?"

"Hey," he said. "Think of it as an opportunity. Pay me enough, and maybe I'll sneak a subliminal message in. 'Hire the other guys' or something."

She laughed as she walked toward the bed. "And what exactly would be enough, young man?"

He tapped his chin with one long finger. "Hmmm... I'll entertain some offers."

She climbed on the mattress and knelt next to him. He looked up at her with those big wide eyes and that sweet, boyish smile, and she felt an ache deep in her belly. She wanted this man. She needed this man, and she still felt guilty about it, but she also felt... driven. She folded herself over her knees and kissed him, putting as much of her love, her desire, her lust into the touch of her lips as she could.

He made a little surprised moan as she pressed her mouth into his and then started giving as good as he got. Their lips caressed each other. Their tongues flicked over teeth. He set the book down and took her cheeks in his hands and the kiss continued until finally her racing heart and the need for breath forced her away.

"How's that for an offer, young man?"

"Wow," he whispered, appropriate awe on his face. "I love you so much, Retta."

"I love you, Tom." Her gut clenched. The guilt lost. "Stay right there, okay? I'll be right back and then we'll pick up where we left off?"

"Uh, yeah, sure!" Tom tucked a bookmark into his book and put it on his bedside table. "Do you want, uh, some music or something?"

Her decision made, Retta felt bolder than she normally did, more confident. This was going to work. It had to. She turned back to look at him over her shoulder and grinned. "Let's make our own, honey."

His slow, beaming grin reinforced every bad decision she was about to make.

Back in the kitchen, she picked up the bottle again. There was no label, no explanation. Nicole said she had to drink it, which was a little weird. She wasn't the one that needed the help. Still, her friend had never sounded so sure of something in her life. Retta popped the sealed top and took a sniff. It smelled sweet and a little musky, like rich honey. It was thick, too, like a breakfast syrup. She took one last sniff. She was doing this. She was doing this.

She'd done it. It slid down her throat, warm and sweet and slick, like it couldn't wait to get inside her, and then landed in her stomach like the best herbal teas. She felt the warmth suffusing her, spreading out in waves from her stomach. It felt... really nice. She set the empty bottle back on the counter and took a deep breath. That felt nice, too. She gave her sundress a little swish, enjoying the feel of the fabric on her legs. Nice. This was going to be great.

"I hope you're ready, Tom," she called as she headed back toward the bedroom. "Because I sure am!"

Tom smiled as he heard Retta unlock the front door. It always felt unnaturally quiet without her in the house. It was the, what was the filmmaking term, room tone? The room tone was just different when she wasn't there, and it felt a lot better when she was. She always liked a little time to decompress when she came in, and he was also at his favorite part of the book, so he kept reading until she poked her head through the door.

God, she was beautiful. She was tall and slim, graceful as a supermodel with none of the aloofness, just warm brown eyes and an easy smile. Every time he looked at her, he was awestruck that he had her in his life. Every time he looked at her, his cock stiffened in his pants.

That shitty little thing.

He felt guilty for keeping his secret from her, but after two and a half years of dating and three months of marriage, the idea of explaining himself felt worse. "I'm sorry honey," he couldn't imagine ever saying. "My penis is so small that upon seeing it you would laugh out loud and then immediately leave me." That was the insecurity talking, 100%, but that didn't mean it was wrong, now, did it? It was two inches long if he sucked in his guts and clenched his ass as tight as he could, and it dribbled more than shot, pathetic little droplets of water-thin cum. He'd never be able to look her in the eye again if she knew. He'd kept her satisfied with his kisses and her toys this long, surely he could do it for another... fifty years?

By the time she left the room again, they were both pretty worked up. She was clearly as horny as he'd ever seen her, and he knew he was facing yet another challenge to his shameful secrecy. He scrambled off the bed and did his best to prepare.

The blanket went back. A towel went down. He slid the drawer of her bedside table open and pulled out her favorite vibe, a cordless version of the classic Hitachi tank. He thought it was her favorite, anyway. It was his favorite for sure. It was barely phallic, so less comparison shame, and when they pinned it between them, he felt good too, for the 90 seconds or so it took before his tiny dam burst. He checked the charge, laid it out on the towel, and sat on the edge of the bed to kick off his shoes and remove his belt.

"I hope you're ready, Tom," he heard her call from the kitchen. "Because I sure am!"

He took a deep breath to steady the twisting in his stomach. This was fine. This would be fine. It would be fun, even-- he loved seeing her get off. And most importantly: She. Would. Never. Know.

The warmth kept spreading and Retta felt a little drunk, a little unsteady on her feet. In fact, it could barely be called warmth now. It was a bonfire in her lower belly, a deep and aching burn. Her clit was a tiny star, but she knew, just knew that Tom's tongue would be able to put it out.

She stumbled again, put up a hand to catch herself on the wall. Weird, she thought. I could have sworn our wedding picture was higher up. She pushed off the wall, propelling herself with more force than she expected. She had never been this horny. What the fuck had Nicole done to her?

She was panting by the time she burst into the bedroom. Tom was stretched out on his side, the sleeves of his waffle shirt rolled up, the wand beside him and a coy smile on his face. "Hey, honey," he said. "Come here and let me--"

Retta growled. Tom's eyes went wide and his jaw dropped, but the fire in her was raging and there was only one thing she could do. "Mouth," she said. Her voice felt different in her throat, more urgent. More... powerful. "Now."

She crossed to the bed in one long step and sprang on him like an animal, rolling him onto his back and straddling his narrow torso. Her sundress draped around them like a blanket. The fire inside was melting her down into her component parts and they were soaking her panties and running down her inner thighs.

She dropped to her hands and plunged her tongue into his still-gaping mouth. He tasted delicious. She wanted to suck him up, take him closer, deeper into herself than she had ever imagined.

He groaned with pleasure and it brought her back to herself a little bit. She pulled her mouth from his with a slobbering pop and put her hands on the front of his shoulders, pushing back a little. He was still poleaxed-- just stared up at her while she ground her mound against his stomach and whined. The jolt of pleasure bought her half a second of clarity.

"I want your mouth." It came out more commanding than she meant it. She couldn't force him. Well... she probably could. She wasn't that much shorter or lighter. She was also on top, and filled with an arousal so deep, so insistent it was almost rage. But she... she wouldn't. "Please," she forced out through gritted teeth.

The shock in his eyes didn't dim at all, but he gave a little nod. That was all she needed.

Tom's brain was throwing about a dozen error codes. They started popping up when Retta staggered into the room like she was drunk, her brown eyes cloudy and her straight black hair somehow mussed from the journey from the kitchen-- all of about a dozen steps. Her dress looked shorter, too, and her shoulders looked... had she been working out? She hadn't mentioned anything, but he'd never noticed that definition in her arms before. He liked it! Just... new?

"Hey, honey," he said, just a little teasing. Clearly she was pent up and needed this more than she had made clear. "Come here and let me--"

She snarled at him. Another error code popped up; he felt his eyes go wide. Her lips actually pulled back to show him her teeth. He'd never seen this side of her. Where had it--

She leapt at him from across the room. He grunted with the impact as she forced him down on the bed, pinning him between her legs. Her eyes were intense, laser sharp and focused on him like he was the only thing in the world. His miniscule cock, hidden in the folds of his jeans, jerked, and he felt something dribble. This was the hottest thing he had ever experienced-- and then she kissed him like she was trying to devour his soul. She finally let him go and his mind needed a full reboot.

She was talking. Growling, more like, but he'd been so focused on the sensations overwhelming him that he couldn't process the words, not until they turned into something almost whiny. "Please," she begged. He wasn't sure what he was agreeing to, but whatever it was, there was no way he could say no. He gave a little nod.

She crouched back a little and he felt a flash of panic. Was she going for his pants? His hands leapt for his waistband, desperate to keep her from uncovering his secret, but the little lean was actually prep for a hop forward. The skirt of her sundress flapped over his head. Her knees were beside his ears and her panties were right in front of him. They were forest green and they were soaking wet. It smelled incredible. Sweet, with just the lightest bite, like wine. No, deeper than that. Honey.

He'd never done this. Why had he never done this? He'd always turned her down when she'd offered him head, and he guessed she'd never asked in some sort of... reverse reciprocity. He wasn't opposed to the idea, though, especially when confronted with this delicious-smelling, insanely hot reality.

She wriggled around him, wafting the scent of her arousal into his nose. It was a gentle but urgent reminder that he needed to get to work. But... how?

There was a trickle of her juice running down her the muscle of her groin into her thigh, beaded at its leading edge like drizzled icing. He gave it a lick.

Fireworks exploded in his mouth. It was as sweet as it smelled, rich and complex, a deep, grounded flavor with just a hint of sour tang at the end that left him hungry for another lick. If the way her legs clenched around his head was any indication, she wanted him to take another lick too. He reached his hands up to her thighs and pulled himself closer to the source of that intoxicating taste.

His nose brushed the damp fabric, wet enough to leave some of that ambrosia behind, and she clenched again. He heard her moan, felt the muscles in her thighs tense. Huh. She'd always had nice, toned legs, but they felt different under his palms. Wider, sturdier, with smooth curves giving a variety to their surface that he'd never noticed before. The skin was silk-smooth next to his cheeks and under his hands, and every little shift brought a frictionless friction that lit up his core in ways he'd never experienced.

He traced his fingers around the bottom of the thigh on his right, felt her shiver as he crossed the cord of her hamstring, snuck his hand between her legs. She moaned and clenched, her legs clamping down so hard against his ribs that he couldn't breathe-- but the wave of arousal passed, she relaxed, and he resumed his quest.

He slid two fingers under the edge of her panties and shifted them away from her mound with a sticky sound. She hissed as fresh air snuck in-- he gasped as the smell of her need for him flooded out. His head felt light. His cock was clenching so hard it hurt.

He'd been pushing the panties. That was stupid. He needed to pull them. He wanted to shred them, rip them off her pussy and dive in tongue first, but he still had enough presence of mind to know he wasn't capable of such a feat. Instead he swapped his hand around, curled the same two fingers under in the other direction, and tugged the underwear clear. Another blast of her delicious scent hit him full force. He filled his lungs with her, and then he filled his mouth.

It was even more delicious straight from the source. He groaned in delight as his tongue swept over her lips, the short hair tickling as he slurped her clean. She let out a gasping moan as her knees crushed against the sides of his neck again, and he chuckled. Why had he never done this? This was awesome. Part of his mind wondered if she'd always been this... juicy, but that didn't really matter. She was this juicy now, and it was fucking great, and she clearly liked it too. He wrapped his free hand around her butt, slid the fingers past her panties, and felt the smooth skin of her cheek. The heel of his hand fell into some sort of divot he didn't recognize, a hollow where her ass met her leg, and it felt... different under his hand. Full. Taut. She'd always had a nice butt, but this... he felt like he could bounce coins off it. Maybe she had been hitting the gym? It tensed under his hand as she rolled her hips back and forth, grinding her dripping mound against his face.

He lost track of time. He took small breaths when he could, but she was relentless. His world narrowed down to her scent and the sounds they were making-- his gasps, her groaning, growling moans, the squelch and smack of her juices as he took in all he could. He was dimly aware of something else, some fire growing in his lower belly, but it paled in importance next to his devotion to making Retta feel incredible.

Retta felt amazing. Why had she never asked him for this? Some small shame about looking needy, perhaps, but damn. If she'd known he was this good! His tongue and nose right up in her, the feel of his breath on her clit, the alternating warmth and coolness over her soaked pussy-- and not just these, but the feeling throughout her body. She closed her eyes and reveled in it, letting out a low groan that just went on and on and on. One hand fell to the top of Tom's head, stroking it through the skirt of her sundress. The other clutched at her breast, the nipple hard enough to poke through her bra and the thin fabric of her dress. It sent little jolts of electricity all the way into her deepest parts every time it rolled under her palm.

Gradually she became aware of a distraction, though, a change in the sensation. Something else was squeezing her breast, and it was a much less pleasant feeling. She pried her eyes open to track down the cause.

In many ways what she saw was what she expected. There was the skirt of her dress draped over Tom's head like a floral ghost costume, bunched up in her hand as she pulled him toward her burning core. Here was the dress's bust and puffy sleeves, hiding the no-nonsense bra she wore to avoid giving any of the attorneys the wrong idea. Her arm, her other hand that she hadn't quite been able to stop pawing at her tit with (God, that felt good).

But they were all different, changed in some way. Her knees poked out from under that skirt, only they weren't her knees, weren't her thighs. The knees were narrow and sharp and the thighs... They rose over Tom's head, pushed up the skirt like mountains. They were wide, and full, and when Tom's tongue sent yet another involuntary shudder through her, their clench and flex pressed new, strange shapes into the thin skirt and heavy teardrops of muscle formed where they swept into those new knees.

And her hand, her arm! She could feel a ball of muscle pressing against the elastic hem of those puffy sleeves, see the long, tight triangle of a muscle she didn't even know existed connecting her elbow to her wrist. Her hand was more recognizable-- same smooth brown skin, same long, slender fingers-- but those fingers were crushed against a breast that was at least two cup sizes larger than she normally saw in the mirror.

That was what the pain was. That no-nonsense bra with its sturdy band was strangling her tits. They were overflowing it, comically bulging over the cup, and fuck, it was starting to hurt!

"Tom," she said, and in response he gave her a sucking kiss, slipped his tongue past her lips, licked her like he was cleaning the ice cream out of a cone. She said his name again, more of a moan this time, but finally wrenched her hand from her engorged tit and tapped him on the head. "Tom, I need a break."

She didn't, she really didn't, she wanted nothing more than to keep him right there between her legs, eating her like he was starving, but this was too fucking weird. She rolled to her side, falling off him and onto the mattress, and heaved a shuddering sigh.

He propped himself up on one elbow, his face coated in her juices. It looked... Really good on him. She felt her pussy clench, demanding he return to his duty, but she shoved the feeling back. "Something's, I don't know, something's off."

He looked worried, almost anxious, and she immediately felt a wave of guilt. She'd pressured him into this and now this-- whatever this was-- was happening.

"Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?"

"No!" She almost shouted. He'd done everything right, so, so right. She ached for more of his attentions. Her arousal was still rolling down her legs-- but she could feel that the path it was taking was changed, altered by the strange new topography of her muscles.

She rose from the bed and stood before him. "I feel incredible, Tom," she tried to reassure him. "But I also feel, uh, different." She gestured at her body.

She did look different. She also looked incredible. She'd always been gorgeous to Tom. Tall, slender, glamorous. He'd never imagined her any differently. But this, this was revving his engine in a way he never could have predicted.

She gestured from her chest down toward her legs, and everywhere he looked there was something to make his private shame twitch and dribble a little more. Her biceps bunched up into peaks the size of apples. Her breasts were bigger, bulging against the bust of her dress. She pivoted one leg to the side and flexed her calf and it popped up hard and full, an inverted heart with a clear line between the swelling muscle and her shin. His mouth had gone dry, and he swallowed hard as his eyes roved every newly powerful inch of her. He'd been horny before, but this, this hot iron cannonball in his belly, this was something new.

Her confused look shifted into something different as she watched him watch her. It became almost sly. "Oh," she said. "You don't mind?" He shook his head, dry mouth still holding his words hostage. "You... like this?" Somehow, he found the strength to nod. She reached up to grab hold of the neck of her sundress, clenched it so hard those newly powerful fingers went white. He was thirsty, so so thirsty, and the only place he could be sated was between those legs.

She pulled. Stitches popped. She struggled a little with the neckline and its reinforced stitching, but as soon as it gave way to her new strength, the room filled with a tearing sound. Tom's blood pounded in his ears, in his hands and feet and dick. He thought he was going to explode.

Her cleavage came first, breasts overflowing their cups, pressed together to make a crevice that was almost as tempting to plunge his face into as the gap between her legs. Then the simple tan bra, twisted and pushed out of shape as she arched her back to better display her new assets. Then the new V-shaped neck went further, crossed her sternum, and he got his first look at her new waist.

It was still slim, but it had a new tapered shape, swooping gracefully from wide back muscles into a perfectly framed set of four bricks of rock hard muscle, a center groove, a navel that called out for his tongue, and a devastatingly sexy sweep of narrowing muscle into wide, clutchable, breedable hips. Breedable? Where the hell did that come from? He didn't know, but he did know that every time he thought the word his traitorous little dicklet spasmed and spurted.

She switched her grip as the dress tore past her green panties, their crotch almost black with how soaked through it was. Her biceps stretched out, her triceps bunched into horseshoes, and she tore the last foot or so of the fabric into two pieces with a final heave, revealing legs that were as dangerous as they were irresistible. They could crush his head, he knew, but he also knew if they did he would die happy, with his new favorite taste on his tongue.

He gulped again. Her smile grew. "Oh," she moaned, appreciating his appreciation. "You really like this." She shrugged out of the ruined dress, stood in her mismatched bra and panties like she was on a stage. "Well then, why doesn't your buff-as-hell wife put you back where you belong?"

Where he belonged. Two conflicting visions struck him so hard his head swam. He belonged between those legs, sucking down her juices until she screamed his name and squeezed him so hard he passed out. He also belonged on top of her, those powerful legs thrown over his shoulders, thrusting his dick into her over and over until he filled that rippling belly with so much seed that it was a preview of her inevitable pregnancy.

She ripped her panties next. He came so hard in his pants he practically blacked out. When he came to, he was on his back again and she was on top of his face, facing the other way this time, toward his feet. He had an amazing view of that perfect ass, that dripping slit. She shook it in his face. Droplets of her arousal spattered against his chest and chin. "Get back to work, boy," she said.

Again, two reactions ripped through him in equal strength. He couldn't wait to get to work, he was parched for her, his tongue was already hungrily slurping up from clit to taint. But. But.

Boy?

He felt a hint of the old shame, but it was overwhelmed by something more like rage. He wasn't a boy. He shouldn't be a boy. He should be a man, her man, her powerful, rutting beast, taking her for every treasure she had ever promised him, leaving behind every mark he had been too afraid to gift her with.

Yeah. Right. But wasn't there a bit of that beast within him? That hunger to claim, to join, to create? Wasn't that the iron fire in his deepest recesses? The fire that was, even now, pulsing out to the tips of his fingers and toes, flooding through his miserable excuse for a manhood that was practically swimming in its own juices?

Yeah. Maybe it was.

Retta planted her hands alongside Tom's narrow hips and shook her ass in his face. "Get back to work, boy," she heard herself say. She felt three things simultaneously: guilt, for throwing that in his face-- she'd never been that mocking, that cruel, that... dominant before; pleasure, a recognition of her new power, power that left him so weak and helpless, a prisoner to her strength and his lust; and disappointment. Boys were fine. Boys were useful. Every man she'd ever fucked had been a boy, in the end, especially when measured against her new needs.

Because what she needed was a man, wasn't it? A man who could match her strength, even overcome it, force her new, powerful frame (more powerful every moment, she could feel the honey seeping into her bones, making them longer, thicker, laying down muscle at every joint) to quail before him and take what he gave her. She licked her lips at the thought, then groaned as Tom's tongue found a particularly sensitive spot. "Yes," she hissed. Her eyes closed and she exulted in his worship. His hands pulled her ass cheeks apart to make room for his face, and she could feel the muscle growing, feel his fingers forced wider and wider. It felt incredible. She floated in some fiery hot heaven, fueled by the feel of his hands, his tongue, his lips, and her growing, stretching, hardening body.

Something brushed against her tit and sent a jolt through her stiffened nipple. She moaned and then opened her eyes to see Tom bucking up against her, his hips thrusting as he sought release. His bulge was prominent, swelling against its denim prison, the pale blue fabric already starting to soak through with the evidence of how much he needed this. She had never seen him this obviously hard. It looked terribly uncomfortable. She balanced her weight on one hand and caressed that bulge with the other. He bucked again and groaned into her pussy, long and low, almost a growl. A thrill went through her. He'd never reacted positively to petting like that before. She twisted her hand awkwardly to try to get at the button that kept his fly closed.

His groan turned into a shout. "No!" he cried, and pushed against her widened, heavy hips. Her first instinct was to bear down, clamp on him, keep his mouth right where it was, and her new strength won that initial clash. She froze right after that, though, worry biting through the burning pleasure once again.

"Tom?" But he was still thrashing between her legs. She relaxed just a fraction and he was able to shove her off, rolling her over to the other side of their king bed and scuttling back in the other direction.

She propped herself back up to sitting and stared at him. His brown hair was wet with sweat and honey. His cheeks were flushed a deep red, and his eyes were unfocused. He was hunched over at the edge of the bed in a wide, athletic stance, like he needed to be ready to bolt at any moment. He looked like nothing more than a frightened animal. "Tom, what's wrong?"

Everything was happening so fast. He'd shot his tiny loads into his briefs at least four times already, but he was still hornier than he'd ever been in his life. After he realized what she was trying to do at his crotch, that horniness had mingled with a panic that Retta would finally discover his secret. Now, though, a third element was added to the blend, a throbbing pulse in every cell of his body. His breath was coming fast and shallow. Was he having a stroke?

"Tom, what's wrong?" Retta lounged on the bed like a goddess. The arm she propped herself up on seemed as big as her thigh used to be, the biceps standing out long and corded, the triceps so big it could still be seen from the front. Her breasts were full, their weight giving them a slight tear drop shape as they clung to pectorals that were like armor plates. Her abs were a full six pack, the bottom set pointing straight down to the fountain that a good half of his mind longed to go back to drinking from. Her beautiful, soaked mound was further framed by the muscles of her legs, one up and the other down on the bed, three bands of muscle standing out in sharp relief.

"I don't know," he stammered, and she rolled to her hands and knees, crossed the bed toward him, sat on the edge of the mattress with one hand gently raised. Even now, through the haze of lust he knew they were both almost lost in, she cared for him so much. "I just--"

"Hey, it's okay." She had a funny look on her face, and her eyes couldn't stay still, roving up and down him. Searching for whatever was wrong with him? He felt his hands instinctively drop to his crotch to hide his shame.

She stood up next to him, put one magically jacked arm around his shoulder. "Hey," she said. "Come with me."

He was blinking too much, he knew. As he followed her to the en suite that pulse was still throbbing, like every part of him was about to explode. He was sick to his stomach. His mouth was dry. Everything was wrong, so wrong. She took him by the hand and made him stop at the mirror. "Tom," she said. "Something amazing is happening." She pointed at his reflection. "Look."

He saw himself. Didn't he? More disheveled than normal, but he'd just been eating pussy like a madman, you couldn't expect-- wait.

He stood up straighter, one hand shooting to his jaw. It was his jaw, the touch confirmed it, but it didn't match what he'd seen this morning. It was wider, sharper, his chin more prominent, and his neck had these ropes of muscle stretching down to his collar bone. He leaned against the counter. Every cell in his body was still pounding, throbbing, bursting. "What is happening to me?" Retta pressed her naked body against his back and wrapped her arms around his midsection. Her breasts were firm pillows, and her grip on his waist was iron-hard. "To us?"

"I don't know," she whispered in his ear. A shiver ran down his spine, from his brain right to his dick. "But I like it." She pulled him upright, straightened him out. They were the same height now, her new growth spurt pushing her up to match his 6'1", and she perched her chin on his shoulder as her hands crawled to his chest.

His chest. He took a deep breath and felt his ribs expand. His chest felt different. Her wide, strong hands bunched up the front of his long sleeve shirt and found not the wide and bony expanse he knew so well, but big, heavy slabs of meat. "I like it a lot," she whispered again. She squeezed.

He instinctively tensed against her fingers and his chest jumped. The shirt swelled and stretched. The waffled fabric stroked at Tom's nipple, and he just about choked on his own spit. His hand tentatively rose to join Retta's. She was giggling into his shoulder. "I guess my body does a body good," she said. Her squeeze turned into a grope. "Why don't you take that shirt off and let us see how good?"

He reached for the hem of the shirt to pull it up, but Retta put her hands over his immediately-- gentle, but firm. She clucked her tongue. "Come on, Tom," she chided. "I gave you a better show than that, didn't I?" She moved her mouth closer to his ear. Her breath was hot and fast and it made the pounding in Tom's head pick up pace. "Rip it off for me," she ordered. She took half a step back and raised one arm to flex in the mirror. Her biceps was peaked like a mountain, her forearm a pyramid of power. "Or do you need me to do it for you?"

As sexy as that sounded, he also bristled at it somehow. He already knew she was hungry for him. The vibe had shifted from anxious back to stupidly horny as soon as she touched his chest. She was practically drooling, and he bet that if he reached back and found her pussy, it would be too. But he could tell-- a feeling, almost a smell in the air-- that if he gave this over to her, he'd be committing himself, committing them to a very specific path. "I've got it," he growled. His voice was lower, richer than it used to be. Retta's eyelids fluttered a bit when he spoke.

He reached up to the collar of his shirt. Little things felt different. The collar felt much tighter, almost choking him. The fabric bunched strangely, pinching at his elbows and stretching across his shoulders and back. Its hem rose, and he caught just a glimpse of the bare skin of his stomach, taut and smooth. Even his hands, as they gathered up the fabric at his throat were different. They were leaner, harder, with pronounced knuckles. Veins crawled across their backs under a thin covering of brown hair, veins that plumped up immediately as he tightened his grip. Behind him Retta let out a hum like someone appreciating a fine meal.

He pulled. He felt muscles bunch and swell in his arms, in his shoulders, in his back. The shirt got tighter, the collar bit into the back of his neck, stitches popped-- but the reinforced fabric resisted his strength. Retta moaned.

He wriggled his arms, shifted his hands, took a deep breath. The pulsing throb felt like the bass at a party now. He could feel it in his belly, in his toes, in his balls. He gritted his teeth. His wife whispered "That's it, baby." His cock, tangled up in his briefs and jeans, flexed at her cooing tone. In the mirror, behind the (much wider) stretch of his back, he could see her hand between those powerful legs, could hear the slick sounds of her honey.

He pulled again. More stitches popped. The shirt bit in deep at his neck, his elbows, his armpits. Retta moaned. He growled. The shirt fought back. He bent over, flexing the new muscles in his abdomen, pulling his elbows close together. The growl grew. He yanked down and exploded up and back, hitting that collar from both sides as the growl became a bellow and the creak of stitches became a popping and then a tearing. Slowly, painfully slowly the fabric parted. Retta was leaning against him again, still fingering herself, biting her lower lip as she stared at him in the mirror.

His pecs were revealed first. They were big, heavy things projecting an inch or more away from his ribs, flaring up wide to round, deltoids still hiding behind the shreds of his shirt sleeves. Dark brown hair had sprouted from every pore, giving it a wide, thin covering that heightened the new muscle's definition. Retta groped his left pec, palmed the stiff little nipple that rode much lower on his chest than he remembered, and it felt so good his dick twitched. "So, big, baby," she said. "So thick and hard." She grunted her appreciation and he felt a smile growing on his face.

He kept tearing, down to his stomach where bricks of muscle both clenched and stretched from his exultant rip. They were wide and thick and bordered with deep grooves, so deep he could lay a finger in each one. Retta did exactly that, reaching around with the hand that wasn't knuckle deep in her pussy and laying one long finger in the crease just above his navel. "Tom," Retta moaned, stretching his name out like she loved the way it tasted. "I can't wait to lick these." Her painted nail scraped gently over the bottom of that deep valley and both of them moaned.

The lines of his six pack naturally drew the eyes down, to his crotch, still wrapped in what was now very tight denim. Retta stretched her hand out across his lowest abs, pulled him closer to her. "You don't have to show me if you don't want," she whispered in his ears. "But I very much want to see what you're hiding in there."

He gulped. The throbbing had slowed but not stopped, and it felt more forceful now. Each pulse was a shove against his heart, his arteries, his skin. His balls. His dick. He swallowed again, trying to moisten his parched throat. There were so many things he could say, that he might want to say, but they all died in that desert-dry passage. Any explanation, any excuse he offered Retta would only sound weak. He was different, now. Something had happened and now he had a body he hadn't even known to dream about. Surely, such a miracle wouldn't leave his most shameful failing untouched? Before he could lose his nerve, he reached for the button of his jeans. Retta squirmed behind him.

The button was straining and he had to pinch it tight to fish it through the hole. As soon as he did, the zipper tore free and something bulged out, its obscenity somehow amplified instead of masked by the briefs that struggled to contain it. The fact those briefs were visibly soaked through and sticky probably had something to do with it, as did the fact it was large enough it was pulling his waistband away from his stomach. Retta cooed.

"Oh, baby," she whispered into his neck. "That can't be comfortable. Can I help?" Holy shit, he thought. Holy shit holyshitholyshit.

He managed to nod. Her left hand still clutching at his abs, she snaked her right hand, still slick with her honey, into the waistband's gap. She fished out what should have been a miniscule nubbin of boyhood, two inches at most, with a couple peanut-sized testes swimming in a baggy sack.

Instead two eggs sprang out into her hand, big enough she had trouble cradling both in the one palm. They landed with a thump that sent a bolt of sensation right up into Tom's belly.

And above them was a magnificent specimen of manhood that bounced up like a diving board and thwacked against his cobbled belly with a wet sound and a frisson of pain amidst the blessed freedom of release from his briefs. It must have been eight inches long, uniformly thick from base to glans, sticky and glistening with pre and topped with a head the size and color of a plum. Tom goggled at it. It was immense. Retta reached for it and licked her lips.

"Tom," she chided him. "Why have you been hiding this thing away?" He started to stammer an answer, but the feel of her cool, strong hand wrapping around his slick shaft immediately drove the thoughts out of his head. "It doesn't matter," she said. "It's free now." She gave it a single stroke from its root to the stretched out expanse of his foreskin and he felt a wave of pleasure that was more powerful than any orgasm he had ever experienced-- but he didn't explode. Instead, the tool in Retta's hand just twitched and swelled even bigger. She moaned.

He felt an energy welling up within him, from the tips of his toes to his very eyeballs. It was a high-pitched, frantic thing, a counterpoint to the deep throbbing he still felt in every cell of his body. It was a desire to move, a desire to stretch and to clench and to thrust. To battle. To claim. To mark. He looked down and met Retta's eyes in the mirror.

His cock was perfect. It felt like it belonged in her hand. Her hands, probably, if she was going to give it the proper attention, but his balls felt good in her hand too, hot and firm and huge. She could just imagine the feel of one, heavy on her tongue, rolling around as she savored the taste, the smell of him. She couldn't wait.

She looked up at him in the mirror, met his eyes, saw the heat in them, the challenge, and she suddenly knew that as amazing as giving him a tongue bath would be, it wasn't what either of them needed. She felt a rod of iron stiffen her spine even as her pussy drooled for him. What she needed was to be taken. Chased. Hunted. Exhausted. Fucked until her legs couldn't hold her up anymore by a man with a fire in his belly.

And what he needed was to be that man.

"You're looking damn good Tom," she said, eyes still locked on his. "Think you can back it up?"

He flinched, the old wave of what she know new was shame washing over and through him. She felt guilty, but she knew she needed to poke just a little more. She dropped his perfect cock and brought herself up to her full height. It was dizzying-- she had to be well north of six feet now, well beyond her former 5'9". She was taller than him, now, even though he had been growing too, and she definitely had him outmassed. Her body was a work of art. She was no marble statue, no soft-figured Venus. Her frame was hewn from wood, or granite, something hard, something strong and unforgiving-- and then sanded down until every curve, every crevice was so smooth it glowed. She flexed her abs, groped her own heavy but deliciously perky breast, licked her glossy lips. "Because I'm not sure you can handle all this."

She could see the spark in her own eyes. It was a teasing challenge, a little brattiness begging to be proven wrong. Tom, though, took it differently. He looked stricken. His abs deflated and his chest caved in as he slouched, staring at her in the mirror. For half a second she worried she had gone too far, damaged his fragile sense of ease with whatever the hell train they were both riding. But then his brows knit together and lightning flashed in his eyes and he spun around and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Is that what you think?" he growled, and her knees went a little weak. That was the man she needed. "You think you just because you put on a few pounds, I won't be able to make you squeal my name?" He marched her back until her back slammed up against the sliding glass door of the shower, rattling the whole thing in its metal frame. "Then you better think again."

Her heart was pounding. His eyes crackled with blue fire, his flashing white teeth ground in a powerfully angled jaw, and she could feel every finger pressing inexorably into her shoulder muscles. In the mirror behind them she could see the tatters of his shirt stretched over lats as wide as wings, the waistband of his jeans hanging precariously over his positively juicy ass. She was almost there. She licked her lips and whispered two words.

"Prove it."

He growled again, shook her by the shoulders and lunged forward, seizing her mouth with his own, rattling the glass again. Their tongues slid over each other, wrestling for dominance and pleasure both, and he leaned his weight against hers. He felt solid, dense, but thrummed with an energy that took her breath away. She ran her palms up his abs, relishing the new bumps and swells of his rock-hard flesh. She squeezed and groped at the steely surface of his pecs, the skin wrapped tight around pound after pound of muscle, a thin covering of wiry hair proving exactly what kind of chemistry was roiling in those massive balls. She could feel them stretching up and out against her as he grew in all directions, powered by her honey and his fury.

And then she shoved.

He stumbled back against the sink and caught himself on its lip. His eyes were wide and his mouth gaped. "Come on," she said, waggling her eyebrows at him. "You can do better than that."

Then, giggling, she turned and dashed for the door.

A heartbeat later she could feel the impact of his newly heavy feet as the charged after her. She spun around at the door to the bedroom to watch the spectacle.

God, Tom was hot. Charging through the door from the en suite, his head and shoulders low, he looked like an enraged bull. His shredded shirt had been discarded, and the muscles of his arms, his shoulders, his neck popped from their bones like someone had inflated a bunch of balloons-- or filled them with cement. His cock still bounced proudly, slapping his rigid abs with every step, cradled by the band of his underwear and framed by the two sides of the fly of his jeans.

Oh. His jeans.

He almost had her, but his shrinking waist and swelling ass and thighs had done strange things to the fit of his pants. They were shimmying down his massive legs with every lunging step, and just as he passed the bed, they fell far enough to tangle his feet.

He fell like a tree. His arms pinwheeled, grasped desperately for the edge of the bed to stop his momentum, to push off and continue the chase, but Retta didn't give him the chance.

She pounced on him, slamming into his side with all the force her new body could manage. He grunted and fell to the mattress on his back. Right where Retta wanted him.

His cock slapped against that perfect six pack a few more times, oscillating like a diving board, splattering pre all over his stomach and chest. She was tempted to put that huge thing right where it belonged, climb on top of his hips and bury it deep in her pussy. It would feel incredible.

But that wasn't the game.

Instead she leapt on his shoulders, knees pinning him into the mattress. Their joint weight combined with the force of her jump made the bedframe creak, but it held for now. He thrashed a bit, tried to slap at her, but her mass kept his shoulders from moving and kept his motion limited to the elbow. Each blow stung, but it was nothing compared to her prize. She clapped one hand to each side of his (rugged, devastatingly attractive, was that stubble creeping over his jaw?) face and grinned down at him.

"Mine," she growled, then pivoted her palms and thrust her hips forward to shove her pussy in his face. This was the game. She instinctively knew that force-feeding him her new honey would increase the changes to his body, accelerate them, which meant that this temporary victory was the next step toward a future loss. A beautiful, brutal, horny, cum-filled loss. She had never wanted anything more.

Tom was drowning. Honey flowed from Retta's snatch like from a faucet and even though he would have been perfectly happy to latch his mouth around her lips and chug it down, the way she was grinding her crotch against him meant more of it ended up smeared over his face, clogging his nose. His mouth was plugged by the flesh of her pussy more often than not, granting him only brief gulps of air.

And as delicious as her arousal, her burning-sweet lust for him was, he knew deep in his gut that this wasn't right. She had challenged him, and though lavishing her with love and attention would be a beautiful gift any other time, right now it would be a loss. A surrender. A failure. And he couldn't have that, not when everything he had ever needed was so close.

He lapped up what he could with his tongue (even that muscle felt thicker, more powerful) and felt the heat pass through his mouth into his heart and lungs and blood. The throbbing had picked up again. He knew it for a friend, now, relished it as it built and built, deeper and faster until the blood pounding in his ears drowned out every other sound, even Retta's yelping moans.

And now that he knew what he was looking for, he could feel it. With each throb his body swelled, with each silence it ebbed back-- but not all the way back. Like the ocean leaving sand on the shore, each pulse left him bigger. Stronger. Taller. He felt it all over, but especially in his cock. Thicker. Harder. Slicker. He shifted his focus, stopped slapping ineffectually at her iron-hard ass and instead thrust his tongue up into her folds, trying to pin her in one place. She squealed and sank deeper onto him. His beautiful, insistent, irresistible wife writhed atop his face, lost to her own pleasure and strength, and he laid there. And drank. And grew.

Every passage of the accelerating beat left him less and less uncomfortable, pinned as he was under Retta's shins. More muscle, thicker bones meant more padding, but it also meant slightly better leverage. He rode the wave as long as he could, sucking her honey down, relishing the feeling of his growth until he knew he was bigger, heavier, stronger than she was. His body propped her up now, her knees bent less as he got thicker and thicker beneath her-- and as he caressed the inside of her vagina with his surprisingly powerful tongue. He bent his own knees, pressed his back into the mattress, and got ready to make his move.

He snapped his now longer arms around her muscular thighs like iron bands, pinning each calf to its hamstring in an inescapable hug. In the same breath, he crunched his cinder block abs in one titanic thrust.

She launched from his chest like the stone from a catapult. As soon as his arms were free he whipped them underneath her armpits, caught her by her shoulders, and slammed her to the bed with a terrific thump and a creaking groan from the bedframe. Now she was draped over his calves, her back arched, her abs stretched taut and begging for his tongue, her breasts rolling up toward her head in beautiful puddles of flesh. He pulled his outstretched arms down to her hips, grabbed her just where they flared out from the muscled corset of her obliques, and pulled her down and in to him. His dick slapped against her pubis.

He stared at it, massive paws holding her in place as she struggled to twist her hips free. It was huge. Not just big, like it had been when she stripped him in the bathroom, but legitimately a pillar of flesh. It was the size and shape of two, maybe three beer cans stacked end to end, and its surface was just as tight and unyielding. Retta had crunched up to put her hands on his knees, and she, too was captivated by his manhood.

"That's," she started, but her voice faltered. She licked her lips and tried again. "That couldn't possibly fit inside me, magic muscles or no."

He grinned at her. "Well," he said. His new voice was rich, deep, with just a hint of gravel. It was a voice made for seduction and dominance, capable of packing impossible amounts of lust and barely restrained power into a single word. "We'll see, won't we?"

"Noooo," she shrieked, and twisted in his grip, flinging herself off the end of the bed until she was holding herself up from the floor with two pillared arms. The cry was loud, earsplittingly, but it was followed immediately with a playful giggle. They both knew exactly how this was ending.

She dropped her knees to the floor before he could catch an ankle and scuttled away on hands and knees, bubble butt swaying enticingly. He launched himself after her, caught up in the hallway outside their bedroom, stepped past her, stood with his sequoia legs just close enough to each other that she couldn't squeeze through. He was so broad now that he practically blocked the passage just with his shoulders, his thick, loose arms and dinner plate hands filling any gaps. She came to a panting stop before him and got up to her knees. It put her face right in front of his bouncing dick. She looked good down there, straight black hair falling long over softball-sized shoulders and magnificently wobbling breasts. She looked up at him with a broad smile on her face. "I win," he said.

Her smile grew. "You do?" She rose as gracefully as any dancer until she was standing. Her body was pressed against him, his cock pinned against the solid wall of her abs. "Maybe," she said. She slipped her hands between them, took his pendulous balls in one and his towering cock in the other. Both were slick with the juices they had left all over each other and spattered across their bathroom, bedroom, and the hallway. More drooled from his slit with every twitch of his cock, and he could see her own running down each thigh in twin rivulets. She smiled up at him (Jesus, how tall were they? She was up to his nose, and he could reach up to the ceiling no problem!) and gave his nuts a little roll, his shaft a quick, darting stroke. She ran her tongue slowly over the surface of her lips. Tom felt his heart skip a beat. "But..." Her voice trailed off as she ground his dick between her hand and her abs. God damn, that felt good.

It felt too good, and she was almost too fast. With a gleeful laugh she gave his dick one rough stroke and then tried to roll her body past his like a basketball player, pivoting toward the wall.

But Tom's breath returned in the nick of time and he body checked her into the wall. Their wedding photo shook on its nail. Retta made a noise that was somehow halfway between a pained grunt and a needy moan. His gigantic cock popped between her muscular thighs with a squelch-- between the precum coating his prodigious girth and the honey dripping down her thighs, he couldn't ask for a better lubricant. She pushed her firm, round ass back into him, giving him just a little more space to stroke against her while he planted one hand between her shoulder blades and shoved her firmly into the wall.

He couldn't get over his hand. It was huge. The fingers were long and thick and spread from shoulder blade to shoulder blade like he was staking a claim. Maybe I am, he thought, and followed the lines of his fingers to the veiny back of his palm, the thick sturdiness of his wrist, the bulging cut and rise of his forearms. This was his arm now, this cannon, its fuzzy covering of light brown hair doing nothing to disguise the sheer amount of power contained in it. He felt like he could push her right through this wall if he wanted, that he could fuck her through it until their shapes were left behind like cartoon characters.

She shifted her arms, the muscles writhing under his palm, and he blinked. She was panting, grinding her hips against his in little circles, squeezing her thick legs together around his dick. He smiled and brought his other hand up to palm the back of her skull, wrapping his fingers tight in her long black hair. "I win," he said again. She moaned. He pulled her head to the side, shoved her cheek against the wall, revealing one sultry brown eye and those new pillowy lips. She was currently biting down hard on her lower lip, holding something back, and the sight made Tom's stomach flip and his cock throb.

"Say it," he growled in her ear. The moan she was fighting escaped, a long, low, desperate thing, and he felt a gush of fluid around his shaft. Her honey felt amazing on his skin-- not the all-consuming fire it lit in him when he swallowed it, but a pleasant warmth and tingle. He thought it might still be working, still expanding his body into some platonic ideal of masculine sex and power. "Say it," he growled again, and yanked her head back by her tangled hair, exposing that vulnerable throat framed by long, thick cords of muscle. He could see her carotid pulsing. She gasped, and smiled, and turned to face him as best she could.

"You win," she whispered.

He felt another growl coming, a wordless exultation of his triumph over her, proving them each a worthy mate to the other. He mashed his face into hers and started pumping his hips against that perfect ass. She kissed back, wet and eager and strong, their tongues filling each other's mouths, their lips and teeth joining in a furious, joyous continuation of their battle.

"In me," she panted, pushing against the wall with her palms, grinding her wet snatch along his shaft. "Put it in." She spread her legs, dropped one hand down to spread her lips, and wagged her ass at him. He reached under and between them too heft up the iron pole that was his dick. This, too, was unimaginable. It had gone from half a lip balm tube to this stack of beer cans, and it felt incredible. He gave it a stroke, just to try it out, and lightning shot through the lengthy shaft, bounced around his enormous sack, and went straight up his spine. He had to close his eyes and groan, letting the pleasure wash over him. God, if this was what his hand felt like...

"Now," Retta said, and he could hear the impatience trickling into her voice, watch her muscles tense until she was almost vibrating. "I've waited three fucking years and I need it now."

He aimed as best he could at the source of that divine honey. She did her best to make it easy. One last wave of crippling doubt washed over him, but he knew it was an extinction burst and his dick didn't soften an iota. He had nothing to be ashamed of. This was exactly, perfectly right. He slowly eased his hips against her.

The first inch was easy, the rounded wedge of his glans separating her sopping lips like the point of a crowbar. After that it got a little more complicated.

When Tom growled his victory at her, the barest hint of fear cut through Retta's arousal like a squeeze of lemon in a glass of stand-your-spoon-up sweet tea. It was perfect. She trusted him with her body and soul, and he was finally, finally, taking advantage of that. Taking advantage of her. God, his python of a dick felt so good just rubbing against her entrance like that. And when they finally lined that monster up and prepared for launch, she could barely keep from bouncing on her toes like a child waiting for fireworks.

Those fireworks started almost immediately. His dick started the slide into her, their juices easing the way with a deliciously perverted squelch, but then almost immediately hit a block. He was just so fucking thick. They both growled in frustration and the confluence was so funny she had to laugh. She ground her pussy against his head, then shifted her weight until she was standing more upright. One arm slid up the wall to keep her balance, the other looped under her knee and pulled it up to her chest. Guess this body is more than just muscles, she thought. It's got some moves, too! Though there were a lot of muscles. Her biceps were pushed into her knee, her calf was bulging alongside her ribs and her abs were tense with the effort and anticipation.

"Come on Tom," she said in her best sultry voice. "Don't hold back. I need that beautiful thing in me one way or another. Show me how my big man fucks."

He didn't say anything, just wrapped those two massive paws around her waist, reseated his dick head, and went to town.

He pushed. She screamed. And with every inch he slid into her (there were a lot of them), she pounded her meaty fist against the drywall. It was sweeter music to his ears than the best orchestra. He was lost to it. He hunched over, one hand on her hip, the other gliding up that amazing six pack until it met the bottom of one of her newly bounteous breasts. It was big enough to fill even his plus-sized mitt, and he caught the thick, firm nipple between two of his fingertips. He gave it a squeeze and she yelped and beat against the drywall again. It caved in under her Amazonian fist, so she reached in, found a stud, and used it to push back against him harder.

Soon after that he was operating purely on instinct, on a deep hunger to take this woman who had offered herself to him, take her and fill her and mark her and claim her, make her his, now and forever. Moments after that, even that level of thought was gone and his whole brain was full of the pleasure of flexing muscle, of slapping sweaty skin, and of his gigantic dick sliding home into her honey, over and over and over. He could feel his climax growing. Unlike his previous blink-and-you'll-miss-it little squirts, this orgasm would come like a landslide, he could tell: slowly and then all at once. Barely restrained lightning climbed down his shaft one heartbeat at a time, pooled in his balls, overflowed and tensed his ass and his lower belly. The lightning's thunder rumbled in his chest, a deep, possessive growl. Retta's pussy clenched him even harder as the sound erupted from between his clenched teeth.

"Oh, yes," she hissed. "Yes, yes, that's it. Oh, fucking fill me up you big beautiful beast."

Beast. He liked that. He was hunched over her like a beast, panting in her ear like a beast, sweating like a beast while their combined juices pattered to the floor like rain. "It's coming," he grunted, his voice strangled like a beast's, and she gasped again. She started keening, a high pitched desperate whine right into his ear, broken into a staccato rhythm by his pounding. "I'm," he grunted, but the ball of lightning burst before he could get the next word out.

It filled his every cell, a sweetness so high and thin it felt like needles-- ecstatic, mind-blowing needles.

And it filled Retta, his cock jerking with each rope so hard it actually pulled her away from the wall. She collapsed back into him, sagged into the arms he had instinctively wrapped around her, gave shout after sobbing shout as his balls tensed and his cum shot into her over and over and over. They slid to the floor, still rutting, still lost to the pleasure, every thrust an explosion, a final consummation of one wild afternoon and years of confusion and shame. She was prone now, and he was still firing into her, held up in a cobra position by his massive arms planted on either side of her wing-like lats. Finally he felt the muscles in his taint relax, felt the satisfied hollowing out of being shot dry, and collapsed on top of her with an immensely satisfied groan.

Retta gave one too, but then squirmed beneath him. "Tom, darling," she said, almost all of the fire out of her voice. "It's so fucking good to have you buried deep inside me and you feel incredible pressing down on me." She gave another little squirm and then grunted. "But you're a lot heavier than you used to be."

Oh shit. He was crushing her. "Shit, shit," he said, rolling to his right and taking her with him. His cock wasn't an iron flagpole anymore, but it was still hard enough to stay buried in her, and as they settled back onto their sides, she wriggled that perfect ass to keep it right where they both, apparently, wanted it. Then she laughed, a deep, relaxed, honest laugh.

"Oh, baby, it's fine." She slapped her muscular ass. "I can take a lot more punishment now, too." Then she heaved a sigh. "Oh, Tom," she said. "I can't tell you how badly I've needed that."

He gulped. "I'm. I'm sorry, Retta."

She propped herself up on her arm and twisted back to try to look him in the eyes. "Tom," she said firmly. "You don't have to apologize, baby. I'm sure you had your reasons. This just feels..."

She flexed her pussy around his still hard shaft and they both grunted at the wave of pleasure that washed over them. "So. Fucking. Good," she finished. She relaxed back to spoon against him, one hand reaching back to grope his massive glute.

He swung his arm over hers and palmed her left breast, thrilling at the extra little pulse it sent through her tunnel. "Yeah," he said. Her juices still felt warm, still gave his dick a little tingle, and he could feel every inch of her clutching at him. "It does. But, uh. What the fuck happened?"

She deflated a little bit, curled in on herself. "I guess it's my turn to apologize." He gave her a beat, just held her tight against him until she continued. "I just... I don't know. I thought maybe there was something wrong with me, so I was talking with Nikki, and she gave me this... potion? Drug? I don't know. But as soon as I drank it, I got hornier than I've ever been, and then..." She paused and then waved her hand in the air above them. "This."

"You thought there was something wrong with you?"

"I don't know! Yeah! I thought..."

He shook his head, burying his nose in her long dark hair. "It was always me," he said. "I was just... I didn't think I'd be good enough for you. I am... I was really small."

"Oh," she said, her voice small and sad.

"But I love you so much. And I thought if I kept it secret, if I did my best to keep you happy other ways, then it wouldn't matter. And I convinced myself it wasn't really a lie..."

Saying it out loud twisted his stomach. They had shared something over the last... however long they'd been fucking, and whether the miracle lasted or not, he knew that he had to be honest with himself and with his lover. He had to be a goddam man, take responsibility, do what he had to do to keep his wife safe and happy-- and she would do the same for him.

"Now I know better," he said. "No more hiding." He moved his lips to her ear and his hands to her newly-widened hips. "You're mine," he growled, and felt her shiver against him.

"Yesss," she hissed. She clutched at his ass with one powerful hand, forcing him deeper into her. "And you're mine."

He chuckled. "Forever," he said in his new deep voice. Then he slapped her on the side of the ass. "Now get up," he ordered. "I've got several more rooms of this apartment to fuck you in."

She giggled, then rolled away from him and sprang to her feet, suddenly energized. She looked like a wolf, a tiger, her massive limber body ready to play hard, to push just shy of drawing blood. Tom raised himself up, a bit slower but even larger, his monumental bulk the epitome of sex and strength. She looked up at him from her athletic crouch, pecs and heavy, perky breasts both heaving, and waggled her eyebrows. His cock throbbed, suddenly just as hard as it had ever been.

"You'll have to catch me first," she said with a sly smile, then spun on her toes and dashed for the living room. He bellowed loud enough to rattle the windows and chased after her, the scent of her honey pulling him forward, ready to claim his woman all over again.