muscle growth The Mass of Us - part 1 (TEASER)

[PumpCulture]

CW: muscle growth.

 

Four years since she'd met Joel. Four years in isolation together. In four years, the old man had shaped her, molded her, redefined her into a survivor. Their world was harsh, she had to be harsher.

Ellie struggled to catch her breath, leaning against the tiled wall, staring at her reflection in the shattered spiderweb of the restroom mirror. A survivor... The hardness of her eyes betrayed the gentle youth of her face, still the face of a young girl, although she had blossomed into a woman. The contrast couldn't be starker. All of the ugliness, death, and violence she had witnessed in her short life left stains behind her bright green irises. In two more years, she would turn twenty, but her gaze indicated a memory older than her pouting lips, rounded cheeks, light eyelashes, and cute nose appeared.

And yet that wasn't Ellie's only contradiction. There was the first thing anybody noticed: her over-pumped, bloated, rugged, hideously muscular body. Joel had taken the freckled teen and turned her into a battleship of a woman.

Heavy drops of her sweat dripped from the rivulets slithering between her muscles, falling and tapping on top of the sink beneath her like bullets. Her green eyes took in her impossible physique and she suddenly wondered how this had happened, how she could have transformed her pain into agony into power.

Her body ached constantly. It felt almost as if her bones were being pulled apart as her once thin body continued to pack on more and more mass. When would it stop? When would the torturous workouts end? When could she stop pushing for more? Every day she told herself it was enough. Every day she relished breaking new records.

Her eyes ravished the grotesque, quivering ribbons of her pecs, so hopelessly muscular that they ensured she would never have the soft luxurious breasts of a woman... and she nearly sobbed over the ugly vascularity, the rope-thick veins bunching over every inch of her barely clothed chest, her old striped shirt torn to appropriate shreds over her muscles that were in just about the same state. The worn out threads looked as if they were being forced apart by her heaving chest, so incredibly jacked that their sick vascularity shook with awful tremors with her every movement. If not for the mirror, and the gift of leaning forward, she could hardly see past those twin boulders stuck on her chest, each pectoral fighting for space with nowhere to go but outward. She had worked them so hard over the years that each pec was wider across than her shoulders were when she was younger...

 

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