Chapter 3

He woke up to a buzzard several days later. “Uh ... hi, hey...” He yawned as he picked up the phone in his living room. “Umm, good ... uh, good morning.”

“Oh, hey. Hi! Good evening, actually.” There was the sound of papers being shuffled. “This is, uh ... seventeen, seventy-nine, am I right?”

“Seventeen ... seventy ... umm...” He rubbed his face, still groggy and a little red with tears.

“Seventeen, seventy-nine, right? Your apartment, I mean.”

“Ah, yes.” He nodded, even though he wasn’t seen. “Yes, it’s ... uh, it’s correct.”

“Very good. Well, there’s...” He noticed a slight crack in the speaker’s voice. “There’s a package here for you.” A curious pause followed. “A big one. Anyone ‘ma pick it up?”

He felt a tightening on his chest, his heart playing hopscotch. “Umm ... uh...”

...

“Hello?”

The jolly voice slapped him back to the earth. “B-b-be...” He cleared his throat. “Be right back. I mean ... right down. I’ll be, uh, right down in just a minute.”

“Jolly-doo!”

The phone was hung. He could count his heartbeats on his fingertips. Asphyxiating! «She...!»

No. No time to think. He headed to the door, each step getting longer as his legs grew wearier and gut heavier. «It’s so soon!» His heart rang like an alarm clock in his brain. «She can’t be here already!»

His hand. Cold. His fingers frozen on the doorknob, melding with its cold metal. In his guts, he felt the same fear whenever he had to make eye contact with a girl and... Gulp! Talk to her! «No. I can’t. I just ... can’t.»

Bleeeeeep! Another buzz. Bleeeeeep! The ringing of that phone was like a spear through the ears.

“Uh ... y-yes?”

On the other end, he could hear fingers thumping. “Sir, are you coming?”

“Umm, err...” He looked at an imaginary clock atop the door. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I, uh...”

Do not look for an excuse.

Do not try and make yourself sound even more of an idiot than you already are!

“R-right now. I’m going down, uh ... right about now.”

Right about now!

...

He was shaking as he stood in the middle of the lobby of his massive building. The white on its walls was made more oppressive by their sprawling length and dizzying height. Thankfully, a young, jovial face appeared in front of him, its easy smile bidding him welcome and giving those walls, that enormous hall some color and warmth. “Ah, good evening!” The smile morphed into a tall, happy face. “Seventeen, seventy-nine, am I right?”

Clumsily and awkwardly, he tried smiling back, or at least giving the man a timid nod. “Hmm.” With his heart in his throat, he knew that he had to say more than just hmm. “Yes. Yes, I ... uh, I’m from the unit.”

With movements as fluid as nature, the young concierge shuffled some papers under his counter. “Big boy’s for ya.” He pointed forward, over the boy’s shoulder.

“Oh?”

He looked back. Only then did he notice, with a little startle, the giant wooden crate that was resting against the wall behind him, a light brown monolith as conspicuous in that hall as a lynx on a baby’s crib. “Oh! Oh, yes, uh...” He could barely look the young man in the eyes, as pleasing and soothing as those big, blue eyes were. “I guess this one’s mine.”

“‘Tis alright, ‘tis all great.” He slid some papers to him over the counter. “Now, I need your name here and here ... and, uh, here and here too. Two copies, alright? All for record keeping.”

...

He ignored the man. Or rather, he didn’t quite listen to him. The box, once neglected, was now all he could see. «Big!» He thought, his limbs shivering for no reason. «It’s so ... big!» So much larger than he expected. «Dear gods!» He gulped, feeling an unexpected tingling betw’n’is legs. «How big is she?»

“Um, sir. Sir?” He was called again to reality. “Sir!”

“Uh, oh ... sorry! Y-you were saying?”

“Your signature.” The young man tapped on the papers. “I need them, alright?”

“Oh. Right.” Hastily, he took his pen. “Sorry.” He focused on not letting his hands shake too much as he scribbled four barely legible signatures on the sheets. As he did, two elderly ladies walked by, then balked at the sight of that grotesque container in the room.

“Ah, hallo, missen Olsen! Gët’midtag, missen Svensson!” The young lad—and he was, indeed, quite young, a teen scarcely older than twenty—greeted the two still-faced ladies with his iceberg-melting grin.

The two strangers just stayed there, standing still, doing nothing but staring at the box, then at the boy signing the papers, then whispering something to each other before finally, slowly leaving the hall. «F-fuck!» His last signature looked so much more hideous than the previous three. «There’s no way to be discreet with something so big, is there?»

The young lad also watched him with a rather amused look in his eyes, as if witnessing a wild, yet harmless rare animal out of its habitat. “Sooo...” Once again, his voice rescued the resident from his thoughts. “Guess you’re going to need help with this one, eh? That thing looks heavy. I’m feeling charitable today, so let me...”

“No.” He cleared his throat, took a deep breath. “I mean, uh ... no, I’m fine, uh, thank ... umm, thank you. V-very much, thank you.”

The lad stopped. “You sure?” He cast a long, silent gaze upon the boy, sizing him up from head to toe. “I do think you will need my help.”

“No. No help.”

...

“You really sure about this?”

“Yes. I ... uh, am sure.”

“Doesn’t sound too sure to me, to be honest.”

“Well...” He straightened his back, tried to look like a man in charge of his own destiny. “As a matter of fact, I am.” He gave him a gentle bow. “Thank you, uh, for the offer, though.”

“Oh, welle.” He shrugged. “You are gonna need this, though.” He rolled a dolly cart around the counter.

“Uh, oh...” The boy mumbled some awkward, half-hearted thank-yous, his lips and tongue making barely discernible words, only grunts and grumbles that somewhat conveyed his emotions, much like an animal. “Well, uh ... thanks. Again.”

“Hey, suit yourself.” Keeping a close eye on the resident, the lad moved back to his station. “If you need something, I’ll be here to help.”

“Uh, oh ... well...” He looked at him. It was the longest he had made eye contact with anyone. “Thanks.”

His heart felt elevated. It was a pleasant, fleeting chill until he actually tried to move the crater. «Oh, häellen!» He cursed. «How ... how do I move this thing?» He had to gulp and swallow his soul as the crater loomed so large before him, not much shorter or less imposing than the walls it rested on. «She’s big!» He pinched himself in his mind. «She didn’t look so huge on the screen.»

The doorboy watched him amusedly as his puny self tried in vain to place the lower pane of the box on the forks, failing to lift it even a single twip above the ground. “Are you sure you don’t want my help?”

Minutes upon minutes on end, the sweat began raining down from his forehead on his cheeks and chin, eventually turning his white shirt brown and gluing its cloth to his needle-like body. “N-no. I mean...” He tried to speak, but the air in his chest was searing hot, his lungs themselves turned to a smelter. “No. N-no help... -t-thanks.”

“You ain’t an ant.”

He stopped and looked back. “What?”

“You’re not an ant.” He seemed to savor the puzzled look on the guy’s face. “You cannot carry objects fifty times your body weight, I mean.” He sized him up head-to-toe again. “Or a hundred times, in your case.”

“Oh, well, you...”

Wrooom!

He covered his mouth. What insignificant progress he had made was undone as he got distracted and let the crater fall back against the wall. Boom!

“Oh, fuck me, god!”

“Just let me lend you a hand, comrade.”

“Oh, please, no, there’s ... there’s no need to...”

He stopped. His and that young man’s eyes met. And embraced. “There’s...” His voice shivered. He didn’t know it, but in his eyes there was something of a shimmer. “There’s no need to...”

The man too had stopped. He probably thought the whole situation was too silly—this was clear from his face alone—yet still he took the time to listen to that weird fellow.

“I ... I...” His thoughts shut his voice. Too much noise up there in his skull. «Why not? Why not let him help me?» In the cacophony of sounds, he took a serious look at his mind and pondered. «Why am I so afraid of him?»

Alas, as he was often prone to forget, time did not seem to stop or slow down whenever his speech did. “Hey?” The gentleman’s voice woke him up again. “Are you okay?”

Sudden question, quick reply: “Oh, uh ... yes.” He straightened up and ... smiled. He truly did smile, and tried looking as normal as he could. “I guess, umm...” He pointed at the humongous box. “Took my breath away, this huge fucki-, umm, this huge freaking thing.”

“Wunderkein!” The young man smiled back, himself too looking more relaxed. “Come. Let me help you, will ya?”

Though he winced slightly, he accepted the man’s presence in his space, allowing him to get much closer than any stranger had been ... probably ever.

He saw him grip the edges of the box and try to nudge it off the wall. The lad was of excellent disposition, and his body, though slim, seemed capable of silent feats of unassuming strength.

Alas, not there. “Holy...!!” Not even the lad, as much taller and physically fitter as he looked, was prepared for the sheer weight of that container. “What in Hel did you order? A bear?”

“I ... I-I...”

As he tried to answer, stammering his way through some comprehensible sentences, he couldn’t stop giving that man a very intense, focused stare.

The lad’s face was truly beautiful.

“I’m sorry.” Sorry? Sorry for what? “Let ... l-let me, uh ... help you too with this.”

“Yeah. Much appreciated. I think only the both of us can make any progress with this thing.” The lively chap cracked his neck, rubbed his shoulders to disperse the heat and acid in them. “Heiße! I need to go back to lifting stones. And here was I thinking I looked like some hot shit or something.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, don’t mind me. Come on.” He invited the boy to come closer—an uncommon request to his ears. “Come now. On my mark.”

“Oh, okay.”

“On three: one, two...”

Umph! The two youths nearly farted their souls out as they tried lifting the thing. It took them several tries (and no shortage of backaches later), but eventually they did manage to lay the container onto the forks. “Good!” The young man swiped the sweat off his forehead. “Oh, good, good. Now...” They let go of the box, which settled with all its weight on the tiny cart. “Very careful now. Watch it!” Quickly, the two pushed against its wooden frame, preventing it from turning and crashing over them.

“Heiße-heiße-heißeee!”

“Careful! Floor’s slippery like a fucker!”

“I-I can, uh, I can feel that. Uuurgh!” He slipped, bong!, and his glutes crashed on the ground, bouncing him on the floor like a ball.

“You okay?”

“Hmm, yes, no ... oof ... no problem.”

The porter looked up at the box. “Well, I think it’s settled.” He turned his face to him with a quirky smirk. “What’s in here?”

He gulped. “Sofa.”

...

The porter tilted his head. “Sofa?”

“Yeah. Umm, it’s uh...” He shrugged. “Sofa.”

...

“A sofa made of ... what? Titanium?”

“It’s just a regular sofa.”

“Okay, okay, hey, ain’t my business, anyway. However...” The young lad stretched his hands a couple of times, cracking his fingers and cooling the sore muscles along his wrists and forearms. “Forgive me if the question sounds perhaps a little bit silly, but ... are you new here?”

“Umm, what?”

Earnestness burned on the lad’s face like a sun. “Like, are you moving in with this stuff or...?

Indeed, the question was sort of amusing. “No. I-, I’m not moving. I ... I live here.”

“You do?” He looked puzzled. “For how long?”

“Two years now.”

“Two years! Well, darn. I should have known you by now.” He reached out with his hand. “Name’s Jonathan.”

The boy stared at the hand, bewildered. “Umm...”

“You’re supposed to shake it.”

“Uh, okay, umm...” He shook the hand and himself with it. “Uh, n-nice ... nice to ... meet you.”

“Likewise.” The two hands remained together for an awkwardly long and silent time. “And...?”

He stared at him, eyes gleaming like a deer about to be sent to heaven by a train. “Umm...”

“Your name.”

“Ah ... yes. My name...” He trembled, not sure why. For a second, it was almost as if he’d forgotten his name. “João.”

“Hm?”

“João. My name is ... João.”

“Oh. I see.” The young man—Jonathan—tilted his head. “Zhu-ahn-um?”

“No. João.”

He tilted his head the other way like a confused puppy. “Zho-ahn-o.”

“No, no. João. Jo-ão.”

“Zhon-hum.”

“Just call me John.”

“Oh, okay. My bad. So ... John, eh? Yeah, this one is easy to remember.” He smiled, and their hands finally parted ways. “How come I’ve never seen you before, John?”

“Oh ... well...”

“I guess you don’t leave the unit very often, do you?”

...

This Jonathan fellow. He looked (and acted) like the joyful, extroverted type, so there was (probably) no harm intended with the question.

He couldn’t know for sure. He’d always been pretty inane in guessing people’s motives, and experience had long thought him to, when in doubt, err for the worst. As such, his posture became defensive, his face heavy and still. The face of few friends, as folks called it back in his land. “Umm, I suppose I don’t. Not, uh ... not that often, no.”

“Oh, I see.” He winked. “Night worker, eh? My shifts are all evenings, sometimes mornings, so that’s probably why we never met.”

“Oh, yeah.” His eyes wavered. “Maybe.”

“What you do, John?”

His heart skipped a beat. Maybe two. “Umm?”

“What do you do in the night? Working midtown, I suppose. Serving bars, stuff like that, eh?” There was silence. John’s eyes moved away. “Ah. I see.” The fellow moved back very gently. “Personal, huh?”

John’s eyes returned to him. “Yeah.” He was relieved. “It is, uh, quite personal. Private, you see.”

“Yeah, I get it. Most people are.” He scratched the back of his head. “I apologize if I got too nosy. I get scolded sometimes for being, uh, a little pushy.”

“Oh, uh, it’s not ... hmm...” He smiled. “It’s no problem.”

“Good to know we’re on good footing.” He then turned and walked back to the humongous box, surprising John a little.

“Uh, where ... what are you doing?”

“Uh, helping you? Still?” He held the cart by its handles. “Taking this to the lifts, shall we?”

“Oh, no. Uh, no need to. There’s no need to, uh, not anymore.”

“Are you sure?” He looked slightly disappointed. “Like, sure sure?”

“Y-yes. Yes, I ... uh, am.”

“You’re raining sweat, comrade.”

“I am not.”

Jonathan simply rolled his eyes and pulled away. “Well, your sofa, your troubles.” He returned to the counter. “Just make sure you bring the cart back when you’re done, okay? You won’t believe the number of people who just leave these things up and expect us to go get them back on our own. Mmph! Inconsiderate jerks! We’re workers, not serfs, you know.”

“Hmm ... oh...”

“Oh, please, don’t mind me. Here was I thinking loud again.”

“Oh. Okay. Hmm.”

John looked back at the box. Ummph! In no time, after merely sliding the cart a couple of inches on the ground, he was heaving and wheezing like an undead soul.

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?”

“Y-y-y-y-yes. T-this is something ... uumph!” Rainfalls from his skin. “This is something I prefer to handle myself. T-thanks, though. Thanks a lot.”

“Well...” He nodded. “Anytime, mate.”

After an eternity of pulling and sweating, he managed to get that box inside one of the lifts. «I ... I...!» He had done it, and he quite couldn’t come to grips with this fact. «I can’t believe I did it!»

“How you doing, mate?” He heard Jonathan’s voice in the distance. “You doing good? You doing fine?” A gentle pause. “You still alive?”

“Y-yeees.” He answered, the sweat dripping into his mouth.

“Does it fit? In the elevator, I mean?”

Barely, but “yes. Yes, it does.”

“Ah, good. Alright. Have fun with your ... sofa.”

Plim! The doors of the lift closed before John could ask or say anything else.

The sun was setting when he realized he’d have no peace unless he opened it. «Maybe I should return it.» He rocked his body back and forth, bit his nails, paced around like a startled cat. «I could use the money. This is so ridiculous.»

Before him stood the box, a tower of wood ready to crush him. Open me or I’ll smash you, it whispered into his heart. «Prostitutes are cheaper. Aren’t they?» The thoughts popped and bounced in his mind, colliding with many other unpleasant sensations.

Coward.

The cute girl. The cute clerk back in the store. Her image flashed in his mind, followed by those of much prettier, flesh-and-bones women he’d seen in real life. All those were much better than the solution before him.

Are they?

«No. No, they aren’t.» He took a deep breath, walked around the box, and inspected it. «Women can be cute, they can even be hot, but should I ever expect them to be good?»

No. No, he shouldn’t. Not women, not people. Not anyone.

If people weren’t pushy, they’d be needy. If not needy, they’d be cruel. If not cruel, they’d be childish. If not childish, they’d be annoying. People would be a thousand different things, none of which pleasant, and none ever remotely good. «At least ... at least... » He looked up at the towering box. «A doll can be anything.» He smiled. «She will be anything I want her to be.»

One hour later, the box was lying on the ground, himself a sweaty bloody mess, with a crowbar shaking in his hands.

Ya, comrade, are you sure you’re not needing any help getting her out of that box? The words of the doorboy ... what was his name? Joel, Joey ... John ... Jonathan ... his words still echoed in his mind.

No. He had denied his help again, perhaps a little too hastily, a little too harshly, yet the lad always took his answers in good faith: Hey, always your choice. Just remember to bring back the crowbar too when you’re done with it, okay?

Hmm, okay. T-thanks.

...

Several more minutes passed. It took him longer than he would feel comfortable to admit: having never used that tool before, that crowbar thing, he did a splintery mess of his place as he tried to pop the lid open. Frustration grew with every failed attempt, burning in his veins like acid, like molten glass piercing his heart, thrashing his muscles, snapping his nerves, making the process of trying out new things much more excruciating than it was, surely, for other people.

Normal people. Healthy people. People who were worth a damn.

...

Cling! The crowbar fell on the floor, and so did his knees. Thump!

Looking down at the box with more calmwater eyes, he took a deep, deep breath, much deeper than all the breaths he had taken until that moment, and slid his fingers along the bands of the unhooked lid, slow and careful, trying to avoid the many splinters from his clumsy hacking.

And then...

Brooom

He set the woman free.

...

For an eternity, he stared at her. For a forever, he gawked at her. She was definitely more beautiful in person than on the screen. «An ... an ... an an an an an an an... » His thoughts were just like his tongue: stammery and useless, unable to form any coherent sentence, any cohesive anything. He was just too...

Shocked. Stunned. Stumped. Aghast by that astonishing beauty.

«Damn ... her ... d-!!... »

She looked sturdy. Hard. Like a paragon of stability, or a standard for all things harmonious and graceful. She was so big she seemed to overwhelm her already huge confinements. Engineers could’ve used her to measure the solidity of a building’s foundations, or perhaps use her as the foundation itself. There seemed to be nothing in the universe, no material among the stars any heftier, harder, or firmer than that which bound together her mountains of flesh and muscle.

Split an atom and you end a city. Split her skin and you end the world.

He stared deeply at her face. It was strong and willful, locked in a neutral expression, but with just enough personality to avoid looking eerie or uncanny, like the faces of things not truly living.

She was beautiful, and her beauty was bolstered by an unshakeable, immaterial aura of confidence, a sense of self-assurance as mountain-hard as that impossible body of hers. Like a sequoia in the wild, she was a pillar of power that dwarfed all vegetation around her, turning all other trees into grass.

He was such a grass: short, tiny, frail.

It was said that leopards in the wild live alone, in isolation, surrounded by hundreds of miles of nothingness, for none dared stand next to a predator, and once you spotted them, you would run away.

She was that predator: one and only in the wild. Only she existed and only she needed to exist, for only she was needed, and only she truly mattered.

Just looking at her made him feel smaller, more pitiful, more ashamed of his sorry self. He, who should have been the bigger, stronger sex. He, who should have been the grander, mightier soul!

The femininity in her face only added to his confusion, as if no such tenderness could exist atop her hard, stone-carved body, or such toughness and fierceness could ever work along her honest, sweet-hearted gaze.

He walked to-and-fro, fro-and-to, carefully inspecting the doll while avoiding her sweet, deep green eyes. Even from up close, she could have easily been mistaken for a real person, and her uncanny stillness did little to dampen the effect of her hyperrealism. If anything, it was her realism that made her truly, utterly spooky. «Darne schültz!» He gulped long and hard, pacing more nervously around the box. «Those folks weren’t joking! This is one masterpiece of a woman!»

The Pietà of sex dolls.

She had come fully clothed, and thank the gods for that! He wasn’t sure how he could bear the sight of her otherwise. The mere neck of that woman, exposed over the collar of her tight, tight shirt, was enough to make his member pulsate, almost surge like a pillar and a fountain on his pants, painting them white, chantilly all over his briefs and thighs. «Keep it together! Keep. It. Together.»

His fists, tighter. His head, straighter. An icy cold snake, like the blow of the winter’s wind, crawled up on his spine and made him grayer. «Keep it together. Together. Keep it together.» Goddess or not, she was the doll, he was the master. «Together. Together. Keep it... gulp ... together!»

She wore a large, glossy black leather jacket over her miles-long shoulders, its full sleeves containing and restraining her powerful arms. Underneath said jacket followed a dark-gray, short-sleeved shirt with a minimal, unintrusive design. The only eye-catching thing in it would have been the huge imprint at the center: an outline of his motherland’s continent, and one sentence written in huge white capital letters overlaid in two mirroring arcs:

Born to be Wild.

The shirt was tight enough to highlight her muscles without looking ill-fitting. This wanton, conscious display of prime physicality—she was a woman who knew her assets and saw no cause or reason to hide them—sent his poor little mind into many confusing, conflicting thoughts, braked only, if for a short and uneven while, by his endless gushing, his shameful adulation, maybe even adoration of her amazing, utterly exquisite physique. «Meu...!»

Her piece went down and down onto her powerful hips. There, it was complemented by long, dark jeans tightly wrapped around her...

«Caralho!!»

Her...

«Céus! Céus!»

Her powerful...

«Caralho dos céus!»

Legs! Legs!! Dear gods, her legs!

They were two tree trunks sprawling powerfully from her titanic hips, a pair of massive pillars of meat that could only very unkindly be described as simply legs. More appropriately, they were two unbelievably long, impossibly ripped logs of meaty might that put the fiber of those poor jeans to the test. So huge and astounding was her tonnage of walkers that he wasn’t sure whether she was just one woman or three: the woman above her hips, then one woman for each leg.

«Longas! Longas! Longas!!!» His mind was short-circuited by the view of those long, long, looong legs, his tongue almost lolling out of his mouth, the saliva nearly dripping from its tip.

Long, long, looong legs. Thick and mighty and powerful legs, as long as any muse’s, yet thick, thick, thick like a bricklayer’s thighs, and impossibly juicy. They were legs meant to be wrapped around one’s skull, then used to crush it into a bloody...

«Hell! She ... s-s-she... » He shivered. He salivated. «T-this ... t-this woman... »

Shake his head. He had to do it. Shake, shake, shake! He had to shake his head really hard to not get lost in the fumes of the flames that were slowly rising from deep within his breast.

Each of her legs was wider than his torso. Compared to his waist, pff!, it just wasn’t fair, not fair at all. Her arms alone seemed each as thick as the thickest part of his thighs, and her feet, much like her hands, were just as proportionally gigantic and intimidating, a single toe as massive as his heels, a single thumb as long and girthy as the entirety of his manhood.

«By ... the ... gods!» He gulped and kept thinking, his mind racing and raging, the blood burning, and his breath falling apart.

If there ever were Valkyries, she would have been Freyja. She would have stood above even godhood itself, as she seemed to outstrip and outrank even that one queen of legends. Not a Valkyrie, not a goddess, but an elemental force, perhaps Ginnungagap or Yggdrasil, maybe—if those unearthly notions were also endowed with very carnal endowments superior in size, girth, and length to those of Thor, Baldr, and Týr’s put together.

The Yggdrasil of Manhood. The Tree of Life and Cocks.

«This woman ... ibn fukkert lass...!» He kept on thinking and gulping as his eyes took in all that which the goddess had to offer, like a man who, after spending his whole life in the desert, now had to drink from an open firehose or swallow a whole spring in one gulp.

Her legs and jeans flowed further down into long leather boots. Were she not a doll, but an actual living thing, no one would have doubted, for the thinnest of slices of time, that she had indeed ridden through all of the Andes, north to south, Nunavut to Magallanes, all on her own.

She did justice to her motto, then marched well past beyond it:

Born to be wild Born to be wildest!

«Is this ... gold??» His eyes swung and swayed drunkenly on her body, stopping by the wide, thick, jet-black leather belt that tied that whole attire together. Its buckle, as big as his hand, shone golden like the sun, a shine unmistakably real, a glimmer that belonged to no fool’s gold.

All that glimmers may not be gold, but this ... That belt told him. This bitch is!

It was a distinctly unisex outfit that fit her like a god. How amazing it would be to take it off, and how...

«Terrifying!» His eyes met hers, and his dick became smaller. «Fuck.» He rubbed them. His eyes, that is. «I could swear she was ... staring at the ceiling just now.»

She wasn’t. Her eyes stood at a slightly low angle, staring down and straight at ... him.

His breath gained pace. Her muscles continued to defy her clothes, doing battle with their fabric, and they seemed to be gaining ground at each passing second, at each coming round. Her arms, especially bulky, tested the sturdiness of her sleeves with their ever-swelling, ever-bulking, hulking biceps, bringing damnation to both her shirt and her jacket, condemning them to an unhumbled... Tear!

He moved closer. He couldn’t avoid it. His racing heart carried him forward, one leap ahead with every beat. Past the initial shock, his arousal overshadowed his fears, and his dick, for once, honored its duties and grew accordingly, paying salutes to that mighty beast. Thump-thump! Thump-thump! Thump-thump!

He no longer felt embarrassed by that tent on his shorts. Perhaps he didn’t even notice it, oh, certainly not, as he leaned in closer and closer...

... and closer...

«Dear ... dear gods!»

... and yet closer to her face. Snif!

“Oooh!” She smelled so good. Like wild berries and hazelnuts and green bushes in the rain. “Wow.” He looked at her. On his knees. Like a servant. “You are ... wow.”