Dr ZEUS MESMER’S DYNAMIC BODY PROGRAM
PART TWO: You’ve got Male.
Lysiane sat quietly in the empty living room, her heart heavy with concern. Something had been terribly wrong about the strange beach Beaford had taken her to today and after they had all left so abruptly no one had wanted to talk about it. What she had missed in her brief absence?
Lysiane was no fool and sometimes felt like she was treated like one because of her quiet, thoughtful nature.
She was far from foolish, she knew this to be true. English wasn’t her first language, it was actually her third and she spoke it well, even if she lacked some of the nuances. She had earned her scholarship to L’Université de Bordeaux through long hours of study and scholastic excellence. As the daughter of a fisherman and a school teacher she had her core principles instilled in her from an early age and was grateful to her beloved parents for them.
She admired the hard-work, tenacity and devotion to family her weather-beaten father showed every long day he spent plying his trade in the waters off Saint-Jean-de-Luz. She learned to be contemplative, studious and compassionate from her endlessly patient saint of a mother. She had been taught to be observant too which is why she felt so flustered now.
Beaford was trying to hide it but it was clear he was very upset.
Lysiane liked Beaford. When she had arrived in America two months ago to begin her year of studying abroad she had worried that her host family would be like the brash, loud American tourists she would see in her sleepy seaside home. Instead she had met the kindly and softly spoken Girard family and felt immediately welcomed into their modest home.
Mr and Mrs Girard were good people, that much was readily clear and young Beaford was cut from the same cloth. His birth-name was Beaford! It was French and so serendipitous that she simply refused to call him Ford. He was studious like her, he worked for the family business in his free time and even chose to attend a college close to home so he wouldn’t be distant from his loved-ones.
He, like her, was quiet but Lysiane had seen flashes of a keen mind turning like spinning gears behind his often somber expression so she certainly hadn’t mistaken him for stupid.
Which was why she had been confused when he had started seeing that silly slip of a girl a few weeks ago.
While Lysiane was sure that Parisian’s didn’t hold a monopoly on vanity, she was also certain that her father would have called that vapid, self-obsessed child la pouffiasse. A horribly unflattering term her mother would have scolded him over but one the blunt older seaman would have used none-the-less.
Lysiane wished she had her father’s courage to speak his mind so freely. Instead she had watched in guilty silence as her new friend was led by the nose by some pretty young thing with a penchant for very short skirts and too tight blouses.
Beaford deserved better than that. Beaford deserved someone more like…
She was brought up short in her troubled musings by the sound of the doorbell chiming.
She looked about. Ford had cloistered himself in his room just as soon as he had got home and his parents were away in Los Angeles for the week on business.
Nothing else for it, she made her way to the front door and opened it. No-one was there but rather a small brown paper package tied up in twine sat on the welcome mat. Picking it up she frowned, the label on the front simply read “Ford Girard” with no address, postage stamps or postmark. Looking up and down the street she didn’t see any courier or postal carrier, just the quiet neighborhood lit up in the golden glow of sunset.
“Hi Lizzie.”
Startled, she turned and saw Nick, that strange boy from next door who always acted entirely too familiar with her, on his front porch holding an identical package and giving her a nervous little wave. His hair was greasy, unkempt and he still looked pale as a sheet from what-ever had happened earlier today. She gave him a tight smile and a small wave back before closing the door.
“What is it, Beauford?” Lysiane asked.
Ford wished he knew, he hadn’t ordered anything online recently. His own moratorium on frivolous spending had seen to that and there was no return address on the package. No addresses at all in fact, which was odd.
The waxy brown paper lay open on the duvet covering his bed. Revealed within was an old glass pill bottle that rattled when he shook it and a yellowing paper booklet in a plastic sleeve titled “Dr Zeus Mezmer’s Dynamic Body Program’’.
It looked ancient, all of it. The smoked glass of the bottle and the dull yellow plastic cap looked like something from an olde timey compound pharmacy and the picture of the posing strongman on the cover of the aged wrinkled booklet could have been plucked from the golden age of comics. The guy was hugely muscular, impossibly proportioned and only wearing a pair of leopard print briefs.
“I don’t know, some kind of bad joke I suspect.” He replied, carefully pulling the aged pamphlet out of the sleeve and flipping it open to read...
Congratulations on ordering Dr Zeus Mezmer’s Dynamic Body Program.
This instructional packet will give you all you need to transform your body and mind. Become the Dynamic Man today!
Using Zeus Mesmer’s patented Mind over Muscle™ method you will see immediate results in three easy steps.
Step One: Visualization. See yourself as you always wanted to be! Dr Zeus Mesmer’s unique and proven visualization techniques will help you remold your thinking to achieve your physical goals today.
Step Two: Implementation. Within this booklet you will find a fully illustrated fitness program to completely reshape your body overnight using the “Dr Zeus Mesmer’s Dynamic Movement” process.
Step Three: Supplementation. As trialed by the U.S Army! One dose a day of Dr Zues Mesmer’s lab-approved chemical formula will boost your body’s natural development and stimulate muscle growth like you have never seen before!
Ford passed the booklet over to Lysiane to leaf through and opened the brown bottle for a sniff. It smelled stale, a bit earthy and he shook out a fat coffee-coloured capsule into his palm. Was he even considering this?
The shame he had felt earlier had become a bone-deep resentment at how he had been treated. Pushed around by Mac, sneered at by Steph and cast aside by Marina like yesterday’s news… He hadn’t deserved any of it.
The package before him was ridiculous, nothing could deliver on the ludicrous promises the booklet made. It was clearly some snake-oil medicine from a nineteen-fifties comic book advertisement that he had never heard of and certainly hadn’t ordered.
…but it had been addressed to him, by name.
Lysiane was staring down at the crinkled pages of the pamphlet distractedly, not paying him any attention. Suddenly feeling impulsive, Ford popped the pill into his mouth, tilted back his head and swallowed.
Lysiane stared at the pictures in the little paper book Ford had handed her. They were hand-inked illustrations of naked men holding various poses and mon dieu, there were a lot of pictures.
Her mother had once taken her to an art exhibition showcasing the French neoclassicist Denis Foyatier. She had explained how the artist had tried to capture the true essence of the masculine form in the lines and contours of the bronze and marble medium he worked in.
Somehow Lysiane was seeing that now, clearer than ever, in the stylized pen strokes on the yellowing pages before her. How did these cartoonish representations of men so perfectly capture the Olympian form?
Page after page had captured them mid-athletic feat. Raising weighty barbells in mighty grips, squatting with vast medicine balls upon their broad backs or holding body-contorting poses that defied the imagination.
The play of light and shadow across sketched muscles was hypnotic, the shadows especially. They had been cross-hatched not with simple straight inked lines but in complex spiraling fractal patterns of such intricate designs that befuddled the eye, making muscles seem to bend and fold into each other at impossible angles and junctures. Lysiane felt like she was falling.
Falling into the pages, into a bottomless ocean of male potential…
“Lysiane!”
Her head snapped up at the sound of Beaford’s voice calling her name. She blinked rapidly bringing her eyes back into focus.
“Beaford?” She inquired looking up at him.
“You’ve been staring at that booklet for a while now and it’s getting late. We should get dinner sorted.” He said wearily.
Lysiane was surprised to see it was dark outside the bedroom window. When did night fall?
“Ummm, yes Beaford. Dinner sounds good.“
Lysiane watched Beaford eat. His parents had conscientiously stocked the fridge and pantry full before departing on their business trip but the lean young student had worked up quite the appetite tonight.
Dinner had been simple, neither one of them having the energy for much more than a reheated frozen pizza and garlic bread. Once Beaford had begun to eat though he only seemed to gather ravenous momentum. A second helping of microwave cheesy mac was fast disappearing into Beaford’s flushed face as Lysiane watched on in puzzled astonishment.
Her own untouched plate was set to one side as her eyes kept straying to Dr Zeus Mesmer’s instructional booklet where it rested on the table opened to the first page. She wanted to turn the page, to lose herself again in the images of those perfect men. Those demi-gods with their heaven-sculpted muscles that seemed to warp and swim on the page but that desire itself was troubling. She looked down at the introduction again.
Step One: Visualisation…
Lysiane didn’t need to visualize the man Beaford could become. He was a great guy, she saw in him the same tenacity and strong drive to excel that she herself possessed.
She was suddenly angry at Marina, Lysiane had watched from the car as the vain little chit had dismissed Beaford at her front door. Beaford was a kind, considerate, studious soul who shouldn’t be treated like that. Her eyes dropped to the pages again and thought of those pictures of naked men.
Beaford was a bit skinny though…
“Urp, sorry Lysiane…” Beaford covered a burp by wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, “I don’t know what has come over me. I’m suddenly famished!”
Lysiane looked up from the pamphlet and gave him a shy smile. Then she pushed her own plate of pizza towards him.
“No Beaford, I think I understand now. Please, eat.”
Ford bent and stretched.
He was in his father’s large workshop behind the house. Much of the old machinery, spare car parts and detritus of their families growing auto shop trade found retirement out here. He had the worn pages of Dr Zeus Mesmer’s whatsit Program propped up on a cluttered workbench as he rolled out an oil stained length of fraying carpet to use as a workout mat.
The first few pages of the instructional booklet contained simple enough exercises. Something like calisthenics, though it was hard to tell at times.
He found that he could examine the strangely fascinating pictographs that outlined the motions he should make, step by step. He could start the movements to mimic the depicted exercise then invariably fall into a serene mental fugue state until he snapped out of it gasping for breath and dripping with sweat. The prescribed exercise completed.
Was this the “Zone” all the gym-rats harped on about? If so then Ford was deep in it.
The old analogue clock on the wall read well past midnight. It was technically Saturday. He had been at it for hours though he was only cognizant of it a few minutes at a time. Despite that he felt good, there was a deep pleasant burn in his muscles he’d never experienced before and the awful stress of the previous day was lifted from his shoulders.
The stress of the day… Mac kicking sand in his face… Marina blowing him off at her door…
Shaking his head in agitation Ford forced down the angry bile rising in his throat and flipped to the next page. It was some kind of jumping squat thrust. He focused on the eye-catching images as he bent at his knees and felt his mind begin to empty itself of all those horrible feelings.
Then, as if on its own, his body began to move fluidly through motions.
Lysiane awoke to the smells of a fry-up breakfast wafting through the house. Coming downstairs she found Beaford in the kitchen stacking rashes of bacon onto a serving tray. It was lined in paper towel that was already sodden with grease. Alongside the towering stack of fried pork was a dozen boiled eggs and enough sausage to feed a family of three. There was a lot of food for just the two of them…
“Good morning Lysiane.” Beaford chirped, turning at the sound of her soft footsteps in the linoleum floor. He had an apron in his hand, was chewing on a piece of brown toast and wearing a chef’s apron over a tight pair of running shorts.
That was all he was wearing.
Lysiane was wearing a soft pink cami top and a small, matching pair of comfortable cotton shorts tied loosely at the front. The sleepwear pulled too much across her large chest and left too much of her thick thighs exposed for her comfort.
…but California summer nights were much warmer than her hometowns and compared to Beaford she was practically overdressed.
His skin looked wet, shiny with perspiration and—pale as he was from so much time spent indoors—he had something of a fresh glow about him this morning.
“Beaford? What is all this?” She asked cautiously, waving first at the mountain of food and then at him in his state of déshabiller.
“Oh, ummm… breakfast.” He rubbed the back of his neck looking sheepish. The gesture pulled the front of the apron tight across the lean muscles of his otherwise bare chest.
Muscles?
“Sorry, I know it’s a lot but I was up late… working out.” Beaford laughed awkwardly as though embarrassed to actually use the term before continuing, “I think I woke up with a bottomless pit where my stomach used to be. Can I make you anything?”
Make her anything… Lysiane blinked rapidly at inference that Beaford planned to eat all the prepared food by himself before spotting the instructional pamphlet open on the kitchen table before an open brown glass pill bottle.
“Beaford, your clothes… where are…” she tried to protest before her eyes were drawn back to the booklet like they were magnets. Hungry to admire the bare masculine forms pressed within its pages like so many beautiful dried flowers.
Muscles…
“Oh yeah, they were a sweaty mess so I dropped them in the laundry hamper. I’ll take a shower after I eat.” He said, sitting down at the table and biting into a crispy slice of bacon with a loud crunch. ”Mmmph, so good... take care of them for me, will you?“
Take care of what? Beaford’s laundry?
Lysiane’s head swam as she tried to focus on the growing young man systematically working his way through his enormous meal. She was no mans washer-woman! She was a modern, independant... the smells in the kitchen were delicious and making feel like her skull was being slowly stuffed with cotton wool.
The smells of sizzling meat and dripping fat and… Beaford? There was a thought-blunting animal musk underlying everything else.
Was that him?
“Oui, Beaford.” She said meekly looking down at the table. From beneath demurely lowered lashes she watched him eat, feeling an unexpected flutter of excitement.
She didn’t note the brief lapse back into her mother tongue, she was busy watching Beaford eat.
Beaford was eating like a Man.
Lysiane listened to the shower running as she crouched outside the bathroom door with Beaford’s dirty laundry in hand and Dr Zeus Mesmer’s Dynamic Body Program open on the hallway floor in front of her.
This was wrong, so terribly wrong but she couldn’t put a finger on precisely why that was. Why was she here, huddling outside the bathroom like some sort of sick voyeur? Her eyes were drawn to the images of the naked, posing men again and she was falling. Falling into the hypnotic lines of their flexing muscles, their strong, jutting chins, the rugged smell of their manly sweat…
“Lysiane?”
Her eyes shot upwards and found she had his soiled clothes bunched up under her face. The smell and taste of his musky sweat saturated her olfactory. Her thick thighs were pressed hard together trying to smother the rising heat between them as Beaford stood over her with only a towel around his waist and an expression of puzzled amusement on his face.
Lysiane was mortified. How was he done showering so soon? Her eyes roamed over his bare chest and trim abdomen, his firm flesh glistening clean and so warm she could feel his heat radiating off of him. She licked her parted lips unconscious of the action.
“Beaford… your body.” She squeaked, feeling so small kneeling on the floor with him seeming to tower over her.
Lysiane knew Beaford was not tall for a boy, just as she knew Beaford was a thin, reedy youth.
But the Beaford standing before her had all the lean physicality of a star soccer player.
“You noticed. Talk about gains, right?” He smiled as he looked down at his toned belly and defined chest before looking a bit embarrassed again. “Did you need anything? I was going to take my supplement and work-out some more.”
Lysiane looked down at the seductive pages open on the carpet before her again and felt a new wave of warmth suffuse her as she looked from the pictures than back up at Beaford.
A quickly growing Beaford, a fast changing Beaford… what was the next part?
Step Two: Implementation.
“May I join you?” She asked with a small, nervous smile. “I can hold the book for you, if you like.”
Ford was back in that strange empty, emotionless “Zone”.
It felt amazing.
His legs pumped like pistons through squats, lunges and presses. His arms and shoulders rolled like foothills through curls, lifts and holds. His back was as straight and unyielding as a steel column as he flowed like water from one form to the next, always in that fascinating fugue state that left his mind empty and free to roam as his body took command.
The pills were definitely having an effect. He had woken up tired and sore this morning, his fatigued body had felt tied into knots from the extreme amount of high-intensity exercise he had subjected himself to the night before.
One pill plus an usually large breakfast later and here he was; Ford was feeling better than ever. The aches and pains had evaporated like cool mists on a warm, sunny day. He was renewed, refreshed and left like liquid vigor coursed through his entire vascular system. His heart didn’t race anymore as he exerted himself but beat with the steady, unwavering rhythm of a ticking metronome.
Wait. That wasn’t right, was it?
Shouldn’t he be pushing himself for best results? He had to work harder, hard-work had never been a roadblock for Ford.
“Next Page.”
It wasn’t a request. Lysiane had been standing there like a mannequin all morning holding the book open in front of her chest staring at him as he worked out. Her big, baby-blue eyes barely seemed to blink as they tracked his motions. Her lips parted a fraction as she licked them far too frequently. Surely she could make herself more helpful than simply standing there in her tight little pajamas acting like a human bookstand?
He needed a spur. A goad. He needed to visualize something he could work towards.
Wasn’t that one of the three steps?
“My phone.” He grunted as he bent and lifted the four gallon paint tin he was using as a kettlebell. “Open Instagram.”
Bend, lift, hold, lower, repeat.
His arms felt like steel cables as Lysiane looked about to find and then open his phone as he asked. She kept the booklet raised and open towards him as she did. Ford let the calm emptiness take him while he waited.
Lysiane finally held the phone up beside the worn pages open to the only profile he followed. She had a towel thrown over her shoulder she was using to wipe him down between reps. Good girl.
Though she did keep lifting her shoulder and bending her neck to rub the side of her face against the sweaty terry cloth. Whatever.
Bend, lift, hold, lower, repeat.
His eyes flicked over to the screen and his brow furrowed. Marina’s profile still showed the lithe brunette in her scanty outfits, plenty of long legs and perfect young cleavage on display but several images were missing.
Removed by user.
The few images of them together. The pictures of Marina with her arms wrapped adoringly around his, hugging with more affection than she had ever displayed off-camera. The pictures she had staged at the library or in study hall after primping and grooming him like a toy doll. The pictures always hash-tagged with #GeekGirl and #NerdLife…
All gone like they had never existed.
A trickle of anger seeped into the serine head-space Ford occupied. His breath hitched and his heart rate rose.
Bend, lift, hold, lower, repeat.
Step Two: Implementation.
He let himself drop into that newer, more turbulent mental Zone. His teeth were grinding as fresh sweat beaded at the tip of his nose.
“Don’t even bother, little boy.”
It wasn’t the image Ford had been seeking but if the carrot wasn’t available he would accept the stick instead.
Bend, lift, hold, lower, repeat.
“Next Page.” Ford commanded as his body heated and the distant thunder of his blood filled his ears.
Lysiane almost dropped his phone as she tried to juggle both it and the booklet but finally managed to turn the next page. Why was she breathing so hard? He was the one doing all the hard work.
Maybe he should put her to work too if she had nothing better to do than stare at him all morning. He was sure he could think of some way to make proper use of her.
Bend, lift, hold, lower, repeat.
Step Three: Supplementation.
His eyes fell on the little brown pill bottle sitting amongst the scattered tools of a workbench.
It wasn’t very big, only holding a dozen capsules but suddenly one a day didn’t seem like enough…
Lysiane felt light-headed, dizzy as she pillaged the kitchen pantry. She had a deep-seeded feeling that something wasn’t right with Beaford. That he was changing in some fundamental way that had nothing to do with his new obsession with an old out-of-date exercise regiment.
His shirt had been discarded sometime around lunch. The tightly stretched cotton had been restricting his movement too much. It hung loosely around Lysiane’s neck now like some sweat-sodden bib. His smell filled her nose and needled at her brain, making her soft flesh warm and her flushed skin tingle. She had fled with it after Beaford had turned his increasingly stormy expression on him and uttered a single word.
“Food.”
It had come out of his mouth as a steely command that brooked no argument. That had to be a mistake, didn’t it? Her Beaford was a sensitive, gentle soul who treated people with respect but Lysiane couldn’t deny the thrill that had flashed through her when he ordered her around with such firm authority.
Her hands and clothes were caked with flour. A humongous ball of pale dough lay on the polished timber counter-top before her surrounded by broken egg shells, snowdrifts of spilled flour and puddles of milk. Was she trying to bake something?
Lysiane didn’t know how to bake. What was she doing?
Taking in a deep breath to steady herself she just got another heady noseful of his scent. Beaford’s big, strong, manly scent. It made the thoughts in her head bubble and collide. A small animal whine left her throat as she looked about in a sudden panic.
She didn’t know how to cook! She was just a silly little girl who spent too much time looking at books. She wanted to be looking at Beaford again.
All he had been wearing were his running shorts and even those were over-taxed as he dipped deep into a back squat with a greasy rear-axle assembly held across his broad shoulders. It fascinated her when she watched his whole body flex and relax, flex and relax. Though each time he released the tension in his bulging muscles, they didn’t return to quite the same shape as before. They would have swelled just a fraction larger.
It was like watching a balloon being inflated with sweet, agonizing slowness.
She smeared more flour across her cheeks as she raised his dirty shirt to her face to huff more of him into her heaving lungs. A molten heat simmered in her core, tugging at her to return to Beaford. To wipe the sweat from his rippling body, to lick the perspiration from his glowing skin, to touch herself as she breathed in more of his masculine miasma…
Abandoning her messy attempts at cookery she looked at the fridge where Beaford’s parents had thoughtfully left the details of the family’s UberEats account pinned to the door with a magnet.
Ford ate the burger—a double bacon and cheese deluxe with an extra beef patty—in three large bites and reached into the paper bag for another. It would be his fifth in as many minutes. He was ravenous but with all the work he had been putting into building his Dynamic Body it wasn’t surprising.
Dr Zeus Mesmer was a true genius Ford mused as he sat on a rough wooden bench he and his father had built together last summer out of reclaimed boat wood. In his free hand he curled a spare tire effortlessly as he chewed mindlessly and watched a bicep the size of a softball tighten then release. The visualization techniques and exercise plan were both fantastic but those pills were the real deal.
Every time he started to flag or fail, every time he felt like he was hitting that proverbial wall, he just popped another miracle pill.
Nothing to it.
Then he was right back at it, working his way through the instructional booklet—and wasn’t that a real page turner!—carefully following each mapped out movement and motion like the perfect training automaton.
The little brown pills always made him hungry though… so fucking hungry.
He wiped sauce off his chin then stuffed a fistful of luke-warm, salty french fries into his mouth looking down at Lizzie.
He knew she didn’t like the overly familiar abbreviation of her first name anymore than she did his own but he didn’t care.
She sat draped across the cold concrete floor, her arms wrapped around his bulging calf, rubbing her pretty face against his knee like a happy kitten. Her thick, full tits pressed into his rocky flesh through her sheer singlet top and he could feel the tight peaks of her puffy nipples grazing his burning skin through the thin fabric.
He was so hungry. His stomach rumbled but the growing bulge fighting against the over-taxed material of his running shorts was also getting his attention.
Lizzie was pretty, not beautiful in the conventional sense like Marina was but unlike Marina, Lizzie hadn’t dropped him like a hot pile of garbage.
Unlike Marina, Lizzie was supporting him like a good girl should.
Unlike Marina, Lizzie was here.
…and Ford was getting hard.
His dick was getting hard and pretty little Lizzie was here, the arithmetic wasn’t difficult.
She seemed to sense it too; her nuzzling escalated to licking. Her soft pink tongue trailing lines fire across his overheated flesh. He watched her slowly work her way up his thigh, her nostrils flaring cavernously and her eyes squeezed tightly closed as she sucked in great lungfuls of his air.
His grip tightened around the metal rim of the sixty pound wheel but he steadily kept curling as she moaned and mewled at the taste of him. His arousal felt distant but no less urgent for it. Like the pounding of ocean waves far away it was a steady pulsing force making itself heard if not taking center stage in his immediate priorities.
Ford left his turgid length shift as it thickened, pushing itself down the leg of his straining shorts as if to meet Lizzy’s questing mouth halfway. He returned to his eating and the hypnotic play of his new muscles as he lifted. Thick tangy sauce ran down his wrist as he demolished another burger and he reached down to casually wipe it clean in Lizzy’s long strawberry locks.
He heard a gasp at the same time as he felt his bulging tip push it’s way free of his tight pant leg and paused when he felt the warm wash of her breath against it.
“Mon Dieu, Beaford…” Lizzy whispered in reverent awe. Then something warm and wet ran broadly across the head of his most sensitive flesh. It was slow, almost tentative but it brought him back to the present. His greasy fingers running through her messy locks tightened reflexively and his eyes snapped down to meet hers gazing back up at him excitedly with pupils the size of dinner plates.
The throbbing head of his tumescent shaft was pressed slowly between her pouting, puckered lips. The cute wash of freckles across the bridge of her button nose pronounced by the flush spreading across her milky complexion. Her expression was dazed and she looked sky-high as she suckled at his bulbous tip like a baby at the bottle.
It looked huge in her tiny mouth, had he always been so large? He must have been because above all it felt right. His immense size, her servicing him in this moment, his claiming of this little woman between his spread legs.
“Good Girl, Lizzy. That’s a Good Girl.”
“Mmmmhmmmm!”
Her muzzled response was as she fought to push his tight pants further up his massive thighs. To access more of him. To hungrily take him down into that sweet, Good Girl throat and swallow everything he had to give her. He obliged her by tearing his running shorts clean away from his broadened hips. The fabric parting like tissue paper beneath his large hands.
It gave Lizzy the room to work she desired. She shuffled on her bare knees up into his lap until her soft hands were gripping his sides as she began to suck him down in earnest. Her head bobbed and twisted as she took him to the back of her throat, her tongue extended like a hot, wet spillway for his veiny underside to glide down.
She gagged a few times, unused to the brutal carnal intrusion so Ford took control. He used the grip on her hair to feed himself past her point of resistance and watched in dull interest as her slim neck visibly bulged, distended from the forced entry into her esophagus.
“Good Girl, Lizzy. Good Girl…” He crooned as he pumped her reddening face up and down his steely immensity. Her fists drummed at his sides but her mouth still worked him as her throat flexed and milked at his rocky flesh in ravenous constrictions.
He resumed his bicep curls. In one hand he lifted the large car tire into the air, in the other he pumped Lizzy’s ardently bobbing head all the way down to his heavy balls. He found a deep satisfaction in the sweet syncopathic pace, the sound of Lizzy’s avid gurgling and moaning was a welcome accompaniment to his body’s working rhythm. Then his eyes fell to his phone fixed upright in the workbench vice.
Marina was there, displayed on the screen in a skin-tight pair of yoga pants and a small orange t-shirt tied up under her perky, perfect breasts leaving her softly muscled belly exposed. His arms worked harder, thick veins lacing across the rigid muscles as he lifted the wheel higher and shoved Lizzy down harder onto his raging manhood.
Marina who had dismissed him as a weakling, a nobody!
Who had used him as a photo prop for weeks just to promote her new “Nerdy” look on fucking socials. Who had only kissed him once and only for a pic which she had summarily deleted as being too “goofy”.
He didn’t feel fucking goofy right now, he felt fucking mighty.
Lizzy’s feet were kicking at the cement wildly and her face had grown crimson he began thrusting his powerful hips up to meet the downward strokes of her tight, hot sucking mouth. He was palming her skull like a melon now, crushing her full, drooling lips into his pelvis. She gagged and gaped around his girth but Ford heard none of it.
His attention had tunneled until all he saw was Marina. He hate-fucked the French girls throat as he glared at that brilliant smiling face framed by a messy tumble of her glossy chestnut hair.
“Good Girl. Good Girl.” He grunted.
“Mmmnnnrrgh!”
The tire rolled away from them and he seized huge handfuls of Lizzy’s tangled locks as he came. He pulled her down with them like twin handles feeding his entirety past her stretching jaw to explode deep into her hungry insides.
It felt like an entire river of steaming, molten seed burst forth from his raging cock. An extended cannonade of erupting cum blasting forth directly into her soft, empty belly. Lizzy’s cheeks billowed and filled like a chipmunks as he finally pulled away, a glistening wash of her hot spit and his pearly juices cascading down her chin to pool in the deep valley of her pale creamy cleavage.
It soaked into her sheer pink cami top, making nearly transparent where it was glued to her abundant, heaving tit-flesh.
She swallowed hard, struggling to take down his thick load, unwilling to let any of his copious cum-shot go to waste. She eventually devolved into a coughing fit when clean oxygen finally reached her starving lungs. A glob of white, larger and denser than any single emission Ford had made in his life, was hacked up and splattered wetly across the cement.
It looked condensed, thicker and heavier than it had any right to be. Small wonder that little Lizzy had fought to swallow it but Ford was already on his feet dismissing her out of hand.
He was completely re-enervated, his heart-rate elevated and his body singing with fresh vim and vigor. That was all to the good.
He looked down at the workout plan, fresh inspiration spinning through his mind. He needed mirrors so he could observe and correct his own forms as he worked. Those were in the house.
He picked up Dr Zeus Mesmer’s glass supplement bottle and shook two of the miracle pills into his meaty palm.
The clock on the wall read nine o’clock and the sky outside was dark. He was pushing into the fourteen hour of his Saturday workout and never felt better. He swallowed both capsules chasing them with a half gallon of milk straight from the plastic jug.
Then he lumbered out towards the house to fetch what he needed, leaving Lizzy spluttering as she crawled forward to lick up his wasted cum from the dirty workshop floor.