The Beast I Created (Pixiv Fanbox)

"WHERE THE HELL IS MY PROTEIN??!" she shouts at the top of her lungs. As soon as I hear her, I rush to the gym with a cart filled with all her supplements and meals. Six triple-stacked protein shakes, ten lean meat pies, a platter of grilled turkey breast drenched in amino glaze, a basket full of chicken breasts, mashed sweet potatoes with whey butter, and a bucket of broccoli. I won’t get a single bite of this feast meant for a small army. It’s all for her. I push the cart, struggling to move it at even a slow pace. My muscles ache as if every fiber is tearing with each step. I’m too weak to do anything anymore…except cook and feed my insatiable lover. It wasn’t always like this. She used to be kind, loving, and affectionate. It’s my fault she ended up like this. I encouraged her to go to the gym and work out, all for her well-being. But then things quickly spiraled out of control. I spoiled her with every muscle-building supplement, every protein shake, every workout accessory she desired—and now she’s too obsessed. She is unable to think about anyone but herself and her growing muscles. "C-coming, honey…" I said, barely able to lift my arms from exhaustion, as I dragged the cart forward. This is the 14th time I’ve had to deliver meals to her today, and I know it won’t be the last. On the way, I glanced at a picture of us from ten years ago, back when we were at the park together. I’m smiling while kissing her cheek. I miss when she was like this. I miss it so much it hurts. But I have to get to her before she gets angry.

"WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG? I’M WASTING AWAY HERE, YOU USELESS TWIG!" she roars as I struggle to push the cart a few feet into the gym. It feels like miles…like dragging a truck uphill with no rest. I do it all for her, to make her happy, but nothing satisfies her hunger anymore. I could blend my own body into a protein shake and force-feed it to her, and it wouldn’t even make a dent in her monstrous appetite for growth. I finally reach her. There are enough empty protein shakers and meal trays around her to fuel an entire bodybuilding competition for weeks. But for her, it’s nothing special, just another day. "FUCKING FINALLY! BRING IT HERE, NOOOOW!" she snarls, her voice booming like a war drum, as she tears into another thick, protein-packed meal with her massive hands. My stomach gurgles as soon as she starts. When was the last time I ate? I think it was weeks ago. I eat just enough to survive and keep working for her. But every nutritious meal goes directly to her. “I hope you enjoy it, pumpkin!" I say with a smile. She flexes one monstrous arm for me as she devours the grilled chicken. Her arm is bigger than my entire body. Her forehead veins are throbbing from the sheer power of her jaw’s movements. The last time I measured her, she was about 250 pounds of pure muscle. Now? She must be at least 500, maybe more. If I were to present her to someone, I’d probably say: “My wife’s name is Maxine and she’s an unstoppable beast of sinew and raw power.”

After he is done, which is roughly ten minutes, she gives me the look. It indicates she is ready for her next dosage of the real muscle-building compounds. "I’ll go r-right away… D-do you want the testosterone shots or—" Maxine just sneers. "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK? I WANT IT ALL. EVERYTHING! I WANT THE ENTIRE STOCK, WITH PLENTY OF SECONDS, THIRDS, TENTHS, HUNDREDTHS… DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT? OF COURSE YOU DON’T. YOU’RE NOT JUST WEAK…BUT FUCKING BRAINDEAD, TOO. HURRY THE FUCK UP BEFORE I GET REALLY ANGRY." She flexes as she shouts, her muscles rippling violently, shaking the room itself. Maxine’s mountainous back muscles pile up behind her like a living wall, her traps so thick she could rest her head on them like a pillow. She’s constantly shaking, her body radiating heat like a furnace. The entire house smells like sweat, iron, and protein powder. I can’t escape it. Every breath burns my lungs, and the scent of her raw power is driving me insane, unable to do anything but obey her. It’s overwhelming…and yet, it’s as intoxicating as adrenaline. "WHY ARE YOU JUST STANDING THERE STARING, WEAKLING? HAVE YOU GONE DEAF? YOU BETTER HURRY THE FUCK UP, OR I’LL CRUSH YOU BETWEEN MY PECS, YOU PATHETIC TWIG!"

Maxine’s pecs bulge like slabs of granite, her deltoids so massive they eclipse her neck. She has a back so wide it blocks doorways, with veins so thick they look like ropes under her skin. Ironically, she has a "MUSCLE QUEEN <3" tattoo on her shoulder, but it’s so stretched from her growth you can barely read it anymore. Her mobility is limited because she’s so massive. Her tree-trunk legs barely fit through the gym doors, her arms so thick she can’t even scratch her own back. Every inch of her is covered in perfect striations, all moving in a way of their own. "R-right a-away, s-sweetie…" I sniffle and leave the room, bowing in submission. Maxine is too far gone. She shows no love, no empathy—only hunger for more. But for some strange reason, this turns me on so much. Every time she calls me a useless twig or a weakling, it shouldn’t feel good. It should break me. But instead, it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.

I shuffle down the hallway to the storage room we converted into a pharmaceutical vault. The vault door is heavy, but I manage to pry it open. Inside, the shelves gleam with rows upon rows of glass vials, pre-filled syringes, and industrial-sized tubs of raw compounds. Testosterone. Trenbolone. Masteron. Growth hormone. Insulin. Each one is labeled in my own shaky handwriting. I grab a duffel bag and start filling it. Ten vials of test. Twenty of tren. A box of hundred-milligram syringes. She doesn’t care about doses anymore. She just wants to feel it. She wants the burn, the rush, the swelling. I drag the duffel bag back toward the gym. She’s waiting. When I push open the gym doors, the air hits me like a wall. It’s thick and hot, saturated with her scent—sweat, iron, and something primal, like ozone before a storm. Maxine is doing one-armed curls with an unloaded leg press. She is using her left arm while her right hand shovels mashed sweet potatoes into her mouth. Each time she curls, her biceps, triceps, shoulders, and forearms bulge loudly as the humongous muscles contract. Her back ripples like a living landscape. Her glutes flex and release with every movement, each cheek the size of a medicine ball.

She doesn’t look up when I enter. She doesn’t need to. She knows it’s me. She knows I’ll always come. “Took you long enough!” she grunts, her voice muffled by food. She swallows the rest without chewing. “Bring it here!”I drag the bag across the floor and stop at her feet. Her quads are so massive that they block my view of the rest of the room. I can see every striation, every vein. They pulse with her heartbeat, thick and slow, like a war drum. “Open it!” she commands. I unzip the bag. She glances down, and for the first time today, something like approval flickers across her face. Her lips curl into a smirk. “Good boy.” My heart skips a beat. She reaches down with one hand and grabs a handful of vials. Her fingers are so thick that she can barely grip them individually. She brings them to her face, inspecting the labels, then tosses them aside. “Prep them, all of them. And fast!” I nod and kneel beside the bag, my trembling hands fumbling with the syringes. I uncap one, draw from a vial, and tap out the air bubbles. She watches me the entire time, her eyes burning into the back of my skull. I can feel her impatience. She snatches it from me without a word and jabs it into her own thigh. No swab. No hesitation. She inserts the entire dose in seconds, then tosses the empty syringe aside. “Next.”

I hand her another. Then another. She cycles through injection sites like it’s nothing—delts, glutes, quads, even her lats. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pause. By the time the tenth syringe is empty, her breathing has changed. It is now deeper, heavier. Her eyes are half-lidded, almost dreamy. “More!” she whispers. I hand her several more. By the time I’ve prepped the twentieth syringe, she’s visibly growing. I can see it very clearly, the way her muscles swell and harden in real time. The way her shoulders broaden, her traps climbing higher, her biceps pushing against her wide pecs. She lets out a low moan, half pleasure, half power, and flexes both arms. The biceps peak so high they cast shadows on the wall behind her. “Look at me!” she commands. I look. “Do you see what you’ve created?” I nod. She laughs. It’s not a kind laugh. It’s the laugh of someone who knows they own you. She reaches down and grabs me by the chin. Her grip is gentle—for her. But I can feel the power behind it, the absolute certainty that if she wanted to, she could crush my skull like an egg.

“You like it, don’t you?” she says as her eyes bore into mine. “You love it. I can see it in your face. The way you look at me. The way you tremble when I shout. The way you keep coming back, no matter what I say.” She’s right. She’s always right. She releases me and leans back, her massive form settling against a reinforced weight bench like it’s a throne. Her muscles throb and burn as they swell in every direction. She is cumming too. Her pussy is splashing everything in sight, including me. She would touch herself if she could, but her legs are just too thick. Each grunt sends a shiver down my spine. Maxine drools, licking her lips with lust. She is experiencing one musclegasm after another. She is sweating and cumming and growing, all at the same time. "MMMPH! FUUUUUCK!! I LOVE THIS!! MY MUSCLES FEEL SO GOOOOOOOD!!” She grabs a heavy dumbbell and sticks it in between her massive pecs. Three seconds later, the dumbbell surrenders to Maxine’s might and gets crushed. I came into my pants at that glorious sight. But she is still going, even after that.

She throws her head back and lets out a roar that rattles the windows in their frames. The sound is primal, earth-shaking. It's the sound of someone becoming more than it was meant to be. I'm still trembling from my own involuntary release, the warm dampness spreading in my pants, but she doesn't notice. She doesn't notice anything except the feeling of her own flesh expanding. Her eyes are rolled back, showing only white. Her massive chest heaves with each breath, and with each exhale, another wave of her feminine essence splashes across the gym floor. The puddle around her has grown to the size of a small pond. It's slick and warm and it’s now reached my feet. I can't move. I can't look away. "YYEEESSS!" she screams, her voice cracking with ecstasy. "MORE! I NEED—I NEED—" She can't even finish the sentence. Her lats flare out suddenly, slamming into the weight stacks behind her and sending them toppling like dominoes. The crash is deafening. Her shoulders broaden another inch. Then another. Her biceps peak higher, pressing against her forearms. Her quads thicken beneath her, spreading her legs wider apart as they exceed the limits of human proportion. The reinforced bench beneath her groans in protest, its metal frame bowing under the impossible weight. She gets up and begins bending gym machines, trying to tie them up together. She is so strong that the steel is no match for her. She creates a new, improvised weight right before my eyes. It’s heavy, even for her.

"Watch me!" she commands, her voice low and dangerous. She plants her feet firmly, her thighs spread wide, quadriceps flaring into massive diamond shapes, each head distinct and perfectly separated. Her hamstrings bunch behind them, creating a seamless wall of muscle from hip to knee. Her grip tightens on the bars she would use to get a good grip. The muscles of her forearms bunch and roll, looking less like human tissue and more like bundles of steel cable wrapped in velvet. She then begins to lift. The sound that follows isn't just effort—it's power made audible. A guttural roar tears from her throat as the weight leaves the ground. Every muscle in her body engages simultaneously, and I watch in awe as her entire physique transforms. Even as she lifts, even as the weight rises inch by inch, her muscles are expanding. I can see it happening in real time. The rhomboids thicken, pushing her shoulder blades deeper into her back. The infraspinatus swells, creating new contours, new shadows. The weight reaches her waist. Her biceps scream with the effort, each head separating and swelling with her every heartbeat. Her glutes contract so hard they create audible pops, the sound of muscle fibers splitting and reforming, growing denser, stronger. "FUUUUUCK!" she screams, and the weight keeps rising. And then, with a final, earth-shattering roar, she presses it overhead.

For one perfect moment, Maxine stands beneath her impossible creation, arms locked, every muscle in her body fully engaged and visible in perfect detail. Her triceps flare like horseshoes of pure granite. Her pecs heave beneath them, striations dancing with each labored breath. Her abs are a roadmap of power, each block distinct and deeply etched, leading down to the V-shaped taper of her obliques. And then she brings it back down and begins to curl it. The peak of each biceps rises so high it looks ready to blow. Veins thick as garden hoses wrap around every inch, pulsing with fresh blood. With each rep, she grows relentlessly. By the fifth rep, her entire body is red hot. Her pussy is a geyser buried between two towers of muscle. She does 5 more reps, all with perfect form. I can see it in her face. The strain is gone, replaced by frustration. She needs more. She always needs more. She drops the weight with a crash that shakes the entire house. The floor beneath it cracks. The walls groan. She turns to me, and I gasp. Her face is still hers—still beautiful, still recognizable—but it's been transformed by the sheer mass surrounding it. Her eyes burn with an inner fire that yearns to keep going. "I want the next meal now!" she says. I nod weakly, trying to regain my composure. Behind me, I hear her flexing her gigantic muscles one by one, trying to get a better view and see which part needs more work. She doesn’t know it, but for me, she is beyond perfect. I will keep going as long as she wants.