The New Girl (extended video) (Patreon)

New student Kira—tall, muscular, and commanding—dominates my thoughts and fantasies, leaving me helpless and obsessed.

It was the kind of day that blended into every other—senior year, second week, nothing special. I was slouched in the back of my chemistry class, doodling in the margins of my notebook, when the door swung open and she walked in. My pen froze mid-scribble. My breath caught in my throat. She wasn’t just a new student—she was a force. Tall, muscular, and radiating a confidence that made the room feel smaller. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. She was 21, but looked like she could take on even the biggest of bodybuilders.

“Class, meet Kira,” Mr. Peterson said, his voice a distant hum. “She’s just transferred here. Kira, take a seat anywhere.”

She nodded, her red hair spilling over her shoulders like fire. But it wasn’t her hair that had my heart slamming against my ribs—it was her body. She was wearing a white button-up shirt so tight it looked painted on, the buttons straining across her chest like they might pop any second. The top few were undone, teasing a glimpse of cleavage that made my palms sweat. Her black mini-skirt hugged her hips, barely reaching mid-thigh, and her legs—God, her legs—were massive, sculpted pillars of muscle that flexed with every step. Black knee-high stockings stretched over her calves, emphasizing their power. She was a walking contradiction: fierce and feminine, intimidating and irresistible.

She slid into a desk two rows ahead, and I swear the air thickened. I couldn’t focus on anything else—not the periodic table on the wall, not Mr. Peterson’s lecture, nothing. Just her. Kira. The name echoed in my head like a drumbeat.

From that moment, she was everywhere. In the hallways, her stride long and commanding, her tight clothes showcasing every curve and muscle. In the cafeteria, she’d sit with a few girls who hung on her every word, but I’d be stuck at my table, staring as her shirt pulled taut across her back or her skirt rode up when she shifted. I’d try to look away, but my eyes always drifted back, tracing the lines of her biceps, the swell of her thighs. It was torture.

And my mind? It was worse. I couldn’t stop imagining her dominating me. Pinning me against the lockers with those strong hands, her body pressed so close I’d feel every inch of her power. She’d smirk, knowing I was helpless, and I’d let her—beg her—to take control. I pictured her flexing an arm in front of me, daring me to touch it, my fingers brushing the hard curve of her bicep while she watched, amused. The fantasies hit me like waves, relentless and overwhelming, and I’d snap back to reality flushed and fidgeting, praying no one noticed.

She wasn’t just gorgeous—she was strong. Stronger than me, no question. I’m 5’10”, decently built from occasional pickup basketball, but Kira? She towered over me by at least six inches, and her frame was pure muscle. I’d seen guys on the football team eye her with a mix of awe and wariness. Some whispered about her, calling her “the Amazon,” but most just stared, same as me. She didn’t seem to care. She moved through the school like she owned it, and maybe she did.

Things escalated the day I saw her in the gym. I’d joined the weightlifting club on a whim, mostly to kill time, but when I walked in that afternoon, there she was—bench-pressing a bar loaded with more weight than I’d ever dream of touching. Her tight pink top clung to her, the words “SLEEP AWAY” stretched across her chest, the fabric fraying at the edges like it couldn’t handle her. Sweat glistened on her skin, highlighting every ridge of her biceps, her shoulders, her abs peeking out where the shirt rode up. Her pink shorts hugged her thighs, ruffled at the hem, and I stood there, gym bag slipping from my shoulder, rooted to the spot.

She racked the bar with a clang and sat up, brushing her blonde hair—wait, no, it was red here, fiery as ever—out of her face. Then she saw me. “Hey, chem class guy, right?”

I blinked, scrambling for words. “Yeah. Matt.”

“Cool. You lift?” She nodded at the bench.

“Uh, sometimes,” I mumbled, which was a lie. I’d barely touched a dumbbell.

She grinned, a flash of teeth that made my stomach flip. “Spot me?”

I nodded like an idiot and followed her to the squat rack. She piled on plates—heavy ones—and slid under the bar. Her skirt inched up as she squatted, revealing the striations in her quads, and I forgot how to breathe. She powered through her reps, her glutes flexing, her breath steady, and I just stood there, useless, drowning in the sight of her.

When she finished, she turned to me. “Your turn.”

“Me?” My voice cracked.

“Yeah. Show me what you’ve got.”

I fumbled with the bar, adding a fraction of her weight, and managed one shaky squat before racking it. Pathetic. She clapped anyway, her smile teasing. “Not bad. Form’s off, though.”

Before I could process that, she stepped behind me, her hands firm on my hips. “Like this,” she said, guiding me down. Her grip was strong, unyielding, and I felt her heat, her sweat, her power radiating into me. My brain short-circuited, flashing to her pinning me to the mat, her thighs clamping around me, her voice low and commanding. I barely registered her stepping back, saying, “Better. Keep at it,” before she winked and headed to the locker room. I was left standing there, dazed, my body buzzing.

After that, I was a wreck. Every night, I’d replay that moment—her hands on me, her scent, her strength—until my fantasies took over. I’d imagine her straddling me on the gym floor, her muscles flexing as she held me down, her lips grazing my ear with a taunt: “You can’t handle me.” I’d wake up tangled in my sheets, heart racing, ashamed but addicted.

In class, I’d hide behind my notebook, stealing glances as her shirt stretched over her shoulders or her skirt teased her thighs. She’d catch me sometimes, her eyes locking on mine, and I’d look away, cheeks burning. I wanted to talk to her, but my tongue tied itself in knots every time I tried. What would I even say? “Hey, I can’t stop thinking about you crushing me?” Yeah, right.

Then came the day that broke me.

I was crossing the parking lot after school when I saw her leaning against a black motorcycle, her shirt unbuttoned just enough to show off her chest, her skirt fluttering in the breeze. She looked like a warrior queen, untouchable. “Hey, Matt,” she called, her voice cutting through the noise. “Wanna ride?”

I should’ve said no. I didn’t. “Sure.”

I climbed on behind her, my hands hovering before settling on her waist. She revved the engine, and we tore out of the lot, the wind roaring in my ears. Her muscles shifted under my fingers as she leaned into turns, and I clung to her, dizzy with her nearness.

We stopped at an overlook, the city sprawled below. She killed the engine and faced me, her eyes dark. “You’ve been staring at me for weeks. Why don’t you just say what you want?”

I froze. “I… don’t know.”

She laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Liar.” She stepped closer, towering over me. “I see it in your eyes. You want me to take control. You want me to dominate you.”

My breath hitched. She’d seen right through me. “Maybe,” I whispered.

Her smile turned wicked. “Good boy.” She grabbed my wrist, yanking me against her, and I felt her strength—unstoppable, overwhelming. She pushed me back against the bike, her hands pinning mine to the seat, her body pressing into me. Her lips brushed my neck, and I groaned, helpless.

“You’re mine now,” she murmured. “And I’m gonna enjoy breaking you.”

I didn’t fight it. I didn’t want to.