Crunch Time - Thursday

THURSDAY

Sam's day was off to a rocky start.

He had barely slept a wink and was fairly certain that nobody else in his run-down tenement block had either. Thin plaster walls had rocked all night with the sounds of marathon fucking in every direction. The banging of headboards, ecstatic moans, flesh clapping, and cries of pleasure had rung from behind the closed doors of nearly every domicile.

And from the those that didn't, they had emerged...

Beautiful women, stunning in appearance with the lean, busty bodies of bikini models draped in skimpy sleepwear and sexy lingerie, had slunk out of their homes to prowl dusty hallways like minxes in heat. Knocking on the doorways of their more vigorously engaged neighbors and testing the locks.

Sam only knew this because the handle of his own front door had been jiggled a few times and, after checking the peephole, discovered an ebony-skinned vixen with massive, mouth-watering breasts pouring out of a spangly yellow satin negligee literally sniffing around the timber frame like a bloodhound.

She had vaguely resembled Miss Miller, the retired army widow of sixty years who lived by the stairwell with her three cats, if a few decades younger and much healthier in the figure.

Then she had called to him by name in a soft, mewling whisper, begging him to let her in and vowing to reward him with unearthly delights in return. Sam's cock quickly became a titanium rod at the string of filthy promises. That alone had unnerved him enough to wedge a kitchen chair under the doorknob and retreat to his bedroom.

...Where he stripped down to his socks and masturbated furiously to the echoes of her sinful words and the multitudinous images they evoked in his overheated imagination.

Sam was busy decimating his limited supply of Kleenex and lotion when Zoey started texting him sometime after the third finger-cramping ejaculation.

Z: Cant stp thinkin aboat 2day. fings r gettn crazy. pussy on fire. typng 1 handed soz.

S: R U ok? My building sounds like a Roman orgy. Locked in with a boner. Getting kinda big.

Z: FUUKKK. snd pics. can stll taste it. cum cum in my tum tum.

That had been followed by a spam of eggplant and sausage emojis with a few random smilies thrown into the mix. Sam only hesitated briefly before angling his phone and sending a snapshot.

S: Thinking of you.

It was something he would have never dared consider doing before.

Like, it was out of your control forever once you released something like that, right? Dangerous evidence of your heavy-swinging wang bouncing around PMs and socials for anyone to do with as they wished. Far too risky.

Except, looking down and weighing his steely girth in his palm, Sam had felt bold. Reckless. The gosh-darned thing looked like a beef backstrap, two hands high and wide around as a soda can. Who the hell was going to gainsay that?

Z: Holly shtt! jusst came @ da site of it. supa harrd. getnn bigrr 2. wanna c?

Sam's balls quaked like a seismic event as he danced the five-knuckle shuffle and juggled his phone at the same time. His thumb jabbed at the keypad so hard the screen nearly cracked.

S: Show me.

Z: Show u... wat?

S: Show me everything, you dirty little slut!

There was a long pause in which Sam berated himself for overstepping and scaring his timid friend away. Then his phone lit up with a storm of message notifications, and what followed was a litany of steamy photos taken on the fly by the last person he would have suspected.

Z: O fuk, tht did it 4 me. loook!

The first was a selfie taken in a bedroom mirror. Zoey was kneeling on a gray throw rug with her bed behind her, topped in a green and red patterned comforter and too many animal plushies. She was naked, except for the black tank top pulled up to her shoulders, exposing enormous breasts and a bunch of lacey white fabric stuffed in her gaping mouth.

The hand not holding her phone was stuffed between her thick thighs, shining wet with slick nectar in the flash of the camera, slippery fingers spreading her pinkness apart as her agate eyes seared into Sam through the screen.

She was gorgeous, broadcasting raw sexuality from every invisible pore. Her hair was a flowing cape of molten chocolate contrasting brilliantly against pale, flawless skin the color of polished alabaster.

But what truly stirred Sam's turbo-charged loins was her sheer physicality.

Whatever fat Zoey claimed she was previously hiding under the layers of frumpy clothing had apparently waved bon voyage and set sail for distant, softer horizons. Her body was now a masterpiece of lean lines and muscular definition that could have dominated women's powerlifting championships worldwide. She looked indomitable with washboard abdominals, heavily corded thighs, bulging biceps, and an ass that could crack lugnuts.

Yet despite all the yoked-out gains, the once-shy brunette was still so outrageously feminine it had Sam grinding his teeth in maddening desire.

Her tits were two huge, gloriously-shaped teardrops of supple flesh jutting like a warship's prow from her chest. A tapered twenty-five-inch waist flared out to broad load-bearing hips that could have been sculpted by the gods themselves, yet she lacked the popping veins and striated sinew of a juiced-up jock.

Every inch of her was smooth, womanly perfection. Female strength personified as though she were a Valkyrie from Norse mythology or a Greek Amazon reborn in the modern age.

Sam howled to the high heavens as he blasted his copious cum across the room to redecorate the cheap drywall with his sticky spend. There was certainly a lot of it. Viscous and dense, it clung there like silly putty. Great globules of splooge wobbling in place, too stubborn to bow under gravity's tyrannical rule.

S: Jeezus, Zee, I think I just blew my load and rental bond at the same time.

Z: Thts sooo hawt! want moor?

Her spelling was getting worse, more disjointed, but the images that followed only grew bolder, increasingly explicit, until Sam collapsed from exhaustion, crashing into bed with his relentlessly stiff cock as restless as the sleep that claimed him.

Now, he was skulking in a 7-Eleven just after sunrise, dumping sugar and creamer packets into four steaming cups of cheap convenience store coffee. A box of two dozen iced donuts sat on the unattended front counter, an anomaly that might be explained by the sounds of grunting and squealing filtering through a locked door marked 'Staff Only.'

Sam left a twenty by the register and made up the change by pocketing a few chocolate bars before slipping his face mask back on and slinking out into the downtown streets.

If he believed getting out at the break of day would avoid unwelcome encounters--and he had--the outside world was taking perverse pleasure in proving him wrong.

Sure, the cafes and coffee shops were yet to open, and morning traffic wouldn't be congested for another hour or so, but a new horror dogged the young professional's steps as he made brisk time for the office...

Joggers.

Whether running solo or in small groups, these lycra-clad menaces seemed to zero in on Sam the moment their keen, searching gazes landed on him.

The inevitably fit, athletic southern belles were everywhere, with bums like ripe peaches and hypnotically bouncing bosoms squeezed into scandalously revealing sportswear. Charming nymphettes who broke into dazzling smiles and sashayed their way toward him at a run with mischief gleaming in their sparkling eyes.

"Hello? Excuse me... can I bother you for a moment?"

This one was a stunning blonde with the knockout proportions of a headlining Vegas stripper and the innocent face of an angel. A potent one-two combination that punched Sam right in the crotch of his ill-fitting chino trousers.

A lilac cross-backed sports bra barely encompassed her big, buoyant breasts; the front zipper pulled halfway down to allow most of her milky bounty to take in the fresh morning air. Tiny black yoga shorts stuck to her alluring hips and ass like glue, concealing none of her toned curves and leaving her long shapely legs out on tour.

...And she was jogging in heels. Expensive-looking black leather stilettos with silver buckles and purple rhinestones on the straps.

If Sam needed any more evidence that the world was going to hell in a handbag, that would have been the final piece.

"Sorry, I'm busy! Terribly busy. Can't stop!" He cried, marching double time as the revolving doors to salvation came into view around the corner.

It was the first time he had ever regarded the looming, blocky architecture of the Radley Building in that respect.

"Sir... please, sir! I need your help. It's my breasts, you see; they're awfully large, and I need a second opinion--"

"Time and tide wait for no man. Go away!"

Their yelling was only attracting more unwanted attention, and like zombies from a George Romero film, every female head on the street turned in Sam's direction, and they rapidly began to form into a baying, taut-bodied mob converging on his position.

Sam broke into an all-out sprint, scattering donuts in his wake.

"Hey, Stud. Where's the fire? Come chat with us for a while!"

"Pardon me, young man, but my dishwasher is broken and I--"

"My tits! Please stop. I need your help to handle my massive titties!"

They moved deceptively fast, but with one last burst of surprising speed, Sam reached the spinning entrance and crashed into the lobby with the tray of coffees miraculously intact.

...only to come face to face with the barrel of a gun.

"Freeze, Commie, and identify yourself." The bore of the firearm filled Sam's vision, but the voice behind it was tinny and familiar. "This building is under the protection of Henry Hatcher. Any quick movements will be your last."

"Henry? It's me, Samuel Hall." He croaked, not daring to twitch a muscle as he stared cross-eyed into imminent death. "You know me, remember?"

"Mister Hall? Heck, I didn't recognize you behind the mask, sir. Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

The gun lowered--it looked like some kind of hunting rifle--and the old man behind it swam into view.

Henry's craggy face remained hidden behind the antique gas mask, and a bulky white plastic bodysuit covered the rest of his stooped form, including a hood that covered his gray hair like a shroud. Yellow gloves and rubber boots protected his hands and feet as he snapped to attention, whipping off a wonky salute.

"Welcome back, Mister Hall. Have no fear. You're safe from the Marxist threat here within these walls." He said, shouldering the gun and patting it affectionately on the timber stock. "Ol' Bessie and I will hold them at bay. You just keep fighting the good fight for capitalism and democracy while we keep out the rabble."

"Um, what are you wearing?" Sam asked, taking deep breaths to slow his panicked heart rate. "And why the hell are you armed, Henry?"

"Found the plastic duds in the building basement. I think they belonged to the pest control guy. The gun is to keep... them out." Henry nodded towards the feminine crowd milling outside the glass frontage. "Those indecent women are spreading the commie plague through their sinful wiles. They're getting worse by the day, but Bessie still scares 'em off."

"Right."

Several beguiling beauties in scanty gym attire sent doleful looks their way, but none seemed inclined to force entry into a building guarded by a plastic-wrapped crackpot waving a gun about.

Sam could respect that manner of sensible decision-making and proceeded towards the elevator in a calm, orderly manner. The last thing he wanted was to spook the rifle-toting crank and catch a bullet for his troubles.

"Good... that's good, Henry." He said slowly, keeping the coffee and remaining donuts between them as if that would protect him. "It eases my mind to no end knowing you are down here... with a gun."

"Right you are, Mister Hall. There's nothing to fear while me and ol' Bessie are on the job."

Sam thanked every god, goddess, and mystical force he could think of when the elevator eventually crawled to his rescue.

________________

Sadie allowed herself a smile of satisfaction when she sauntered into her offices and found young Samuel already at his desk, furiously typing away.

She arrived an hour early and was pleased to discover her instincts about the junior accountant had been correct. He had finally shucked off his quiet complacency with his lot in life and was showing some go-getter attitude. The burgundy-haired business owner had to admit the new backbone looked good on him.

In fact, Sadie was beginning to realize there was a lot to admire about Samuel these days.

Had his shoulders and chest always been that broad? Certainly, his arms hadn't bulged with so much muscle before, right? His crisp business button-up was literally fraying at the seams, and the eternal sweater vest was stretched over some very pronounced pectorals.

Perhaps his clothing shrunk in a laundry mishap. The pressed cuffs of his skin-tight khaki pants ended well above his ankles and brown oxfords.

He was still young and learning to fend for himself. Mistakes would be made. She could set him straight if necessary.

She was running the tip of her tongue across her teeth when Sam spotted her.

"Sadie, thank goodness you're safe!" He cried, leaping to his feet. "Did you see Henry downstairs? The ancient loon brought a firearm to work!"

Sadie had not seen the aged concierge. She had parked in the Radley Building's underground garage and taken the stairs. The damn lift took forever.

"I'm sure it's fine." She waved away his worries as she spotted the cardboard tray of coffees. "Maybe we'll get lucky, and the old fool will accidentally blow a few toes off. Then we can hire some proper security."

She took a sip of her morning cappuccino and grimaced. It wasn't hot and overly sweet. The logo on the cup was from 7-Eleven.

Sam caught her expression and mirrored it sheepishly.

"Sorry, Starbucks wasn't open when I passed it this morning. Nothing else was either." Then his bright hazel eyes really took her in and widened. "Uh, Sadie... you're dressed... um, differently today."

Sadie's smile graduated to a smirk. It had taken him long enough to notice, but she gave the young beancounter credit for getting there in the end.

"Do you think so, Samuel?" She teased, patting at her wine-colored hair. It was styled up into a messy, front-braided bun. "Trying to spice up my wardrobe as the weather warms. A real woman doesn't need to hide under stuffy blouses and drab skirts every day."

"No. No, of course not. But, ah..."

Truthfully, Sadie preened and tried not to snigger as her junior employee fussed and fumbled. Some part of her--a rather large part--had hoped for this very reaction when she had picked out the teensy black leather miniskirt and racy scarlet corset that morning.

She was wrapped in an elaborate web of shiny buckles and frilly bows, from the tall knife-heel boots on her feet to the midnight lace lining the low-cut satin bodice, all of which carved a seductive hourglass into her mature, athletically honed figure.

The inspiration had come from a storefront mannequin she had cruised past on the way home yesterday. In the dusty windows of a retail outlet called 'The Pleasure Shoppe', which had been bustling with in-and-out foot traffic.

"A strong, independent woman should be free to dress as she likes." Sadie purred, strutting up to his desk, perching her tight ass on the edge, and languidly crossing her sleek legs in front of him. "A powerful woman shouldn't be scared to express and project herself onto the business world. You agree, don't you, Samuel? Say it."

"I... agree," Sam gulped, staring at her toned thighs where they emerged from the short leather hemline before clearing his throat. "Yes, I agree, Miss Chandler."

"Good boy." She crooned, hooking a manicured fingernail under his chin and lifting it until Sam's hazel eyes were level with her immodest breasts. "It pleases me greatly to see you working diligently and being so... agreeable. Keep pleasing me, Samuel, and you may find that I can be awfully agreeable too."

Sadie leaned in to whisper the last few words directly into his ear, incidentally tucking her pushed-up tits under his stubbly jawline. She took in a big sniff of his manly scent as she trailed delicate fingers up his cheek to comb them through his sandy hair.

She had the sudden urge to grab a handful and pull. To wrench his head back and claim a torrid kiss from his dithering lips. To take charge and show her young male employee what a real woman could do...

Releasing a ragged sigh, she sat back and folded her hands atop her crossed knees. Her cunt was an inferno of wicked desire, and Sam looked like a prime cut of steak just begging to be feasted upon.

"A--As you say, Miss Chandler." He stammered, pushing away from the desk as though it were on fire. "Please excuse me. I need to use the bathroom!"

It was impossible to miss the prominent bulge taxing his shrunken slacks before he turned away. Sadie leered and licked her ruby lips, ogling Sam's muscular rear as he went.

________________

"Sadie said that? Are you sure, Sam?" Zoey asked between long licks of his meaty member. "Doesn't sound like her."

She was kneeling between Sam's legs in the cramped toilet stall again, pumping his girthy base in both fists while lavishing lingual affection on the tip. Despite the close confines--which seemed exceptionally small today--Zoey felt comfortable, happy to have even that limited amount of space to let her innermost self out to play.

"Yeah, she did, and don't stop slut..." He huffed, trying to shove her slobbering skull further down and meeting resistance. "Fuck, Zee, how are you so strong? Are you still growing?"

"Mmhmm~!" She couldn't tell a lie, even as she let Sam wrangle her drooling mouth back onto his cock.

Zoey had woken after a restless evening of shameless sexting and rabid self-stimulation to find her ankles hanging well past the end of her queen-sized bed.

She knew it wasn't normal to sprout five inches or gain thirty pounds in rippling muscle mass overnight, but when she had looked in the mirror, the results were hardly displeasing.

What girl would complain about an unexplainable windfall of health and vitality after years of being a fat, forgettable nobody?

She had tried a few experimental flexes, like those women in fitness magazines, and gasped at the stunning effect on her towering physique. Her rapidly changing body was statuesque in a literal sense. Akin to Greek sculptures of Athenian beauty, capturing the Olympian huntresses of the legend in purest Corinthian marble as they performed heroic deeds. Superhumanly attractive, with smooth layers of toned muscle and titanic breasts heavy enough to sink a thousand ships.

She had lifted her four-drawer dresser to test her new strength and done so effortlessly, hardly feeling any strain as she hoisted the bulky furniture onto a shoulder.

Zoey looked and felt amazing. Sexy as hell and packed full of horny beans.

Clothing had been something of a problem, though.

Her previous taste in loose-fitting attire was turning out to be a blessing in disguise. Once baggy tops now clung to her prodigious knockers like a second skin, airing her defined midriff, and formerly roomy sweatpants hugged her broad hips and thighs, the comfy fabric stretched thin as workout tights that her rock-hard posterior filled to bursting.

"Mmmmwah~! It's okay though, right?" Zoey asked uncertainly, slurping her way off Sam's scrumptious shaft, tongue laden with gooey precum. "You don't mind? I raced straight to the office when you sent me the booty-call SOS."