Pump Up The Fam Pt. 01

Pump up the Fam: A Taboo Breeding Remix

Track One - Emily

Clive hefted his duffle bag with a pained grunt and checked his phone again, frowning at the text message.

Mom: Can't pick you up. Busy. Enjoy the walk.

He'd managed to scab a lift from Dallas to Jefferson from a classmate who was journeying back to Shreveport to spend the spring break with his folks. It had felt a tad rude when the college junior dropped him at the Exxon Gas station in the middle of town and kept driving, but beggars couldn't be choosers when it came to free rides.

...but a guy should be able to rely on his own family.

Taking the shoe leather express had been taxing. The days were fast growing warmer as March bled into April, and while Jefferson was not a large town, Clive was hardly in good shape. Studying a computer science major didn't lead him to a lot of outdoor or athletic activity. Though his mind was sharp, his body was soft and squishy.

So he had sweated the six-block slog up North Walcott Street, hung a left turn at the assisted living facility, and trekked another four until home eventually hove into view.

The houses in this part of town were generally modest brick-and-tile affairs for middle-income families, squeezing what joy they could out of simple country living. White oaks and cedar elms cast their shade on well-kept front lawns, alive with the birdsong of mockingbirds, wrens, and chickadees.

The sounds of no less than three lawnmowers droned in the afternoon air as Clive labored past a neighbor tending to the aforementioned grass under the bright Texas sunshine. A friendly wave didn't even register with the older man, who looked preoccupied--worried even. His balding pate shone with sweat as he pushed the mower along at a reckless pace while the sound of thudding bass music resounded from inside the suburban abode.

Clive shrugged it off, focusing on his own family home further down the baking sidewalk. His UTD t-shirt was soaked in perspiration and stuck to his soft body like wet tissue paper. He sighed in relief when he finally reached the front gate and made his way up onto the porch.

The house was one of the nicest ones in the area. Not palatial by any means, but a comfortable two-story construction with a white picket fence, well-maintained flower gardens, and a tall gabled roof overhanging colonial-style arched windows.

His mother, Melanie, had done well in her career as a freelance insurance broker despite raising three children all on her own after dear ol' dad had blown town.

Well, not entirely on her own, Clive considered as he fumbled with his keys. Aunt Kimberly--a confirmed spinster--had moved in as a defacto surrogate parent once all the... unpleasantness had died down.

Small-town gossip was savage, but together with his two sisters, Taylor and Emily, they had weathered the rumor mill well enough. Ignoring the whispers and pitying looks until the next Jefferson scandal had thankfully dragged them out of the local limelight.

So it was with no end of fond remembrance when Clive stepped into the blessedly cool interior of his childhood home--the familiar sight of framed family photos on the walls and polished wood floors beneath his sneakers. The entryway led into a well-lit living room scattered with tasteful furniture and a large hand-woven rug with an expensive entertainment unit set up against the rear-facing wall.

"Hello, I'm home!" He called, dropping his burdensome luggage and fanning the neck of his damp shirt.

No friendly response greeted his arrival.

Some kind of ESPN power-lifting tournament was playing on the wide-screen television on mute, but no one was watching it. In fact, the house seemed empty until Clive caught the distant sounds of pounding music vibrating up from below his feet.

The basement?

Curious, he wandered down a hall towards the stairs. There shouldn't be anything down there but a jumble of cardboard boxes stuffed with old clothing and sentimental junk his mother couldn't bear to part with, like his old cot or the Halloween costumes they all wore as children.

Instead, as he climbed down the rickety wooden stairs, Clive found a freshly renovated, spacious room, free of clutter and filled with gym equipment.

The masonry walls were painted stark white with floor-to-ceiling mirrors attached to the majority of vertical surfaces. Weight racks and lifting benches were spread out, polished steel sparkling beneath the glare of fluorescent lighting. The source of the loud, bone-rattling rhythm was a compact sound system slotted between a stand of dense-looking dumbbells and a lat pull-down station.

The music blared out of the speakers, high tempo with gut-thumping bass. Clive could feel it in his limbs and inner organs. An ear-punishing assault of sonic vibration in the form of... was that freakin' electropop?

You've got to work it if you want me,

You've got to work it if you want me!

This ass ain't for free,

You've got to work it if you want me!

His heart rate quickened to match time with the beat, and the increased blood flow left Clive panting for oxygen as his temperature rose. No small part of him wanted to run away from the damn song and hide. Another more curious part yearned to feel more of this strange, enervating sensation.

The crash of metal against metal broke through the electrifying melody. Spinning about in alarm, Clive's searching gaze locked on the back of a head with extravagantly long blonde hair propped up in the low seat of an angled leg press machine as bare, muscular thighs pumped what had to be over two hundred and fifty pounds of circular weights in time with the music.

Hard, carved muscles stood out in stark definition under pale, hairless skin. Thick flexing quadriceps and hamstrings transitioned into sculpted calves, moving smoothly in practiced form as the mystery blonde worked through a dozen more reps before lowering the weight sled into the resting position.

You better be jacked,

If you wanna talk smack.

Or you gonna get slapped,

You've got to work it if you want me!

Clive could feel his own muscles tightening as the aggressive lyrics and intense rhythm punched him in his pudgy gut. Sweat prickled his brow, and the room suddenly felt terribly warm, leaving him shivering under the audio onslaught.

"Hey, nerd. When did you get home?"

The voice was familiar, and the volume on the speakers dropped to a more tolerable level as a face Clive recognized frowned in irritation back at him.

His younger sibling Emily stood by the sound system, a white towel thrown over shoulders far broader and densely packed than he remembered. Somewhere in the three months since he had last seen her, his baby sister had gone and got buff!

The cute, mildly goofy eighteen-year-old who loved old Hanna Barbera cartoons and followed fashion Instagrams was gone. In her place was a stacked brick house of a fitness model that could have walked straight out of a Robert E. Howard novel.

She was barely dressed in green camo booty shorts and a sports bra outfit that conformed to her chiseled, feminine physique like body paint. Several new piercings glittered in her ears, and there was a ring through her nose that hadn't been there before. Emily's washboard abs rippled, and her powerful biceps bulged as she toweled her long platinum hair dry of any perspiration.

"You gonna hi or just stare at my tits all day?" She snarked, bending down to pick up a forty-pound dumbbell in each hand. "You shouldn't be down here, bro. This isn't for the likes of you."

Clive jerked when he realized he had been staring at her chest. It was difficult not to. They were so much larger than before. Over the course of a dozen short weeks, his little sis had sprouted a full set of whooping great knockers.

What had she been before? Maybe a B-cup... possibly a smaller C? He wasn't the type of perv who would know at a glance, but now she was positively huge! The small spandex top was stretched thin over Emily's juicy, round globes, and the outline of her stiff nipples poked through the stretchy fabric.

"No! I, um... what?" Clive fought to master his stumbling tongue. "Em, what happened to you? When did we get a home gym, and what was that music?"

His sister let out an unladylike snort as she began to curl. Shredded biceps and triceps bunching, then releasing with each lift. There was something mesmerizing about the play of dynamic muscle and the proud way his previously reserved sibling now held herself that Clive couldn't help admiring.

He wanted to hear more of that music...

"You're such a dork. Mom installed the workout equipment after she discovered this totally awesome direct marketing program for women." Emily sniffed, turning her cute nose up and looking away. "She'll kick your dumb ass if she finds out you were down here. This is strictly for girls only. No boys allowed."

Clive floundered for understanding.

His mother, Melanie, was a successful insurance broker, and direct marketing was only a small step up from pyramid schemes. People lost their life savings to those scams. Mom was a savvy businesswoman without a mean bone in her body, who wouldn't fall for some ridiculous get-rich-quick con, much less raise a hand to one of her beloved children.

But looking at Emily, pumping more iron than he would have dared attempt, the warning gained in merit. Still, Clive's burning curiosity won out over his inherent sense of caution.

"What kind of direct marketing program, Em?" His gaze fell upon the sound system behind the statuesque blonde. The echoes of that song reverberated in his head and balled his fists.

You've got to work it if you want me!

"Female empowerment. You wouldn't understand, but it's been a real hit with the ladies in town. Mom's making bank." Emily sneered, her pretty face contorting in disdain as she twisted into a full-body flex that made every eye-catching muscle pop. "Now get out of here, nerd. You're cramping my style."

Dropping one leaden dumbbell to the padded mats beneath their feet, she twisted a knob on the speaker, and the thudding resonance vibrated the gym equipment around them.

Clive could feel it in the back of his teeth like a toothache, but something about the pulsing cadence roused his timid spirit like a hibernating bear. There was... an element to the sound which spoke to him in a way he had never felt before.

It whispered of potential. Unearthed personal depths begging to be explored.

His stomach grumbled and broke Clive out of his introspective reverie.

He raised his hands in surrender and backed slowly away from his yoked-out younger sister.

"I'm going. I'm going. Sheesh!" He muttered, trying not to stare at the clearly pronounced camel toe in her tiny yoga shorts. Blood pooling in distinctly inappropriate southern regions. "I'll be in my room if you need me."

Clive waddled away, a tad bowlegged, as the music followed him up the basement stairs.

You've got to work it if you want me!

________________

Clive eventually found himself in the kitchen.

The whole house was empty, except for the basement turned gym, with no sign of his older sister Taylor, Aunty Kimberly, or Mom. It was getting very late, and none had responded to his attempts at calling and messaging. Just as concerning was the fact that Clive was hurting.

His whole body ached as though he had endured one of those boot camp for the obese specials featured on Netflix. Lactic acid roasted every fiber and sinew in his tired body, and his stomach felt like a yawning void, yearning to be filled.

The fridge had turned out to be a trove of ketogenic nutrition, big on protein and devoid of any comforting sweets. Slabs of red meat, lean chicken breast, dozens and dozens of eggs, and strings of sausages supplemented with brown rice and broccoli took up most of the space. Flavorless protein shakes and energy drinks filled what was left.

Clive didn't care as he heated a pan, seared a rare steak, then promptly devoured it. Only after he had wolfed down two more and discovered the whey concentrate milkshakes weren't so bad did he pause to look over the family photos on the living room wall.

They were all happy memories. Mom and Aunt Kimberly resolved to give their young family the best start in life that they could manage, and had done well by any standard.

His eyes were fastened on a timber-framed group shot of all five of them on a camping trip on the Louisiana side of Caddo Lake. All smiling happily with the sun reflecting off the still waters and the verdant forest greenery as a picturesque backdrop.

His Mom and Aunt, two undeniably attractive ladies with similarly scarlet shades of hair, beamed proudly down at their trio of grinning troublemakers--remarkably blonde troublemakers at that. Their absconded father's golden hair was just another reminder of the missing male presence in an otherwise idyllic childhood.

So lost in reminiscence was Clive that he completely failed to hear the car that pulled into the driveway or the chatting voices until they were already inside the house.

"--liked the DJ, and the drinks were great, but you have to admit, Kimber, the pickings were goddamn slim for decently attractive guys."

"Please, Mel, like you wouldn't have torn the dick off the first chump who tried it on with you." Another familiar voice drawled. "They were all staring at your amazing ass while you danced, but not one of them had the stones to say boo. The men in this town leave a lot to be desired."

"Can't argue with that. What a downer." Clive recognized his mother's voice and smiled as he headed towards the source. "Let's take our recovery shakes and call it a night. I've got an early morning combat class planned for tomorrow at six."

He made it as far as the kitchen door before halting in surprise.

The women behind the kitchen island were conceivably his Mom and Aunt--both had the same fiery hair, milky complexions, and elegant features but otherwise appeared drastically different.

For all his Clive life, his Mother, Melanie, had kept in fairly good shape. Not especially fit and huggably plump in parts. A classic maternal figure of middling years. His Aunt, too, had followed in her sister's footsteps, if a little shorter and rounder in the hips--lovely southern ladies aging gracefully as they raised a family together.

The two visions digging in the refrigerator couldn't be them. The one with his mother's voice was squeezed into black leather pants that were almost tearing from the bulk of feminine muscle within. Hard glutes that could have deflected meteorites and thighs of corded strength swayed atop combat boots with five-inch block heels as their owner bent further to rummage.

The other redheaded doppelganger was equally cranked up. Clad in a slinky brown and gray spaghetti strap mini dress that did little to conceal the woman's powerlifter physique. The tiny, revealing clubwear had a desert camouflage pattern and was so sheer that Clive could make out every smooth line and sharp ridge of gym-sculpted flesh beneath, ending scant millimeters above a thigh gap that he could have passed a soda can through.

...and calling explicit attention to the fact his Aunty Kimberly wasn't wearing a bra over tits so large and buoyant that a boatload of men could drown in their cushiony depths.

Both women were paragons of female might and allure. Amazons that would have stomped Heracules into the mud. Valkyrie shield maidens kicking dead hero butt in the halls of Valhalla. Daughters of Mars; the Roman god of war. Blindingly beautiful and dreadful to behold with thick, powerful limbs, massive breasts, tight waistlines, eight-pack stomachs, load-bearing hips, and muscular legs that could squat press the heavens.

With decidedly more piercings in their ears too. Shiny hoops and studs with fine chains connecting several of them... and when did Aunty Kimberly get a full tattoo sleeve down her right arm?

Were those snakes and skulls inked onto her pumped-up biceps?

"Uh, hello?" Clive hazarded, feeling terribly body-conscious in the presence of peak female fitness. "Mom, I'm home for spring break."

"Oh, it's the parasite." Possibly-Aunt Kimberly scoffed, not giving him more than a passing glance. "Returning to clutch at the apron strings he's missed so badly."

"Clive?" The Athenian Wonder Woman with his mother's voice straightened and turned to face him. "What are you doing here?"

If anything, she was larger in every way than her scowling sister. In height, musculature, and chesty endowments. Her spectacular cleavage was packed into a cropped leather biker's vest covered in zippers and chrome buckles that gave her shredded midriff room to breathe and left her fifty-caliber gun show on display.

It was his Mom. Under all the brutal new mass, Clive recognized the patient, kindly parent who had raised him with her gentle touch and soothing wisdom. It was in those bright amber eyes that flitted from him to the empty shaker bottle lying empty and discarded in the sink.

He hesitantly stepped forward, arms open wide for a welcoming embrace.

"You gluttonous worm!" She shrieked in primal fury. "That was my fucking protein shake you poured down your greedy gullet!"

Before Clive could rightly comprehend what was happening, Melanie vaulted the kitchen island like an Olympic gymnast, landed in a handstand, and wrapped her skull-crushing thighs around his neck to flip them both onto the tiled floor, trapping him in a strangulating leg-lock.

"Erk!"

The leather-coated thighs may as well have been bands of steel as they restricted Clive's air supply, and he struggled like a kitten in their grip.

"Disobedient child! I'm on a strict dietary regimen," She hissed, ignoring his futilely slapping hands, "and the first thing you do upon returning home is ruin it by stuffing your fat face."

He wheezed and tried to protest, but only small choking noises came out. All the while, Aunty Kimberly stood there with arms crossed under her prodigious bosom and an impassive look on her beautiful face.

"You need reminding of who's in charge of this household and you're not too big for me to spank." His mother huffed, then released her hold and rose to her booted feet. "Now go to your room, and ask before you go touching other people's shit."

Clive flopped onto his back, sucking in oxygen and staring blearily up at the two looming titans in female form. From his prone position, he could confirm that Aunty Kimberly wasn't wearing any panties.

"What are you looking at, scrub?"

He quickly averted his gaze and rolled onto his hands and knees. Spots swam in his vision.

"No--nothing. I'll be in my bedroom."

They both watched him slump away in defeat, never noticing a blonde head peeking around the dining room doorway.

________________

Clive sat on his bed and opened his laptop. It was a decent gamer-friendly model he had bought with savings he had earned doing freelance coding online.

The money wasn't great but he wasn't one for loud college parties or much of anything that involved mixing in large crowds, so any free time not spent studying went to building budget websites for independent content creators who weren't much better off than he was.

But the pennies had all added up, and Clive eventually had a computer that could handle his IT coursework.

...or stalk his mother online, as the case may be.

A quick browser search with her name and a few location filters had turned up some astonishing results.

Melanie Castings of smalltown Jefferson, Texas, was something of a local celebrity.

Several different socials popped up with images of the chiseled redhead competing in statewide strongwoman games, wearing skintight sponsored athleticwear, draped in winner's medals, and often holding some kind of cup or ornate trophy.