Rebecca's right hand grabs you by the shoulder and slams you against the wall.
As muscular and distorted as she is, her voice is only a little bit huskier as she breathes a single word in
your ear.
"Fuck." She says.
She looks at you, her eyes white, angry, not quite able to reason anymore.
"Fuck. Fuck. FUCK." She moans as she grips your arm hard--it might just be an affectionate squeeze, but it
*hurts*--and looks at you with a hungry gaze.
It's not an invective. It's an imperative.
"FUCK!" She roars, and tears at your pants roughly with her other hand, sending another spasm of pain through
you as your legs are whipped out from underneath you, and in her lack of caution she leaves deep scratches.
She's torn off even your boxers, leaving you hanging out in the air, and in her giant hands takes you bodily
and grinds you against the fabric of her panties--surprisingly elastic in her growth, but now more of a thong
with only the most laughable claims to decency.
It doesn't feel good. You're aware of the heat of her wet pussy through the fabric, and your own cock is
being rubbed up and down it so much you can't help but go hard, but you're too terrified to move.
"Fuu--uuhhh---uuhhhhh....!" She grunts as she pushes you harder and harder against her vuvla, and she growls,
more like an animal than a woman, hurling you to the ground as she tears away the last little bit of clothing
she had on.
A distant part of your mind registers the landing strip of pubic hair, but it's lost behind the pain of an
abraded back, bruised ribs, scratched legs, an arm that only now is regaining circulation, and the utter
terror of the hulking Rebecca bearing down on you, pinning you with your arms out, as though you were on a
cross, and rubbing her wet pussy up and down your cock. She gasps like she's in pain, as though she were
weeping, but her face doesn't show it. Her eyes are open, unblinking, and staring right into yours. Each
thrust of her hips feels like it's trying to bury your pelvis in the floor, and she only seems more and more
frustrated, and you feel the brush of her pubic hair and the warmth of her vagina as she tries to force you
into her without letting go of either of your arms.
She's squeezing tighter and tighter, and you wonder if she's going to break your arms if she doesn't manage
something soon.
It's two minutes of tighter and tighter squeezing, harder and harder grinding, and gasps more and more ragged
and desperate, before you're hard enough and she finally manages the right angle, and she forces you in.
She is warm and wet and slick inside, but it does little for you as she only slightly loosens her grip, and
starts to grunt more and harder as she slams her hips into yours like a hammer again and again. She no longer
looks into your eyes, and she rolls her eyes back as she grinds you into her, with all the emotional
connection of a dildo.
You can't get past the pain. Any second now, you expect to feel or hear a crunch, for your hips to buckle
underneath the onslaught of her own, or for her to accidentally break your cock off inside of her. You want
to say something, to tell her to stop, but as forcefully as she has brought you to the ground, as hard as
she's trying to get off on you right now, you doubt that your pleas will get you anything but more pain.
You shouldn't be this hard right now.
You shouldn't feel like you're about to come right now.
It's almost a mercy when she climaxes--her grunts suddenly interrupt themselves with a ragged gasp like a
drowning woman, and the urgency of her thrusts decreases, becoming only rough, instead of painfully so. You
can feel the clench of her vagina around you. You remember reading somewhere that the contractions weren't
something the man usually feels, but it looks like these muscles, like all the others, are so much stronger.
The tension isn't painful--tight, but not painful. Warm, wet, and rhythmic, but not painful.
You manage not to come until she slides off of you, a weak, painful orgasm that catches her inner thigh on the
first spurt and runs down the contours of her corded muscle, but the rest only spatters over your own aching
form.
Rebecca looks at you. Her face seems stuck in a perpetual scowl, and whatever she feels--if anything--is a
mystery. She turns away and lumbers up the stairs, seemingly not caring about her lack of clothes, your semen
dripping down her thigh, or her new monstrous body.
She certainly doesn't care at all about you.