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When she had approached you initially, at your sojourning spot in the higher east ridgelands of the Isle of Armor, it was with a hop-skipping gait that belied any difficulties she might have had with her massive tits, though you had been able to spot them jostling and shuddering, heaving and bouncing, jiggling and wobbling in her shirt from a fair distance away, such was their enormous squishiness.
“Hiya! Sorry, I know you’re probably here to train alone, but when I saw you, I couldn’t help but wonder if you might be up for a Pokémon battle!” She had spoken in a briskly cheery tone that was too unfaltering to be authentic, but compelling in its falseness: the sort of lie that was obvious enough to entice one to know the truth. “I studied here myself before, but I come back from time to time to train, and I can’t help but feel like I’d learn a lot from a match with you!”
You’d given her a glance, taking in everything—the excessively fluffy coat, the too-small short shorts, the too-tight top, the garishly painted makeup—and been on the verge of requesting she defer her challenge till another time until you had noticed that her top was that of a Poison-Type League participant. A Minor League, yes, but since there were precious few people who wore that uniform, that had too mean that she was…
“You’re the Minor League Poison-Type Gym Leader. Cheryl? Caitlyn? Korrina? Claire?” You hadn’t been able to remember her name beyond the first intonation, and as soon as you started to rattle off those that seemed familiar, you had realized that was probably not the correct move.
“Klara!” She had replied, her smile too wide to be anything but fake. “And yes, Minor League, but the pre-eminent Minor League Gym Leader, I’ll have you know!”
Oof. She had evidently felt stung by the clarification as to her division. You opened your mouth to apologize, but she had raised her hand to halt you, and continued to speak with an unfailing grin.
“No, no, it’s totally fine! I’m used to it! It doesn’t bother me!”
Her teeth had been grinding together as she kept a frozen smile on her face. It bothered her very, very much.
“Anyways, I’d love to battle you! You’d be perfect for practicing!”
“Perfect?” You had raised your brow, trying to match her high-strung, enforced happiness with as much of a nonplussed, low-key response as you could.
“Perfect!” Klara had repeated. “I’ve had some really difficult challengers lately, so I’d appreciate someone who’d make me struggle a little less, and I get the feeling you’d be great for that!”
“I’m sorry, are you suggesting that you’d just roll over me?”
“Oh, don’t take it like that!” Klara’s frustrated teeth-grinding had faded, and she had begun grinning more in earnest, anticipatorily, as if heedless of her inadvertent slight. “It’s not a shame to lose to a Gym Leader! I’m the pre-eminent Minor League Gym Leader, after all! I’d bet you’d learn a lot, too!”
The way she kept repeating ‘pre-eminent Minor League Gym Leader’ had made you realize that this woman was so cripplingly smug that she had to latch onto the smallest confirmation of her bloated sense of self and feed off of it for validation. She had probably heard ‘pre-eminent Minor League Gym Leader’ in some article about her, and had allowed that to bolster her ego to heretofore-unseen heights. That had probably also explained her wearing a too-small uniform: doing so probably helped her feel even more sure of herself, and her curves, owing to the excessively-inadequate dimensions of her attire.
“Tell you what: to help cushion the blow, I’ll even give you my signed League Card when you lose! How’s that sound?” Klara had sounded so earnestly sincere, utterly convinced that she was offering a perfectly reasonable trade, that you had not been able to resist a reply.
“And if I win?”
Perhaps it had been unfair of you, seeing as it was obvious that her fragile ego would goad her to excession in the face of what was, to her, an unforeseeable outcome, but you hadn’t been able to resist, and Klara had not been able to hold back from taking the bait.
“Weeeeellll, if you somehow win, I dunno. I’ll do whatever you want. It won’t happen, but you can use your imagination to think about what that might have meant, when I’m done crushing you. Deal?”
If Klara had understood her slipup, she had not shown it: her eyes were rolling, and she had a lackadaisical stance that told you she was utterly unconcerned. You hadn’t meant to earn such a reply, but before she could reflect on her words, you took the next, and last, step.
“Deal.”
Klara had grinned toothily, an edge of threatening sharpness in her stare, but had still comported herself with confidence. Then she had started to walk away, strutting and swaying her hips and giving you a probably-unintentional peek at the bottom of her asscheeks beneath her shorts.
Klara had carried herself with such carefree, laissez-faire pride, and utterly unearned surety, that an imminent and almost-immediate defeat was simply befitting her behavior. An instant loss it was not, but the swiftness of your victory had been sudden enough to communicate the disparity in your skill levels, and the degree to which she had overstepped.
All things considered, it hadn’t been your easiest Pokémon battle ever, but to call it a ‘challenge’ would have been giving your opponent more credit than she was worth.
Which is difficult to do, admittedly, because rather than taking her loss with grace, here she is, stamping her feet and pouting, leaning forward and frowning, brow furrowed and cheeks puffed out in an undignified expression of disbelief.
“N-no fair! How could I lose? How could I lose to you?” She mewls, a near-sob in the top of her throat, the beginnings of tears beading in her eyes.
“How?!” Klara shouts again, her voice near-bawling and hands balled into fists. “I deserved to win this!”
There’s an uppity, brattily smug air about Klara that you just can’t stand, but you can’t stop being emboldened by how evidently her self-certainty is falling apart. Klara’s immaturity is so striking that you would have been comfortable calling her reaction a ‘tantrum’...except for the fact that she obviously is not a little kid, and has made every effort to play that up before this point.
Poofy, shoulder-length tresses of bubblegum-pink hair bob and bounce atop her head, their movement light enough to suggest a cotton-candy quality of airiness that seems apt for her airheadedness, framed by a vaguely wing-shaped bowtie across the top and back. The same glossy pink hue coats her plush, full, soft lips, adding a shimmering luster to her mouth that’s almost spoiled by her deep, petulant frown, and similarly bright pink color frames the shadow of her eyes and the blush of her cheeks. Such is her thick layering of makeup that its excess almost serves to frame her face as the image of baroque, or perhaps rococo, beauty: plastered and pale, adorned with a flowering of mismatched colors and eyelash extensions, a facade that serves to highlight the bounty of her cosmetics cabinet more than anything else.
But Klara’s skin, though a softly pale tone, is not powdered white, and the beauty spot beneath the left side of her lips is not an adornment, but a true adulteration of her skin. And though her eyeshadow, lip gloss, and blush match the pink of her hair and brows, and her mascara complements the dark blue of her eyes, Klara’s enthusiastic-but-uninhibited application of makeup has succeeded simply in making her look excessively gussied up. Suggestively so, in fact, as if her dolling-up is for entirely less reputable reasons…which might be an unfair judgment of her character if not for the rest of her attire.
For though Klara bears a form-obscuring fluffy white coat of woven Wooloo wool that hangs to her waist, and the green-and-navy collared shirt of a Poison-Type participant in the Galar League, something about how she has actually arranged her attire communicates that her dress is not suitable for broadcasted battles.
Perhaps it is the fact that her short shorts—which are technically League standard, though that has come under fire more recently for the skin it reveals on feminine participants—are quite obviously too short. They are so close to her pelvis that when Klara turned to get into place at the start of the battle, you could see the sliver of her cheeks beneath the bottom of her shorts–and you weren’t talking about her pretty face. Klara’s short shorts are tight, too, digging and pinching into the soft squish of her pale thigh, and so high that if she wasn’t wearing a mismatched green-and-navy stocking on one leg, and a solid purple one on the other, her long legs would be nakedly visible all the way to her white-and-pink platform heels, adorned with bowties on the back.
That might be one reason for your sense of suggestiveness from Klara’s plastered-on cosmetics. The other is probably that her uniform top, the collared Poison-Type shirt, has certainly been outgrown, but she wears it regardless, and you don’t think even Klara is ignorant to the effect that a too-tight top has on her figure.
The shirt is short enough that the slim smoothness of Klara’s tummy is exposed, a stretch of pale, soft skin between the top of her short shorts and the bottom of her shirt, but the real awe comes from how her uniform so obviously struggles to contain the buxom bounty of her breasts. The poor fabric is straining, the material stretching between her tits and above and beneath them, lines of taut fabric creating a surface so tense, so stretched, that the material seems constantly on the verge of tearing. Yet no new rips make themselves manifest, despite the persistent pressure of her plush, plump, pillowy, enormous chest, so grandly gigantic that even at rest, Klara’s nipples are clearly visible in the green-and-navy fabric, two buds prodding stubbornly through her top.
Her shirt struggles valiantly, but it is more than obvious that she’s outgrown it. If it ever had fit her properly, it no longer does, and now it must be a trial indeed to squeeze the enormity of her huge tits into her too-tight top. Knowing Klara, she is too stubborn to seek a size upgrade, and now considers it a point of pride that her bosomy beauty has blossomed into such heavy, august enormity that she risks tearing tops simply by wearing them, and gives the appearance of struggling with perpetual back pain. But if Klara’s spine protests under the weight of her stupefying voluptuous tits, you cannot tell.
She’s still whining, still throwing a tantrum, still stamping her feet as you ogle her, a leery grin growing across your face, allowing the idea that had formed in your mind as the inevitability of your victory had been made clear come to the forefront.
“So.” You say, taking a step towards Klara. “Anything I want, huh?”
“What are you–”
You don’t give Klara a chance to continue. With a quick motion, you’re behind her, brushing past her fluffy white coat on the way, your cheek nudging her pink hair as you spin to face her from behind. In a flash, you’re standing behind her, and though the size difference is negligible—she’s got to be a little older than you, but you’re still taller by at least a head—you feel as if you’re towering over her, so emboldened and primed are you by the sudden shift.
“Hold on, what–” Klara tries again, voice high with confusion, hands still clenched into fists. She makes as if to turn around, and you know you can’t have that, not yet: it’d spoil what you have in mind.
Which is why, in a swift lunge, dart your hands forward and down, scooping them between her sides and her arms, fingers outstretched and wrists moving inward, until you’re sinking your hands into Klara’s covered tits from behind.
A shocked little yelp-squeal slips from Klara’s lips, one that she doesn’t have the space or focus to muffle, as you suddenly start to aggressively grope her breasts from behind.
“H-Hey!”
“If I didn’t know better,” you start, grunting appreciatively at the plush, pillowy softness that you can feel beneath your hands, unimpeded by the overtaxed shirt containing her tits, “I’d think you lost on purpose.”
“T-that’s not true! I s-should have b-beaten you!” Klara gasps, voice wavering.
“Oh? If that’s the case…are you just playing a being a young, incompetent trainer, fresh and green and quick to lose?” You allow a sneer to creep into your voice. You know you cannot contain the enormity of Klara’s huge tits in your hands, but you don’t care: you only want to squeeze and sink your digits into as much of their soft, squishy give as you can.
“N-No! I-I’m a real Gym Le-Leader!” Klara mewls, as your palms press against her covered nipples, pushing them flatly beneath the weight of your touch, their hardened nubs nudging your skin through the layers blocking them.
Bafflingly, Klara is somehow not yet trying to throw you off: all she’s managing are little nudges backwards with her shoulders and hips, which only succeed in pushing her hair against your lips, and her barely-covered ass against your crotch. Is she too shocked to escape, paralyzed with surprise at being so swiftly and suddenly groped? Is she too caught up in retorting to your taunts to realize that she has the ability to leave?
Or—and this is the real kicker—is Klara…is Klara enjoying this? Does she like getting suddenly, swiftly, and eagerly felt up and fondled, her huge breasts squashed and pressed beneath the hands of a man she hadn’t known until five minutes ago? The possibility is too ripe for you to resist.
“Even if you are…you lost easily. Too easily.” You punctuated your certainty with a sharp, hungry squeeze of Klara’s tits, pressing backwards to let her chest pillow up beneath her shirt. “Is that what you wanted, all this time? For someone to manhandle you, treat you good and rough, with a battle as an excuse?”
“N-no way! In your d-dreams!” Klara yells, voice quivering as her oversized tits are massaged and stroked, grabbed and groped, but she’s still not trying to escape.
“I send out a Cinderace against your Tentacruel, and you’re surprised that he’s not actually a Cinderace, but a Zoroark with Extrasensory? Beyond rookie mistake. You didn’t even remember that Haxorus has Mold Breaker…which means that your Weezing took an Earthquake for nothing.”
“I m-made a m-mistake!” Klara sounds like her voice is trembling, but it’s not like when she was about to bawl, and it’s not with bubbling anger. There’s a throatier, hoarser, more tenuous sensitivity there, and you know she’s struggling not to let it out. “E-e-everyone d-does.”
“Gym Leaders don’t make mistakes like that.” You shake your head in mock derision. “Plus, with tits like these? Gussied up in makeup like that, wearing an outfit three sizes too small…you knew you were showing off everything, didn’t you? And you knew what it meant when you ‘slipped up’ like you did, and promised me ‘anything’. You had this all figured out from the start, and played me for a fool…”
Before Klara can respond, you pinch her nipple between your left thumb and forefinger, rubbing it between your digits. Before she can stop herself, a low, tiny moan slips from her lips, one she immediately snaps her mouth shut to try to stop, to no avail. You can’t see Klara’s face, but you know that her blush has deepened to a more honest red by now, and the thought makes you smile and take a long, deep sniff of her pink, rose-scented hair.
It takes all you have to not double down on the taunting. knowing that there’s only so much you can push Klara before her temporary embarrassment and surprise gives way to anger and reaction and response. You’ve humbled her, with your words and the suddenness of your hands on her tits, and her confusion as to how good it feels: now you need to entice her, more than she already has been.
Reluctantly removing one of your hands from her tits, you guide Klara forward as you turn her, until her back’s against the rock wall you’d fought beside, and her fur coat is rubbing against it. Klara does not resist your guidance, or your touch, and when she’s finally facing you, the look on her face makes all of it worth it.
Because a trickle of sweat is working its way down the bridge of Klara’s nose, a line of sullied makeup in its wake. A quiver is alighting in her jaw, and a wavering, wanting thread is loosening in the dark blue of her eyes. A steady, strained puffing can be heard through her nostrils. A rosy and stark blush is clouding her cheeks, which are pulled inward and then widen out as her inhales and exhales. And—most of all—Klara is biting her lip, the shine of her upper teeth white and pearly and digging into the pink plushness of her lower lip, as clear a sign as any that she is struggling. Struggling to restrain the delight that you have brought up to the brim by your relentless tit-groping, struggling to resist showing too clearly that she adores this, struggling to let loose the hunger that bubbles in her core, and threatens to breach and expose her full shamelessness.
It’s adorable, how hard Klara is trying, and it’s adorable how fruitless you know it’ll be. Her nipples are too clearly stamped through her top, prodding and rubbing against the insufficient covering of her too-small shirt, for her to be anything but enticed, at the very least, or on the verge of true arousal.
She looks at you, looks up at you, as you loom over her, leaning closer, your forehead pressing against the pink hair of her brow, and you remember just how wonderful it is that she’s shorter than you.
Klara’s huge, covered tits—one of your hands still sinking into it greedily—wobble and shake as you get close enough for their enormousness to squish up against your clothed chest. You watch her throat tremble and shudder as you lean down, and nearer, and open your lips: if she’s going to stop you, now is the time, but her teeth are still sunk into her lower lip, and her mouth is not producing any protests.
Not even when you press your lips to hers, and taste the fruity flavor of her gloss on the tip of your tongue. You can’t place it, not exactly, but it’s sweet, and shimmering, and you’re too busy kissing Klara to care. You’re enjoying the soft plushness of her lips, and feeling the pillowy squash of her tits against your chest, and recognizing, with a grin and a moan into Klara’s mouth, that she’s started to meet your smooch with one of her own.
You both stay like that for a long moment, locking lips, her mouth quivering as you hungrily and possessively lead every drag, every slide, every smooth, slick motion of your extended kiss. It’s not the most passionate makeout you’ve ever enjoyed—Klara is still tense, still anxious, still confused—but she’s responding in kind, moaning quietly, muffled whimpers slipping out from your pressed teeth and tickling tongues as her lipstick starts to imprint itself on your own mouth. A marker of how garishly she applied it, yes, but that only entices you further.
Your hand is trapped between your bodies, pressed in the delightful prison betwixt your chest and her tit, while your other drags down and around, until you’re tickling down the small of Klara’s back, making for the top of her short shorts. Klara’s breasts are so big, so wonderfully, audaciously enormous, that you can’t push yourself flush against her: two warm, soft, huge pillows provide enough of a squishy cushion that any attempt to approach her closer is fruitless, and the pinch of her nipples through the cloth, hardened enough that you can feel them through the layers, is emboldening.
When you make as if to pull back, a twinge of discomfort in your jaw telling you that it’s time to take a breath, Klara’s hand—you can’t tell which one—suddenly darts back forward, reaching down, grabbing something and forcing you to remain still. The smile still frozen on your lips widens, and you allow yourself to luxuriate in the continued contact for a moment longer, feeling the whistle of Klara’s exhales and inhales against your cheek, closing your eyes to relish the moment, and only make a distinct move to separate when the throb in your temples tells you that you need to breathe.
You pull away with a gasp and a pant, and blink, inhaling as you peruse Klara, who’s heaving and shaking almost as heavily as her tits were when you were groping them. The drag of your body partially away from her has left them shuddering and jostling in her top again, and it’s as jigglingly hypnotic as when she was running towards you for the very first time: the sight of her bosom frantically trying to escape its undersized prison is almost enough to drive you to bury your face into the fabric so cruelly obstructing them, and you only resist for two reasons.
The first is that you are confident that Klara’s already-overtaxed top will tear and be destroyed if you so much as nudge your chin against it, and as perfect as it would be to watch her oversized, plush, heaving, jiggling tits spill forth from her shredded shirt in an explosion of soft squishiness, you don’t want a damaged uniform on your conscience.
The second is that, before you can, Klara is speaking.
“If I tell you that I threw the fight, will that make you fuck me harder, or not at all?”
Her voice is moist and desperate, with an audible pop of lusty, thrumming hunger, brimming up from her throat, and it reflects the hazed and needy wanting in Klara’s eyes, blushing cheeks, and the slight marring of the makeup of her lips and lashes. She punctuates her query with a squeeze, and it’s only now that you realize that when she grabbed you before, she reached for your ass. Now she’s clutching it with both hands, digging her fingers hungrily into your backside, groping your rear with a quarter of the voraciousness that you visited upon her beautifully fat tits: even that much enthusiasm is already starting to make your asscheeks ache through your trousers.
And all it can do is embolden you to reply as honestly, and as earnestly, as you can, and damn the consequences.
“I’m going to fuck you either way.” You growl, and grind forward, rubbing your covered erection against her exposed tummy, and feel Klara yelp and squeal in shock at the weighty, heavy, girthy bulge grinding against her smooth stomach. “But honestly? Knowing that you’re desperate enough to intentionally set yourself up for a loss despite being a Gym Leader just makes it hotter.”
You grin, and, with agonizing reticence, release her clothed tit, gifting Klara with a final, sharp, hard squeeze, strong enough to wrench a wavering moan from her lips. Then, you nudge your other hand up, and bring the one that had just been grabbing her breast into position, and take hold of the bottom of her shirt.
“So telling me you threw the fight? Much better.” You hiss, and start to lift her shirt.
“Then yeah.” Klara moans, narrowing her eyes and opening her mouth, her tongue dragging across her lower lip with a smooth slickness to practiced to be anything but familiar. “I threw the fight. All so that I could get a chance to get some of this.”
She emphasizes her desire with a grind forward, rubbing her slim belly against your now-achingly clothed erection, earning a grunt of delight from you as the motion forces her hips to swivel and her tits to jostle. As she moves, she releases your ass and lifts her arms, and starts to slide off the fur coat that serves as her outer layer, letting it drop to the ground with a flutter and a whoosh.
The sight forces you to pause, ever-so-briefly, and stare. You already understood that Klara had the most magnificently soft, smooth, squishy tits that you had ever beheld, but now that the occluding layer is off, and she’s standing before you with only her half-removed, too-tight top, it’s baffling just how perfectly fat, wonderfully heavy, enormously plump Klara’s tits are. It boggles your mind, once more, that she doesn’t walk with a bent back, and such is your shock that Klara has to grin and grunt and tilt her head back to urge you to slide her top off.
You do, finally, though it’s a struggle and then some: you strain and grunt, yank and heave, pull and grab, and the only thing that might match the delight of your anticipation is knowing that, for all you’re battling to free Klara’s oversized tits from her undersized top, her own duel to dress herself must have been no less difficult. The image of Klara, sweating and swearing, hissing and howling with frustration and deferred delight as she tries, and somehow succeeds, at squeezing her huge breasts into her top, is beyond gratifying, though the satisfaction of seeing what she has beneath, uncovered and exposed, is even more enticing.
And then you drag Klara’s top up and over her head, with a yelp and a squeal and a coo, and watch the show unfold, as the tits that had caught on the bottom of her shirt heave downward and start to jiggle, jostle, shudder and shake.
Klara’s tits are the same milky pale as the rest of her skin, or at least her tummy—the part that isn’t plastered with makeup—and marvelously shiny, almost glowing with their immaculate whiteness. They’re so big that they press together to create an endless valley of cleavage beneath the delicious pinch of her scanty, frilly, crisscrossing black bra, her hardened nipples and enormous areolas rubbing the material, seeking a spot to escape in the maze of fabric.
They’re wobbling wonderfully, reflecting light and the sheen of sweat and the promise of perpetual plushness in the press-together prison of her cleavage, and just when they seem like they’re going to stop, Klara reaches behind herself to unbuckle her bra. She grunts from the effort, and you’re too transfixed to help her, and can only watch as she, with a gasp and a snap, frees her huge breasts from her overtaxed bra.
“Whew.” Klara coos, and she doesn’t sound like she’s playing it up. “They get really stuffy in there.”
You’re too transfixed to reply. Too engrossed, too enamored with staring at the wobble and heave, the jiggling majesty of Klara’s now-naked tits, too caught up in trying to spot the bounce of her nipples, and the scattering of sweat as they dance and drag, heaving up and down and side to side, as if they might never stop.
“Oooh, that kind of guy, are you?” Klara purrs, and starts to slide her thumbs between her shorts and her skin. “Hopefully that’ll help you keep your word.”
Klara starts to drag her shorts down, and she grunts, and pauses, grinding her teeth together, trying to force the undersized bottoms over her backside, the waistband pinching her skin. It takes a moment for Klara to succeed, to get her short shorts over and off her fat ass—one you haven’t yet had a chance to grope and grab, squeeze and slap, fondle and feel up, too focused were you on her tits—but when she does, it’s with a sigh of relief, and a swift drag of the material down her long legs. The act forces her to bend forward, her huge tits swinging freely, swaying towards you…and you almost don’t notice the matching, lacy panties on her crotch, so ensorcelled are you by the reminder of just how massive Klara’s chest is. But you catch a glimpse, and also can’t help but notice the silky crown of her bush, pink and pretty, peeking out from above the top of her panties.
“Now…” Klara teases, leaning back up, breasts jiggling hypnotically, as she reaches down again to grab the waist of her panties. With another tug, they’re down to her knees, and then off her ankles and still-heeled feet, and she grins cheekily at you, face aflame with open desire and taunting, teasing, self-certainty. “Promise me you won’t go easy on me, okay?”
That reminder of her overconfidence, and her excessive smugness, is enough to drag you out of your reverie, and you tear your gaze away from Klara’s now-slowing tit-jiggle to look her in the eye. She’s grinning, eyes alight with naughty, slutty mischief, as if she’s got you caught and wrapped around her finger. She doesn’t…but she does have you trapped in her tits, in a sense, though not in the way you want. Not yet, anyway.
But you’ll have to remind her that you’re the one who won, not her. That you’re in charge, and if she’s admitted to being a fat-tittied slut who throws fights for the chance to get dicked down, you’re going to treat her like one.
“Would never dream of letting up on you. But I think you’ll soon wish that I did.”
It’s a marvel indeed to see Klara’s smirk of delight—smugness personified—waver in confusion, and then shocking, surprised apprehension, as the gravity of your words settle over her, and the forcefulness of your grab for her shoulders, and her tits, communicates just how seriously you’re taking this.
She doesn’t even have enough time or focus to do anything but yelp in weak protest as you bear her naked to the ground, and spread her out flat on the stone, lifting her legs upwards.
Klara watches you, and you draw no small satisfaction from how her eyes bulge, her mouth gapes, and her voice stutters and yelps as you drag your dick and nutsack into the open, exposing yourself with a swift unbuckle of your belt, yank of your trousers, and tug of your undershorts. It’s girthy, and heavy, and throbs with anticipation and eagerness, the entirety of your dick a stiff, powerful promise that Klara will yet come to regret her smugness…with the same punctuality that drives your sack, huge and swollen with the bounty of your balls, to shudder with terrifying meaning.
“W-w-w-wait!” Klara yelps, suddenly uncertain, her confidence crumbling before the threat of your titan of a shaft, as you nudge the engorged head of your prick against her glistening, slippery pussy lips, so pink and slick, calling to you from where you kneel. “I, uh…isn’t there another -”
Klara trails off weakly when you raise an eyebrow and lower your cockhead, dragging it against the upturned, puckered, engrossingly-twitching bud of her tight, tense, twitching asshole.
“...W-way?” Klara tries to finish, and then squeaks in surprise when you press forward, as if to force your cock inside her butt. “Eep!”
“Thought so.” You chuckle, and realign yourself further up, aiming again for Klara’s cunt. An idea strikes you, suddenly, as you behold the beauty of her pretty pussy lips, smooth and aching to be spread around your shaft. A thought that is as wonderful as it is slightly sadistic, and you know, right then and there, that you can’t let it pass.
“You know, Klara.” You start, as you rest her calves on your shoulders, and slide the head of your dick against the hooded bud at the crown of her slit, just below her bush, “I thought about maybe letting this slide as a one-off thing. Of just fucking you good and hard like you wanted, with the flimsy excuse of a lost battle, and not thinking anything more of it.”
“A-a-and n-n-now?” Klara mewls, looking down past her spread thighs to stare at your crotch, peeking at your dick…or as much as she can, between her enormous tits. They’ve flopped slightly to the side under the effect of gravity, and they look just as perfectly, outrageously gigantic from here as ever.
“Now?” You grin, and position the head of your dick at her slit, slapping it down one more time meaningfully to force a squeal from Klara. “Now, I’m going to make sure this is the most impactful loss of your whole career. If you’re going to act like a slut, throwing fights for the chance to get fucked, then it’s my job to teach you that that’s not how Gym Leaders behave!”
“W-w-what do y-”
Klara’s query is cut off as, with a roar of delight, and an ensuing wail of overwhelmed pleasure from her, you thrust forward, and bury your dick inside her tight, clenching, hot, milking cunt in one quick thrust.
Instantly, you were engulfed in a warm, wet, grasping tension, a massaging, clutching pressure that begged you to push in deeper, dragging you further in. You can’t help but groan in relief and delight at the clenching, wonderfully slick squeeze of Klara’s tight cunt, being invited to stuff more and more of your shaft within her with every quiver, every little seize, every tremulous waver of her gripping hole around your ever-encroaching cock.
You don’t bottom out, not immediately, but you cross a powerful, impactful, important threshold on your thrust inward, barreling past the halfway mark and only stopping once Klara’s yelp of shock fades into a hoarse, stuttered gasp from the fullness being forced inside her. Her legs seize up in sync with the squeezing of her slit, her thighs trembling against your shoulders and pressing against the side of your head, and when you finally have the focus to look up, instead of staring down at the slick, glistening, achingly engrossing sight of Klara struggling to take your dick, hers is an expression of anxiety overwhelmed by awe.
You’re not sure how you can tell, but you can. There’s something in her wide eyes, and her open mouth, and her flaring nostrils and slightly-extended tongue. Something about the beads of sweat on her face, and the smearing of running makeup by her eyes and lips: it all speaks of a threshold utterly trampled, a surety completely squandered, a lilting conceit that has been humbled and is rapidly being dragged into utter supplication, but until then, is masked with frozen interest and entranced fear.
All thanks to the stiff, hot, stretching, straining fullness of your dick, as you grunt and shove forward, and finally bury yourself balls-deep in Klara’s cunt. The head of your prick tickles the deepest recesses of her pussy, the curls of hair at your crotch nestle against the silky bush crowning Klara’s clit, and—most engrossingly—the heavy, ponderous, meaningful weight of your balls, full and eager and fat with your future loads, drags against Klara’s puckered, trembling, twitching, upturned asshole.
The triple contact—of your cockhead against the back of her cunt, and your pubic hair against her clit, and your nutsack on her asshole—is enough to yank a high, whining, needy moan from Klara. It’s wordless, and far from dignified, but the latter was never a concern, and the former is not needed to communicate her intent when her countenance says it all. For her eyes are wet and blinking, and her nostrils are still twitching, and her mouth is still open and her tongue near-lolling, and even as she must feel terribly strained and discomforted by the occupying presence of your dick stretching her even at rest, the gaze she fixes you with is as clear as day, and just as welcome.
Give me your best shot.
Grinning, you pull back, dragging along her inner walls, forcing a squeal from Klara as her cunt tries to bear down on you as you go, as reluctant to let you leave as it was to, at least initially, welcome you inside. It’s no use, and you’re able to pull halfway out without issue, the wet, slick surface of your exposed dick shining as it exits her, and it’s enough to draw Klara’s awed gaze as she stares at the titanic shaft half-buried in between her legs.
It’s enough to send a fresh ripple of moaning delight through her as she purses her lips in a coo, at the knowledge that she took it all but a moment ago, which is cut off by a sharp, high-pitched squeak as you heave back forward and begin fucking her in earnest.
You plow into Klara balls-deep every time, drilling your dick inside and dragging all around her inner walls, tickling and teasing her with powerful, rubbing friction, marveling at how every drawn-out contact leaves her cunt undulating and massaging your length. You hiss as your nuts slamming into Klara’s asshole on every forward thrust, leaving Klara moaning in delight, her backside twitching with every wet, welcome whap of your heavy balls against her rear.
Folding Klara into a powerful press is allowing you to do anything you want to her, and you’re making good on that potential with every heave, every thrust, every overmighty shove of your dick into her ever-accommodating, delightfully massaging, wonderfully warm pussy. Your increasingly aggressive approach to rawing her forces Klara’s legs higher and higher, until they’re nearly parallel to the stone that she’s being fucked into, and her heel-clad feet are approaching her bouncing tresses, so wholly are you flattening her completely beneath you.
Klara’s huge tits heave and jiggle with every motion, their vast heft and pale, plush, pillowy plumpness lending new and marvelous weight to every bounce. Their shudder and shake, powered entirely by the force of you fucking her, results in a hypnotic circle-sway motion to and fro. When you pull back, Klara’s enormous chest seems to drag upwards and away, her nipples bouncing high and proud in brief defiance of gravity, and then swivel back down in a smooth, curving motion when you plow back into her, the side of her breasts dragging against her inner biceps as you bottom out inside her once more. Every downward jostle and wobble of Klara’s massive tits results in a loud, ringing, welcomingly wet slap as her breasts strike the skin beneath them, a percussive accompaniment to the shlick of your dick inside her sopping cunt, and the smack of your nuts against her upturned asshole. It’s impossible to look away from the sight, and anything else you see only comes out in quick, furtive, stolen glances, so entranced are you by Klara’s enormous, jiggling, heaving tits.
Klara’s pale skin is starting to get soiled with the kicked-up dust of your congress, but that’s only one way she’s being sullied: her face is a mess of overstimulated and delighted tears and sweat, running rivulets through her blush, her eyeliner dribbling and her already-smeared lipstick starting to trickle down the side of her chin and cheeks. Her eyes are darting between glassily overwhelmed and wildly flicking to and fro, but the fact remains that she’s unable to make eye contact with you. Her mouth is open still, but the lolling of her tongue merely adds to the indignity of her countenance, and that only makes it better.
More than better, in fact. The visible signs of her diminution are lovely indeed, but there’s a deeper satisfaction, a truer satiation, that’s rising to the fore, and you can’t think of the name of it until Klara wails for the first time, and then her shriek fades into a hoarse, croaking, weaker series of gulps as she bears down on your pounding prick hard.
Klara’s orgasm does more than settle any lingering, ludicrous debate as to whether or not she is enjoying this: that she is, and has been, is overabundantly clear. But her broken face, and increasingly-broken inability to actually process the pleasure being pounded and plapped and pressed into and onto her, is telling a story of something deeper, something truer, something far grander in its glory.
It tells you that Klara is, at her core, more honest and true than any aspirations for Gym Leadership, is a slut of unrealized potential. It makes too much sense: all her conceited, smug, arrogant self-certainty is simply perfect for a woman who could be nudged on the path of dick-dependent whorishness, and who is currently a step between ‘secretly a slut’ and ‘airheaded bimbo freely available to milk your cock and empty your balls.’ Given her admission of having thrown the fight, in a sense, for the chance to get rawed, Klara’s already on the path to becoming a cocksleeve, and all you’ll need to do is give her a little nudge to bring her over the brink.
“F-f-f-fuck…” You grunt, strained, as you ramp up your motions, your hands fumbling to sink into Klara’s fat, squishy, deliciously jiggling tits, digging into them as you try to stop their jostle and sway. “Fuck, you’re fucking meant for this…”
Klara isn’t responding. She’s too busy being ravished and rawed, dominated and destroyed, and yelping weakly as a second and then a third orgasm rips through her. The ceaseless undulation of her cunt around your cock is intensifying the heat and tension building in your core and crotch, and every time your nutsack whaps Klara’s upturned asshole, it seems to swell and throb with new, imminent vigor.
It’s now or never. You had this in mind as soon as you decided to bury yourself balls-deep in Klara’s cunt, but it’s coming to fruition in the best way possible.
“F-f-f-fucking t-take it! S-S-Smug whore!” You roar, as you dig your hands into Klara’s tits, and stop thrusting, holding your dick balls-deep inside her, the head of your cock kissing the entrance to her womb as your shaft shudders and shakes. “F-f-fucking take e-every fucking drop, and g-get knocked up!”
For the briefest moment, Klara’s eyes widen, and a flash of lucidity rushes into her gaze. Her mouth is numb and aching, and her face is still undignified to the extreme, but there’s a quarter-second of true understanding and cognizance, and the words that spill from her lips reveal her recognition.
“W-W-W-w-w-wa-wait! N-N-No-”
Too late. In fact, hearing Klara’s weak, stuttered, stifled protest, sincere or no, simply emboldens you all the more. Knowing that she’s still as yet clinging on to her conceit, and securing herself on her smugness, and hoping to draw on what remains of her ego and dignity in a vain effort to convince you to not empty your balls deep inside her is enough to force you to roar a final, vain warning, more a threat than anything, as you begin to blow your load.
“Here it f-fucking comes! ”
As Klara moans in weak objection, and you grunt as you grope and fondle her enormously squishy tits, you erupt. You paint Klara’s pussy white, pumping spunk into her womb with deliberate and meaningful splatters, powerful and precise, plastering her inner walls with warm, thick cream. Bubbles of drool pop between her lips, and something in Klara’s mind seems to snap in the same instant that your second wave starts, and you begin stuffing more cum inside her with furious splatter after furious splatter. The warmth and weight of hosing down her cunt wrenches yet another climax from Klara, and her eyes start to go glassy and dreamy again, too pleasured to properly process being pumped pregnant.
Your balls throb against her butthole, tickling her asshole with every downpour. You’re pumping Klara fuller of cum than she could have ever dreamed, and overfilling her with spunk such that there’s no way you’re not knocking her up here and now, breeding a baby into this slut, who probably is starting to wish she’d acted with less smugness, and is learning humility in the most sudden way possible.
You only stop when you feel you can’t possibly muster another drop. It’s a long process, and one that leaves Klara’s womb stuffed to the brim, and her belly ever-so-slightly turgid from the excess volume of your eruption, but it’s the most glorious feeling in the world to finally feel the peak subside, and your flood of cream ebb and stop.
Klara looks like a broken, overfucked mess, utterly destroyed and domineered to a degree beyond salvation, undignified and brought low. Her eyes, awash with overwhelmed tears, are blank and unresponsive, and the drool on and in her mouth bubbles and pops without response. Her nostrils clench and loosen as she exhales, but there’s little other sign of notice: she’s not unconscious, but she’s simply overstimulated, unable to take in new information thanks to how hard you fucked her, and how much of your load is sloshing inside her, small trickles oozing out from around where your cock plugs her cunt to dribble over her asshole.
But you can’t resist one last parting shot.
“M-M-Maybe this’ll t-t-teach you some…some humility…” You gasp, as you release Klara’s tits, her breasts marred with red soreness where you over-aggressively fondled them. You lean forward, and plant a kiss on Klara’s drooling lips, and allow your chest to be supported by her enormously soft, pillowy tits, a natural cushion as you recover your energy atop her.
She can’t hear you, not yet, not now, but you’ll repeat it, and repeat this lesson, as many times as you need to.