The Subway
by Rob
Watch her grow


Three in the morning. The subway station was deserted as usual as I
waited for the subway car which would take me home from another late
night at work.

The car pulled up and I got on. It was empty, as always. Against the
front of the car, a rear-facing bench stretched the width of the car,
about eight feet. I sat in my usual place right in the center of that
bench, looking down the narrow aisle, about twenty inches wide. The
aisle separated the two rows of forward-facing benches that filled the
rest of the car. The row to my left was broken in two places to leave
space for the two entrances, one near the front and the other near the
rear. A row of handholds ran down the length of the aisle, about seven
feet above the floor and a foot and a half below the ceiling of the car.
Another row of handholds at the same height ran the width of the car
above my bench. The windows and most of the benches were generously
covered by graffiti, and the florescent lights seemed bright for such a
late hour.

The car pulled away from the station with a groan. The faint hum of the
florescent lights and the click-click of the wheels crossing the ties
in the tracks were the only noise for the next two or three minutes
until the car reached the next station. It pulled to a halt and the
doors hissed open. In through the rear entrance came a woman---unusual;
normally my trips home were in solitude. The woman was in her early
twenties, very attractive. She reminded me of the girl from Home
Improvement and Baywatch, Pamela Anderson. Similar longish blonde hair
and beautiful face. She was average height, and had on a demin jacket
and faded jeans. Under the open jacket a white halter was knotted
between her full breasts, and on her feet she wore simple cream-colored
canvas sneakers without socks. She glanced at me, then sat in one of
the rear benches and stared out the window. The car pulled away and the
click-click from the wheels resumed.

As the station disappeared from view around a bend, the girl looked back
at me. "Wanna see something?" she asked.

"Like what?" I replied.

"Watch and see," she said, and grinned. She stood up and stepped
forward a pace to the wider part of the aisle next to the rear entrance.
Then she put her fists on her hips and looked down at her halter.

Her chest started swelling out, and I thought she was just inhaling
deeply. Her breasts pressed tightly against the white cloth and her
jacket slid back off her jutting breasts. It was certainly an enticing
sight but I had no idea why she was doing this. But then I saw that her
shoulders seemed to be widening - I could see their shape changing under
her jacket, growing broader. Her breasts strained against the halter,
bulging out around the edges of the halter and pulling the knot tighter
and tighter. Then the fabric parted across her right breast with a loud
tearing noise and her halter slid back from her breasts, leaving them
bare. They didn't appear much bigger. Instead, they now sat atop thick
plates of feminine pectoral muscle, a deep groove running between them
down the center of her chest. My jaw fell open and I felt a stirring in
my crotch.

She looked up to the handhold above and to the right of her head, then
reached up and took it in her hand. The distance between it and her head
grew smaller - was she pulling herself up one-handed? I looked at her
feet and saw that they were still flat on the ground. She was pulling
herself taller! As I watched, the laces in her shoes broke, and then the
canvas tore to reveal her growing feet. My gaze slid back up her body.
The bottoms of her jeans slid up her ankles to mid-calf, and her sleeves
slid up her arms until they reached only to mid-forearm. Her chin was a
little above the hand-hold now; the top of her head was about six inches
below the eight and a half foot ceiling. She looked back at me and
smiled widely, eight feet tall with bare breasts on a wide, muscular
chest.

Releasing the hand-hold, she turned to face away from me and put her
hands back on her hips. Her shoulders began spreading again, pulling the
jacket tight across her back. Now I could see her lats bulging against
the jacket too, until it tore, at first just in the center of her back.
Then the tear crept up towards the collar and down towards the waist of
the jacket, opening wide and revealing the back of her white halter.
The halter was stretched by the width of her back and shoulders, and
tore down the back. The rip in the jacket was still growing until
finally the jacket was torn into two separate pieces, which hung ragged
from her shoulders, revealing her entire back: bulging trapezius muscles
flaring into soccer ball-sized shoulders, down across thick, impossibly
wide lats almost a yard across, to a narrow waist lined with rock-hard
female muscle.

Then, her vast back still to me, she lifted herself up onto her toes,
her hair barely brushing the ceiling of the car. Her calves strained
the seams of her jeans, then burst through suddenly, shredding the ends
of the pants legs as they ballooned into large, diamond-shaped mounds
of womanly muscle. At that point she turned back towards me, lowering
herself to stand flat on her feet again, and looked down at her thighs.
They, like her calves, exploded abruptly outward, shredding the rest of
the pants legs, leaving demin streamers hanging between her massive,
muscular tree-trunk legs. The skin seemed paper-thin over her thick,
beefy quadriceps, cutting grooves between the mighty thews of her
steel-hard pillar-like legs. She looked up at me. "I can see you're
enjoying this," she said, smiling at me. I glanced down at the
prominent bulge in my trousers.

"Watch this," she said, and my gaze snapped back to her towering
brawn. Her arms were still thin, in unripped jacket sleeves, and she
bent one to place her left index finger in the little cleft at the base
of her neck. Then she slowly traced a line from there down through the
valley formed by her high, firm breasts and thick, broad pectorals. Her
hand continued downward, and as it crossed her flat stomach, chunks of
muscle began to emerge, separated by well-defined grooves. Soon her
abdomen was a symphony of rock-hard amazonian muscularity.

When she reached the waist of her jeans, she curled her hand it into
a fist and extended her left arm straight down. Her forearm began
expanding, first snapping open the button in the cuff, then causing
a tear that crept from the cuff up along her arm. Her arm swelled
and the tear crossed her elbow to begin revealing her growing biceps
and triceps. The tear reached her big shoulder and the tattered sleeve
slipped back to reveal a thick, burly deltoid merging into a huge,
horseshoe-shaped triceps bulging out an inch and a half from the tendon
contained in its inverted U-shape.

She relaxed that arm and stuck her right arm straight out to the side,
still clad in an intact sleeve. She gazed at it and slowly began curling
it. With this arm, too, a rip appeared at the cuff and crept towards her
elbow as her forearm grew. But this time her swelling biceps strained
the upper sleeve too fast and the seam along the side of that muscle
gave way. By the time her arm reached a ninety-degree angle the two
tears had met and extended all the way to the shoulder. The sleeve
slipped off her arm to hang by her side, revealing her still-growing
biceps. When she finally had her arm curled all the way, the her upper
arm was bigger around than my thigh, with a giant female biceps shaped
like a football and almost as big.

The remains of her jacket and halter formed two tight ragged loops, one
around each shoulder. She crossed her arms in front of her, chest
muscles bunching and lifting her breasts, to grasp each shoulder's
tatters in the opposite hand, biceps bulging. Dual tugs produced sharp
ripping noises and she dropped the torn cloth to the floor. Then she
slipped a hand into the waist of her jeans and another sharp tug pulled
those rags off, to reveal white panties, somehow still intact, but
frayed from the tight stretch around the gigantic womanly muscles of her
brawny thighs.  With one foot she swept the remains of her shredded
clothing and shoes out of the aisle, but that flexing of her enormous
leg proved to be too much strain and her panties snapped and fluttered to
the floor. She kicked those aside too and then looked at me.

"Like what you see?" she teased, with a winning smile, as she put her
hands once again on her hips and spread her tremendous lats. I could
only nod slowly, entranced by the transformation I had just witnessed of
an attractive, normal-sized woman into a ravishing, towering amazon
bulging with huge, feminine muscle. Her classic beautiful face, framed
in wavy blonde hair, sat atop a neck wrapped in muscle that flared out
to merge into mountainous shoulders at least as wide as one of the
three-foot benches around her. The beefy arms emerging from those
colossal shoulders were each bigger around than a telephone pole. Atop
the thick, slablike pectorals of her chest, each almost a foot wide, sat
large, firm womanly breasts. Framing her chest were her immense lats,
each a six inch wide curve of bulging female brawn. Her waist didn't
appear to have gotten any wider during the transformation but her belly
was now a plate of muscle with well-defined grooves cutting through it.
Her waist flared down across womanly hips into sweeping, well-cut thighs
of beefy feminine muscularity, each nearly the width of her waist. The
curves of her legs narrowed from titantic thighs down to her knees, then
abruptly arced out around her bowling-pin-sized calves to come back
together at her slim ankles. This gigantic amazon was an eight foot
tower of immense female power, every inch bulging with herculean muscle.

"How about a closer look?" she asked. I leaped off the bench, but
before I could take a step, she said, "No, stay put. I'll come to
you." I stayed, but her tremendous thighs looked too wide to fit down
the narrow aisle. The enormous strength of her gorgeously brawny arms
easily solved that problem. She simply put a hand on each of the two
benches in front of her and, biceps swelling with amazonian might, tore
them from the floor. She tossed them behind her and took a step forward
to repeat the feat with the next pair of benches. Again she exerted her
irresistable strength and the bolts in the floor gave way with a groan
to release the benches. In a few seconds, she stood in front of me,
benches strewn along the subway car in her wake.

I gazed up at her. My eyes were just barely level with the round curves
of the bottoms of her high, firm breasts, and her chin was more than a
foot above my head. I began to slowly raise a quivering hand to touch
her, but she interrupted my action by putting her hands on my shoulders
and forcing me back into a sitting position on the bench behind me.
"Not so fast," she said with a grin, then leaned over and stuck her
fingers into the waist of my trousers and worked them into the waistband
of my briefs underneath. A quick tug from her powerful fingers tore
apart the zipper of my fly and rent my briefs, allowing my erection to
spring out. Ignoring that for a moment, she continued to rend my clothes
until my trousers and underwear lay in two separate ragged bundles
around my ankles. Then she moved both hands to the edge of the bench,
just to the left of my legs. Again the titanic feminine muscles of her
arms swelled with power and, before my unbelieving eyes, the aluminum
sheet underneath the bench cushion bent and split. She peeled back the
seat to leave a two-foot gap next to me. Then she repeated the amazing
feat on the right, unstoppable power surging through the mighty arms of
the giant amazon. In moments I was left sitting on a narrow remaining
section of the bench, trousers and briefs around my ankles, with my cock
exposed and stiff in the cool air.

I wondered why she had destroyed the bench, but she answered my unspoken
question by stepping forward into the now empty space to stand over me,
one pillar-like leg on either side. She bent her tree-trunk legs to sit
on my bare legs, her ass hard as stone against me, her massive chest
just inches from my face, and her chin still half a foot above my head.
My cock was sandwiched between our bellies, pressing into mine because
her abdomen was solid and unyielding. I felt pain in my legs from her
immense weight and gasped, "Too heavy!"

She lifted a finger to my lips and said, "Don't you know it's not
polite to talk about a girl's weight?" But she smiled and I felt some
of the weight lift as she straightened her legs a bit. Then she slipped
her finger under my chin and, tilting my head back, leaned down to kiss
me. My lips parted and our tongues met. I raised my hands and placed
them on her sides, at last touching her amazonian physique. The muscles
were harder than steel. I slid my hands over her lats and across her
broad back, slowly tracing the curves of her enormous female muscles as
the kiss continued and intensified.

Finally she broke the kiss to look up at the row of handholds dangling
just above her head. She reached up and took one in each hand. I watched
as each gigantic biceps swelled, flexing with her enormous power until I
felt her lift completely off me. I glanced down and saw that her legs
were bent so that her feet no longer touched the floor---she was
supporting herself entirely with her herculean arms. She raised herself
about a foot above my legs, then carefully lowered herself so that the
tip of my cock brushed the wet lips of her pussy. A wave of erotic
pleasure washed over me as she s-l-o-w-l-y lowered herself further,
emitting a little sigh of sexual delight, to engulf the rest of my cock
with her hot, tight pussy, still supporting herself entirely from the
two handholds.

Then, with little surges of strength in her bulging arms, she began
raising and lowering herself just a few inches, slowly at first, to
slide up and down my shaft. As pleasure pulsed out from my cock, I
slipped my hands up from her back onto her arms to feel her brawny
biceps flex with each upstroke. The muscles were like iron softballs,
each much too big to get my hand around, and swelled a little on each
upstroke. I slid my hands over onto those massive amazonian shoulders
and caressed the smooth, unyielding curves.  I could feel my orgasm
nearing now and could tell that hers was too, from her gasping and the
quickening pulsations of her slick pussy.

The stroking was growing faster now, the inhuman strength of her immense
arms unflagging even after dozens of the little lifts she was
performing. I slipped my hands down to fondle her titantic thighs and
leaned forward to kiss and caress her jutting breasts. My hands roamed
her body ceaselessly, joyfully tracing the curves of massive muscle on
her arms, back, legs, and shoulders. As I worked on one breast with my
mouth, the other with a hand, and caressed one of her mighty flexing
arms with my other hand, she gave out a moan and lowered herself to
fully engulf my cock.  Her pussy spasmed rapdily with her orgasm,
repeatedly clenching my cock tightly then releasing it, driving me over
the edge to my own orgasm. The ecstasy went on and on as I felt a climax
far more intense than any other in my life.

Finally, the pulsing of her pussy trailed off and my orgasm ended, and
she lowered her feet to take her weight again as she released the
handholds.  Completely spent, I lay my head against her broad chest
between her breasts and wrapped my arms around her waist (the only part
of her torso I could completely encircle). I felt her wrap her beefy
arms around me and gently place a hand against the back of my head. As I
drifted into a doze, exhausted, I noticed that through the window I
could see the wall of the tunnel, unmoving. At some point during this
heavenly experience the subway car had stopped.

The resumption of the click-click from the subway car wheels crossing
the rail ties resumed For a moment I thought it must have been a dream,
but then I saw the benches lying haphazardly on the floor and my pants
around my ankles and knew that it had been real. The amazon was nowhere
to be seen, although her clothes still lay in a heap at the far end of
the car. It was a good thing I had my trenchcoat that day because
otherwise, due to my torn trousers, I might have been arrested for
indecent exposure on my walk home from the subway station.

I have ridden the subway home after a late night many times since then
but I haven't yet had a chance to repeat the experience. Still, I make
it a point to try to work late and ride the subway in the wee hours. The
slim chance of meeting the amazon again makes it worth the trouble.
FROM              THE AMAZONS ARENA BBS         702-243-7723/8982/9897