Therapy
by Rob
Gretchen grows huge and powerful
Update: 26/09/1997 to misc2

I have always been embarrassed about my deepest sexual fantasy.
I finally decided to see if psychotherapy could help me feel more
comfortable about it. So I let my fingers do the walking and found a
psychologist not too far from my home. With a great deal of trepidation,
I called and made an appointment.

The day of the appointment came, and it was hard not to call and
cancel. I left my office a little early and drove over to the doctor's
office building. My nervousness built with every step as I went up
to the fourth floor and down the hall, stopping at the door labelled
"Christene Marshall, Ph. D." I hesitated, butterflies in my stomach, but
forced myself to open the door.

Inside was a nondescript waiting room. The receptionist was an
attractive young woman, and the nameplate on her desk said "Gretchen".
I entered and, in barely more than a whisper, said, "I'm here for my
appointment."

Gretchen smiled at me and said, "Of course." She pressed a button on
her phone and said, "Dr. Marshall, your five o'clock is here."

A voice from the intercom crackled, "Thank you, Gretchen. Please send
him in."

My pulse pounded in my ears as I opened the rear door. Beyond it
was the office. Against the near wall was a couch, and near the end
of the couch, a plush chair. Across the room, Dr. Marshall was seated
behind her desk. She was another attractive woman, about thirty-five,
with auburn hair. Smiling, she came around her desk to greet me with a
handshake. "Hello, Mr. Smith," she said. "Why don't you have a seat on
the couch?"

I sat on the couch. She sat in the chair, a note pad over her crossed
legs and a pen in hand. "Now, what seems to be troubling you?"

The moment of truth was at hand. I'd never directly told anyone this
before, and it was a hard, hard thing to do. Fear gripped me. I knew
that if I lifted my hand from the couch, it would be visibly shaking. I
looked down. Finally, I told her about it.

She thought for a few moments, then said, "I see. I think I can help
you. Shall we try a little experiment?"

"Okay," I replied.

Dr. Marshall reached over to the phone on the corner of the desk,
pressed a button, and said, "Gretchen, could you please come in here?"

"Coming, Dr. Marshall," replied the receptionist. A moment later, the
door opened and Gretchen came in.

"Why don't you stand right there, facing Mr. Smith?" directed Dr.
Marshall, indicating a spot about in the center of the room, about five
feet in front of me. Gretchen went to the indicated spot and turned to
me.

"Now, Rob, would you please describe Gretchen's physical appearance
for me?"

I looked from Gretchen to Dr. Marshall uncertainly, but she gave
me an encouraging nod. So, looking back at Gretchen, I began. "She's
early twenties, I guess." Dr. Marshall wrote something in her notebook.
"Average height - five-four? Thin. Dark, wavy hair, shoulder-length.
Very Audrey Hepburn-ish."

Dr. Marshall was still taking notes. She looked up. "How about her
attire? Try to get the details."

I looked back at Gretchen, who gave me a little smile. "She's wearing
a sleeveless, scoop-necked dress with a small, blue, sort of checkered
pattern on a white background. Under that she has a black, long-sleeved
top with a round neck, no buttons. She has blue hose on and her shoes
are blue, with short heels."

"That's fine," said Dr. Marshall, putting down her pen and pad. She
got up and walked to the corner of the room, where a tall mirror on a
wheeled stand stood. "Let me add that Gretchen's measurements are 32B,
26, 34," she continued, while pulling the mirror to the center of the
room. She positioned it so that I could see Gretchen from behind, then
returned to her seat. "Now, Gretchen, why don't you go ahead and clasp
your hands in front of you, about waist height." Gretchen did. "Good,
dear. Now roll your shoulders forward a bit. There we go. Now go ahead
and squeeze your hands together hard."

I was puzzled by the whole procedure so far, and looked at Dr.
Marshall, a question on my lips. Before I could speak, she said, "Please
keep your eyes on Gretchen, Rob. I need to observe your reactions." I
looked back at Gretchen, who was looking at me. I saw her hands tense as
she began pressing them against each other. A few seconds passed. Then I
noticed that her shirt seemed to be getting tighter. She was swelling up
inside her clothing.

As I watched, her shoulders broadened. The curves of her
trapezius muscles began to arc up between her neck and her shoulders.
Her breasts began to lift and flatten against the front of her dress.
Her arms thickened inside the sleeves. In the mirror I could see her
whole back widening. I looked down and saw the hemline of her dress
creeping up, and realized that she was getting taller, too. With a snap,
the seam on the back of her left shoe tore from the pressure of her
growing foot. The right shoe immediately followed suit. She stepped out
of them.

My gaze drifted back upwards. Her hemline, originally at
mid-calf, now hung just below the knee, revealing significantly larger
calves. Her hose was visibly paler from being stretched around her
burgeoning legs. New curves of biceps, triceps, and deltoids inside
newly snug sleeves framed her bulging chest. Her shirt cuffs were slowly
drawing up her forearms, but I noticed that the bend of her elbow and
the increased size of her arms kept the sleeves taut around her upper
arms.

Dr. Marshall's voice broke through my reverie. "As you can see, Rob,
her clothing is becoming quite tight. It's near the breaking point.
Note the effect on the back of her dress from the continued growth of the
deltoid, trapezoid, latissimus dorsai, and pectoralis major muscles." In
the mirror, I could see the seam down the back of her dress straining.
Threads began to give way, and the seam slowly opened in the middle of
her back, exposing the black shirt underneath. A moment later, the shirt
also tore, slowly parting to reveal Gretchen's skin, contoured with
still-growing muscles. The rips lengthened, allowed a larger and larger
opening, until finally they reached from her waist to her neckline. The
shirt-collar snapped apart, joining the opening down the back with the
neck hole, which now stretched wide across her swelling deltoids and
trapezius muscles.

Dr. Marshall said, "The combination of increased length and increased
circumference of her arms also has a unique effect." Her sleeves,
stretched tightly from shoulders to elbows, had already begun to come
loose at the shoulder seams, revealing smooth, round deltoids that were
swelling past cantaloupe-size. As the sleeves pulled further away, the
seams running from neck to shoulder split, freeing the top part of the
front of her dress and shirt to fold down, revealing the tops of her
thick pectorals pressing tightly together in the center of her chest.
The sleeves finally pulled completely away, and the side seams of the
dress and shirt, running down from her armpits, started to "unzip" from
the top down, allowing her clothes to fold down further. The back,
already split all the way down the middle, fell away first, revealing an
insanely wide, thick musculature. Then the front of her dress fell down
over her clenched hands.

I gasped at the sight of her bare torso. Until now, I couldn't see it
through the dress. But it had kept pace with the rest of her. Mighty
pecs pressed together, forming a deep channel down the center of her
chest. Her breasts were widely-spaced firm spheres, just grazing the
biceps which framed them. Her abdomen was paved with cobblestones of
muscle.

Then the seams of her sleeves gave way down her upper arms, all at
once, and the fabric fell away to hang from her elbows. Gretchen's upper
arms were huge deltoids curving into gigantic biceps and triceps. Her attire
hung from her in tatters, her muscularity almost inhuman - and still she
was growing taller, wider, thicker, stronger.

Dr. Marshall spoke again. "Gretchen's body fat is still about at
fifteen percent, Rob. Gretchen, see if you can attain that `anatomy
chart' look." Her muscles had been smooth in appearance, until now. They
continued to inflate, but now her skin seemed to stop accommodating the
growth. Striations crept across her pectorals. Definition appeared in
her external obliques and serratus anteriors. The groove between her
pecs extended down to her waist as her abdominals bulged under her skin.
Her deltoids became like small pumpkins, both in size and appearance,
deep vertical cuts running down them. Even though her triceps were
extended, I could make out striations on the outsides of her arms.

Dr. Marshall said, "Did you notice what happened to her hose, Rob?"
I looked down. The hem of her dress was now at mid-thigh. Gretchen's
quadriceps hung impossibly far out over her knees. Her calves were
obscene. Holes had been torn in her hose as it tried to accommodate her
growth. Even as I watched, the hose went from swiss cheese to shredded
cheese, a loose web hanging off her legs, wisps of nylon draped over
pillars of Gretchen-flesh. I heard a snap, then another, and a rent pair
of panties fluttered from under her dress to the floor.

Finally, Gretchen finished growing. She stood before me, that cute
face unchanged but now atop a seven foot Amazonian body. Her trapezius
muscles alone formed an arc as wide as a normal woman's shoulders, and
her deltoids flared out inches wider. Her pectorals were as thick as a
phone book. Her abdominals were so pumped they actually pressed against
each other, forming a grid of grooves between her chest and her waist.
Gretchen had turned into the incarnation of female muscle. She was a
great, big, hulking, bulging, behemoth of muscular womanhood, clad in
tatters hanging from elbows and waist because no clothing could possibly
fit her. She looked like the most powerful human I had ever seen. She
was also the most erotic thing I had ever imagined.

"Well, Rob," said Dr. Marshall, "our time is just about up for this
week. I'll see you again next week?"

I nodded, unable to take my eyes off Gretchen, not really paying
attention to her words. Then I realized what she said. "Huh?"

"Gretchen, would you please show Mr. Smith the way out?"

Gretchen relaxed her pose and walked over to me. I stared up at the
towering Amazon standing in front of me. Then she reached down and
scooped me up, her right arm under my knees and the left across my back.
I felt her bulging female biceps pressing into my thigh and my back, her
breasts pressed against my side. Carrying me out to the waiting room,
she smiled. "Right this way, Mr. Smith. Oh, you must be uncomfortable,"
she said, eyeing the bulge in my crotch - the bulge she caused by
growing from a ordinary woman into a muscular female powerhouse. "Let me
see if I can help you with that."

She shifted my legs up so that she could curl her right arm around
them to reach my fly. She unzipped it, reached in, and with her long,
strong fingers, tugged my erection out. The feeling of her fingers on it
was electric. Then she set me down to grasp me by the waist and lifted
me high enough that I was looking down at the top of her head and her
massive shoulders. Then she wrapped her lips around my penis. I gasped
at the soft, warm, wetness encircling me. To brace myself, I put my
hands on her wide upper arms. My fingers splayed across rock-hard biceps
and triceps of Herculean proportions. She bobbed her head up and down,
licking and sucking on my cock. Within seconds, I hit orgasm, feeling
the semen building up. I desperately pulled at her arms, trying to force
myself deeper into her mouth, my fingers trying to find purchase in
the dips and swells of Gretchen's bulging muscles. She continued to
pull at my cock, tormenting me with ecstasy. The sensation built and
built, going on for three seconds, five seconds, ten seconds, her mighty
arms holding me effortlessly three feet off the ground in front of the
hugest, strongest, most feminine body on the planet. Finally, the semen
exploded out of me, spasm after spasm, her tongue relentlessly stroking
the underside of my penis.

Eventually my orgasm ended. Gretchen put me down gently and wiped my
flaccid member dry with the tattered remains of her skirt, tucked it
back into my pants, and zipped up my fly. She opened the door for me and
said, "See you next week, Mr. Smith!"

And I dazedly walked out.