I started dreaming of strong, tall women before I even knew what sex really was. Something about the way they moved — grounded, unfazed, like nothing could shake them — stirred something in me before I had the language for it. By the time I hit fifteen, it was more than curiosity. I spent long hours browsing old forums, buried LC story archives, grainy lift-and-carry videos. I wasn’t looking for nudity. I was looking for power — the kind that looked effortless, overwhelming, and aimed right at the body of a man too small to resist it.
I was five foot five by the time I finished school. Lean. Not skinny exactly, but soft-shouldered, with smooth skin and no muscle to speak of. I smelled good, always — some mix of cedar and lemon from my father’s old aftershaves, which I’d quietly claimed as my own. My body didn’t change much, and I stopped expecting it to. I wasn’t going to grow into anything bigger. But the craving inside me kept growing. My fingers shook sometimes reading certain lines in those stories — the moments when she lifted him, when he gasped, when she carried him to the bed. I didn’t even need to touch myself most nights. Just the thought of being in her arms — legs dangling, spine against her breasts, her breath warm on my neck — that was enough to make me hard for hours.
And then came Samantha.
A new face in the WWE roster, but within months she had exploded into something else — a force, a fantasy, a phenomenon. She was 6’2″ of pure dominance: stacked, broad, thick in the hips and thighs, but not an ounce of sag. Her breasts were the stuff of legend — massive, high, firm, somehow defying the sheer weight of them. Her matches were brutal, beautiful. She lifted her opponents like toys, hoisted them high, spun them mid-air, then smashed them into the mat with a grin still on her face. Her skin gleamed — sweat-slick, healthy, golden-dark and clean. And her face — not delicate, but striking. High cheekbones, sharp feline eyes, a jawline that tightened when she was about to finish someone. I watched her fight with my fists clenched between my thighs, breath shallow, unable to blink. The way she moved was pure seduction. Not in how she posed, but in what she could do.
Section 1: When She Arrived
And there she was.
Samantha. In person.
I was watching from my bedroom window when the lorry pulled up. First the furniture, then bags, then finally — her.
She stepped down in black tights and a loose hoodie, mirrored sunglasses on her face, but there was no mistaking that body. Thick, towering, calm. She walked straight to the back of the truck, took hold of two giant suitcases — one in each hand — and pulled them down like they were nothing.
I froze.
It was her. The same Samantha I’d watched for years — throwing men twice my size across wrestling rings, hoisting them into the air with a grin. And now she was right below me, dragging her own luggage into my building like she’d done this a hundred times.
The hoodie hung loose, but not loose enough to hide the way her breasts pushed forward — huge, round, tight against the cotton. Her thighs moved in thick, slow steps. The tights clung to every line, every curve. Her hips swayed wide and heavy with each step. The sun lit up the sheen of sweat along her calves, her forearms, even the side of her neck where a few curls clung to her skin.
I couldn’t believe it. She wasn’t just tall — she was big. Built. Beautiful. Like someone had poured her into this world just to wreck small men’s fantasies. And yet here she was, calmly talking to the concierge like this was nothing. He looked stunned too, jaw halfway open.
I stepped back from the window, heart pounding.
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what this meant. But something in my body had already decided: I wasn’t going to let this moment go quietly.
I threw on my floaters, didn’t even check the lock — the smart system could handle it. I just had to see her closer. In flesh. In motion.
By the time I got down, she was at the reception — casually holding one of those massive suitcases like it was a shopping bag. One hand. No effort. Her other arm rested on the desk as she chatted with the concierge, who looked completely lost in her voice, eyes flicking down every few seconds.
I hung back, near the elevator wall. Just far enough to stare.
She was huge. Not in a loud way — in a physical, undeniable way. Her chest pushed out the fabric of that hoodie like it didn’t stand a chance — massive, full, and rising with every breath. The hoodie couldn’t hide the shape of her. Her hips flared out wide, the tights stretched tight across them. Her legs looked like thick stone wrapped in black cloth — not gym-carved, but strong the way a tree is strong.
And her skin. That deep, rich tone — smooth, glowing, damp at the collar. Her curls were pulled up, but a few strands clung to her neck, wet from the heat. Even standing still, she gave off that kind of warmth you could feel from feet away.
She laughed bursa bayan eskort at something the concierge said. A deep, easy laugh. I didn’t hear the words. I didn’t need to.
I just stood there, dazed. Watching her talk. Watching her body move when she turned — the slow sway of those hips, the bounce in her chest — like gravity had to negotiate with her every time she walked.
She was massive but built with feminine grace. That strange, impossible mix — solid as a building, but moved like she wasn’t carrying any weight at all. Her chest rose and fell with calm breaths as she spoke to the concierge, explaining something about her rental agreement, a storage box arriving later, something to do with parking access. I couldn’t concentrate on the words. Just the sound of her voice — low, grounded, and slightly tired, like someone used to being listened to.
Her hand rested casually on the suitcase handle, fingers wide, wrist thick. That alone could’ve undone me. I stood a little to the side, pretending I was waiting for something, but really just watching her body from up close — the width of her thighs, the way her back stretched her hoodie. I wasn’t leering. I just couldn’t not look.
She noticed me eventually. Glanced once, then looked again. Not sharply — just a kind of mild curiosity.
“You live here?” she asked, in that same casual tone.
I straightened up, trying to speak without stammering. “Yeah. Just… 12A.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Next door.”
I nodded.
She gave a small, tired smile. “That makes you my neighbor.”
It wasn’t flirtatious. Just… factual.
I stepped closer. “You need a hand with the bags?”
She looked down at them. One in each hand. One propped behind her with a duffel draped over it.
“You sure?” she said, not mocking, but just mildly surprised.
“Yeah. I mean — if it’s okay.”
She let go of one suitcase and nudged it toward me with her foot. “Grab that one, then.”
I gripped the handle and nearly lost my balance — it was heavier than it looked. Or maybe I was just nervous. I pulled it upright and followed as she walked ahead, hauling the other two with casual ease.
The elevator ride was quiet.
I could hear the faint creak of her duffel strap shifting as she moved. I was hyper-aware of every detail — the scent of her hoodie, the way her arm brushed the side of the doorframe as she leaned to press the button. She didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.
When we reached the 12th floor, she walked out first, turning left, and then paused in front of 12C.
“Thanks,” she said, reaching into her back pocket for the keys. “You can just leave it there.”
I nodded and rolled the suitcase up beside her door. “No problem.”
She unlocked the door, shoulder pressing it open. Then turned slightly.
“You in school?”
“College,” I said. “Starting next month.”
Another slow nod. “Good. Keep at it.”
She gave me a last glance — nothing heavy, just… taking me in. Then she stepped inside, pulling the other bags behind her in one smooth, practiced drag.
The door clicked shut.
And I just stood there for a second, heart still pacing.
Her smell lingered faintly in the corridor.
Back in my flat, I didn’t undress or even sit. I just leaned against the door, eyes closed, trying to come down from the way my body had quietly panicked in her presence — not in fear. In want. In the quiet, impossible pressure of being near someone who didn’t even try to be larger than life. She just was.
And now she lived next door.
The shifting procession continued through the day. One van came and went, then another arrived — this one hefting in heavier things. Furniture first. A large couch, deep brown, probably leather. Then a padded recliner with a wide seat, the kind you sink into sideways. And then came the gym items — thick dumbbells, matte black, in sets heavier than anything I’d seen outside a commercial space. A weight bench. A vertical rack. Some kind of pulley station. And boxes. So many boxes, each one taped to bursting. I stood behind the curtain, watching like it was a private broadcast.
She didn’t bark orders. Just moved with them. Occasionally helped the men carry something up, her hands never tentative. She held one side of a rack while a delivery guy fumbled the other, her arm flexing once through the hoodie — just a ripple, a quick pulse of power — and I felt that same old ache stir in my stomach.
I already knew the layout of the flats. Ours was a quiet luxury complex — spacious, overbuilt, indulgent. Marble floors, soundproof walls, wide glass balconies. The flats were made for serious living. And hers now had everything — strength, comfort, size — all going into it.
Me, I didn’t introduce myself again.
I’d already said too much, probably. Just stood back, quiet. Watching, waiting.
I lived alone, mostly. My parents were around in theory — both professionals, well-off, well-travelled bursa escort bayan — but their actual presence in my life had always been seasonal. My mother called often. My father less. But the flat? That was mine. A caretaker came and went. A cook showed up in the mornings. A cleaner some afternoons. But otherwise, the place was my own — with fast Wi-Fi, every streaming app, headphones that felt like velvet, and enough privacy to drown in my own rhythms. My phone was loaded with more saved LC stories than songs. I read them late at night, fingers curled under the blanket, legs tight.
Girls liked me. In school, they’d called me cute. I was soft-skinned, clean, always smelling good. I didn’t try hard. I didn’t have to. But the ones I wanted — the tall ones, the volleyball girls, the field-track monsters with wide thighs and no patience — they didn’t glance twice. Or if they did, it was with the same smile they gave a pet bird. Something that flutters, but can’t hold weight.
And maybe I was too scared to test that. I never asked. Never tried. I’d tell myself it was timing, or shyness, or bad luck — but I knew. It was my size. My softness. My craving. They didn’t know it, but they could feel it — that I didn’t want to climb them. I wanted to be carried.
So I stayed where I belonged. Watching. Wanting. Unmoving.
And now she was here.
Samantha.
With a gym in her flat. With arms that handled steel like cloth. With a body shaped like a dream I’d never said aloud.
Just one wall between us.
Plans were forming in my mind. I wasn’t about to let this gift from the gods go untroubled. A few soft steps wouldn’t hurt. Nothing pushy — just neighborly. I glanced toward the kitchen, and for once, I thanked my sharp-tongued caretaker. She was impossible most days, but her snacks were something else. There were leftover paneer cutlets in the fridge, still crisp, and a tetra pack of mango juice chilling behind the vegetables. That would do. A little welcome tray — awkward, innocent, useful.
I slapped together the offering, wiped the tray twice, and took a breath. Shirt tucked. Hair brushed with fingers. Not overdone — just enough to look like I hadn’t tried at all.
Her door was slightly ajar when I reached. Not open, but not shut either — the kind of in-between that felt like permission.
I knocked gently, then peeked in. “Hey… it’s me, from next door.”
She didn’t answer right away. Music was playing low from inside — something bass-heavy and rhythmic. I stepped in, slowly, tray balanced in both hands.
The living room was still half-unpacked — boxes, bags, some rolled rugs, a standing lamp tilted in the corner. But beyond that, in the open gym space she’d set up against the far wall, she stood — legs wide, knees bent slightly, lifting a barbell stacked with more weight than I could even guess.
She was barefoot. Tank top now, no hoodie. Skin slick and glowing. Her arms moved like hydraulic pistons — thick, controlled, utterly unfazed. She didn’t grunt. She didn’t shake. She just lifted, held, lowered. Then lifted again.
I forgot to breathe.
Then she saw me.
Her eyes flicked over. One glance. Then she set the bar down with a quiet, final thud — not loud, but deep enough to be felt through the floor.
“Hey,” she said, wiping her face with a hand towel. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
I held out the tray, like an idiot waiter. “Uh… welcome snack? From your neighbour?”
She stared for a second. Then… chuckled. Just once. “That’s sweet.”
I smiled, trying not to melt. “Cutlets. And mango juice. I didn’t cook. But they’re good.”
She came forward, taking the tray from me in one hand — one hand — and set it down gently on the box behind her.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m starving.”
I looked around. “You’re… setting up everything yourself?”
“Mostly,” she said, shrugging. “Got tired of waiting for the lazy ones. This stuff’s not complicated. Just heavy.”
She turned back to the bar, regripped it. I stepped forward.
“I can help, if you want.”
She glanced at me. Her mouth twitched — not unkindly.
“You sure?”
I nodded. She gestured to one of the weight plates still on the floor. “Try sliding that over.”
I bent, gripped it with both hands. It shifted a little — barely. My palms were already damp. I heaved again. It moved two inches.
I looked up. She was watching me now — not amused, not judging. Just… seeing.
“I got it,” she said softly, and with one smooth grip, she picked it up and set it on the bar like it was a frisbee.
“I’m better with the juice,” I said, too late.
She laughed. “I can tell.”
And then, with no more words, she went back to work — lifting, moving, setting. Letting me stand nearby. Letting me be there.
Not invited.
But not turned away either.
And that was enough.
For now.
She set the bar down with a deep, final thud and wiped her face slowly, dragging the towel from her neck to her jawline. The motion lifted her chest in one clean rise — and there they were. Those unbelievable breasts, high and massive, not round like in magazines but heavy and sculpted, the weight of them shifting subtly as she breathed. The thin-strapped vest she wore had darkened completely down the middle — sweat-soaked, light cotton clinging to the full underside of her breasts and gaping just enough at the neckline to show the crease between them. One side of the vest had slipped lower than the other, loose at the armpit, revealing a thick black bra strap vanishing between the slopes of her chest and the raw muscle of her shoulder.
Her stomach was hard and plain — not sculpted for show, just there, taut from the years of lifting bodies. She turned slightly and bent to grab the juice, and in that moment I saw the spread of her glutes under the tiny grey shorts — wide, high, and straining against the fabric. They didn’t ride up. They held. Her hips were enormous, not jiggling, but fully formed — a kind of steady, planted volume that made everything else in the room feel small. Her thighs moved as she turned, flexing with each step — wide-set, cut deep at the inner crease, the skin slick and gleaming like it had been oiled.
She stood again, barefoot on the mat, legs slightly apart as she drank straight from the pack. The sweat ran from under her arms in clean lines, catching light across the dip between her breasts, tracing down the center of her chest to where the fabric clung tightest. The vest shifted as she moved — swinging slightly, sticking in places, then peeling free again with a stretch or shrug.
I stayed standing, mostly because I couldn’t sit without giving myself away. I’d been half-hard from the moment she’d bent to lift that bar, and now it was worse. Not pulsing, not desperate — just an unshakable, low heat. My thoughts had slowed down. Everything I tried to say had to push through the thick pull of arousal.
“You always bring food when you meet neighbors?” she asked, turning to me with a faint smile.
I tried to smile back, voice dry. “Only the famous ones.”
She rolled her eyes, but the grin didn’t go. “Come sit before you pass out.”
I sank down onto one of the floor cushions. She stayed where she was — sitting cross-legged now, legs folded wide, her shorts pulling taut across the thick meat of her thighs. Her chest adjusted slightly with the shift, a soft bounce, the vest sliding low again at the sides. I couldn’t stop my eyes from tracing the motion. She didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.
“I was serious,” I said. “You were… kind of everything to me. When you started showing up in the ring.”
Her gaze held me. “Everything?”
I nodded, slowly. “You were… powerful. In a way that didn’t look forced. You made it look easy. You carried people like it was part of walking.”
She exhaled once, a quiet laugh that shook her shoulders. “Yeah, that was kind of my thing. No drama. Just lift and drop.”
“You still have it,” I murmured.
She smirked. “You say that like I lost it.”
“No. I mean… you haven’t.”
The way her body looked now — soaked, shining, huge — it didn’t feel like she’d lost anything. If anything, she felt closer. Real. Bigger in the flesh than any screen had ever shown.
She leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees. Her cleavage deepened as the vest slipped looser at the neck, the thin fabric clinging in triangles over her breasts, falling open just enough that I could see where it curved into her bra. Her shoulders were wider than her head. Her forearms gleamed. Her entire body sat there casually — fully exposed, fully unbothered, completely at home in itself.
I tried not to shift, but I had to adjust my legs. The erection wouldn’t settle.
“You’re sweet,” she said, not teasing. “Polite. Quiet. Not what I expected from a neighbor.”
I managed a smile. “I’m just trying not to stare.”
“Yeah?” she said, relaxed. “How’s that working out?”
I laughed, quietly. She didn’t press.
I stood too quickly. “I should let you rest.”
She leaned back on her arms, letting her chest rise with the stretch. Her legs opened wider, thighs loose and full. The vest clung to her ribs now, soaked at the side, her whole body shaped in sweat and size.
“Sure,” she said. “Thanks for the juice.”
I turned, walked back out without looking again.
Inside my flat, I leaned against the door, chest rising. I stripped my shirt off with one hand and walked into the bathroom without turning on the light. My skin was hot. My underwear soaked at the tip.
I had sat across from her. I had watched her thighs shift, her breasts sway under that vest, her breath moving through a body that could end mine with one arm.
And she had called me sweet.
I hadn’t even lasted ten minutes.
And I was already hers.
That night I tossed and turned like something was unfinished inside me. I stared at the ceiling, the fan, the faint light blinking on the AC panel — but all I could see was her legs folded wide on the cushion, the sweat darkening her vest, the weight of her breasts rising as she leaned back on those thick, glossy arms. Her voice echoing faintly: “You’re sweet.”