Here's another script I wrote to have read to me. If your perversions happen to line up with mine, you might like it. It's probably most titillating if you can find (or hire) a woman with a sexy voice and an open mind to read it to you (without reading it yourself first). But if you want to just read it to yourself, well, I won't stop you. :)
I'm so big, so strong, so muscular, and you're just so weak and puny. Can you imagine what would happen if we met in real life? What would you do? How would you react? Can you imagine it? I can. I know just how a guy like you reacts to a woman like me.
But how do you even encounter me? Maybe you finally decide to put some muscle on your scrawny frame, so you go to the gym. You have some vague idea of what to do there. You've spent so much time scouring the net for pictures of female bodybuilders to jack off to. You couldn't help learning a little bit about what we do in the gym.
So you go to the free weights area, to the dumbbells, and you pick up a pair of twenties to curl. But they're too heavy for you, aren't they. You have to sheepishly put them back on the rack and try again with the tens.
And as you're struggling with your ten pound curls, you see me come in. You can't help but see me, with the mirrors on the walls. You see my broad shoulders and my thick arms, and you want to just stare. But you try to maintain your cool, try not to be obvious, try to watch out of the corner of your eye as I walk up to the dumbbell rack, pick up the seventies, and start curling them. Now you can't help but stare as I curl seven times as much as you can, as my biceps swell up to twice the size of yours.
Your knees go weak. You have to put your little dumbbells back on the rack before you drop them. You feel emasculated, seeing me with muscles twice the size of yours, moving weights you aren't sure you could even lift. You feel jealous, wishing you had solid, strong biceps like mine. You feel like I'm more of a man than you are, than you could *ever* be, but still a woman, a beautiful woman, so much sexier than an ordinary, slender, "normal" woman.
And you feel horny, so horny, looking at my big, sculpted body. You feel your cock stiffen, pressing into your shorts, heavy like a lead weight, and you know your hardon's got to be obvious to everyone, but you can't even check, you can't look away from my bulging arms, still curling seventy pounds each, humiliating you, intimidating you, teasing you, titillating you.
And then you see my eyes meet yours for a moment. I glance down at your crotch, then back up to meet your gaze again, and you see my lips start to curl. But you're too embarassed to hold eye contact, and as you turn and head for the door you're not sure if I was smiling, or smirking, or sneering, or snarling. You just know that *I* know that you were staring at me, at my incredible body. I know that you were comparing yourself to me, comparing your scrawn to my brawn.
You get around the corner, out of sight, and you wonder why I turn you on so much. Is there something about my outsized muscles that speaks to a primitive, prehistoric part of your brain, that says "Yes! Her! Mate with her! Fuck her!" Has evolution crafted you to believe that big biceps and cobblestone abs mean I have good DNA? You know, intellectually, that wide hips and the right amount of body fat make reproduction more successful. You know that facial symmetry, not massive musculature, is a marker of good genes. But intellect doesn't control the flow of your blood to your groin. It's the sight of my muscles flexing, so many inches bigger than yours, that triggers your tumescence.
But you don't really have time for self-psychoanalysis. The little head is in control, not the big one, and it demands to be taken care of. So you pull out your phone, and you peek around the corner, and you snap a picture of me, and you hurry off to the men's room to jack off.
Fortunately, it seems deserted. You hustle into a stall, drop trou, have a seat, and bring up the photo. You start to stroke yourself as you focus on the pixels, zooming in on my biceps, then up to my shoulders and my traps, full of cuts and curves like you wish you had. And even with no lube, you know you're going to come in no time. You're so turned on you're only going to last ten seconds.
Ten seconds to furiously wank to a tiny picture of my bulging biceps, veiny and glistening with sweat, twice the size of yours, curling seven times what yours can do.
Nine seconds to hear the men's room door open. You freeze like a deer in headlights, but your hand keeps stroking, slowly, silently, outside of your conscious control.
Eight seconds to see my feet walk up and stop outside your stall. You see the fingers of one hand grasp the top edge of the stall door and the other grasp the bottom. Your heart pounds with confusion and fear of what's happening.
Seven seconds to see my hands come together, crunching the door with inhuman strength, tearing it from its hinges, wadding it up like paper. You see me revealed in front of you, somehow bigger, far bigger than I was in the weight room.
Six seconds to take in my form. I'm like a monster now, a muscle monster, an avalanche of traps cascading into delts cascading into triceps, all far larger than you thought possible. Each of my muscles is four, five, *six* times larger than yours, each one a redwood where yours is a sapling.
Five seconds to shiver in fear. You can't imagine what kind of strength I must have. I curled seventy in the weight room, but now you're sure I could curl seven hundred. My picture was your pornography, but you don't know what I think about being your porn star. Am I angry? Will I punish you? One punch from my fist, backed up by the diesel locomotives of my triceps, my delts, my pecs, would crush your skull, or tear a hole through your abdomen.
Four seconds for me to reach out and pluck your phone from your hand, see what you're looking at, and glance at your other hand, still involuntarily stroking your erection. My hand curls into a fist, crushing your phone, then opens, dropping the pieces to the floor. Then my hands go to hips, and my elbows go out, and I spread my lats. They unfurl, wider than the doorway of the stall you're in, filling your vision.
Three seconds to see my lips curl, and this time you know it's a smirk. You know that I *want* you to see that I'm not ordinary, no, that I'm something better, something superior to you. I want you to compare yourself to me, and to feel inferior, dwarfed, puny. I want you to cower, to fear me, to know that one of my arms has more muscle than your whole body. I want you to know that I could caress you, or pick you up, or rip your arms off, and you just don't have the strength to stop me, or even slow me down.
Two seconds to know that I know that you're turned on my superior physique. I know that you lust for my muscles *because* they are so much bigger, so much harder, so much stronger than yours. And I know that you envy me, that you wish you had arms and abs and legs like mine, ripped and huge, muscles that would make other men jealous and make women lust for you like you lust for me. You can't decide if you want to fuck my body or have my body.
One second to drink it all in, my monstrous, inhuman muscles. I bring every cliche to life and then blow it up: my diamond calves, my tree-trunk thighs, my washboard abs, my pecs thicker than a New York phone book, my delts like pumpkins, my biceps like soccer balls, my triceps like horseshoes, my lats and traps like a cobra's hood. And then I shove apart the walls of your stall, and they give like cardboard, and I step forward and grab the toilet you're sitting on, and rip it out of the ground, with you still perched on it, still masturbating to my terrifyingly massive muscles, and I lift it and turn it until your ear is at my lips and I say one word.