Her hand cages you against the sweep of her thighs, bronzed monuments of muscle slick with sunscreen and water. They’re impossibly smooth, powerful with every shift, the kind of thighs that could squeeze the life out of you without effort.
But beyond them, looming over you like an altar to temptation and terror, is her ass.
It’s breathtaking. Round, high, sculpted from strength and softness. The bikini strains across it, biting into the plush swell and accentuating its impossible curves. At your size, it’s not just a body part — it’s a living wall of muscle and flesh, glistening in the sun, flexing subtly each time she shifts her stance.
You can’t stop staring. You don’t want to. Every slight movement makes it quake with power, each flex reminding you how devastatingly strong she is. It’s hypnotic, the kind of perfection that draws your eyes even as your stomach knots with fear.
And that’s when the shame hits. Your body betrays you, heat sparking low in your gut at the sight of her perfection. A goddess’s rear, bronzed and powerful, so close you can see the faint sheen of lotion beading on the smooth surface. You ache with a mixture of terror and arousal, hating yourself for it, knowing she could erase you against that flesh with a thought.
Her dark eyes follow your gaze, and the slow smirk that spreads across her lips tells you she’s read every ounce of your shame. “Qué mirón (such a little looker),” she teases, voice husky and low. “You like this? Tan pervertido (so perverted).”
“No!” you shout, thrashing in her grip. “I’m not your toy! I’m a person!” Your fists hammer uselessly against her thumb. “You can’t just—”
Her thumb slams you against her thigh, hard enough to make your chest heave for air. The skin is hot and unyielding, satin stretched over steel. “Shhh,” she whispers, though now her voice is dark, commanding. “Dolls don’t yell.”
You push back again, gasping, “I won’t be your plaything!”
Her smile sharpens. She drags you lower, down along the curve of her ass, rubbing your body against the taut fabric that clings to her. The flesh is plush yet firm, rippling with hidden strength. She presses harder, grinding you into the soft give until you’re half buried, smothered by heat and power.
“Mira qué chiquito eres (look how tiny you are),” she murmurs. “You fight, but you’re nothing in my hand. You fit against me like you were made for this.”
Her free hand hooks under the waistband at the top of her rear. The elastic stretches, a band of sunlight flooding the humid darkness inside. You can see where you’ll be sent — the deep cleft below, a canyon of bronzed flesh. The heat rolls out like a furnace.
You squirm, panic in your chest. “No! Not there! Please!”
Bianca chuckles, a husky, knowing sound that vibrates through you. Her eyes glitter as she whispers, “Esto puede ir mucho peor para ti (this can go much worse for you). Obey… or I’ll show you how bad it can get.”
Her fingers push, sliding you under the waistband. You sink into darkness and heat, your body smothered against her skin. The spandex snaps shut above with a cruel sting. You’re trapped.
You try to crawl upward, wriggling desperately, but she feels every movement. Her hand presses you down, sliding you lower until you’re wedged in the humid cleft of her cheeks. The walls of flesh close in around you, muscular and soft, flexing with every breath she takes.
Her whisper pours down, low and intimate: “Quédate ahí, mi malcriado (stay there, my bad boy). If you keep fighting, I’ll bury you deeper. And maybe then you’ll learn.”
She pats her rear once, playfully, sealing you into your prison. Then her lifeguard voice brightens as if nothing happened: “Next four, step in carefully!” The world outside laughs and cheers. The world inside is heat, musk, and shameful arousal as your body betrays you against her perfect, muscular curves.
And echoing in your mind, her warning: Esto puede ir mucho peor para ti. Quédate ahí, mi malcriado. (This can go much worse for you. Stay there, my bad boy.)
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