Hand-blended frapuccino

Considering the immense amount of wrist strength required to blend that shit by hand you're not surprised to see her get larger. In the blink of an eye she grows exponentially more muscled. Slender forearms replaced with thick strands of muscle and 3d veins under perfect skin. Her stature has increased two feet at least to 7 foot at your estimate. The rest of her arms were similarly clad with impressive triceps and biceps belonging to a long time gym goer, and her shoulders were akin in size to the bowling ball you usually use. Every part of her upper torso, massive slabs of pec, Adonis-like abs chizled into iron flesh, and traps you could hang your dress shirt on, were incredibly lean. This woman had such little fat where it counted, veins permeated her skin like an erotic road map. And on top of that, she had simply colossal tits behind a gingham dress shirt tied in the front with no sleeves. It seems your powers have made her into a manager, but realistically, could you imagine this build as anything else. Her shirt displayed not only her delectable midsection, but the beginnings of something more.

Seven feet tall is a lot of leg, and WHAT A LEG! Hamstrings the size of actual pigs, quads with more torque than a miata, the calves of an Olympic sprinter, and all cased within skinny jeans, How? I really don't care how she got them on, only if she can get them off, though with those forearms she could rip up the tile if she didn't like it. Her face remained similar, though her hair changed to more of a cyberpunk pixie cut than prior, and her voice was still adorable, just BOOMING. "Give me three minutes sir and I'll have your drink for you." She turned and you could swear you felt the ground shake with her steps. Her back was vast and textured, rolling hills of muscle tapering at her waist, and a smooth valley road into her ass crack. The belt of her skinny jeans hid a magnificently crafted booty, the work of years of squatting and deadlifting. Her legs as a whole would spook a horse for a variety of reasons, the key reason being jealousy.

She turns back to update you on the frap, "I'm sorry sir, did you want lemon?" "Please," You answer. She proceeds to pull a pre-sliced lemon from a bin and squeeze it into a bowl. Her forearms flex and strain, veins appearing on the backside of her hand, and the lemon unable to withstand the pressure crumbles. She turns back and once more hand-blends the lemon into your frap, you enjoy the sight of her body flexing and straining to mix your humble drink. Yet your odyssey comes to a close when she returns, fluffy frap in hand. A perfect swirl of whipped cream, but it's missing something, "Would you like caramel or chocolate dressing?" You answer the giantess inquiry with, "Caramel, please." She pulls out a poorly cleaned caramel squeeze bottle and gives it a college try. At first only using her grip, then switching to a press together in front of her chest, and settling on placing the caramel bottle in a head lock. Every ounce of arm muscle is glistening with sweat and power, just to be defeated by a squeeze bottle. The sheer power she's exerting could move a train, or in our case, burst the side of a squeeze bottle onto your shirt.

The herculean effort attempted was not in vain, for someone got sticky, someone with no qualms AT ALL. She undid her shirt by the front knot and let loose her magnificent mammaries. For a woman so lean, you would surely expect them to be smaller in the breast category, but not at all for her. Two DDD cup tits fell from heaven and landed in your field of vision. She herself was so grandiose that her breasts looked average in comparison, but at this distance you could tell the sheer size and shape were worth your precious time. "I'm so sorry about the caramel, can I offer you chocolate drizzle, or anything else I can help you with." This soft spoken mammoth was offering you too much