Chapter 2

He was laying down on a bench, pushing up a long bar with an unreasonable amount of weights on both sides.

She was star truck when she saw him, and she stood there, frozen like a fish next to a shark, as her brain struggled to comprehend what she saw.

For one, the place was packed. Not just the gym as a whole, but that area specifically; that space around the man, where a huge crowd had formed, all as awestruck and dumbfounded as the “princess.”

Secondly, there were… them.

The babes.

The bitches.

All of the hottest women in the community were there, in the front rows around that man, watching the spectacle unfold.

All of the hottest, largest-breasted bitches of the beach were there, even the ones who never went to the gym.

In these babes, she recognized few friends and many rivals.

For a brief instant, her mind was taken off that stranger—that man!—and pulled inwards into her own insecurities.

She was a babe. A hot babe. One of the hottest babes in the world, indeed… but she wasn’t the hottest. At least, she didn’t think so.

For starters, she was tiny. She wasn’t too small for a woman, but she felt like a pygmy in that wealthy, prosperous community where the next shortest girl was, like, six freaking feet tall!

For comparison, she was 5’4’’. Very petite, and made even cuter, even doll-like, thanks to her erotic, but perpetually young face.

Her (self-perceived) shortness was what convinced her to go into fitness in the first place. If she couldn’t be big in height, at least she make herself as big and strong in muscles as possible.

Vertically challenged, but horizontally well-endowed, so to speak.

Second insecurity: her plans for muscle growth didn’t actually pan out as she expected.

She actually had wanted to grow as big as possible, taking inspiration on those roided up, turbo-charged Brazilian fitness models with massive muscles, solid abs, colossal butts, and supersized fake tits with dozens of pounds of silicone each.

At first, when she started pulling weights, she wanted to have become as big and muscled as possible… but her genetics begged to differ.

Though she had crafted the tightest, firmest body possible for a woman of her size, her body had clear limits beyond which it wouldn’t go without artificial, cosmetic intervention—something that she was vehemently against, even with all her personal adoration of those clearly fake Brazilian muscle babes and such.

After three years of intense training and light protein shake use, she became a stunning fitness babe… but that’s about it.

Her legs were long, incredibly long for her frame, and her thighs yet fat, girthy, and muscular. Perfect tanned, olive-skinned juicy thighs that allowed for a big, round, hard ass—another point of pride in her gym achievements.

Her thick thighs always rubbed together when she walked, to the point there was almost no visible space between them under the pussy, and all the way down to her knees.

Furthermore, her wide hips added all the space needed for her big, colossal ass. Well, “colossal” for her frame, though she did feel her ass was the most out-sized part of her body, overwhelming even the thickness of her legs to show even from the front.

You could see her ass from the front! You could easily spot her butt cheeks while standing before her—again, another reason for her immense pride in her rear.

Big. Round. Firm. Actually, it was the hardest part in her body, even harder than her flexed thighs and calves.

Her ass was rock-solid, always pointing up when it was soft and unflexed, and veritably rippling and expanding with muscled whenever she did flex it… or whenever she walked, hypnotizing the passerbies with the sensuous undulations of her dancing cheeks, the powerful ups and downs of her turgid, bloated orbs.

People asked her if her ass was real, or if she had done some procedure like BBL.

No one believed her when she told them that, yes, her ass was real, just like the rest of her.

Another point of pride: every inch of her body was natural.

A bigger point of pride still: every one—and I mean, everyone—reacted with shock and disbelief when she told them this.

Because she was indeed, stunning, and her body was bountiful and unreal like no natural body could possibly be—but hers was, and this was due to her perfect genes.

“The flawless genetics of queens and kings,” she softly muttered to herself at points, whenever she looked at her gorgeous form in the mirrors.

Her mother. Her daddy.

Her long line of conquerors, nobles, and colonial administrators.

Her carefully curated bloodline of beauties and studs, always with stunners on both sides of her family.

Her mother? The most beautiful woman in the Arab world.

Her father? A massive, over-muscular man who’d tragically died trying to storm a castle in Syria. Or something.

A long lineage of flawless genes.

Genes. Genetics. Blood. She always thought about herself in such direct, clear terms.

“Never forget this, my daughter,” she always remembered the words of her mother just as clearly. “You are superior to other people. We are superior because of our blood. Our good genes. That’s what makes us wonderful and beautiful. That’s what makes us…”

Gods. And kings.

Queens. And princesses.

She took incredibly pride in her genetic superiority, and she would never dare to blemish it with crude, artificial procedures like surgeries, injections, or even something as quaint as steroids.

No. These things, she reasoned, were for inferior bloodlines. Inferior peoples.

Her mother never needed these. Neither her father, for all she knew him.

For thousands of years, her family had produced the most genetically primed individuals with nothing but spontaneous, natural selection—and she wouldn’t be the one to break the chain, succumbing to the crutches of naturally inferior, subordinate people.