[Fonk]

Ca, c'est un histoire bien sexy! 8)

[Fonk]

Very good work, sir! ;D

[Fonk]

Dude, I want that bad girl. Thanks for sharing your always awesome art!

[Fonk]

You have a good style of nice, realistic-looking strength. Good stuff! 8)

[Fonk]

I love the slow burn. Keep going! ;D

[Fonk]

My tactic is to make myself write a few words on the story I'm working on every day. Sometimes, if I've got the time, I'll go back over what I've written and switch a few things around. It's not a race or a competition of any kind, you can work away at your story at your own pace.

I wish you good luck with your writings.

[Fonk]

Pleasantly cartoony. Good stuff!

[Fonk]

That is some good art, right there. Thanks for posting, sir!

[Fonk]

The only FMG thing involving Serum 157a I can think of is a growth comic by Leviathan. Here is his DeviantArt page.

Hope this helps!

[Fonk]

New Generation 1

I picked up the pace to cover the last few metres that kept me from the “Old Buccaneer”, an unpopular pub where I particularly liked to take people: the place had a certain je ne sais quoi that put me in mind of the intense atmosphere of noir films.

That evening I was to meet Gilles, a childhood friend that I had lost touch with over the years. The chance was too good for me not to invite him to this lugubrious spot.

I pushed the pub door open, and was shaken from my thoughts by the tinkling of the bell above me, chiming gently on the wind.

“The door!”

“Oh! Sorry. Nasty weather, isn’t it?” I shut the door behind me and went straight to the bar.

“Hi Paul. Has anyone been asking for me?”

“No! Are you expecting someone?” The barman carried on cleaning the glass he was holding, looking at me over the top of his glasses. Without waiting for my reply, he continued: “A beer?”

“No! In this sort of weather, I’d rather have a coffee.”

Whilst Paul busied himself getting the coffee, I headed, as usual, for the back of the room. I liked to sit down, a little out of the way, to watch people. Their habits, their little ways. I often found things that helped me to fill out the characters of my novels. I had chosen the spot carefully: I could see the whole of the room and everyone in it. Furthermore, as it was so badly lit, if I sat still no-one ever noticed that I was there. I sat down, found a comfortable position, sipped at my coffee and started to drift off to sleep.

My second coffee was getting cold in the cup when the doorbells rang again.

A young woman wearing a raincoat came to the bar. She looked around her as if looking for someone, and then ordered a coffee. She then came towards a table near to where I was sitting, but without noticing me. She took off her coat to get comfortable and I couldn’t believe my eyes. She had the most impressively muscular body you could imagine. Her large and powerful shoulders were like two bowling balls leading down to arms of such thick musculature I felt hypnotised. Her thighs looked like they had been sculpted from granite and contained more muscle on their own than a champion bodybuilder.

She went over and leaned on the bar.

“Do you know a man called Alban?”

Paul had gone pale, terrified at the power emanating from the young woman. He stood there, petrified, emptying a bottle of cognac into a glass that was already full. She smiled as she saw the precious liquid spread out over the zinc. She grabbed the bottle, and the man’s hand. She righted the bottle and waited for a response whilst keeping the poor man’s hand prisoner. As it didn’t come, she asked the question again.

“Do you know a man called Alban?”

“Alban…?” He cleared his throat and swallowed so that he could carry on. “Sure, I know him! Look, he’s sat at the back, over there.”

She looked over to where the barman was indicating and, without turning round, thanked him and headed over to me. The muscles of her thighs flexed and tensed with each step. They were so big that, with each step, the rubbing of one thigh on the other sent them both flying. However, the closer she got to me, the firmer and more invigorated they seemed. When she got close to me, her thighs looked like they were made of tempered steel.

As I was sitting down when she came toward me, I had an unrivalled view of her enormous quadriceps. Her knees were at the same level as the table top. Her enormous thighs nearly filled my field of vision. I looked over her body for anything that wasn’t muscle. Around the level of my eyes was the hem of her tiny summery dress. Its stitching was very stretched. I lifted my head to see her face.

Her abdominal muscles imprinted themselves on the fabric, stretched to its limit by a large flared back. My neck got pushed further into the collar of my shirt but I could still only see the undersides of her enormous breasts, casting their long shadows on me. I had to lean backwards to look her in the eyes – she was gorgeous!

Her long blonde hair cascaded onto her shoulder and she brushed a hand through it, sweeping it behind her. She knew I was looking at her, so she took the chance to flex her phenomenal biceps, leaving no doubt as to her intentions: she wanted to impress me. It was a waste of time: I’d been impressed for quite a while!

Good Lord, she was beautiful! I’ve seen loads of pretty blue-eyed blondes, real ones, fake ones. All of them now seemed dull when faced with so much beauty.

She crouched down in front of me, turning her hips slowly so that her knees were turned to one side. She put her hands on the table and spoke.

“Are you Alban?”

I hesitated a bit before replying, but decided it must have something to do with my meeting with Gilles.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Gilles is not coming.”

“Oh! That doesn’t make sense. He gave me the impression over the phone that this was pretty important for him. I don’t understand.”

“It’s *very* important, Mr. Naudin!”

I wanted to say “call me Alban”, but I was afraid how she might react if I tried to appear casual with her.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “If it was so important, he…”

She finished my sentence: “… would have come?” Then she continued. “But *I’m* here. My father sent me to look for you.”

“Your father? But I don’t know your father!”

“Oops!” She put a finger on her lips.

I followed her well-manicured finger with my eyes and stopped at her lips. They were marvellously well-drawn. She must have used a very light mauve lip pencil, being unable to correct what was naturally perfect. She had put on some lip gloss, a deliciously tender pink colour. As she pressed on with her finger, little reflections revealed the true volume of her luscious lips. She interrupted my lip contemplation:

“Are you listening?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“Good! I’m Gilles’ daughter, Adriana.”

“You must be joking!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been friends with Gilles for ages and he’s never mentioned you. If you think I’m going to come with you, you are sadly mistaken! I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but you’re not going to get anything out of me.”

She grabbed the cup of coffee that I’d left and wrapped her fingers around it. Then she put her elbow on the table in front of her and snapped her wrist behind her, the palm of her hand facing upwards. She shot me a look full of mischief and started to tighten her grip on the cup. I looked at her, unmoved, while she shot me her prettiest smile. The muscles of her arms slowly got bigger and bigger, filling up with thickly engorged veins.

CRACK! The cup began to give under the pressure. She moved her hand away to show me that it had cracked into tiny pieces. I started to go pale. How could she have broken the cup using only her fingers? I tried to imagine how much strength you would need to…

CRACK! The young woman redoubled her efforts as her fingers closed inexorably around the cup. I began to her cracking noises which became more and more numerous. The sound was like crushing a bunch of twigs. When her hand had completely closed over the cup silence reigned once more.

She then grabbed my hand, palm outstretched, and started to pour the remnants of the cup into it: tiny little bits of porcelain in what was mostly powder.

“So, shall we go?” she said calmly.

“I don’t know if – argh! Stop! Argh! You’re going to break my hand!”

“So, shall we go?” she said, just as calmly as before.

I couldn’t stop myself from crying, the pain was so bad. I desperately tried to get my fingers out of Adriana’s hand, but it was no use.

“Yes! Yes!” I said. “Let’s go!”

[Author]

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