“Watch the purple drip down my peaks…”

Violette’s studio was quiet except for the soft scrape of bristles against canvas and the occasional wet splatter of paint. Candlelight flickered across lavender wallpaper, throwing warm shadows over her impossibly swollen arms. She stood on a low stool so you could look straight up at her from the velvet chaise, paintbrushes pinched delicately between thick fingers.

Her biceps were obscene — round, glossy cannonballs streaked with fresh violet that slid along the deep separations and pooled in the hollows of her veins. Every time she lifted a brush to the easel behind her, those peaks rose higher, splitting wider, the skin stretching so tight it caught the light like wet marble. Paint ran in slow rivulets down the swollen outer heads, tracing every cable of muscle until it dripped from her elbow in lazy purple tears.

She bit her lower lip, cheeks flushed the same soft pink as the blush she never needed to apply. “I… I got a little carried away mixing colors,” Violette whispered, voice small despite the sheer size of her. Her traps rose like mountains on either side of her slender neck, bunching higher as she shyly flexed both arms at once. The brushes trembled in her grip; her forearms were thick ropes, veins fat and angry under the glaze of paint.

A fat drop slid from the underside of her right bicep, hanging for a moment before it fell — splat — right onto her cleavage. The white silk wrap she wore was already soaked through in places, clinging to the heavy shelf of her pecs. Those slabs jumped when the cool paint hit them, making the fabric twitch and outline every deep groove between them.

She glanced down at you, violet eyes glassy with something between embarrassment and pride. “It’s messy, I know… but do you like how the color looks sliding over everything I worked so hard for?” Her voice cracked just a little. She gave the tiniest bounce of her chest; her pecs flexed involuntarily, squeezing together so hard the silk squeaked. Another streak of paint rolled down the deep valley and vanished beneath the wrap.

Violette lowered one brush and let her arm hang, bicep still ballooned to full, ridiculous size. The muscle twitched, veins pulsing under translucent skin. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her wrist so the paint ran the other way — down the thick underside, over the horseshoe of her tricep, dripping off in thick globs.

“I can keep painting if you want,” she murmured, cheeks burning darker, “or… I can just stand here and let you watch it drip. I don’t mind which. I just—” She swallowed, the cords in her neck standing out sharp. “I like when you look at them this close.”

The candles hissed. Another drop fell, tracing the swollen curve of her left bicep before it slid all the way down to her wrist, leaving a shining violet trail over every hard-earned inch.