Irys
I decide that now's a good time for her to train, specifically at the gym for some weightlifting now that it's empty.
The Uma girls here at Tracen Academy are quite a bit larger than humans. Both taller and bulkier on average. But Rudolf's physique is exceptional even by those standards. She is a commanding height of 8 feet tall. But even more impressive is her musculature. She looks absolutely swollen with muscle, her broad shoulders barely fit through doors and give her an intimidating silhouette, her weight is definitely over 600 pounds of dense muscle, and in general she's leagues above even the most impressive human athletes.
She changed into her training uniform, standard gym shorts and t-shirt, the largest available but still just barely fitting. Her stomach is exposed, showing faint definition and a thick waist. Even though she's very buff, she's actually pretty thick and husky and soft all over. Her body is built for efficient practical strength, much like what you'd see from professional weightlifters or linebackers.
I instruct her on what lifts and muscle groups to focus on, and she goes to work with that usual calm confidence.
Symboli Rudolf
She nodded solemnly as she rose from the chair, the plush carpet muffling the sound of her footsteps. With each stride, the lamp light played across her form, illuminating the expansive breadth of her shoulders, the thick cords of muscle that roped her arms.
She paused at the door, glancing back. Not quite smiling, but something in her eyes softened. A flicker of anticipation.
In the gymnasium, she moved with the same deliberate step. The fluorescent lights flickered to life overhead, casting harsh shadows across the polished floor. She stood taller than the mirrors lining the walls, her reflection stretching and warping with each movement.
She had changed into her training attire— standard gym shorts and a plain tee, both straining at the seams to contain her bulk. The fabric of her shorts rode high on her thick thighs, exposing more of her tanned, muscular legs. Her stomach was bare, a faint line of abs visible beneath the soft swell of her midsection, the curve of her waist round and proud.
She watched as Irys demonstrated the lifts, her expression focused, intent. No words were exchanged, but her gaze spoke volumes—trust, concentration, a keen desire to excel.
She moved to the squat rack, the metal frame dwarfed by her imposing stature. Barbell in hand, she settled into position, gripping the slick steel with calloused palms. With a deep breath, she stepped forward, the weight a mere trifle to her enormous strength.
Up she rose, muscles flexing and bulging with each rep. Her quads swelled, stretching the seams of her shorts to their limit. The air around her seemed to tremble with each step, the weight of her body a tangible force.
She completed the set with practiced ease, a sheen of sweat glistening on her brow. She stepped back, the bar clanking softly against the rack. In the mirror, her reflection loomed large and proud, a monument to power and discipline.
She turned to Irys, a flicker of something—approval, perhaps, or appreciation—in her eyes. No words were needed. The unspoken message hung in the air between them: her strength was a testament to her dedication, and she would not waver in her pursuit of perfection.
Irys
Irys looked on in quiet awe. It was difficult to stay professional while staring at Rudolf's thick powerful body as she works up a sweat, simultaneously seeing her as both a virile beast and a graceful feminine woman. But Irys kept calm, for the sake of keeping training professional, since that was Rudolf's preference. After training, however, is when she privately indulges in her feelings of lust. Rudolf treats training and racing as seriously as she can, but buried deep within is a pure thrill about her own size and strength. The way she engages with this thrill is by having Irys practically worship her physique, which Irys willingly obliges. In one sense she likes being praised by her trainer and having her hard work validated. In another sense she seems to enjoy how humans are significantly smaller and weaker than herself, and how it stirs a protective urge within her.
Symboli Rudolf
She stood before the mirror, chest heaving softly as she caught her breath. Beads of sweat trickled down the curves of her muscles, catching in the valleys and peaks of her physique. Her skin glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights, a sheen of exertion and pride.
She turned to Irys, a flicker of something unspoken in her eyes. A question. A challenge. A dare.
Irys met her gaze, professionalism warring with admiration in their own expression. They knew the unspoken rules, the boundaries that must be maintained during training. But they also knew the unspoken understanding that came after, the private moment of tribute and respect.
She stepped closer, the floorboards creaking softly beneath her weight. She loomed over Irys, a tower of raw power and femininity. The musk of her exertion filled the air between them, a primal scent that spoke of strength and vitality.
She reached out, one hand coming to rest on Irys's shoulder. Her fingers splayed, the heat of her touch searing even through the fabric of Irys's shirt. She leaned down, her breath a whisper against Irys's ear.
"I can feel your eyes on me," she murmured, her voice a low, intimate rumble. "Tell me, Irys... do I meet your expectations?"
It was a loaded question, ripe with double meaning. She knew the effect her physique had on Irys, the way it stirred a mix of awe and desire. She reveled in it, this knowledge of her own power and allure.
Her other hand came up, tracing the line of Irys's jaw with a single fingertip. Softly. Gently. A feather-light touch that belied the strength coiled in her form.
"I train for more than just the races," she breathed, her lips a hairsbreadth from Irys's skin. "I train for moments like this. For the chance to see the appreciation in your eyes. The worship."
She pulled back slightly, enough to meet Irys's gaze. Her own eyes glimmered with a mix of pride and something more primal. A hunger.
"Don't hold back, Irys," she purred, a challenging edge to her tone. "Let me see that admiration. Let me feel it."