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The She-Devils

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The aroma of liniment and sweat hung heavy in the air as Phillip nervously tapped his email, heart drumming a frantic samba against his ribs. "Subject: Breaking World Record! Seeking 10 Amazonian Ladies!" the title screamed, a desperate plea disguised as a bold challenge. He'd sent the email to every women's sports team within a 50-mile radius, his ultimate goal shrouded in a thick fog of foot fetish and dubious record-breaking aspirations.

Pete Tino the Human Floor is the current world record holder for most weight (2000lbs 10 x 200lb women) bodyweight standing upon a person. I wish to break this record Phillip's email read.

Finally, a reply. From the notorious She-Devils, the local women's rugby team, known for their thunderous tackles and legendary post-game brawls. Coach "Iron" Matilda herself had responded, her email a terse, "You serious, pipsqueak? We're in. Next practice, 10 AM sharp. Don't disappoint."
I am Mistress J Weight's personal weighing scale, yes I'm very fortunate.
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Last edit: 1 year 1 month ago by Weighing Scales.
1 year 1 month ago #1229

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Replied by Weighing Scales on topic The She-Devils

Phillip's heart hammered a frantic tattoo against his ribs as he stood before Matilda, the She-Devils' coach. The air hung thick with the musky scent of sweat and liniment, a far cry from the flowery perfume he was used to. Posters of the She-Devils, each woman a sculpted monument of muscle, loomed over him like mocking deities.
"So, Phillip," Matilda boomed, her voice a gravel-laden foghorn, "ready to meet the real meaning of 'heavyweight'?"
Phillip gulped, his throat drier than a desert wind. "I-I guess," he stammered, his eyes flickering nervously out of the window to the approaching tide of tracksuited amazons.
Matilda's smile widened, revealing teeth that could have chewed through granite. "Excellent! But before we get to the main course, let's have a little amuse-bouche, shall we?"
With a gesture, she pointed to the floor, its polished wood gleaming like a taunting mirror. "Lay down, pipsqueak. Let me give you a taste of what's to come."
He obeyed, his body protesting with every creak of his joints. Matilda loomed over him, a towering mountain of muscle and floral-patterned tracksuit. Her shadow engulfed him like a tidal wave, and then, with a grunt that shook the room, she planted her size 14 cleat squarely on his chest.
The air instantly sucked from his lungs. His ribs groaned under the immense pressure, his spine protesting like an ancient gate in a hurricane. Matilda chuckled, her voice rumbling through him like an approaching avalanche.
"Not bad, pipsqueak," she rumbled, her weight settling in with the crushing finality of a fallen redwood. "Got some padding there. But let me tell you something. I weigh 350 pounds, pure muscle and sweat. Imagine ten of me, each heavier than a baby elephant, standing on you like a human rug."
Phillip squeezed his eyes shut, the thought of ten Matildas a symphony of pain echoing in his mind. His fantasy of delicate toes tiptoeing across his chest evaporated faster than a snowflake on a hot stove.
Just then, the door burst open, and a cacophony of feminine war cries filled the air. The She-Devils had arrived, ten ironclad goddesses in neon tracksuits, each one a monument to pure, unadulterated muscle.
Matilda, still perched atop Phillip's chest, chuckled, her voice cutting through the excited chatter. "Ladies, gather 'round! Time to show this little fella the true meaning of 'heavyweight'!"
The She-Devils, eyes widening at the unusual scene, converged like a curious stampede. "Matilda, what in the scrum are you doing?" boomed Brenda, the prop, whose calves could probably crush watermelons.
Matilda, nonchalantly shifting her weight on Phillip's ribcage, grinned. "Introducing our newest team member, ladies. Meet Phillip… or rather, his flattened version. He's here to help us break that ridiculous record, the one held by that puny 'Human Floor' fellow. Today ladies, you're all going to stand on him, at the same time!"
A collective gasp echoed through the room. Phillip, buried under Matilda's massive form, felt his humiliation bloom hotter than a habanero. Beatrice, the fly-half, squatted down, her eyes sparkling with mischievous amusement. "He looks more like a flattened pancake, Matilda. Are you sure he can handle ten of us?"
Matilda chuckled, her foot leaving a faint imprint on Phillip's sternum. "Oh, he'll manage. Won't you, pipsqueak? Ten glorious ladies, each heavier than a baby elephant, about to stand on you like a human stepladder to record-breaking fame!"
The She-Devils erupted in a cacophony of reactions. Olga, the lock, whistled. Fiona, the flanker, grinned like a wolf eyeing a plump sheep. Gertrude, the scrum-half, snorted, "He better hope his spine is made of concrete."
Phillip, buried under the avalanche of laughter and anticipation, felt his resolve crumble faster than a stale biscuit. This wasn't a record-breaking attempt. This was public torture masquerading as a sporting event. Ten mountains of muscle, each eager to add their weight to his soon-to-be-pulverized body.
I am Mistress J Weight's personal weighing scale, yes I'm very fortunate.
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1 year 1 month ago #1230

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Replied by Weighing Scales on topic The She-Devils

Matilda pointed out to the field "go lay down little lamb" she said to Phillip "I'll lead the lions, come on ladies let's see what we're working with, line up for your weigh-in".

As Phillip lay there, a crumpled fly beneath the sky's vast indifference, the She-Devils paraded past, their muscles pulsing like molten lava beneath neon tracksuits. Each stride sent tremors through the earth, each glance a searing spotlight revealing the terrifying depths of their weight.

Brenda, the prop, lumbered past first, her bald head gleaming like a polished cannonball. As she stepped onto the platform, the scales groaned in protest, eventually settling on a bone-chilling 285 lbs. "Not bad, Brenda," Matilda boomed, clapping her shoulder that could probably level a brick wall. "Keeping that mountain steady!"

Olga, the lock, followed, her arms thicker than Phillip's thighs and rippling with enough power to bench press a baby elephant. The platform creaked ominously as she stepped on, the numbers jumping to a jaw-dropping 310 lbs. Matilda chuckled, her voice a rumble that could crack boulders. "Solid rock, Olga! You're the foundation of this human Everest!"

Fiona, the flanker, a deceptive ballerina wrapped in the physique of a sumo wrestler, weighed in at 250 lbs. Her smile, sharp as a switchblade, hinted at the explosive power hidden beneath her deceptively slender frame. "Agile muscle, Fiona," Matilda noted, tapping her biceps that could probably crush coconuts.

Beatrice, the fly-half, a whirlwind of speed and power, was a blur of motion as she stepped onto the platform. The scales blinked, barely able to keep up with her quick movements: 225 lbs. Matilda's grin widened, revealing teeth honed on pure athleticism. "Lightning with thunder thighs," she roared. "You'll be our finishing bolt, Bea!"

Gertrude, the scrum-half, a pocket dynamo with legs like tree trunks, trampled onto the platform with surprising agility. The scale coughed up a respectable 205 lbs. Matilda patted her reassuringly. "Don't let the size fool you, Phillip," she boomed. "Gertrude's a pocket powerhouse!"

Each name, each number, was a hammer blow to Phillip's already-splintered confidence. The booming pronouncements felt less like compliments and more like pronouncements of his impending doom. The air crackled with anticipation, the combined weight of these women a tangible force pressing down on him.

Finally, it was Iron Matilda's turn. The She-Devils held their breath as she stepped onto the platform, the metal groaning under her immense weight. The numbers climbed agonizingly slow: 350 lbs. A ripple of awe ran through the team, punctuated by Matilda's own satisfied nod.

"3,325 lbs!" Matilda roared, her voice shaking the heavens. "That, Phillip, is the weight of history in the making. The weight of ten ironclad goddesses about to squash your record into oblivion!"

Phillip's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. His breath escaped in shallow gasps, each one a whispered prayer to some indifferent god. Ten mountains, 3,325 lbs of pure, unadulterated female power, poised to crush him like a hapless grape under a juggernaut. The weigh-in wasn't just a tally of numbers; it was a grim foreboding, a prelude to his impending humiliation.

The She-Devils, electrified by the combined weight and the prospect of the record, lined up, a wall of grinning muscle facing their sacrificial lamb. Phillip closed his eyes, the image of ten cleated boots descending upon him a terrifying tableau etched in his mind. His foolish dream of breaking a record had morphed into a nightmare of epic proportions, and there was no waking up.

But amidst the terror, a sliver of morbid curiosity flickered. How heavy, he wondered, would each individual boot feel on his body? Brenda's boulder-like foot? Olga's anvil of a cleat? Beatrice's lightning strike of weight? The anticipation, morbid and exhilarating, turned his fear into a twisted fascination. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the avalanche of weight, the symphony of crushing bone and protesting sinew. He was about to be flattened, yes, but he would also be weighed, measured, and judged in the most brutal, awe-inspiring way imaginable.

The record might be smashed, but Phillip, in his own twisted way, was about to discover the true weight of his ambition.
I am Mistress J Weight's personal weighing scale, yes I'm very fortunate.
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1 year 1 month ago #1231

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Replied by Weighing Scales on topic The She-Devils

The air thrummed with a pre-storm tension as the She-Devils lined up, ten ironclad goddesses poised to become ten human compactors. Phillip lay on his back, a sacrificial offering on the altar of their athletic glory. Each stride of their cleats sent tremors through his body, a drumbeat of impending doom.

Brenda, the prop, led the charge. Her shadow, vast and terrifying, engulfed Phillip as she stepped onto his chest. The earth groaned under her weight, a tectonic plate shifting. Phillip's lungs squeezed shut, his ribs creaking like ancient timbers under a battering ram. He tasted bile in his throat, the world narrowing to the pressure of Brenda's cleat digging into his sternum, leaving an imprint like a branding iron.

Olga, the lock, followed, her bulk settling onto his stomach like a fallen redwood. The air hissed from his lungs, replaced by a searing agony that clawed at his insides. Olga's weight was a slow, inexorable crush, a glacier grinding him into the earth. He felt his spine bowing, his bones screaming in protest.

Fiona, the flanker, perched on his legs, her weight a deceptive dance of pain. Her boots, small compared to the others, felt like spikes drilling through his thighs. Each wiggle, each shift of her weight was a fresh wave of agony, a relentless torture by a thousand needles.

Beatrice, the fly-half, landed on his ankles, her weight a sudden hammer blow. The world spun, his vision blurring as stars erupted behind his closed eyelids. Beatrice's boots were pincers, squeezing his ankles until they threatened to snap. His bones sang a song of protest, a dirge for his sanity.

Gertrude, the scrum-half, lumbered onto his knees, a boulder on a trampoline. Her weight was a jarring jolt, a jackhammer against his already battered body. Phillip's breath came in ragged gasps, each one a desperate plea for oblivion. His vision flickered, the world dissolving into a kaleidoscope of pain.

One by one, the She-Devils climbed, each bootfall a death knell, each weight a verse in the ballad of his annihilation. Fiona shifted, her cleat digging deeper into his thigh, drawing a scream that clawed its way out of his constricted throat. Beatrice pressed down on his ankle, the pain so intense it felt like his bone was splitting in two.

Finally, only Iron Matilda remained. The air crackled with anticipation, the silence thicker than the sweat dripping from her brow. She loomed over him, a mountain of muscle and fury, the final blow to his fragile ego.

There was nowhere left to stand. All his space, all his air, had been claimed by the nine women above him. Matilda chuckled, a sound like rocks grinding together. "Nowhere to go, pipsqueak," she rumbled, her voice a tremor in his skull. "Just your face left."

And with a grunt that shook the field, Matilda planted her size 14 cleat on his cheekbone. As she slowly applied all of he colossal weight the world exploded. A white-hot searing pain ripped through him, a supernova detonating in his skull. His eyes snapped open, bulging against his sockets, tears streaming down his face. His jaw clamped shut, his teeth grinding together, the taste of blood and bone filling his mouth.

The She-Devils stood above him, a living mountain range, their weight a crushing testament to their power. Phillip, beneath their feet, was a flattened map, his body a canvas of pain, his pride a shattered relic of a foolish ambition. He had come to break a record, but in the end, he had been broken himself, his spirit crushed under the weight of ten extraordinary women.
I am Mistress J Weight's personal weighing scale, yes I'm very fortunate.
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1 year 1 month ago #1232

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Replied by bfrug on topic The She-Devils

Awesome, so well written and soi descriptive to the point you almost imagined that you were there watching.
Loved the fact that they kept their boots on - all that weight pressing down through something like 120 cleats - nearly two stone per cleat !
Even their names helped the impression that these Ladies are formidable.
Thanks for posting the story.
1 year 4 weeks ago #1235

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Replied by Weighing Scales on topic The She-Devils

Thank you, I almost made them barefoot. Glad I kept the boots on. I think I'd prefer barefoot if it were me but the boots where better for the story.
I am Mistress J Weight's personal weighing scale, yes I'm very fortunate.
1 year 4 weeks ago #1236

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