Shiroko's Growth Diary Week 7

Added a zip with some unused images.. Cause afterall is a bit of a waste to just bin them.

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Gains this week weren't just steady—they bordered on exponential, like a fire catching wind. Checked the graph from Millennium's scanner logs: early weeks showed a slight incline in muscle mass, then steady upward tilt. But now? Evident peaks spike the line, sharper each day, mass accruing at rates I hadn't projected. Started with about 1kg per day early on, ramping to 1.5kg mid-week, hitting up to 2kg by the end—totaling well beyond initial expectations, all lean; body's in overdrive, demanding and rewarding in equal measure.

Visually, it's impossible to hide anymore. Muscles swell daily—biceps inflating fuller, shoulders capping broader, traps elevating higher with each session. Veins weave longer paths across them, thickening like rivers expanding their banks, pulsing visibly as if the muscles themselves crave more blood, more fuel to pump. Back's widening into a V-taper, lats flaring under rows; abs a chiseled eight-pack now, obliques framing them sharply. Thighs and glutes denser, rounder—pants straining at seams, shirts riding up mid-rep. Even my chest—breasts fuller still, buoyant yet firm, adding to the overall presence. No denying it; I'm transforming rapidly.

The transformation's so rapid now, I can't keep up with wardrobe adjustments—my new uniform, sized up just last week, already strains too tight, and ordering another will take days. Stuck with this undersized one, it's tearing under the pressure: sleeves ripped open during a flex, exposing my huge arms in all their veined glory; shirt buttons barely hold, a wide gap revealing the swell of my now huge breasts; jacket's impossible to slide over my thickened forearms, left hanging useless.

Workout adaptation accelerated too. Started the week adding a few kg as usual—squats at 150kg, bench 80kg, deadlifts 140kg—but by Tuesday, the weights felt... light? Almost effortless, bordering on boring, like pedaling a bike downhill after mountains. Determination set in; no plateau here. Loaded up tens more—squats to 180kg, bench to 100kg, deadlifts 170kg in one bold adjustment. The push felt electric: veins popping along my arms and legs like cords under skin, muscles trembling at first under the strain, sweat cascading as I gritted through the reps. But then—the conquest. Body surged forward, stabilizing, powering through with a rush that bordered on euphoric. Heart pounding, breath steady, I shattered personal records, the bar clanging triumphantly. It wasn't just lifting; it was dominance, a high from the burn turning to victory. Pull-ups hit 15 per set, weighted now; overhead presses at 60kg flew up. Added volume too—extra sets, supersets—body lapping it up, recovering overnight.

Another shift tied back to last week's locker incident: arousal creeping in more frequently. Often, post-training, I'd strip down in my room's mirror for progress checks—tracing the swelling curves, the veined hardness. Mind would fog over, hands moving on autopilot: gliding over biceps peaks, down rounded shoulders, across the steaming abs. Body heated up, sweat beading anew, breaths deepening into pants. Too overwhelmed to resist, I'd sink onto the bed, one hand delving to my privates—fingers circling, thrusting faster as the other gripped my muscles, squeezing the firmness that fueled the fire.

Moans built, unrestrained, until climax crashed through—back arching, body quaking, a literal pool spilling onto the floor, sheets stained slick. If anything lay nearby—a water bottle, a stray weight—it risked crushing under my uncontrolled strength, grip tightening involuntarily. Happened three times this week: Monday after squats, Wednesday post-deadlifts, Friday evening. Messy aftermath each time—cleaning puddles, laundering fabrics—but the haze cleared with satisfaction.

Noticed a pattern: days following these episodes, gains peaked harder. Scanner showed spikes beyond the norm. Coincidence? Hormonal surge boosting recovery, maybe? Doesn't matter; I'm not complaining. Bigger, faster—that's the goal. And what looked impossible finally happened—I'm a pinch close to catching Sumire, or... am I already as big as her??? The gap's vanished faster than expected; side-by-side comparisons in my mind put us neck-and-neck now.

Near week's end, during a heavy squat session, our eyes met across the room. Sumire's been different lately—more serious, fewer smiles, almost angry as she grinds her weights, face set in determination. Her gains? Stalled, from what I see; no visible swelling, veins steady but not expanding. Wonder if my progress is getting to her—motivating, or frustrating?

As a lighthearted jab, I paused mid-set, flexed my arms—biceps balling up impressively—and called over, "Be careful, at this rate, in no time I'll be the bigger one." She caught it, smirking at first, a nod of acknowledgment. But as I turned back to my bar, catching her reflection in the mirror—her face twisted, anything but amused. Eyes narrowed, jaw tight. Intriguing; the dynamic's shifting.