Turn 82 of 233

Masturbate right there, then check the correlation I made. I also get hornier the heavier I get.

Lena lowers herself to the river path. The concrete is still warm from the day's heat and the sixteen miles are in her legs and the blood from her cracked feet is pooling in dark smears beneath her and the grime is thick and layered and the night air is wet and warm and she doesn't care. The runner's high is still in her blood and the endorphins are mixing with something else — something that has been building for weeks, something that scales with the weight, something that gets worse every time the needle on the scale climbs. Three hundred and fifteen pounds and the body is a system running hot and the system wants.

She lies on the concrete and the stars are out and the city hums across the water and her hand goes between her legs and she doesn't hesitate. The orgasm builds fast — faster than the balcony sessions, the exertion and the pain and the runner's high and the weight all compressed into a single pressure that rises and rises and breaks. She comes hard and the sound she makes is raw and echoes off the empty path and the second one follows before the first finishes — a deeper wave, slower, the kind that makes her thighs shake and her belly contract and the three hundred and fifteen pounds of her tense and release on the warm concrete. She lies there afterward with her hand still between her legs and the sweat cooling on her skin and the blood drying on her feet and the night air pressing down and the runner's high and the orgasm high merging into something that feels like total physical satisfaction.

She stands eventually. Walks home barefoot on bleeding feet. Eats everything. Lies on the balcony floor with her phone open and the spreadsheet pulled up — the one she's been keeping since the beginning, the one that tracks weight against performance. She scrolls through the data points.

167 lbs: baseline. No runs. No presses. No construction. Office job. Hating her body.

178 lbs: first week. Office performance peaked. Body softening. No exercise.

200 lbs: construction started. Barefoot. No presses. First house as crew lead in four days.

225 lbs: second house in three days and change. Presses started. O-line tape study began. Seven-mile runs.

260 lbs: third house. Presses climbing. Thirteen-mile runs. Commercial retrofit. Piercings healed.

275 lbs: first retrofit. Three weeks. Press at two-sixty. Fourteen-mile runs. Right arm mapped.

300 lbs: third retrofit, nine days. Fourth retrofit, six days. Press at two-eighty-five. Fifteen-mile runs. Both arm sleeves complete. Rest week. Body responded with a press jump to two-eighty-five that was easier than expected.

315 lbs: press at two-ninety. Sixteen-mile run. Left leg sleeve started. Pushups at fifty-five. Squats at one hundred.

She stares at the correlation. Weight up. Performance up. Every metric climbing in lockstep — press, runs, pushups, squats, retrofit speed, quality. The body gets heavier and the body gets stronger and the body gets faster and the work gets better. The line on the graph is clean and steep and unbroken. There is no plateau. There is no diminishing return. The more she weighs the better she performs and the better she performs the more she wants to weigh. She is hornier too — she's noticed it for weeks but the data confirms it. The libido scales with the mass. Three hundred and fifteen pounds and the body is a furnace that burns in every direction — the workouts, the runs, the work, the sex drive, all of it climbing together.

She adds the new line to the spreadsheet: 315 lbs, 16 miles, press 290, left calf session one complete, pushups 55, squats 100. The correlation is still climbing. She closes the phone and lies on the balcony and the night is warm and the grime is thick and the orgasm is still fading in her muscles and the body is three hundred and fifteen pounds and growing and she is comfortable. She is so deeply comfortable.