Still Karens Girl

[Piv]

Still Karen's Girl

My close friends and I went to a very large, rough school. People tended to stick with others like themselves, and we were probably seen as the "weak" group.

At 18, I was about 6'0" and very slender—around 150 pounds. In our class was a girl named Karen Jones. Karen was a real tomboy. She was the same height as me but heavier, and she often beat boys in fights. She had lovely blonde hair and was quite pretty, though she never made much effort with her appearance.

I don't remember how it started, but one day people began talking about Karen fighting me. I refused to admit she was stronger or tougher—but the thought of facing her terrified me. Karen became loud and confrontational, and I was relieved when the class ended.

A few days later, I was alone in a quiet part of the playground when she found me.

"I'm tougher than you—and we both know it," she said.

I protested weakly, saying I wouldn't fight a girl.

She stepped closer, right into my space.

"You're a coward," she whispered. "You know I'd beat you. So you've got two choices: fight me—and if you lose, I'll leave you alone—or... you become one of my girls."

I didn't understand.

"What do you mean? I don't want to fight you," I admitted.

She smiled.

"There are other boys who won't fight me. They admit I'm the boss. Instead, they give me their pocket money every week. I give some back—but I decide how much."

She pushed lightly against me. I felt small. She felt strong.

"I call them my girls," she added, "because they're not real boys—and they'll never be men."

Then she looked straight at me.

"So... are you a boy? Or one of my girls?"

I hesitated... then gave in.

"I'll give you the money."

I hated myself—but I couldn't face fighting her.

Every Monday, I handed over my pocket money. She would return some of it, sometimes most of it. It wasn't really about the money—it was about control.

Over the next year, Karen changed. She grew a little taller, became slimmer, and started taking more care of her appearance. The tomboy faded, replaced by a confident, attractive young woman.

But I was still afraid of her.

She dated plenty of boys and often teased me, saying she could never date me—because I was "one of her girls."

Eventually, I left school and, with it, Karen.

Those years had been miserable, but over time I built a successful career and tried to forget how I had given in back then.

Ten years later, I was in a casino in a nearby town.

After some time at the tables, I went to the bar.

Behind it... was Karen.

I could hardly believe it.

She looked incredible—wearing a black cocktail dress, stockings, and heels. Confident, elegant... and undeniably striking.

For a moment, I almost walked away.

But instead, I approached her.

She recognized me immediately.

"Hello, Stevie," she said.

The old nickname hit me instantly.

"It's Steve now," I replied. "I'll have a beer."

She smiled—and handed me my drink in a feminine glass.

"That's not the right glass," I said, irritated.

"Oh, I think it is," she replied softly. "I still think of you as one of my girls. I often wonder... do the women in your life know you're not really a man?"

That stung.

"I'm not a boy anymore, Karen. I'm a man. And I don't see why I shouldn't complain about this."

She took my hand.

Immediately, I felt that old vulnerability. Her grip was firm—confident.

"First," she said calmly, "I'm the manager here. Second, you're still my girl—unless you prove otherwise. And third... you're not a man."

I pulled my hand back.

"Well, we can't fight in here—but I'm not afraid of you anymore."

She raised her arm on the table in a classic arm-wrestling position.

"Alright," she said. "Prove it."

I took her hand.

Before we began, she leaned in slightly.

"Are you sure?" she asked quietly. "If you lose... nothing changes."

"Just say go," I replied.

"Go."

I pushed with everything I had.

But she didn't move.

Not even slightly.

She smiled calmly while I strained.

"You have lovely eyes, Stevie," she said softly. "You'll make someone very happy one day."

I gritted my teeth, pushing harder—until my arm burned.

Then, slowly, she began to push back.

I looked into her eyes.

She was calm. Confident. In control.

And stronger.

Far stronger.

My resistance faded.

My hand hit the table.

She kept holding my hand there.

"Now tell me," she said quietly, "are you a man?"

I hesitated.

"No."

"Still my girl?"

Her grip tightened.

"Yes."

She released me.

I stepped back, shaken.

As I left, I knew one thing:

Some things don't change.

[Piv]

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