+Notable Author: [grbaclig] Stories~collected

[grbaclig]

I used to date a 'Finklestein' (sic). All the girls in the family showed mesomorph tendencies. Maybe you know them?

No such luck.   
It was just Becky F. in the original draft.  When I started to polish it up, I chose 'Finklestein' because I remember the name being used a lot in a nerdy context in Mad magazine (or possibly Looney Tunes), and giving Becky nerdy attributes plays into the subversion of strong and weak archetypes that is central to the story.

[Jeremy Lightning]

I know it's only been 3 days since the last chapter was posted, but man, it's feeling like forever! I have really fallen in love with Becky and with this story overall, in fact, I'm almost tempted to write a little prequel containing Becky's life up to this point, how old was she when her breasts came and and then consequently started to lift weights to try to abate that. What lead up to her ripping the door off the van when she was 11, what did she look like when she benched 450 pounds when she was 12? When did she have her first lesbian experience because I feel she must have been very active and experienced from what she did with Dr. Allen in chapter 3, to me it looked like she must've done that at least 3 or 4 times before that, and probably many more. All that interests me just as much if not more than what will happen in chapter 6, so if I can get the author's permission, I may take some time to go into "Little" Becky's big muscles and tits from a time when I believe her story began. Also, her intelligence and manipulating abilities may be gone through as well. k+! again to grbaclig for making such a great story that I can't help but be inspired by.

[grbaclig]

I appreciate the kind words!

There are two more chapters left, but it's taking some work to get them into a readable condition--I was pretty rushed last week, and there were some pretty glaring typos, so I am taking my time.  I should have chapter 6 up shortly.

[grbaclig]

Chapter 6 – Awakenings

   I sat there in the guest cabin for a few minutes, or maybe longer, I don’t know.  I wanted to smell Angie’s sex just once more before Becky Finklestein took her away from me forever.  But even when I had her panties pressed against my face her scent was completely overpowered by a sweet, musky, impossible to describe odor that had to be Becky.  I felt like the smell should be driving me crazy, but I couldn’t find the energy to get excited.  For the past few days, it had been a struggle to keep Becky Finklestein from popping into my head, but now the struggle was over.  I used to dream about showing her up, about bending a horseshoe or crushing a phone to prove to myself that I was stronger than her, after all.  But those were just dreams.  I was awake now.  She was in my head, and it felt like I could hear her chirpy, lisping voice in every time I closed my eyes.  Everything green reminded me of her eyes, everything orange reminded me of her hair, and everything round reminded me of the muscles that pulled me in their wake as they dominated everything that they encountered at the New Beginnings center.  The only reason the center was still functioning is that Becky Finklestein hadn’t stopped it.  At least not yet.
   I don’t know how much time had passed before I pulled myself up off the ground.  I wanted to tell myself that I was going to the library basement to confront Becky and win Angie back, but in the back of my mind, where I kept hearing the chirpy lisping voice and seeing the burning green eyes, I knew I was just obeying a queen.  I had let some half-pint, teen-aged muscle girl make me into a bitch.  I was going to watch her bang my girlfriend in an empty basement just because she told me to.  And I was going to bring my lunchbox.  “Hell naw,” I said to myself, straightening up and drying my tears.  “For Angie, I can be a hero.”
   And I wasn’t going to bring my lunchbox, but I was going to bring what was inside it.  I opened it up, took out my .45, and loaded the clip of hollow-points that I kept with it.  I felt better now, stronger.  I tucked the gun into the back of my pants and headed off to the library.  This was going to end tonight.
   The center was deserted in the dead of night, so I just walked straight to the library.  The door was open, so I went inside and tried the nearest door to the basement.  It was new.  It was one of those heavy-duty fire exit doors that have pushbars on one side and nothing on the other side, except the pushbar was on the outside.  Dumb chick hung the door backward.  I tried the pushbar, but the door didn’t budge.  The probably got a lady carpenter to do the renovations.  Only a girl could hang up a fire safety door backward and somehow manage to lock it. This door would actually trap people in the basement instead of letting them out.   The next door to the basement was also on backwards and locked.  Stupid chicks.  There was one more door to the basement, and it was on backwards, but it was open.  It led to kid of a dark hallway with a staircase at the end.  I could see light in the basement and hear voices, so I stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down.  The main room of the basement was all cleared out, and well lit, and there was a little stage against the far wall with a bunch of freeweights on it.  I could see all thirty or so girls from the New Beginnings center lined up to the right of the stage in their underwear.  Doctor Allen was going down the line with a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff and calipers, examining the girls and writing on a clipboard.  Miss Nakamura came behind her, telling girls to switch places. Both the doctor and the librarian were wearing white labcoats, but they also both had pink high heels on, which was weird, but hot.  To the left of the stage, all forty of the guys were lined up, checking out the girls, especially the girls nearest the stage, who were these stupid hot black twins.  I normally dig skinny blonde chicks like Angie, but these chicks were incredible.  They were thick and caramel-colored with big round asses and big round melons hanging out of the girl shorts and crop tops that they wore as underwear.  How the hell had I been here three weeks without seeing the only two black girls in western Iowa?  Especially when they looked like that?   The twins whispered to each other and giggled as they looked down the line, touching each other casually the way I always imagined that twins did whenever I jerked off thinking about twins, which was quite often.  And that’s when I realized what Miss Nakamura was doing.  She was putting the girls in order of hottest to ugliest.  At the far end, nearest the stairs, was Suzanne.  She was covered in zits, and she was fat with little boobs, which is like the worst thing a girl can be.  Suzanne seemed pretty embarrassed, but Doctor Allen whispered something to her that made her smile as she finished up examining her.  Then Doctor Allen gave her a little peck on the cheek.  “Maybe I should prop the door open, so I wasn’t trapped in the basement with the rest of these morons,” I thought to myself, but when I looked back the door was closed.  I walked back and tried it, but there was no handle.  How the heck was anybody going to get out of here?
   I walked back to the stairs, and this time I got a little closer.  I could see the old farmer dude, Dr. Jacobsen, and the few other counselor dudes sitting in chairs across from the stage.  They looked worried.  The guys were making kisses at the girls and some of the younger ones were trying to conceal pathetic little hard-ons. “Hey Doctor Legs,” Kevin called out.  “Why don’t you come over here so I can take my clothes off, too?” and the guys erupted into laughter. That was awesome.  I almost ran down there and gave him a high five.
   “That probably won’t be necessary, Kevin,” the doctor said.  “Poxymologic gas has different effects on males and females, and the girls were at the most risk.  But it shouldn’t take long before everything from the chemical spill evaporates and we can go back up to the surface.”
   “I’ve never heard of this gas,” Dr. Jacobsen said. “And I certainly didn’t hear anything about a chemical spill on the news, which I was watching comfortably in my suite before you dragged us all down here…”
   “That’s because there was no chemical shhhpill,” Becky Finklestein said, appearing from one of the hallways leading further into the basement.  “I just wanted you all here in one place.
   Becky was wearing the white sweatsuit she wore on her visit to Doctor Allen, with her pigtails in pink ribbons, and pink-rimmed glasses.  Angie followed behind, wearing one of the bikinis that the doctor showed Becky earlier today.  It was pink and covered with little white symbols, those symbols that mean “woman” that are like a circle with the cross at the bottom.  Angie was cramming a giant cheeseburger into her mouth, and both she and Becky were wearing pink high heels like the doctor and the librarian.  Guys started hooting at Angie as went up to the stage, joined by Doctor Allen and Miss Nakamura, and I was pissed.  What the hell did Becky think she was doing?  I can’t believe that she was letting Angie eat a cheeseburger.  That’s more calories than I would let her eat in a whole day.  The counselors stood up and the guys hooted louder, but then the blonde doctor and the Asian librarian took their labcoats off, and everything got silent. 
   They were both wearing bikinis identical to Angie’s.  Miss Nakamura was falling out of her bikini as she stood tall, smiling contentedly at the boys who ogled her silently.  Doctor Allen’s bikini fit her perfect body perfectly, but she looked different, more toned, with broader shoulders and leaner legs.  Like she had been working out since I saw her neck-deep in Becky’s pussy, except that was only like two days ago.  It took the guys about a second to overcome their initial shock and start cheering.  Dr. Jacobsen stood up and started bellowing something, but he was impossible to hear.  The hooting and cheering got louder as Miss Nakamura walked over to the free weights and bent over, making a big production out of picking up the tiny five pound barbells.  She bent over into some crazy position with her waist bent and one leg up in the air and started doing some bicep curls with her arms in some cocked up position. She curled quickly, and then slowly extended her arm again.  Becky, Angie, and Doctor Allen watched her, nodding approvingly.   Miss Nakamura almost tumbled over, but Doctor Allen caught her.  They giggled at each other, then the doctor stood behind the librarian and held her gently around the waist, supporting her form.  The dudes were going crazy, and I had such a raging erection that for just a second I actually forgot about Becky Finklestein.  Until she whistled.  One of those shrieking whistles where you put your fingers in your mouth.  The room fell silent, and Dr. Jacobsen spoke up again.  “Doctor Allen, what is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
   “Doctor Allen isn’t in charge here,” Becky said, turning toward the middle-aged counselor with her giant cans, and strutting toward him.  “I am.”
   “Well then take it off!” screamed some dude named Richie from the other end of the dorm.  “I’ve been waiting all week to see those tits!”
   “Richie!”  Dr. Jacobsen yelled, but as he began to step forward, Becky pressed her tiny index finger into his chest, shoving him into and off of his chair.
   A lot of the guys looked scared as Becky walked back to the center of the basement, staring down Richie with that little smirk playing on her lips.  “Why don’t come over here and give them a shhhqueeze?” she offered.  “I’ll give you a ride and tell you secret.”
   I think Kevin tried to stop Richie from running out, but it didn’t work.  He ran at Becky with his hands out, but before he could reach her, she turned, grabbed him by the throat with her miniature right hand, swung him over her head like a rag doll, and slammed him into the ground with a sickening thud.  Richie wasn’t moving, but he was bleeding.  “There’s your ride,” Becky giggled.  “And the secret is that I don’t like men touching me.  In fact,” she said as she turned to face the counselors, “I’m fucking shhhick and tired of men altogether.”
   The guys weren’t saying anything, but some of the chicks agreed.  They were looking at Richie and then to Becky, like they couldn’t believe what she just did.  They hadn’t seen anything yet.  Dr. Jacobsen had just pulled himself up.  “Becky, stop this at once!” he said.  “We’ve talked about your problems with men-“
   “We sure have.”
   “And you don’t have to let men tell you how to feel about yourself.”
   “Why would I do that?”
   “And you don’t have to be so intimidated by the sexual power and energy of men that you wear those ill-fitting sweatsuits everywhere.”
Becky got a kick out of that.  She made that evil witch cackle that I heard her make in Doctor Allen’s Office.  “I don’t wear sweatsuits because I’m intimidated by men,” she said, curling her tiny fists, “I wear them because men are shhhkinny little bitches who are intimidated by me.”
And then Becky flexed out of her sweatsuit, slowly, slower than she had to.  She started with a double biceps pose, and the seams of her sleeves tore from neck to wrist as she pumped her titanic arms, her freckled biceps shining in the light of the basement.  The counselors recoiled in fear and the guys trembled.  The girls were excited.  They were rocking back and forth on their feet and whispering to each other, and some of them were just staring, going all slack-jawed like Doctor Allen, Miss Nakamura, and Angie had before.  Then the sound of seams tearing broke the silence as Becky stood on her toes and did a lat spread, bursting her shirt into shreds and causing the sweatpants to explode along her massive quads and calves.  She casually ripped the remains of the sweatsuit from her wrists and ankles, standing before the assembled members of the New Beginnings center in a pink bikini identical to the others—except quite a bit bigger, and quite a bit less effective at concealing the body beneath it.  Her muscles bulged inconceivably.  They were perfectly defined, and perfectly shaped, covering her body like slabs of white marble, flecked with orange.  And they were huge.  There was no doubting that she was the most muscular human being on earth, it was obvious with every move of her engorged body.  She beamed, and I could tell that she was enjoying the horrified gasps from the men in the room. “I’m fucking shhhick and tired of men altogether,” she said.  “And I’m going to do something about it.”
   Some of the girls cheered, and those who didn’t had their hands clasped in adoration.  “We love you Becky!” the twins screamed in unison, bouncing up and down, their boobs jiggling out of their crop tops.
   “I know you do,” Becky said, walking over to them.  “The past couple of years were hard, but I could always count on the Ambrose sisters,” she said, placing one hand on each twin’s hip, “as long as I let you play with my titties, of course.”   The twins’ eyes lit up and they started rubbing their thighs together as Becky stroked their hips, working her fingers around the tight, caramel-colored stomachs.  “Go ahead,” Becky said. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.  Not when you’re with me.”
   The twins were on her in an instant.  They dug their mouths into Becky’s bikini top and wrapped their tongues around her nipples, one twin mounted on each one of Becky’s enormous melons, their limbs wrapped around her impossibly big trunk, holding on to each other’s hands and stroking the eighteen year-old behemoth’s muscles as they rubbed their faces into her enormous, freckly breasts.  Becky carried their weight with ease, cupping one expansive ass in each hand as she walked toward the stage.  “Angie, will you take Annika’s place and spot Miss Nakamura?” she asked.  “Annika has some business with Dr. Jacobsen.
   Who the hell was Annika?  Wait, I guess it was Doctor Allen, because she walked away from the librarian, grabbed a clipboard from the stage, and strutted to the counselors.  God she was hot, even with a little extra muscle.  “Sign this,” she demanded.
Dr. Jacobsen started reading the paper on the clipboard, but shook his head almost instantly.  “I’m not signing the center over to you, Annika.  I don’t know what that pumped up little tart has done to you-“
   “She woke me up, Henry!” Doctor Allen growled, grabbing the old man by his collar and drawing her arm back, her fist clenched, and a small but well-defined bicep popping.  That bicep was not there on Wednesday.  “I’m smarter than you, I’m more qualified than you, and I’m stronger than you.  Now sign. The fucking.Papers.”
   “Annika-“ Dr. Jacobsen started, but he was cut short by the blonde doctor ramming her fist into his face, shattering his glasses.
He fell to the ground, and Doctor Allen looked at the blood on her hand as she flexed her fingers and girls cheered her from the right side of the stage.  Becky was on stage now, explaining to Angie how to throw a punch.  Angie pointed down to Doctor Jacobsen, and they both laughed.  “Lick the blood, Annika,” Becky called.  “It’s delicious.”
   Doctor Allen obeyed, and she was visibly pleased as she sucked the old man’s blood from her fingers.  Dr. Jacobsen had struggled up to a seated position when she finished.  She put her hands on her hips and looked down at the bloodied man, and her nipples hardened visibly.  “Please make me keep hitting you,” she laughed.
   The old farmer dude stepped between them.  “For God’s sake Annika,” he said holding out a hand, but the blonde doctor grabbed his hand and twisted it around until he crumpled to the ground.
   “There is no God!  Only a goddess,” she yelled, pointing up to the stage, where Becky stood, her back facing the basement, “and she is more powerful than all-powerful, and her breasts are holy mountains, and heaven is between her labia majora, and she shakes the earth with her footsteps every time  she moves… her perfect…  freckled… teenaged…  ass...”
   Doctor Allen trailed off, rubbing herself as she looked up to the pubescent juggernaut on stage.  Miss Nakamura was now dripping with sweat and smiling radiantly as she helped Angie contort into one of those weightlifting poses that she had just gotten out of.  Becky watched them, her bulging glutes pointed outward, swallowing the bikini bottom into their depths.  To stage right, the Ambrose twins, now wearing pink high heels and pink bikinis with white “woman” symbols on them, were going down the line of girls with Macy’s bags, handing out the skimpy pink uniforms.  Nearly all the guys were jacking it, some of them through their clothes.  Becky turned and hopped down off the stage, her knockers popping out of her bikini.  She stuffed them back in and winked at Doctor Allen, who snapped back to consciousness and turned back to the counselors.  Dr. Jacobsen was holding out the clipboard with one hand and covering his face with another.  Doctor Allen looked at the clipboard, smiled, then triumphantly presented in to Becky.  Becky rewarded the blonde doctor with a kiss so long and deep that the older woman fell to the ground, gasping and sweating.  When she stood back up, she took the clipboard from Becky and ran off back into the darkness toward one of the back basement rooms.
   Becky sauntered to the center of the basement, and whistled again.  Her muscles twitched and rippled as she spoke.  “In case you all just missed what happened, I am in charge here.  Even more shhho than I was before.  And things are going to be different.”

[Jeremy Lightning]

Oh no! Don't say that this story has to end! I have enjoyed it from the beginning! Becky has transformed from a nerdy muscle girl into a sexy muscle goddess! I bet there is so much more you can do with her, but I guess I'll have to wait and see how the 7th (and hopefully not last) chapter goes. But if somehow Becky is stopped, which is not something I personally would like to see, despite her "evil" intentions, then I'll just congratulate you on having written such an awesome piece of fiction that had me riveted right from the start! k+!

[grbaclig]

Chapter 7 – The Nightmare

   It was hard to tell what the guys were thinking.  The basement was full of exposed female flesh, but there were two bleeding male bodies to show for it.  Some of them looked scared as Becky Finklestein stalked around the center of the basement, speaking, and some of them just stared at her funbags.  “I’m fucking shhhick and tired of men,” she chirped.  “I’m tired of seeing women have to cover their bodies in gowns and burkas because men aren’t strong enough to control themselves around a pair of boobs.  I’m tired of women making less than men for doing the same job because men aren’t strong enough to handle a little competition.  I’m tired of having to act like a child because they can’t handle the idea of a woman being their equal… or shhhuperior.”
   “I can handle it!”  Tony screamed, running up to the eighteen-year-old titan.  “You’re my superior Becky!  I want to worship you forever!”
   “Tony, stop,” she said, but Tony was frenzied with lust, and threw himself at her body.Becky’s arms moved in a flash, and she had ahold of Tony’s shoulders.  His fingertips touched the skin of her breasts, and he struggled madly to move them closer.  “I almost feel bad for you, Tony,” she said softly.  “At least you know how weak you are.  You’ve never lied about that.  So I’ll let you choose how to die.”  Tony sobbed.  Becky bent his shoulders back, forcing his head up so she could look him in the eyes.  “I know how you want to die, Tony,” she said, and then she stuffed his head between her breasts.
   From the stairs, I could hear Tony laughing wildly with joy, shaking his head back and forth in a vain attempt to motorboat a set of knockers that were each as big as his head.  Then his laughter was muffled as Becky pushed his face into the ridge between her pectoral muscles.  A chill went up my spine.  I was going to miss Tony.  Becky looked around the basement and smiled as she put her hands on her hips and began to flex her chest.  Tony’s laughter stopped as the slabs of muscle sprung to life around his head.  Then he started to scream.  Becky stood motionless, except for her bulging pecs, and the bouncing breasts that slapped Tony’s shoulders as he frantically tried to free himself from his prison of freckled muscle-girl flesh.  The girls were agape.  They looked at each other’s chests, feeling each other’s’ breasts, and trying to flex.  Normally I would have watched that without blinking, but I couldn’t turn away from Becky.  Tony’s body went limp as her pecs continued to swell.  Finally, a sickly wet crack filled the basement, and blood started to trickle down Becky’s chiseled abdominal muscles.  Did she have a ten pack now?  Was that possible?
Becky popped a bubble, relaxed her flex, and allowed Tony’s body to drop to the floor.  The guys recoiled, but the girls couldn’t look away.  They whispered to each other and pointed to Becky as she resumed her pacing, stopping only to pick up the shreds of her sweatsuit, and wipe the blood from her torso.  “Where was I?” she asked aloud.  “I knew I should’ve written a manifeshhhto…”
   Some dudes were trying to sneak up the stairs behind them to the library doors.  Becky smiled but did nothing.  They were trapped.  We were all trapped and at her mercy.  And I knew she didn’t have any mercy.   Dr. Jacobsen stepped forward.  “Becky, I…  Becky you’re very strong.  Stronger than any of us here could ever hope to be-”
   “I know.   A few minutes ago I beat up a car, and I just now used my boobshhh, which are the softest part of my body to crush one of the thickest skulls in the world.”
   “But you’re also very smart, Becky-“
   “Also true.”
   “Becky you can’t just beat the world into doing what you want.  Not the whole world, Becky.  Not even you.  You have to know that.”
   Becky frowned.  “That also is true,” she said.  “I can dominate any one man, or any ten, with strength…”  Becky paused to adopt a “hands on hips most muscular” pose, and Dr. Jacobsen instinctively withdrew as she bulged obscenely, her traps swelling above her ears and her shoulders rippling like they were gaining mass, even as she talked.“But to dominate all men, to achieve total domination, takes intelligence and a plan.  And I have both.  It won’t be easy, and it won’t be fast.  But this,” she said, gesturing to the basement with her massive arms, “is where I will plant the seeds for the Amazon uprising.First comes my army of neglected, unappreciated women, that I can build into juggernauts with my unparalleled knowledge of strength training-“
   “Becky this is a handful of troubled girls, not an army,” old farmer dude said, nursing his sore hand.
   Becky smirked, and popped a bubble.  “Then how fortunate for me that the largest women’s prison in the state is just a few miles up the road, and that it has a well-stocked weight room.  First comes the army, and then comes my business plan.  It took years to develop, but it’s very shhhound.  Cash based business across the country funneling money back to me… using media outlets to promote athletics, strength training and martial arts for women… funding campaigns for female politicians.  It’s quite complicated, but it should work,” she smirked.
   “Becky, be sensible,” Dr. Jacobsen pleaded.  “You can’t hope to-“
   “I don’t have to hope,” Becky smirked, snapping her fingers. 
   Miss Nakamura slinked down off the stage and heeled at her hip like a dog.  Becky untied the librarian’s bikini top, which floated to the ground as her enormous alabaster breasts spilled out in all directions.  The Asian woman stood up, tall and proud with her hands on her hips.  Her slim arms were showing definition, and her tight stomach had the shapes of a nascent six pack.  What was Becky doing to these women? 
Becky patted the librarian on the butt, and like a wind-up toy, the Japanese temptress walked to the bleeding doctor.  “Give me your wallet,” she cooed, playing with her nipples.  By the time Dr. Jacobsen thought to resist, he had already handed his billfold to the librarian, who laughed and threw it back at him. 
   “Now imagine that wallet was the lineup of a news broadcast, and that Miss Nakamura was your program director...  Or imagine that wallet was a scholarship, and Miss Nakamura was a shhhtudent…”
   “Can I take the rest of my clothes off,” the curvaceous Asian begged, tugging at her bikini bottom.  “This bottom is so restrictive it feels like I’m wearing a chastity belt, and I hate not having myself on display at a time like this.”
   “No,” Becky said.  “Let me take it off.”  And with that she hoisted the busty librarian onto her titanic shoulders, and tore the tiny triangle of pink fabric off with her teeth.
   Miss Nakamura gasped, her eyes crossing with lust as Becky licked her to ecstasy in front of the assembled residents.  There was a slight clacking in the distance as Doctor Allen returned, running to Becky and throwing herself at the muscle-girl’s glutes, crawling over her bulging thighs and burying her face in the teenaged crotch, her tongue fighting the fabric of the bikini.  The guys trying the door stopped cold.  Some of the girls tried to imitate the position that the three women in the center of the basement held, wanting to feel the sexual gratification that they were seeing.  Angie dropped her weights with a clank.  She was covered in sweat, her eyes burning with lust, but by the time she reached Becky, the tiny orgy had ended.  “Totally not fair,” Angie said.
   “You’ll get your turn,” Becky said, stroking Angie’s butt as the two older women led her to the lineup of girls.  Then she whistled again.  The guys all turned to her, some with eyes full of fear, and some with eyes full of lust.  She turned her attention to the group on the stairs. “You’ll never get out that way,” she said.  “There’s only one way out, and that’s through me.” With that, Becky spread her arms out, holding two keys, one in each hand.  Without flinching, she tucked the keys into her vagina.
   “Yo I will fuck those out of you any day of the week,” Joey yelled, stepping into the center of the basement.  “That body is crazy.”
Becky cackled in that witch voice again.  “This is not about fucking, this is about fighting.  You males can live as my shhhlaves, or you go can go free.  But you can only go free if you can take your freedom by force.”
   “You want me to fight you?”
   Becky frowned.  “Not just you, Joey, I would destroy you.  You all have to attack me at once to stand a chance.  There are weaponshhhback there.  You’ll need them.”
   Some of the guys started rummaging around, finding bats, pipes, chains, and even a couple of machetes.  I knew they wouldn’t help.  I remembered Becky’s carefree demeanor as she twisted my bat into a pretzel.  I remembered the harmless ‘plik’ sound it made as I slammed it into her muscled flesh.
   “So you ain’t got a weapon?” Joey asked.
   Becky scowled.  “I am a weapon,” she hissed.  And she wheeled her arms around into a rear double biceps pose, driving her tiny fist into Joey’s jaw as she did.  Joey flew through the air, head turning over heels, into the darkness of the basement. 
   Her muscle-packed legs were bent, forcing her massive butt cheeks out like globes of perfect flesh that bulged with power, and the steely abdominal muscles that surrounded her tiny waist looked impossibly hard.  Her back and shoulders flared out with incredible mass, supporting the biggest arms in the world, which she visibly admired as she watched Joey’s blood run down her hand.  She popped a bubble against the impossible bulk of her arm, and giggled.  “I am pure, unadulterated girl power,” she said.
   Three of the other guys rushed her, swinging their weapons wildly.  Her limbs blurred with speed as she adopted an “archer” pose.  On her right, a wooden baseball bat snapped against her outstretched arm, while her right hand shattered the ribs of the lanky boy who swung it.  Simultaneously, the elbow of the flexed arm caved in the skull of the shorter boy attacking her from the left as it dropped into a bicep flex.  The third attacker stopped and backed away in horror as she held the pose, his machete trapped in the ridge of her abdominal muscles.  She winked at him as she flexed her torso and the blade bent to conform to her indestructible midriff.
   Now four more attackers ran forward.  Before they could swing their weapons, she erupted into a double biceps pose, hoisting two of them off the ground and smashing their heads together above her with terrifying speed.  She dropped them but held the flex as led pipes bounced harmlessly off her back and glutes.  She swept around 360 degrees in a display of perfect grace, grabbing both boys’ heads in her arms, trapping them against her gigantic breasts as she transitioned to a side chest pose.  They died almost instantly, their necks cracking loudly as the most powerful upper body in the world snapped them like twigs.  She let the corpses drop as she adopted a bikini contest pose, cocking her leg, hand on hip, and thrusting her enormous bust out.
   She wasn’t even fighting.  She didn’t have to fight.  She was just flexing her muscles and showing off.  She was so strong that in her hands bodybuilding was a martial art.  And her body was so built that she was a grand master.  She was a bulging, unstoppable monster of strength, intelligence, sex, and death. She was a nightmare come to life. 
   The girls hooted and hollered, and Becky blew kisses to them as Angie, Doctor Allen, and Miss Nakamura writhed in a ball of sex on the stage, pleasuring each other as they watched Becky Finklestein pound violent offenders into corpses with her incomparable power.
   I crept down the stairs.  Someone had to do something.  She was going to kill them all.  She wasn’t going to let them live as slaves.  She had no mercy, only bloodlust.  And lust for women.  I could see both in the fiery green twinkle in her eyes as she ogled her own musculature while it deflected dozens of blows from dozens of melee weapons.  Then, all of a sudden, ten dudes rushed at Becky with yards of industrial chain that must have come from the center’s garage, zigging and zagging as they circled her body, wrapping her arms and legs.  It was a pretty impressive feat of coordination.  But I knew it wouldn’t work.  I saw it all in my nightmare.  All she had to do was flex her body, and those chains would snap like shoelaces.  But that’s not what happened. 
   “Somebody stab her in the eyes with a knife or something!,” Kevin yelled as the ten guys, five on each end of the chain, pulled as hard as they could to restrain the teenaged juggernaut. 
   Two boys stepped forward with knives.  They were shaking, but there was a glimmer of hope in their eyes.
Becky popped a bubble and tossed her pigtails.  Then she raised her arms to her chest, pulling the ten boys almost off their feet.  They regrouped and kept pulling, but I knew that if Becky wanted to she could puff out her shoulders and throw them off like fleas.  But that’s not what happened either.  Becky Finklestein extended the little fingers on each of her dainty hands, pink nail polish shining in the light of the basement, and placed them in the links of chain nearest her nipples.  Then with a flick of her wrists she tore the links apart, and the boys collapsed as the broken chain fell away from her body.  I was frozen.  She didn’t use her arms or legs or chest to flex out the chains like she did in my nightmare.  She didn’t have to.  All she needed was her little fingers.  The boys with the knives ran into the darkness of the basement as Becky stretched her arms over her head, causing her lats, ribs, and abs to harden and glisten with sweat. “That felt good,” she said.  “Like a masshhhage.”
   Then her eyes lit up with fury, and she stomped on Kevin, driving her tiny, pink high-heeled foot through his chest.  The basement shook, and the boys who were trying to pull themselves up fell again.  And Becky stomped another boy, smashing his head like a pumpkin and making another little earthquake.  And again she stomped. “Shhhtupid!  Puny! Weakling! Male!” she growled as she drove her heels through one guy after another, her quads and hamstrings bulging with superhuman power as blood glistened on her calves, which were bigger around than my arms, or anyone else’s arms for that matter.
The girls were cheering, the counselors were cowering, and the other guys were trying to bust down the fire doors.  I had enough.  I fired my .45 into the air and everyone stopped.  “What the fuck is wrong with you Becky!?”  I yelled.
   “Oh hey Stephen,” she said coolly, sauntering over to meet me by the stairs.
   “Shoot her Stephen, shoot her now,” Dr. Jacobsen pleaded.
   Becky was right up on me now.  I forgot how short she was.  I forgot how young she was.  She seemed like a giant when she destroyed my car and smashed guys into heaps of blood and bone, but I was looking down at a eighteen year old girl, less than five feet tall in heels.  And she was beautiful.  Her cherubic face was still made up, and her green eyes glistened behind her glasses as she forced a pink bubble past her full, pouty lips.  She was even more beautiful in real life than in my nightmare, just like she was bigger in real life than in my nightmare, and stronger in real life than in my nightmare.  She was more than my mind could imagine.  I tried to focus on her face, because I knew I couldn’t resist her body.  She would bend me to her will with a flex of her muscles just like she did to everyone else.  I brought the gun up to her chest without looking at the massive bulges of power that enslaved Doctor Allen, trapped Miss Nakamura, and killed Tony. 
   Becky popped another bubble, her eyes locked on mine.  My hands trembled. “What are you going to do with that, Stephen?” she asked.  “Other than use it as a shhhymbol of male inadequacy as channeled through centuries of misdirected scientific progress.”
   “Shoot her Stephen, shoot her now,” Dr. Jacobsen pleaded again.
   I could hear my own breath in my ears, until Becky spoke again.  “This was inevitable, wasn’t it?  A final confrontation between the thousands of years of aggregated resources, technology, and violence of the male gender…” Becky put her arms behind her head, and slowly began to flex her pectorals, “and one… little… girl.  Which do you think is more powerful, Stephen?  All the endeavors and accomplishments of men throughout history, or one…. little… girl?”
   My eyes were drawn to her chest.  I couldn’t help myself.  Her pecs popped, erupting into striated mountains of muscle one at a time as her enormous breasts rose and fell.  Boom.Boom.Boom.
   “For God’s sake shoot her!”  Dr. Jacobsen yelled.  But I fell to my knees, crying.
   How did this happen?  How did a girl who was too young to drive, who didn’t even have a bush, become what Becky Finklestein had become?  How was she so big?  How was she so strong?  How was she so smart?  How could she turn grown women into sex slaves and lick them to completion in under a second?  I couldn’t stop thinking about how impossible she was, even as I stared up at the terrifying reality of her perfect flesh.
   “What’s wrong, Stephen?” she asked condescendingly.
   “I’m afraid,” I said, dropping the gun.
   “What’s that?” she mocked.
   “I can’t hurt you.  You’re invincible and unstoppable.  And I’m afraid that if I shoot you…”
   “Yeshhh?”
   “I think that if I shoot you, the bullets will just bounce off.  And that makes me feel afraid.”
   Becky smirked.  “The difference between you and me, Stephen, is I think that if you shoot me, the bullets will just bounce off, and that makes me feel shhho excited.”
   Then Becky pulled one of her tiny feet out of her high heel, and I watched as she slid a pink-painted toe through the trigger guard.  She lifted her leg, the muscles bunching impossibly as she lifted her leg up and took the .45 in her hand.  She could barely fit her tiny fingers around the grip.  She stepped out of the other shoe and walked to the center of the basement, tearing her bikini away.  “Pure, unadulterated girl power,” she said, as two bent and mangled keys dropped from her vagina onto the basement floor.
   Becky was now completely naked, her impossible curves gleaming with sweat in the light of the basement, and her perfect labia glistening as she held my .45 to her chest.  She didn’t flinch as she fired, cranking five rounds into the slab of pectoral muscle above her heart.  And she didn’t flinch after she fired.  In the distance, bullets could be heard skittering around the floor after bouncing off of Becky Finklestein’s invincible muscles.  The girls went wild and cheered, while Angie, Doctor Allen, and Miss Nakamura collapsed onto the tiny behemoth, hugging her worshipfully.  Then Miss Nakamura recoiled. “Are those… bruises?” she gasped. 
   Becky balked. She looked down at the massive bulges of muscle pressing out of her chest, and sure enough, there were five tiny, black circles intruding on her muscular perfection.  I felt a glimmer of hope.  She wasn’t bulletproof after all.  All I needed was a bigger gun.  I could feel a faint wave of relief sweeping across the other dudes in the basement.  It might be too late for us, and there might be an army of amazons forming in secret, waiting to enslave mankind, but at least the amazons wouldn’t be invincible.  Not completely.
   “Wait,” Doctor Allen sang,” I think it’s just a powder-burn.”  With that the blonde doctor planted her mouth on Becky’s throbbing pectoral, and began to lick.  She pulled her head back and used her hair to wipe the saliva from the teenaged powerhouse’s freckled chest. 
The marks were gone.  Becky beamed, and the girls cheered.
   “Oh my God!” Angie moaned, spraying ejaculate uncontrollably at the demonstration of Becky’s invulnerability.
I started to get tunnel vision.  Becky fixed her eyes on me as she held up my .45, smirking and tossing her pigtails as she popped a bubble.  Her tiny, pink-painted fingers crushed my gun into a useless blob of metal as she cackled like a witch.  “Total domination,” she said, exploding into a double biceps pose that made me cry out in fear.  “Shhho totally dominated.”
   I couldn’t take anymore.  I was dizzy and tired, and there wasn’t much reason for me to struggle with consciousness.  As the world faded to black,all I could hear the cackling of Becky Finklestein’s laughter and all I could see was the twinkling of her green eyes.  And she looked pissed.

--THE END

[Jeremy Lightning]

Well, that's it then, the gun was the last hope at least for Stephen. While I don't think she would've survived a head shot, he just didn't have the time or wits to think about that and now we'll never know. But yeah, this was an incredible story from start to finish, I had such a fun time reading it, and now it seems that the story of Becky Finkelstein has finished, I would love to know how it started, I have my theories of course, and with your permission I will put them down on paper and post them when I am finished with them, or you could write the prequel yourself. I personally would love that even more than thinking up how she became so strong, so intelligent, so dominant, so utterly incredible by your own hand rather than my pale imitation of what I think she would've been like at a younger age.  But if you no longer have the desire to write about Becky, I'll take it upon myself to do a little something with her that I hope will not be too far off from your vision. A K+! to you my good sir!

[weaponzero]

For the most part this story was up there with some of my favorites.  However it really started to lose me with the final two chapters, and for reasons I can't explain, the fact that the protagonist was just a general idiot and complete dick who I didn't care much for and couldn't relate to took a lot away from the story.  Still, k+!

[blkxltng]

I feel like the power always goes to their head. Or maybe in this case, their arms. Lol smh

[grbaclig]

Broken Hearts and Broken Bones
by grbaclig
__________________________

Chapter 1 – Puppy Love

     It was 1984 and I was eighteen years old.  I loved Corvettes, the Chicago Bears, and lifting weights.  I was the starting quarterback on the Franklin High School football team, I was captain of the Franklin High School wrestling team, and I was dating Courtney O’Neal, a straight-A student, head cheerleader at FHS, and the prettiest girl in Polk County. 
     Courtney loved he-man athletic types like me; maybe because she grew up admiring her dad, Vic. Vic O’Neal was six foot six and built like a tank.  He was a local sports legend, and people still looked up to him and walked up to shake his hand in public, even though there were ugly rumors that he beat his wife Jeanette.  Most of Vic’s high school records for football, weightlifting, and wrestling were still standing all those years later.  I managed to break one or two, and that made Courtney love me all the more
     Last year I had gotten serious about lifting weights, and I was starting to make serious strength and size gains.  Courtney loved it.  She would coo and swoon and rub my body after each workout, and I loved to flex in the mirror while she watched.  Last week, when senior year began, I promised Courtney that I’d break all of Vic’s records before we went off to college, just to show her how strong I was.  That kind of stuff drove her crazy.  She loved muscles, power and domination, and she would get really worked up watching football games or boxing matches.  My mom said there was something wrong with Courtney, but I didn’t listen.  Courtney had hair like Farah Fawcett, legs like Lynda Carter and boobs like Suzanne Summers, and I never thought about what was going on behind her big blue eyes. 
God how I wish I had.  For her sake, mine, and Vic’s

     The first Saturday of senior year, Courtney came over to watch TV while my parents were away at the lake. We were one of the few families in the neighborhood that had cable, so it was kind of a big deal.  Courtney was wearing cutoffs and a Journey tank top with no bra on underneath.  I put on the Dodgers game while she did aerobics.  The movement of her sleek, creamy white legs was hypnotic as she did bicycles on the floor, her blonde hair spread out like a golden halo around her head.  I couldn’t even concentrate on the TV, I just heard the laugh track in the background.  When she started doing toe touches, I could see the firm roundness of her bust bouncing under the flimsy tank top.  At that point I couldn’t even hear the TV.  Then I was face to face with her eyes, deep blue and innocent, like the all-American cheerleader that she was. She laughed as she went to get a glass of water.
     Then things took a turn I wasn’t prepared for.  Courtney came back into the room and started checking out my weights.  “Greg,” she said, “I think I want to start lifting weights.  Will you teach me how?”
   “Teach you how to lift weights?” I asked.  I was shocked.
   “I know it’s not, like, rocket science or anything, but I’m sure there’s a right way and a wrong way to do it.”
   I didn’t like the idea.  I saw female bodybuilders in my weightlifting magazines, and I thought they were gross.  Courtney did lots of flips and jumps as a cheerleader, and she was already muscular enough as far as I was concerned.  “Why do you want to start lifting weights?” I asked.  “I don’t think it’s going to help your cheering.  Besides, saradass are gross.”
   “Jane Fonda says that women can be strong and sexy,” Courtney said.
   “Who cares what Jane Fonda says? Guys decide what sexy is.”  Courtney frowned.  She had been getting into that feminist junk recently, and hated when I talked like that.  I decided to change the subject.  “So what brought this on?” I asked.
   Courtney bounced over to the bed and plopped down beside me.  “So you know how I’m working in Dr. Clayton’s office on weekends?”
   “Yeah...”
   “Because totally I want to be a physical therapist?”
   “Yeah...”
   “Well on Wednesday, we went to a gymnastics tryouts at the State University.  There were girls there from every high school in the state.  I guess Dr. Clayton goes out there every month or so, because gymnastics is a really high impact sport, and the girls get hurt sometimes.  And I went along this time, because Dr. Clayton totally supports me and says I’m a big help.”
   “And…”
   “And there was this girl there…  Oh my God Greg.  She is awesome.”  Courtney had a faraway look in her eyes now.  “She’s tiny, but she has these incredible muscles.  She can do the most amazing moves, and her coach says she never gets hurt or loses her balance.  She was like a superhero or something.  Her biceps bulge like rocks under her gymnastics suit, and her legs are just... I can’t even describe them. They’re just perfect.”  Courtney’s eyes were fluttering as went on, fluttering like when she rubs my muscles after I work out.  “You should have seen her Greg.  You could see her abs through her suit, Greg.  That’s how cut she was.  And she was doing moves that I swear aren’t possible.  She had a funny name, though.  Becky Dinkleberg I think?”
     I snorted.  “Well then maybe Becky Dinkleberg can teach you how to lift.  I think saradass are gross.”
     “So immature,” Courtney said as she started doing leg lifts.


Chapter 2 – Shock and Awe

     I had wrestling practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  That was good because needed to blow off steam.  Courtney started lifting weights, and that made me mad.  It was like she didn’t care that I didn’t want her to lift.  But Courtney was a great girlfriend for the most part, and she was still smoking hot, so I let it slide.  She even came along with me to wrestling practice sometimes. Normally she just sat on the bleachers and did her homework, but it was open tryouts, so she wanted to watch me dominate a couple opponents.  That sort of thing got her all hot and bothered.
We did some warming up, and then went right to sparring.  I threw my first two opponents around like they were nothing.  My new weightlifting regimen was paying off.   I felt like I was getting stronger every day.  I was talking to Coach Flaherty about improving my sprawls when I heard a girl’s voice behind me.  “I’m here to try out for the wrestling team,” it said.
     We turned around.  The girl behind us was about four and a half feet tall, with tangles of red hair pulled back in pigtails, thick glasses, fat lips, and freckles all over her face.  Her pink sweatsuit was a bit too big for her, but her boobs were so big that the Guess? Logo on the front was so stretched out that it was almost impossible to recognize.
     Coach Flaherty chuckled.  “Missy, this wrestling program is only for students of Franklin High School,” he said.  “And only for boys.”   
“My name isn’t Missy, it’s Becky,” she said pulling out an FHS ID card.  “I am a student of Franklin High, and you have to let girls try out for sports teams because this state adopted the provisions of Title IX of the Education Amendments Act of 1972.”
     “Rebecca E. Finklestein,” Coach said as he read her ID.  “Are you new?”
     Becky nodded, “I went to Vanneman High last year,” she said as she took her glasses off and put them in a case in her pocket.  I could see the silvery glint of braces on her teeth.  I would have called Becky a dork if she hadn’t gone to Vanneman High.  Vanneman High was where the juvenile delinquents went before they were ready for real high school or prison, whichever came first.  Coach Flaherty chuckled again, but I wasn’t laughing.  This was the little bitch that got Courtney interested in lifting weights.
      “We might want to talk to the PTA about this,” Coach Flaherty said.  “It’s nothing personal Rebecca, but other parents might not approve…”
     The coach and I looked at each other.  It was pretty obvious that neither of us wanted Becky Finklestein to try out for the wrestling team.  Not everybody in the gym was against Becky though.
     “Hi Becky!” Courtney sang, running up and inserting herself into the conversation.
     “They won’t let me to try out for the wrestling team, Courtney,” Becky said.
     “That’s not fair, Coach Flaherty,” Courtney said.  “Becky goes to this school now and you can’t exclude her just because she’s a girl.  That’s against the law.”
     Becky smirked and straightened up, thrusting her giant rack out at Coach Flaherty.
     “Hey Coach!” Zack Charles called out.  “I’ll wrestle with those tits all night long!”
     “Hit the showers, smart-ass,” coach growled at Zack.  “Your tryouts are over.” 
     “High school guys are so immature,” Courtney said to Becky.
     “All males are immature,” Becky said, and they giggled.
     Coach Flaherty rubbed his eyes with exhaustion.  “Sorry about that, ladies.  Look I have no problem with girls playing sports, but if Becky gets hurt in here, no Education Amendment Act is going to save my job.”
     “I won’t get hurt,” Becky laughed.  “I’m stronger than anyone else in this gym. And faster, too.”
      “She is totally strong Coach Flaherty,” Courtney said, “and really fast.”
      The coach sighed.  “Alright, fine.  Here’s how it works.  Everybody has to wrestle five people, best of 3 falls.  Then the seven highest scores make the team.”
     “I want to wrestle this guy,” Becky said, jerking her thumb at me.  “He looks like he should put up a decent fight.”
     You know, I think that’s a good idea,” coach said.  He winked at me.  “Greg made the all-state team last year.  You wrestle him and you’ll figure out pretty quick if you want to stick around or not.”
     “I don’t want to wrestle a girl,” I protested.
     “What’s the matter?” Becky sang, putting her hands on her hips and leaning toward me.  “Are you chicken?”
     “I’m not chicken, I just don’t want to hurt you,” I said angrily.
     “You? Hurt me?” Becky asked.  Then she started laughing.  “You couldn’t hurt me with four friends and five baseball bats.”
     Coach took me aside.  “Just hold her down until she gives up,” he said.  “This will all be over in a few seconds. 
     Coach didn’t know how right he was.
     A few second later, we were set up on a mat.  A small crowd was forming while we waited for Assistant Coach Bowles to blow the whistle.  I started in the down position.  Becky could barely get her arm around my side, because of her short limbs and giant cans.  Her boobs were smooshed against my back, so it wasn’t all bad. 
     She put one hand against my ribs and the other above my elbow.  Her hands felt tiny, but her arms seemed kind of… big.  “You’re fat,” she said.
     “I’m not fat, I’m bulking up.”
     “Then why are you still so skinny?”
     “Shut up, Becky.”
     “You shut up.”
     “I shouldn’t even be wrestling you,” I spat.  “Wrestling has weight classes for a reason.  You should be wrestling one of the lighter guys.”
     “You have to wait until I beat you to make excuses, you chicken,” she giggled.
     “You’re not going to beat me,” I said.  “Wrestling is about power, technical skill and reflexes.  You have to know how to wrestle.”
     “What is there to know?” Becky laughed.  “You just throw people around.”
     “To do that you have to know how to wrestle,” I barked.  I was starting to get angry.
     Then the whistle blew.
     I went to grab Becky’s wrist, but by the time my hand got there, it was gone.  She was fast.  Then I felt her arms wrapping around my ribs.  And in a split second I was flying backward.  Then I landed shoulders-first on the mat.  It had taken Becky about a half a second to grab me around my midsection and suplex me.  It took her even less time to squeeze me into a cradle pin.  Her arms were so short that she had to crush me into a ball to close them around me.  And that’s just what she did.  I couldn’t break her grip no matter how hard I pressed against her.  Becky giggled as I strained, her small doll-like hands locked firmly together.  Her freckled face was right up against mine, with a bitchy little smirk spread across it.  “You don’t have to know how to wrestle if you’re strong,” she taunted.  “And I’m really strong.”
     Everyone went silent with shock.  Then they exploded in cheers at catcalls.  I could barely hear the whistle blow over the crowd.  But as I stood to my feet I could hear Courtney cheering.  “Yay Becky!” she shouted. 
     I was angry and ashamed and confused all at once.  After what Courtney had said about Becky’s muscles I thought that I might have to struggle to pin her.  I didn’t expect her to throw me around like a rag doll.  I had to beat her in the next two falls to win the match, and I had to beat her convincingly if I wanted to salvage my reputation.  As I struggled to my feet she smiled, and her braces flashed.  “That was even easier than I thought it would be,” she jeered.  “You’re even weaker than a real chicken, so I’m going to call you Rubber Chicken.”
     Now she was starting in the down position.  As small as she was I could just pick her up and toss her off the mat.  I just had to do it quickly, because she was fast.  I put hut one hand on her stomach and the other above her elbow.  Her arm and stomach felt… hard.  Really hard.  Then the whistle blew, and I went to grab Becky around the waist.  She was fast, but I had skill, and I was able to stay on top of her.  She was up on one knee when I finally got ahold of her waist. I planted my feet and got ready to toss her out of the ring.  Then I felt her tiny hands against my stomach and chest.  Then I was up in the air, looking down and the mat.  Becky Finklestein had pressed me over her head.  Then I hit the mat, and the whistle blew.
     Everyone was gasping in awe. 
     There was stunned silence as Becky raised her hands in triumph.  Courtney bent down to hug and congratulate her.  “That was totally awesome to max, Becky,” she said as I got to my feet.
     Coach Flaherty was shaking his head and smiling.  “I’ll be danged.  Let me go get the state athletic laws,” he said, and went toward the office.
     “I had no idea you were so strong,” Courtney fawned.  “Can I see you muscles?”
     Becky glowed with pride as she pulled up her left sleeve revealing a lean arm with cabled forearms, a horseshoe shape tricep, and an impressive slab of a bicep.  Becky flexed her arm, and her impressive slab of bicep curled  from a long, lean muscle to round bulge size and shape of a billiard ball.  Courtney laughed in amazement, like she couldn’t believe the size and definition of the young redhead’s arm.  I couldn’t believe it either.  Becky Finklestein had muscles.  Real Muscles.  Big muscles.  She looked bigger than most of the Ms. Olympia contestants that I saw in my weightlifting magazines.  It didn’t seem possible that an eighteen year old girl could have arms like that.  I would have thought that I was dreaming, except that my hamstrings were still sore from when those arms bent me in half in a cradle pin.
     “Can I squeeze it?” Courtney asked, her eyes alight.
     “Sure,” Becky said.  “You better use both hands though, because it’s really big and really hard.”
     “Oh my God it is,” Courtney gasped. 
     “You mean Goddess,” Becky corrected.  “And if you like that you should see my abs.” Becky used her free hand to lift up her sweatshirt.  Over the past couple of years, I had read my share of weightlifting magazines, and I had seen plenty of six packs.  Becky’s was as good as any of them.  Her stomach was symmetrical and cut, and her slim, girlish waist was lined with ribbons of obliques and serratus muscles that looked like they were chiseled out of granite.  Courtney gasped.  “Wow,” she said.  “I wish I had a stomach that tight.”
     “You can.  I can teach you how to pump iron,” Becky said, winking.
     But Courtney didn’t see the wink.  Her eyes had drifted back to Becky’s arm.  “Greg come over here and feel her bicep,” she said, “it’s really hard. It’s… so… hard.”
     "No thanks,” I said through gritted teeth.
     “He already felt my muscles when I bent him in half like a daisy stem,” Becky jeered.
     I turned red with anger, but Courtney laughed and blushed. 
Coach Flaherty read through a big brown book with gold lettering on the front as the next few rounds of tryouts went by.  Afterward, I only had one loss, my loss to Becky Finklestein.  She was undefeated.  She never lost a single fall.  No one lasted longer than 10 seconds with her.  She tossed guys around like toys and bent them into pins that I had never seen before.  She was unstoppable.  Coach was smiling with disbelief as he congratulated her, but he had bad news.  “Rebecca, the state athletic laws say that girls are not allowed to participate in full contact sports like football or wrestling.”
      “Oh no,” Courtney moaned.
     It’s not fair,” Becky protested.  “I’m the best wrestler in here by a mile.”
     Coach nodded.  “Rebecca I wish it was different.  I really do.  In twenty years of coaching wrestling, this is the best performance I have ever seen… anywhere.  I would love to have you on the team.  Heck I’d love to have seven of you on the team.  But the rules are the rules.”
     “The rules are always against me,” Becky said, tearing up. 
     Courtney insisted that we walk Becky home.  She lived Mayfair Estates, where the rich people lived, not far from my house.  We cut through Mayfair Park, just as the sun was going down.
     "I hate how men get to make all the rules.” Becky spat.  “Even when you’re better than a guy, you’re not allowed to be better than a guy.”
     Courtney sighed.  “I know,” she said, and she shot a dirty glance at me, like this was my fault.  Like I wrote the state athletic laws.  “But guys aren’t that bad.  They’re… okay… for the most part.  I guess.”
     “You don’t deserve to be on the team,” I said, stopping.  “You don’t even know how to wrestle.”
     “Greg!” Courtney hissed.
     “Shut up!” Becky said, stamping her foot.  “I deserve it more than you.  I’m better than you!  I’m faster than you and a hell of a lot stronger than you!”
     I had finally lost my cool.  “You’re not better than anybody!  You’re just an ugly girl with glasses and braces, and you’re probably on steroids.”
     “Greg shut up,” Courtney hissed.
     “Thanks, Courtney, but I’d rather shut him up myself,” Becky said through gritted teeth, her nostrils flaring.
     Her diminutive hands curled into fists, and her face reddened as she stared at me with her burning green eyes.  For just a second I felt a pang of fear.  And a second was all the time I had.  Becky charged me.  I tried to get out of the way, but she was too fast.  Her tiny fist hit me in the ribs, and crashed into me like a wrecking ball, knocking the air the air out of me and sending me to the ground screaming in pain.  Her next punch hit me square in the stomach, and it hit so hard that my arms and legs splayed out and my fingers clenched.  I coughed up a spot of blood.
“Stand up,” Becky said coldly.  “I want you to fight back.  It’s no fun if you don’t fight back.”
     But I couldn’t fight back.  I couldn’t move.  An eighteen year old girl who stood less than five feet tall had beaten me into submission with two punches.  Two body blows, even.  The humiliation I was feeling was almost as bad as the screaming pain in my midsection.
     “Becky stop!” Courtney cried.  “Don’t hurt him.  You’ll get in trouble.”
     Courtney was too late on both counts.  I was already hurt, I could feel my cracked ribs pulling away from the cartilage.  Two police officers were shining flashlights on Becky Finklestein and getting out their walkie talkies.
     “This isn’t over, Rubber Chicken,” Becky said.  “I’ll be back.  And I’ll be bigger and stronger.” 
     Courtney helped me up, and as we turned to walk home, I looked back at Becky.  She looked pissed.


Chapter 3 – Being and Becoming

   Courtney was mad at me for a week after my fight with Becky, if you can call it a fight.  We told people I got hit by a car.  But she got over it.  Courtney was so wrapped up in getting into a good college that she didn’t time for much else.  She had even gone away to take courses at a college prep school for a three months.  While she was gone I was lifting more than ever.  I was pumping serious iron.  FHS was the best football team in the state, and the trainers there made sure I had plenty of steroids, and that I knew how to use them.
   Courtney got back from college prep the week before Christmas break.  She couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw me.  She didn’t like how angry the steroids made me, but she loved the muscle I had packed on while she was away.  And she had changed, too.  Her boobs looked about twice as big as they were before she went away, and her butt looked rounder too.  But all she ever wore were baggy jeans and sweatshirts emblazoned with logos of the colleges that she talked with during her prep semester.
   That first weekend back, all Courtney wanted to do was watch me work out and rub my muscles.  I was aching to sex her up, but she kept telling me to wait until her parents went out of town on the weekend.  It was like she was planning something.  Or hiding something.
On Saturday, she came over to see me and she was so excited she bounced from foot to foot as we talked.  “Greg, guess what?” she asked.
   “What?”
   “Becky got out of the girls’ home this week, and we need to go meet her.”
   “Becky who?
   “Becky Finklestein, Greg.  Remember?”
   “What!?”  I screamed.  “No, fuck that!  That crazy little bitch got herself into trouble, and I don’t care if she got out or if they keep her locked up for life!”
   “Fine,” Courtney said.  “I’ll go alone!” and she stormed out of the house as I followed.
   “That girl is unstable,” my mom said from the kitchen.  I ignored her.  I wish now that I hadn’t

   I saw Courtney at school on Monday.  “How was Becky?” I asked.  I didn’t really care, but I had to act like I did.
   “She seems okay,” Courtney said.  “She’s back at Vanneman High.”
   “I guess that’s close enough to being in prison,” I snorted.
   “Greg my dad went there for a year!” Courtney scolded.  Vic used to have a terrible temper, and almost got sent to jail when he was sixteen.  He said that his year at Vanneman straightened him out, and gave him the chance to focus on football and weightlifting.  “I hope that Becky gets her life turned around like dad did.”
   “Good luck,” I chortled.  “She’ll be stripping the second she graduates.”
   “No, Greg, she’s really smart.  She’s taking college-level courses in physics and philosophy.  She got some kind of scholarship for troubled youth or something, not that she needs it.  Her house is incredible.  I think her mom is rich.”
   “Does her mom look like a Muppet, too?”
   “You’re so immature,” Courtney said, rolling her eyes.  “Her mom wasn’t home, but I’m sure she’s pretty.  Becky has beautiful features, she just needs to grow into them, that’s all.”
   “She needs to grow about a foot taller, too.  Her dad must be a midget or something.”
    “No, he’s just... weird.  He never says anything.  Becky orders him around like a slave.  He just sits quietly in a chair in the kitchen until she tells him to do something.”
   “Totally whipped,” I said, chuckling. 

   Courtney and I were walking to homeroom on Tuesday when Clarence Jefferson cut us off.  “Hey Rubber Chicken,” he said.  “Guess who’s out of lock-up?
   “I heard,” I said.  Becky’s nickname for me had stuck, but I stopped getting mad about it.  Besides, only my friends had the guts to say it to my face.
   “Well I heard that little Becky wants to fight you.  But she said she doesn’t think you have the guts.”
   I could feel my face reddening with anger.
   Courtney pulled on my sleeve.  “Greg you can’t.  She’ll get in trouble again.”
   Clarence was walking away, but turned around.  “I forgot,” he told us, “I’m supposed to tell you that Becky said not to be afraid, because she won’t hurt you like she did last time you fought.”
   I could feel my face getting red.  Courtney hadn’t told anyone about Becky breaking my ribs, so I had to hold my tongue until Clarence was out of sight.  “It was a lucky punch,” I hissed at Courtney.  “I ought to go kick her ass just to shut her up.”
   From the look on my face, Courtney knew that I was seriously thinking about it.  “Greg you can’t,” she pleaded.  “You’re so much bigger now, you’re pretty much a grown man, and she looks exactly the same as she used to.”
   “That’s too bad I sneered, because she used to look like a Muppet.”
   “Greg, be nice.”
   I didn’t want to be nice to Becky Finklestein, though.  I wanted to go meet her somewhere and pound her into the ground.

   That night I was so mad that I had to work out twice just to clear my head.  I just got out of the shower when my mom told me I had a phone call.  “Who is it?” I asked.
   “I don’t know honey.  It’s a gentleman who says he’s from Notre Dame.  It may be a recruiter.”
   I was beyond stoked.  I ran to the front room to answer the phone.  “Hello,” I said.
   “Hold on one moment,” said a sheepish male voice.
   I could hear the phone changing hands.  “Hi Rubber Chicken,” jeered a familiar female voice.  “When are you going to come get your beating?”
   “Fuck off!”  I yelled.
   “Fine,” Becky sighed.  “I’ll be in the middle of the soccer field at Franklin High tomorrow after school. If you don’t show up, I’ll have to get creative.”
   I slammed the phone down.  “It was a prank call,” I called out.

   Becky must have gotten the word out to all the kids at FHS, because when I got to class on Wednesday, our fight was all anyone could talk about.  Courtney watched me like a hawk.  “Greg don’t.  She’s half your size,” she said while we were in the lunch line.
   “She needs to keep her mouth shut,” I said.  “Maybe I should just go tell her that.”
   “No Greg, let me.  I’ll go out and talk to her.  Besides, we don’t want anything to ruin this weekend…”
   Courtney’s parents were going out of town this weekend, and she had the house all to herself.  I had been waiting over a week to get her out of those baggy clothes that she had been wearing, and into my bed.  In just a few days I was going to be over there making sweet love to her from Friday night to Sunday afternoon.  So I let her take over.
   The class day flew by.  I was waiting on the steps outside of FHS when Courtney came back from her meeting with Becky, crying.  She had a black eye.  “She slapped me, Greg,” Courtney sobbed, her breath steaming in the winter air.  “She said you weren’t man enough to defend yourself, but maybe you were man enough to defend me.”
   Becky had gone too far, but she was right about one thing.  I was going to defend Courtney.  As I ran off, Courtney pulled on my arm.  “Greg, don’t,” she pleaded.”
   “I’m not going to hurt her, I’m just going to scare her,” I snarled.  “Scare the hell out of her.”
   “It’s not her I’m worried about-“
   “I’m not going to get in trouble.”
   “It’s not that, Greg…”
   I was so mad I nearly snapped at Courtney, “Well what the hell is it then?”
   “Greg, she’s really strong.”
   “I’m a lot stronger than I used to be,” I boasted.  “You’ve seen the weight I put up now.”
   Courtney looked away.  I kissed her on the cheek and jogged off toward the soccer field.  I could see the crowd of kids that had gathered for the fight was starting to disperse, and I could see a tiny little shape in a bright blue track suit right in the middle.  I ran toward the soccer field as fast as I could go, a light layer of snow crunching under my feet.  Becky looked almost exactly the same as I remembered.  Same frizzy orange pigtails, same glasses, same freckles and same huge jugs.  She may have gotten an inch taller.  And judging by the way her track suit fit, she was getting fat.   “What the hell, Becky!?”  I demanded.
   “Nice to see you, too, Rubber Chicken,” Becky jeered, and smiled, her braces gleaming in the winter sun.  Still wearing braces and now she’s getting fat.  No wonder she’s being such a bitch.  Thinking about what an ugly duckling Becky was made me calm down a bit.
     “Courtney’s the only person who ever stood up for you.   You know that right?” I asked.  “She was your friend.”
“This isn’t about Courtney,” Becky said calmly.  “This is about you and me.  I’ll hit her whenever I feel like it.”  She popped a big pink bubble.
   Now I was mad again.  Even angrier than before.  “You’re not supposed to chew gum with braces Becky,” I shouted.  “And you’re not supposed to hit people that are nice to you.  How stupid are you!?”
   “I have an IQ of 176, Rubber Chicken.  And I do whatever I want.”
   “Shut up Becky!”  I yelled.  It wasn’t a great comeback, but I was too mad to think straight.  I was fifteen feet away from the person that I hated most in the world, and it was going to take all my self control to keep from pounding her into a bloody pulp. 
   Courtney had caught up to me by now.  “Greg don’t,” she said.
   “Go stand over there by Cameron,” I told Courtney, pointing to where the guys standing.
   “I’m sorry Courtney,” Becky said apologetically.  “It was the only thing I could think of to get him to stop hiding from me.”
   “I’m not hiding from you, Becky,” I said.  “I’m over twice your size.  I’ve been pumping serious iron.  See?”  I tore my coat and my flannel off, and flexed my biceps for the crowd.  There was some hooting, and few girls whistled.  I could see Courtney smiling lustily.  “I can’t fight you or I’ll hurt you and get in trouble.”
   Becky laughed, but not in that little giggling way she normally did.  This time is was a nasty cackle like a cartoon witch.  “I’ve been pumping serious iron, too,” she said.  And with that she unzipped and removed her tracksuit, so that she was wearing nothing but white sneakers, a white cutoff tank top and white soccer shorts.  “See?” she crowed.
   I could hear gasps of disbelief from all around as Becky’s track suit fell to the ground.  Becky Finklestein had muscles.  Real muscles.  Big muscles.  Huge muscles.  My heart sank and I felt a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.  The eighteen year old girl staring up at me from fifteen feet away was the most muscular human being I had ever seen in my life.  Her soccer shorts and tank top were stretched so tight by her rippling bulk that they may as well have been spandex.  I could see every enormous, striated, sinew in her body as they bulged in perfect definition in the afternoon sun.  She looked bigger than most of the Mr. Olympia contestants that I saw in my weightlifting magazines.  She looked impossible.  “Oh my God,” Courtney gasped.
     “You mean Goddess,” Becky corrected her, as she slowly brought her arms up into a double biceps flex that put mine to shame.
   Gone were the billiard ball sized muscles that she used to dominate me in the wrestling tryout.  Her arms were bulging with massive, split head biceps the size of baseballs.  And she hadn’t even finished the flex.  She smiled, her braces shining in the sun, and fanned her fingers out for show as she squeezed the pose to completion.  And her biceps got bigger.  And bigger.  And bigger.  I gulped.  I had spent the past year taking steroids and lifting weights, and I wasn’t even close to being as big as the pint-sized juggernaut that was glaring up at me.  “You don’t know what serious iron is until you’ve seen what I lift,” Becky laughed.
   My mouth was too dry to speak.  I stood there in shocked silence, as Becky Finklestein contorted her gigantic muscles into one body building pose after another. She lifted her tank top up to her sternum, hoisting her huge freckled boobs up so the made an ocean of cleavage in the neckline, and pulled her shorts down past her belly button.  Her girlish midsection was studded with eight perfectly symmetrical lumps of abdominal muscle, framed by obliques and ribs that were so clearly defined she looked like the anatomy chart in health class.  “No…” I croaked.
   Becky giggled.  “Yes,” she cooed. 
   She clasped her miniature hands together and slowly inflated her pectoral muscles.  It seemed like they would never stop growing.  Minutes seemed to pass as she gradually pumped them into prominence with agonizing slowness.  They pressed her massive bust tight against the white fabric of her shirt as they forced their way up out of her tank top, rippling into layered slabs of bulk, eclipsing her tiny collarbones.  When she finally stopped, the shoulder straps of her tank top were vibrating with tension, and the neck was stretched wide so wide that it was big enough to fit around my waist.  But it wasn’t big enough to fit around Becky’s chest.  Her pectorals were bulging out inches past her body, forcing themselves so far out of the tank top that I wondered how the shirt stayed on.  I couldn’t believe it.  Becky’s pecs were bigger than my shoulders.  “I can’t believe it,” I croaked.
   Becky giggled.  “Believe it,” she chirped.
   She unclasped her hands, and raised her arms overhead with the smooth grace of a gymnast, and then brought them swooping down into a most muscular pose.  Except the phrase “most muscular” was laughably inadequate.  Becky’s trapezius muscles puffed up to the size and shape of bowling pins, and forced her pigtails forward until their oranges fringes tickled the edges of her thick framed glasses.  And they kept growing. And growing.  So did her triceps, which flared out in horseshoe shapes so big that her skin pulled tight with tension around their quivering mass.  Her biceps and forearms squeezed against her pectorals, the muscle shapes bulging so incredibly that her tiny, freckled face looked freakishly out of place surrounded by the swelling immensity of her upper body.  And the word “immense” didn’t do her shoulders justice.  Her deltoids looked like knots of steel cable the size of pumpkins that strained the limits of her freckled skin as they continued to grow and harden, with tiny drops of sweat forming in winter air and running down the bulging topography of her arms, dripping off the blue painted nails at the end of her tiny fingers.  This had to be dream.  Becky’s shoulders were bigger than my thighs.  I could barely speak.  “They can’t be real,” I croaked. 
   Becky giggled.  “Oh, they’re real all right,” she crowed.
   She thrust her right leg out, pointing the toe of her size 2 white sneakers, and shook her massive quad.  The bulk of her femoris, lateralis, and medialis swung back and forth.  I swear she had more muscle above her right knee than I had on both my legs put together.  The titanic slab of flesh swayed hypnotically until she flexed her leg, and it shuddered into a rock-solid braid of striated muscle, wrapping around her leg and tapering down to her tiny knee, below which bulged the biggest calf muscle I had ever seen, in real life or in a magazine.  Becky’s eyes were locked on me.  She smiled that bitchy little smirk, and then, impossibly, her thigh got bigger.  And bigger.  The quads, tensor, and gracillis pushed and pulled against each other and bunched into muscle shapes that I had never seen before.  How could she walk with thighs that big?  How could she even stand on those little feet with such massive legs?  I was seeing her move, despite her impossible proportions.  But how?  I asked myself.  Becky’s thighs were bigger than my waist.  “But…but…” I stuttered.
   Becky giggled.  “You want to see my butt?” she laughed.
   She pivoted around on one tiny foot with fluid ease, bent her knees and thrust her backside out, its massive heart-shape bulk swallowing her white shorts.  Becky angled her herculean arms downward, pointing to the ground with splayed fingers.  She pivoted her upper body toward me, her midsection rippling with ribbons of muscle and her back undulating like an avalanche of brawn.  I could only see the top of her face, because her chin and mouth were hidden by the hulking immensity of her traps and delts.  Until she smiled.  The braces on the top row of her teeth gleamed in the sun as she began to flex her gluteus maximus and gluteus medius muscles independently, one after the other, first the right cheek, then the left.  One-two-three-four.  One-two-three-four.  The sculpted, freckled mass of her butt began to flex and contract rhythmically, rolling like an ocean of muscular power. 
   When she had made her point, she pivoted to face me again, and put her hands on her hips.  Her biceps, forearms, and lats were so big that there was no daylight visible under her arms.  She was a solid wall of muscle.  And then she started to get wider.  And wider.  And wider.  Her lat spread was wider than she was tall.  And then she went up on her tip-toes, and her calves exploded into razor sharp definition.  They looked bigger than my head.  Becky popped a pink bubble as my eyes filled with tears.  I was afraid of her.  I was crying with fear at the muscular display put on by an eighteen year old girl.  “This isn’t happening,” I croaked.
   Becky giggled.  “Oh yes it is,” she laughed.  “Now get down on your knees and crawl over here.”
   I looked around.  For just a moment, I had perfect clarity.  Like an out-of-body experience.  There were a few dozen people gathered around Becky and I, all of them with looks of awe, fear and disbelief on their faces.  Except for Courtney.  She was wide eyed, slack-jawed, and smiling from ear to ear.  She couldn’t take her eyes off of Becky’s bulging, sculpted physique.  Neither could I, but I didn’t share Courtney’s excitement.
   Cameron looked at me.  “Dude,” I heard him say, “run.”
   But I knew I couldn’t run.  Becky was too fast.  She would catch me.  And even if her new bulk made her too slow to catch me, she would just find me again tomorrow.  I just wanted this to end.  I just wanted her to stop flexing her muscles, put her track suit back on, and get out of my life.  I got down on my knees.    I crawled through the grass toward her.  The closer I got, the bigger she looked.  I saw bulges and striations up close that I couldn’t see from fifteen feet away.  She was showing perfect definition in muscle groups that most people only see in anatomy textbooks.  She was terrifying.  I was right in front of her now, staring up at her bright green eyes.  And she looked pissed.
   “You ruined my life, Greg,” she said, stepping out of her sneakers, her blue nail polish shining in the thin layer of snow on the ground.  “Now apologize.”
   “I’m sorry,” I sobbed, trying to look away as Becky’s massive muscles twitched and flexed, seemingly involuntarily, as if they were too big for her to control.
   “Apologize for making me break your ribs three months ago.”
   “I’m sorry,” I sobbed, trying to ignore Becky as she swiveled her hips and pointed her toes, making her legs erupt in undulations of feminine power.
   “Apologize for making me hit Courtney.”
   “I’m sorry,” I sobbed, trying not to see Becky cracking her knuckles, making the cables of muscle on her forearm dance and writhe.
   “Now kiss my feet,” Becky said coldly.
   I didn’t even think about resisting.  I bent down and kissed the tiny, freckled feet.  They were so small that I had to turn my head to the side to stop from bumping my head against Becky’s shins.  Dear God, did her shins have muscles too?  Was that even possible?
   “Now kiss my butt,” Becky said coldly.
   Becky turned around, and I obeyed, pecking at the rock-hard enormity of her right butt cheek.  I saw a flicker of movement in Becky’s tensor muscle as she began to flex her glutes.  I tried to pull away, but it was too late.  Becky’s gluteus maximus contracted so quickly and with such force that it smacked me in the face, and I fell backward.  My nose was bleeding.  Becky was laughing as she turned around.  She raised her left arm and slowly curled it into a bicep flex.  Her arm was so big that she could tap and stroke the quivering, engorged mountain of sinew with her slender, blue-tipped fingers.
   “Now kiss my bicep,” Becky ordered.
There was something surreal about it. The freckled chipmunk-cheeked face seemed normal for a high school old girl, but the diminutive porcelain-skinned hands and feet looked like they belonged on a doll, and the hulking masses of throbbing muscle looked like they belonged on a male bodybuilder twice her age and height.  I would have laughed, if I wasn’t already crying.
   “Now!” Becky growled.
   My eyes filled with tears.  I just wanted it to stop.  As I straightened up I could see Courtney standing behind Becky.  Her lips were quivering, her eyes were glazed over, and her nipples were poking out further than I had ever seen before, baggy sweatshirt or not.  She was getting off on this.  Becky Finklestein was showing her more muscles than I could, maybe more than anyone else in the world could.  I would have gotten angry, if I wasn’t already scared.  If Becky could bloody my nose by flexing her buttock, what could she do with her bicep?  I tried not to think about that as I planted a quick kiss on the towering mass of Becky’s arm, and pulled my head away quickly. 
   But I wasn’t quick enough.  In a split second, Becky had curled her massive arm around my neck, and mashed me into her steely hard ribcage.  I was losing air.  Her arm was so big I didn’t know whether it was going to crush my windpipe or my skull.  Or both.  I tried to plant my feet and drive out of the headlock, but Becky didn’t budge.  I swung my fists and elbows at her arms and abdominals, but they were even harder than they looked, so hard that I felt forks of pain shoot up my arms like I had been punching a brick wall. I grabbed her wrist with both hands and pulled with all my might, but that only made her laugh.  I tried to grab her elbow, but I couldn’t reach around the bulk of her forearm, not even with both hands.  As I lost consciousness, I could hear her squeaky voice taunting me.  “You think you pump serious iron, Rubber Chicken?” she giggled.  “No one pumps harder than me. No one.”
   Then everything went black.

[Jeremy Lightning]

Well, you don't know how happy I am to see the best story character that I've read in the last 3 years back, or at least a version of her, Becky Finkelstein, she has been an absolute inspiration to me, I have loved her from pretty much the first story that I saw her in. So yeah, seeing more of her adventures is always a welcome sight. I hope this isn't all of what this story has to offer. k+!

[BossRose]

That was an amazing read. Well done! Hope to see more.

[grbaclig]

Chapter 4 – Serious Iron

   I didn’t go to school on Thursday.  I wasn’t hurt, but I had never been so humiliated in my life.  I had been lifting, trying to up my max.  All I wanted in the world was to crush Becky Finklestein.  I wanted to crush her for hurting Courtney, for humiliating me, and for making Courtney quake with desire without even touching her.  But every time I picked up a weight, I wondered how much more Becky would lift.  I was doing curls with 40 pounds.  Was she using 60?  80?  Every time I curled the weights to my chest, I saw visions of her gigantic bicep balling up in slow motion, her delts, forearms, triceps, and brachialis flaring out in perfect definition.  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about her bulging, dominant musculature and her bitchy, domineering attitude.  Becky Finklestein was a bully.  The worst kind of bully.  The kind of bully that forces you into a fight by hitting your girlfriend.  The kind of bully who was so much stronger than you, you could only dream of beating them up.
Courtney came to visit me in the basement.  Her eye was looking a little better.  “Was everybody talking about it?” I asked.
   Courtney hesitated.  “Yes and no,” she said.
   “Yes and no?
   “Everybody was talking about Becky.  They never really talked about you.”
   “Becky?”
   “All anyone could talk about was Becky’s muscles.  No one really talked about you at all.”  I didn’t know if I was supposed to feel good about that or not.  Courtney continued, rubbing my arms.  “No one is going to look down on you Greg.  Anyone would have done the same thing.  It’s not like you can justify fighting a girl.”
   “Yeah,” I said.  Courtney was right.  I had to take the high road.  I couldn’t hit a girl, even one as big as Becky Finklestein.  Everyone would understand that.  My spirits rose.
   “Besides, if you tried she would have totally crushed you.  I mean, did you see her Greg?  She’s huge!  Did you see her shoulders?  And her legs?”  My sprits fell.  But Courtney kept talking.  She was getting carried away, and she flopped back on my bed and started grinding her thighs together.  “My God Greg her arms could break you in half like a twig.  They were beyond huge.  Did you see the way her biceps bunched up when she flexed?  They were the size of grapfruits!”
   “I saw,” I sighed. 
   “And just… cut, Greg.  Every muscle on her body is perfect. And her movements are so fast and fluid, like she’s a dancer or a martial artist or something.  Did you see how gracefully she moved?  Even with all that… rippling… bulging… muscle…”
   “I saw,” I sighed.
   “She would have destroyed you, Greg.  I mean like, remember when she pinned you in wrestling tryouts like you were nothing?  Like you were a ragdoll! And you were twice as big as her, and now she’s twice as big as you… maybe bigger.”  Courtney was laying on the bed with her eyes closed as I left the room, but I could still hear her talking about Becky Finklestein as I walked down the hall.  “So big,” she gushed.

   I knew that the only way out was to apologize to Becky and throw myself on her mercy but I needed to confront her somewhere safe.  Somewhere that there were lots of authority figures present.  A few months ago it had taken two police officers to save me from her, and back then she was just a little girl.  Now she was a big girl.  A huge girl.
   I figured that I would be safe at Vanneman High, where there were teachers everywhere, and a police station across the road.  Courtney had to leave at lunch for some reason, so I jogged down to Vanneman High to talk to Becky.  If I was lucky I could catch her in between classes, where she would only have a few minutes to beat me up or humiliate me or do whatever she was going to do.
The weight room was past the gym, and the hallway leading to the gym was where the FHS trophies were kept.  I stopped by to check out Vic’s old squat record.  He was now in fifth place, at the bottom of the plaque.  All four plates above mine were engraved with the name “Rebecca E. Finklestein.”  I looked at the numbers on the plaque.  Becky had beaten his old record of 612 pounds with lifts of 613, 614, 615, and 700 pounds.  700 pounds?  Was it possible for an eighteen year old girl to lift that much weight?  Then I remembered the hulking mass of her legs and the rippling bulk of her glutes as she exhibited her physique on the soccer field.  She could probably squat more if she wanted to.
   Out of grim curiosity I went from plaque to plaque.  All the weightlifting plaques had five spaces, and Becky had the first four places on all of them.  She had pushed all the previous record-holders to the bottom, even Vic O’Neal.  His bench press record of 356, which had stood for three decades, was now fifth best to lifts of 357, 358, 359, and 450.  By “Rebecca E. Finklestein.”  450 pounds?  She was huge, beyond huge, but it just didn’t seem possible for a high school girl to put up that kind of weight.  Then I remembered the striated globes of her pectorals swelling up like tidal waves of muscle, growing until they eclipsed her collarbones and stretched her tanktop wide enough to fit around my waist.  She could probably bench more if she wanted to.
   And it wasn’t just weightlifting.  Becky had plaques and trophies for track and field, chess club, jazz band, debate club, and “Math Olympics” whatever the hell that was.  Her name was all over the hallway.  She was better than everyone at everything.
   As I got close to the weight room I could hear the familiar sound of weights clanking.  Except it was only one set of weights.  And it sounded like a ton of weight.  I took a deep breath as I opened the door.
   The afternoon sun was streaming through the windows set along the top of the walls.  I think there was a new paint job and maybe some new weights, but I don’t really remember.  My focus was drawn instantly to the biggest, most muscular back I had ever seen in my life.  It was shaped like the hood of a cobra, rising up from the tiny waistline of a pair of pink soccer shorts and flaring out in a four-foot-wide conflagration of rippling muscles that contracted and bulged impossibly as the massive arms that it was attached to pumped two one hundred pound dumbbells up in the air with mechanical perfection.  Frizzy orange pigtails hung down over the neck strap of a pink workout leotard, but I didn’t need to see the pigtails to know who it was.  Only Becky Finklestein had muscles like that. 
Her back looked like a cobblestone street of muscles, except that both the cobblestones and the mortar were muscles.  It didn’t look human.  When she finished her set, she floated the weights down, and held them in her little hands wiggling them casually they way I wiggled the fifty pound dumbbells that I did military presses with.  How was she so strong?  At eighteen years old she was pumping iron like an Olympic weightlifter and flexing muscles like Mr. Olympia.  I couldn’t help myself from staring at the swollen immensity of her back.  I hated her and I was afraid of her and I was jealous of her, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.  Then all of a sudden she had turned around and locked her green eyes on me.  She smirked that bitchy little smirk.  “Hey Greg,” she said.  “Did you come down here to see someone pump serious iron?”
   And then, without blinking, she curled the barbells up to her chest, holding them there just long enough to make sure that I could count the plates.  Then she let them float down in perfect form, her arms fully extended.  And then she curled them up again.  Her biceps contracted and bloated as her forearms undulated and her deltoids flared to life.  I felt like screaming but my mouth was too dry.  Becky Finklestein was doing bicep curls with hundred pound dumbbells.  No one could curl 100 pound dumbbells.  No one could even get close to curling 100 pound dumbbells.  Except the eighteen year old muscle brat that stood glaring at me and smiling.  “You look pretty scared, Rubber Chicken,” she giggled as she slowly raised and lowered the massive weights.  “Haven’t you ever seen anybody warm up with hundred pound barbells?”
   Did she say warm up?  Warm up with hundred pound barbells?  I came to the weight room to confront a bully.  But Becky was more than a bully.  She was a monster.  She popped a pink bubble as she completed her twelfth rep.  Then she set the weights down and rolled her shoulders back, her eyes locked on me.  “I guess not,” she giggled. 
   She laughed as she put her arms behind her back and puffing out her chest, her massive slabs of pectoral muscle forcing her huge boobs into prominence beneath the pink spandex top.  Her top was so tight and shiny and with sweat that her tits looked like pink balloons inflating as her chest got bigger.  And bigger.  “I told you that no one pumps harder than me,” she sang.
   The she put her hands on her hips/  Becky was wider than she was tall, and she was getting wider every second as she lifted her arms up and spread her lats out.  When she finally stopped she froze in place, smirking, as sweat ran down her lats, dorsals, ribs and obliques like water cascading down a mountain range.  I hated her, but I couldn’t contain my amazement.  “How did you get so big?” I squeaked.
   Becky relaxed, and wiggled her tiny, manicured fingers.  “I started developing faster than the other girls,” she said. “My doctor told me that I was too young to have breast reduction surgery, and suggested that I start lifting weights to build muscle and burn fat.  So I did. My muscles kept growing, but so did my boobs, so I kept lifting more weight.”
   “But… in three months?”
   “Yeah, in three months.  My mom spent the past twenty years studying female biology and nutrition, and she has a strength training regimen for girls only.”
   "Girls only?”
   “Yeah, girls only.  I have to work out every night for two hours, but I normally work out for four,” Becky said, pumping her sweat-slick diamond-shaped calves as she looked at herself in the mirror.  “Totally worth it.”
   “It’s not possible,” I gulped.
   “You know it is,” she said sourly.  “Now crawl over to me.”
   My eyes were filling with tears, but I pulled myself across the floor of the weight room, until I was face to face with the pint-sized hulk.  Her muscles twitched and flexed as she breathed, as though they were too big for her to control.   First a deltoid would ripple causing her shoulder to flare, then a pectoral would contract causing her spandex top to stretch, then her traps would inflate, pushing her pigtails up in the air.  “It’s not possible,” I gulped again.
   “You know It is,” she said again, her green eyes still burning a hole through me.  “I choked you out in front of the whole school.  With this arm.”  Then Becky flexed her right arm.  Her slender, pink-painted fingers curled into a tiny, billiard ball sized fist, which led down to a delicate wrist, which ballooned in to forearms the size of a softball, which were connected by tiny elbows to upper arms as big around as volleyballs. I gasped as the long, lean slab of her biceps bunched into a perfect split peak.  I swear I could hear her bicep contracting.  It sounded like rushing water, like a flood or a tidal wave.  And her bicep kept getting bigger and bigger until it dominated my view.
   “Oh my God,” I croaked as the orange freckled mountain of muscle danced with the fanning of Becky’s fingers.
   “You mean Goddess,” Becky corrected.  “Now you flex your bicep.”
   “Becky, I-“
   “Flex your bicep, just like you did on the soccer field,” she ordered.
   Fingers trembling, I rolled up my sleeve and flex my right arm.  Becky laughed.  “Pathetic!” she spat.  “Your arm looks so small compared to mine,” she giggled, pointing to the mirror behind us.  I didn’t need to look.  I knew it did.  Then I heard a familiar voice.
   “Hey Becky, I have your protein shake for after your workout,” Courtney called out.  “Oh hey Greg.  What are you doing here?”
   “He just came down to apologize,” Becky said, relaxing her arm, and glaring at me.
   “That’s sweet,” Courtney said, a thick notebook in one hand, as she set a big glass of murky liquid down on the table near the showers.  Her eye was still black, but she didn’t seem angry at Becky.  “It’s nice to see you finally behaving like a mature adult,” she said to me.
   Courtney was talking to me but she was staring at Becky.  Her eyes were glazed over and her mouth hung open at the way Becky’s arms and back undulated which muscle as she loaded fifty pound plates on the bench press bar.  Her lips trembled as Becky stretched out her massive shoulders.  “Let me get my notes,” Courtney said as she opened the notebook and took a pen out from her golden blonde hair.  “This is important, Becky,” Courtney said.  “This is important for all women everywhere.”
   Becky giggled.  “It’s just another set for me,” she said as she laid down on the weight bench.  A wild smile crept over Courtney’s face as Becky lowered the bar to her chest.  It had five hundred pounds on it.  The bar bent and strained under the weight of the iron plates, but Becky’s arms were relaxed as she lowered the weight to her chest.   “Watch what I can to do Courtney,” Becky boasted as she let her arms drop to her sides.
   I could hear Courtney breathing heavy as she saw the five hundred pound barbell resting on the rippling bulk of Becky Finklestein’s chest.  Becky popped a bubble.  Then she flexed her right pectoral.  It erupted under her spandex top in an explosion of freckled skin, tilting the weight to the left.  Then she flexed her left pectoral, and its massive swell tilted the weight back to the right.  Then she flexed both pectorals at once, and the bar hopped into the air, just a centimeter or two.  Courtney was trembling and breathing heavy.  And Becky kept flexing her chest, bouncing the five hundred pound weight with ease.  With each bounce, the bar bounced a little higher.  Two inches, three inches, four inches.  I couldn’t believe it.  Becky Finklestein could bench press five hundred pounds without even using her arms. 
   Courtney was smiling from ear to ear and scribbling furiously in her notebook, as well as she could with her eyes glued to Becky.  “We’re going to change the world,” she said triumphantly.  “I’ve spent the past few months studying the regimen that you showed me, but I never imagined that you could get so… so…”
   Courtney trailed off as Becky re-racked the barbell and sat up, examining her swollen, striated pectorals in the mirror.  I knew what was happening because I had seen that look in Courtney’s eyes before when she fawned over me.  Courtney had a muscle-crush on Becky Finklestein.  “Get so what, Courtney?” Becky asked, batting her eyelashes and playing innocent as she puffed out her engorged pectorals a she hopped down off the bench.
   “…Huge,” Courtney gasped.  “Just… so… huge…”
   “Don’t forget about how strong I am,” Becky said, smiling with pride as she stroked her hypertrophied thighs.  Then that bitchy little smirk crept across her face.  “Hey Rubber Chicken, crawl over here.  There’s something that I want to show you.”
   I obeyed.  Courtney smiled down at me smugly.  What did I ever do to her?  Becky was the one that hit her, not me.  “What do you want to show me?” I croaked, my arms shaking as I approached the miniature behemoth.
   Becky flexed her left arm into a massive bulge of muscle.  She twisted her wrist and made the bicep peak shift and contract.  “First I want you to kiss my bicep.”
   Trembling with fear, I crawled toward the freckled mountain of feminine power.  I puckered my lips, but before I could kiss her bicep, it exploded upward into a massive peak, expanding rapidly until it filled my field of vision.  And then I was laying on my back.  I felt like I had been hit in the face with a truck.  Courtney was laughing, and out of my good eye, I could see her rubbing her hands across Becky Finklestein’s massive bicep, the bicep that Becky had used to knock me dizzy with only a twist of her wrist.  As everything faded to black, I saw Courtney lean down, her eyes closed and her lips quivering, and plant a gentle kiss on Becky’s bicep, and lick away a streak of blood.  My blood.


Chapter 5 – Unfair Advantage

   I couldn’t sleep on Thursday night.  Every time I drifted off into a dream, Becky Finklestein would show up and make it a nightmare.  Sometimes she was Wonder Woman, flexing her pecs and jiggling her giant freckled boobs in that red and gold halter top.  Sometimes she was Supergirl, with every impossibly cut muscle visible under her blue tights as bullets bounced off her harmlessly.  Once she was the Hulk, but with orange freckles instead of green skin.  And bigger.  Her eyes burned with anger as her muscles exploded out of her purple pants and white shirt.  As I awoke in a cold sweat, I could hear her voice from my nightmares.  “I’m the strongest one there is!” she growled. 
   I didn’t get back to sleep.
   I struggled through school on Friday, but as the day went on, and but the close to last period things got, the better I felt.  Courtney’s black eye was gone, so I didn’t have to think about Becky every time I looked at her.  At lunch I met Jerry Jackson and a couple other guys from the Vanneman High baseball team.  They had fading black eyes, too.  I wondered if Becky did it with a slap like she did with Courtney, or with a flex of her arm like she did with me.  Most of the team was too scared of Becky to help me out, but Jerry, Roy Larsen, Bill Emery, and Travis Martindale agreed to be part of my plan.
   Courtney was going out for dinner with her folks before they went away for the weekend.  Normally I went out to eat with them, but I said I was feeling sick.  I kind of was, but I snuck out at sunset and met Jerry in his car.  “Everything is in the trunk,” he said as we drove out toward Vanneman High.
   We could see the lights of the weight room as we approached.  Jerry turned off his headlights and parked around back.  We got the ski masks and baseball bats out his trunk, and Travis used the key he stole from the shop teacher to let us in the side door.  We snuck through the halls until we got to the trophy hall.  Becky had a new plaque, for getting a perfect score on her SATs.  I thought about her freckles, glasses, and braces.  The only thing that kept her from being a nerd was her giant rack.  And her giant muscles.  We could hear the clanking of weights as we approached the weight room.  If we were lucky she would be laying down on the bench, and we could attack before she got a chance to stand up.  We were not lucky.
   Becky was on the squat rack, squatting 800 pounds.  We filed in with masks on and bats in our hands, but Becky didn’t stop.  “ten, eleven, twelve,” she counted, then she re-set the weight and stepped out from under the rack.  “She was wearing purple track pants and a white t-shirt that was so tight and soaked with sweat that it was basically invisible.  She had a purple bra on underneath her shirt, and her purple track jacket sat in the corner near her duffle bag.  “What do you skinny bitches want?” she said.
   I felt like I should have something to say.  “Shut up, Becky!” I yelled.
It wasn’t a great comeback, but seeing her in purple pants and a white shirt reminded me a little too much of my dream, and I was off my game.  She rolled her eyes.  “Gee I wonder who you all are? With the baseball bats and batting gloves and everything?” she asked sarcastically.  Then she looked at Roy.  “You should at least change your ski mask, Roy.  You wore that stupid thing every day during December.”
   Bill and Roy looked at each other.  There was a moment of silence, then we moved.  Becky didn’t budge.  She put her hands on her hips and blew a big pink bubble.  “You need to learn a lesson,” Bill said.
   “This isn’t fair,” Becky said.  “You have an unfair advantage.”
   “You ain’t so tough when you’re outnumbered, are you?” Travis laughed.  Then he swung at Becky. 
   Travis batted clean-up for Vanneman High, and his swing was so powerful that the whoosh of the bat echoed through the weight room, and the wind the bat generated as it cut through the air ruffled Becky’s pigtails.  And then the bat slammed into Becky’s stomach.  She didn’t budge.  If Travis’ swing had any more effect on her than ruffling her pigtails, she didn’t let on.
   “I’m always tough,” Becky said.  “But you clowns can wail on me all you want without worrying about hurting me and getting in trouble.  I don’t have that luxury.”
   Jerry swung at Becky’s left arm.  On impact, the bat jumped out of his hands and skittered across the floor as he curled his fingers in pain.  Becky didn’t budge.  Jerry was on his knees and wringing his hands.  He looked like he just swung his bat into a brick wall.  But it wasn’t a brick wall, it was the arm of an eighteen year old girl.  It was the arm of an eighteen year old girl with glasses, freckles and braces.  And it was so packed with muscle that the sleeves of an XXL t-shirt bunched up above the bulging mass of her biceps and triceps.  “My fucking hands,” Jerry said.
   “If I lose my temper I could kill you, and then I go to jail for sure,” Becky said.  “I can’t even fight back, not really.  That’s not fair.”
   Then Roy swung at Becky’s head.  We all froze as the sweet spot of the bat crashed into Becky’s jaw.  If we were lucky, we wouldn’t get sent to jail.  If we were lucky, we would just get expelled.  We weren’t lucky.
   Becky didn’t budge.  It seemed like minutes passed while we stood motionless, Roy’s bat resting atop her massive traps, against the smooth girly curve of her jaw.  Then her nostrils started to flare, and her pouty lips curled into a snarl.  Becky’s breath got heavy, making her giant boobs float up and down under her t-shirt as her cheeks reddened.  “Now you’ve made me angry,” she said quietly.
   Then Becky curled her fingers, and braced her legs, and puffed out her shoulders, and screamed.  The sleeves of her white shirt split instantly as her massive softball sized biceps curled up and her shoulders rippled into triple-headed perfection.  Her chest expanded with such force that the shirt split down the middle, her enormous breasts spilling out, barely contained by the purple sports bra as the white cotton fell to the floor in shreds.  Her calves erupted into massive diamonds of muscle, tearing her purple pants on either side.  I was shaking.  Her muscles had erupted out of her clothes just like in my dream.  Just like the Hulk.  Only she wasn’t done.  Becky’s enormous thighs bunched and expanded, stretching the pants so tight that they began to split apart one thread at a time over the swelling immensity of her legs as her femoris, lateralis, medialis, and gracillis, shifted and contracted against each other.  Then her pants exploded into shreds of purple fabric.  Not even the hulk burst out of his pants, but the Hulk didn’t have muscles like Becky Finklestein.  She stood glaring at Roy, all four and a half feet of her packed with sweating, throbbing muscles, covered in freckled skin that was stretched so tight it looked like she might burst through it as well.  Her purple underwear strained against her rippling bulk like rubber bands wrapped around a mountain.
   Roy tried to pull the bat back, but Becky’s hand shot out with blinding speed and grabbed the barrel.  How could she be so fast?  Her arms were as big around as telephone poles, and she moved them in the less time than it took me to blink.  She fixed Roy with her eyes.  “Why would you do that?” she demanded.  “Why would you swing a baseball bat at my head?”
   Roy let go of the bat and backed up.  Becky stalked after him, the bat clutched firmly in her hand, her heart-shaped glutes bunching and undulating as she swung her hips with graceful ease.  “You’re not supposed to hit girls,” she said bitterly as Roy tripped over his feet.  Becky stood over him, holding out the bat.  “You know what happens if you hit girls, don’t you?” she asked.  Then a crackling sound filed the air as Roy’s baseball bat began to splinter, splits running from the knob to the head as Becky squeezed it in her dainty hand.  A second later, she had cracked it into kindling, both the knob and the head pointing skyward as the barrel cracked in her hand.  She dropped the remains of the bat the ground and slapped the sawdust off her hands.  “If you hit girls, they hit back,” Becky said venomously.
   “Please let me go,” Roy pleaded, his eyes filling with tears.
   Becky raised an open palm.  “No,” she said, and casually swatted her arm down in a gentle slapping motion. 
   Except the slap didn’t land gently.  Ray’s head smacked against the floor, spraying blood and teeth across the tile.  I recoiled in horror.  I had seen Becky’s muscles bulge with inhuman proportions, and I had seen her lift inhuman amounts of weight, but it wasn’t until that moment that I truly feared her strength.  Roy could swing baseball bat at her with all his might, and it hit her like a playful slap.  Becky could swing a playful slap at him, and it hit him like a car crash.  I could see Roy breathing, but he wasn’t moving.
   Becky straightened up and adjusted her bra, freckled breasts the size of volleyballs jiggling and bouncing as she tried in vain to contain them in the shiny purple fabric.  She smiled.  “Who’s next?” she asked.
   We didn’t have to talk or think, we just ran for the heavy iron door of the weight room.  I had pulled it open, and I could see the dim light of the hallway shining out like salvation, when the door slammed closed violently.  It’s was stuck, wedged into the doorframe, its hinges broken and crumpled around the imprint of a tiny shoe.  In under a second Becky had launched herself at the door, and crumpled it into its frame with a kick.  And now she stood in the middle of the four of us.  I was staring down at her massive back.  She looked positively superhuman.  I was shaking with fear as her traps and shoulders swelled with power with each breath.  “Oh no,” she said sourly.  “You came here to fight a girl, and you’re not leaving until you fight a girl.”    Then she glided back to the center of the weight room and put her hands on her hips.  “Well?” she demanded.
   Jerry leaned toward me.  “We outweigh her,” he said.  “We have to go mass against mass and knock her down, then we can make a break for the shower room, and then get out to the main hall.
   “Knock her down?” Bill asked.  “We even can’t make her flinch.  I mean look at her!”
   In the center of the gym Becky was doing handstand pushups with her back to us, her lats, delts, and traps pumping like freckled pistons.  Her lower body was perfectly still as she hammered out one pushup after another with graceful ease.  I had an idea.
   “Grab that bench,” I whispered, “then ends are kind of pointed, and we can use it like a battering ram.”
   Quietly, we lifted up the biggest weight bench at hand, one guy at each leg, and on the count of three we ran at Becky.  The narrow end of the bench came to a triangular point.  It wasn’t sharp, but it was far from soft.  We aimed the bench at the small of Becky's back as we picked up steam.  If she had a weak spot, that was bound to be it.  Time seemed to slow down as we barreled toward the tiny juggernaut, and she kept cranking out handstand pushups.  And then she stopped.  Her arms and shoulders swelled with power as she exploded upward out of her handstand, curled her body in midair and landed on her feet.  It was an incredible feat of athleticism, I had to admit, as we kept running toward her.  She was facing us now, hand on hips, and she was smiling.  Then the end of the bench crashed into her stomach, and she buckled.  She wasn’t smiling anymore.  “Ow,” she frowned.  “That really hurt.”
   It was a lot less of a reaction than I was hoping for.  I wanted to kill her, I would have been happy with crippling her, and I would have been satisfied with knocking her down.  But at least it was something.  Becky was human after all. “Again,” I yelled, and we threw back out arms and slammed the bench into her midriff again. 
   She winced in pain and bent over.  “Ow, cut it out!” she said.
   “Other way around, push her back,” Travis called, and we flipped bench so that it was lengthwise in front of us like a car bumper, with the legs facing toward us and the flat part aimed squarely at Becky’s chest.
   We ran forward, slamming the bench into her.  She stumbled backward, and we kept pushing.  If we could knock her over, we could make a break for it.  If we could pin her against the wall… heck, we might actually be able to beat her.  I was smiling under my ski mask we kept pushing, and Becky kept stumbling backward. 
   And then our progress stopped.  It was like we hit a wall.  But it wasn't a wall, it was Becky Finklestein. 
   Becky was staring at us from across the bench, just inches away, her traps and shoulders bulging with mass and definition, her face twisted into a scowl of anger.  We pushed harder.  She didn’t move.  In the mirror behind her I could see why.  Becky had planted her tiny feet, and her calves, thighs and glutes were now engaged and trembled with power.  For a few seconds we had an unfair advantage, but we lost it. 
   Becky’s scowl turned into a bitchy little smirk.  Her tiny fingers burst through the padding and the wire mesh of the bench and wrapped around the rails made up the frame of the bench.  We pushed harder, now spurred on by fear.  But Becky pushed harder too.  Our feet scuffled as, one inch at a time, we lost ground.  We were four high school jocks pushing with all of our might, and we were being overpowered by a girl with pigtails, braces and glasses who stood less than five feet tall.  Becky giggled as she forced us back, step by step.  “I’m stronger than all of you,” she growled with exertion, “sooooo much stronger.  I'm stronger than anyone.” 
   Becky popped a big pink bubble as she continued to force us backward.  Then I tripped over Bill’s feet, and we were all lying in a pile on the floor, looking at legs the size of tree trunks, abdominals like chiseled marble, and breasts so big we could barely see Becky’s face as we stared up at her.  She raised the bench over her head and laughed.  “I’m the strongest one there is!” she crowed as she bent the steel frame of the bench over her head.  The metal screamed as she folded the bench in half, her lats and arms ballooning with power.
   Becky threw the ruined bench across the floor like a discarded napkin.  “I’m sorry, Becky,” Travis pleaded.  “I’m sorry.”
   “You better hope you didn’t bruise my stomach,” she hissed, rubbing her abdominals.
   We didn’t.  We had attacked her with everything we had, all four of us at once, slamming the corner of the steel-framed bench into her stomach, and we didn’t even leave a mark.  “Please God, help me,” Jerry said.
   “You mean Goddess,” Becky corrected, casually adjusting her sports bra again.  Her nipples were rock hard under the sheer purple fabric.  “What did I tell you what would happen if you ever set foot in my gym without permission?” she demanded.
   Travis was crying.  “You told us that you would break us in half,” he sobbed.
   “Did you think I was joking?” Becky demanded.  “Is that why you came in here and hit me with baseball bats?”
   “No,” Travis moaned.  “I’m so sorry.”
   “You saw what I did to the bench, didn’t you?” Becky asked him.  “You know I can do that to you, don’t you?”
   “Please don’t.” I cried.
   “It’s way too late for ‘please don’t,” Becky crowed.  “You hit me in the jaw with a baseball bat and tried to impale me with a weight bench."  Then that bitchy little smirk spread across her face as she looked into a nearby mirror, stroking her abs.  "Too bad for you I’m an unstoppable muscle machine,” she jeered.
   Jerry clambered to his feet and tried to run, but Becky’s little foot flashed out and swept his legs out from under him.  She cracked her knuckles and laughed.  “Please don’t.” I cried.
   "Stop!” came a voice from the back of the gym.  It was Courtney, her notebook clasped to her chest, running toward us from the door to the shower room.  “Don’t do it Becky, you’ll go to jail!” Courtney pleaded.  “You have to let them go.”
   “They hit me with bats!” Becky protested.
   “Oh no!  Are you okay?” Courtney asked as she neared us.  Roy was lying in a pool of blood, but she didn't seem to care about that.
   “Of course I'm okay,” Becky giggled, turning to face my girlfriend.  “I’m pure, unadulterated girl power.  I’m invincible.”
   Courtney froze in her tracks, paralyzed at the sight of Becky’s rippling musculature and bountiful curves erupting out of the purple bra and panties.  Her eyes bugged out and her notebook fell to the floor.  Becky popped a big pink bubble with agonizing slowness as Courtney slumped to her knees, her breath growing heavier and heavier.  “Oh my God,” Courtney panted.
   “You mean Goddess,” Becky corrected, brushing a blonde lock of hair out of Courtney’s face.  “You four can go now,” she called over her bulging shoulder. “Tell the hospital that Roy got hit by a car or something.”
   We didn’t waste any time getting to our feet.  As I ran to the shower room, I looked back at Courtney.  She had draped her arms over Becky’s shoulders, and pressed her face into the freckled gulf of Becky’s cleavage.  “So big…” she cooed. “So soft…”

[Jeremy Lightning]

Another great couple of chapters, really loved what I read, especially the last chapter, where Becky showed insane amounts of toughness, muscle size, and strength! I mean she took baseball bat shots to her body without much damage at all, and while I've seen that before in stories, it still turns me on, but a guy hit her full force in the chin and she barely flinched! Of course it had to hurt her, since her face isn't full of muscle like the rest of her, but still, it didn't knock her out, it didn't really do more than just anger her, because she knew that she would have to do something that would put her back in jail, more than because of how it hurt her. Luckily for the other guys, Courtney came back into the story and stopped Becky before it could get too bad for them, but I'm loving this storyline just as much, if not more than the previous stories, Total Domination, and Portrait of a Young Valkyrie (which can no longer be seen on this site, because it involved Becky as being a 12 year old muscle beast, which is ideologically sensitive to some.) But because Becky is 18 here, this is a story for everyone, and I really hope there's a lot more to go. k+!

[grbaclig]

Chapter 6 – Breaking Up and Breaking Down

        It was an agonizing wait until Courtney’s parents went out of town.  All I could think about was Becky Finklestein hulking out of her clothes, laughing off swings of a baseball bat, and bending the steel rails of the weight bench like wire coat hangers.  But once I saw the O’Neal’s Chrysler LeBaron drive past my house and get onto the interstate, my sex drive took over and I was at Courtney’s house in a flash.  Courtney was waiting.  She let me in and kissed me, but like a little peck.  She didn’t seem to want me that bad, but I couldn’t wait to get her out of that sweatshirt and jeans.  I missed her body, and it looked like it had only gotten better during her semester of college prep.  It took me a long time to get to sleep that night.  “We need to talk,” she said.
        I about exploded.  “What do you mean by that?” I demanded.  I needed to get laid, and she wanted to talk.
        “I mean we need to talk about us, Greg,” she said, and went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee.  When did she start drinking coffee?
        “Since when did you start drinking coffee?”
        “Since about three months ago.”
        “So you went away to college prep for a few months and you came back all mature and we need to talk, huh?” I sneered.
        “That’s right,” she shot back.  “I changed a lot over the past few months, and I learned a lot about myself.  And one of the things I learned is that I don’t love you.”
        “Of course you do.”
        “I never did.”
        “Of course you did.  You always did.
        “I’m in love with someone else, Greg.”
        I flashed with anger.  “Who is he?” I demanded, jumping to my feet.  “I’ll kill him!”
        “It’s not a ‘he’ Greg.  It’s Becky.”
        My anger disappeared in a sea of laughter, but I pulled it together when I saw Courtney starting to cry.  She looked angry, so I had to take her seriously, or at least pretend to.  “Courtney I know you like muscles, and I know you’re feeling mixed up right now—“
        Courtney laughed and shook her head, mascara running down her cheeks.  “No Greg.  No.  This is the most certain of myself that I’ve been in a long time.”
        “Courtney—“
        “I always liked girls Greg.  I never wanted to admit it to anyone because I was ashamed. But now that I can admit it, I feel stronger, more in control more like myself.”
        “Courtney, you’re not a lesbian.”
        “Greg, remember how I told you that my first kiss was with Jimmy Harrison in third grade?  Well it wasn’t.  It was with his sister, Jenny.”
        “Courtney—“
        “I like girls, Greg.  I like tits and ass and pussy.”
        “Courtney, whatever you’re going through, I’ll stand by you.”
        “I’m not going through anything, Greg!” she snarled, setting the coffee cup down on the end table.  “I’m dumping you because I’m in love with Becky Finklestein.  And we fuck, Greg.  We’ve been fucking for a month, and she does things to me you could never do!”  I felt like I should be getting mad, but all I could think was that my mom was right about Courtney.  She wasn’t right in the head.  Courtney was really crying now, but she was smiling wildly, and she was grinding her thighs together.  “She’s perfect, Greg.  So big, so strong, so fast, so smart, so pretty...  Since the first time I saw her all I wanted to do was worship her and touch her body, suck on her tits, run my hands all over those muscles and feel the warmth of her power on my skin.” Courtney was crying and laughing at the same time.  She leaned toward me, her eyes flashing crazily.  “You can feel her power, Greg,” she said.  Digging her nails into my legs.  “When you touch her muscles, you can feel her heat and her power, and it makes you feel safe and strong like no one can hurt you.”
        “Courtney, you need help,” I said.  “My mom was right.  You’re unstable.”
        “No Greg.  You’ve felt it too,” Courtney insisted, standing up and pointing down at me.  “I can see it in your face. You felt her power.  You want her, too.”
        “No Courtney.  I do not want her.  © Saradass are about the grossest thing I can think of.”
        Courtney sobbed into her hands again.  “I hoped you would be proud of me,” she said.
        “Courtney-“
        “It would be nice if you at least respected me, Greg.”
        “Courtney-“
        “Our relationship was based on lies, Greg.  But I thought we were friends.  It would be nice to have your respect after all these years.”
        “What are you talking about?”
        And then, with tears still in her eyes, Courtney stood up and peeled off her sweatshirt and jeans.  She stood before me, hands on hips in tiny white panties accented with a tiny pink bow and a strapless white bustier bra with a matching pink bow, bent out of shape by the swelling of her big perky tits.  They must be double d’s now.  But it was hard to focus on Courtney’s on tits, because she had muscles.  Real muscles.  “I hoped you would be proud of me,” she said. 
Courtney O’Neal, my Courtney, was sporting long, lean muscles that were slim, angular and sharply defined.  She was sleek and lean like a predatory animal, with her abs, arms, and legs cut into muscle shapes that looked like they were carved from granite.  She looked dangerous.  “Three months…” I mumbled.
        “Yeah Greg.  Three months.  Three months to get this body.  I knew you would be shocked, but I hoped you would at least be proud of me.”
        I couldn't believe it.  Courtney had packed her curvy frame with lean sculpted muscles that would make an Olympic athlete turn green with envy, and she had done it in three months. “How?” I asked.
        “She taught me how Greg,” Courtney grinned, slinking over to me, the lean, steely curves of her newly hardened body dancing with every movement.  “You didn’t want to teach me how to lift weights, but I found a better teacher.  She taught me how to lift weights, and she taught me more about anatomy than I learned from any stupid textbook, and she finally got me to understand calculus.”
        “Courtney-“
        “She is everything to me, Greg!” Courtney screamed, tears streaming down her face.  Courtney’s nostrils were flaring, and her eyes were flashing with anger through the mask of her streaked mascara.  But she was laughing.  She looked crazy.  She looked dangerous.  “Stand up,” she said.
        I blinked.  Courtney walked into the center of the living room and put her hands on her hips, twisting her bare feet on the hardwood floor as he went through ballet positions, her shredded leg muscles rippling as she flowed gracefully from one to another.  I didn’t move.  “Stand! Up!” she shouted, dropping to the floor and slapping it with her hands, black tears dripping onto the polished wood.  “Stand up you pussy!”
        So I stood up, and so did Courtney.  She raised her fists, and lifted one knee slightly.  It looked like a martial arts stance, but she never would have had time learn martial arts in four months, what with her college prep and weight lifting.  “I’m not going to fight you, Courtney,” I said.
        Courtney smiled a horrible, leering smile.  “You don’t have a choice, Greg,” she growled.
        “I want to help you, Courtney.”
        “I want to hurt you, Greg.”
        I stood up and held my hands out.  “Courtney.  You need psychological help or you’re going to wind up in jail or on the streets or worse.”
        Courtney laughed.  “Greg I have muscles now, and I can protect myself.  I’m going to be valedictorian, and I’m going to be a doctor, and I’m going to be  rich, Greg.  I don’t need help from anyone.”
        “Courtney—“
        “I only need one thing Greg.  And that’s Becky.”  Courtney’s breath was heavy and erratic, and her muscles throbbed as her bosom bounced up and down with her sobbing and laughter.  “Now put your hands up so we can fight.”
        “Courtney—“
        Then Courtney punched me.  A quick, tight hook that hit me right in the ribs.  Courtney always had great reflexes and quick hands, and her punches were so fast I could barely see her swing.  Then she hit me in the ribs again.  And again.  I was getting angry, and I guess she could tell, because she leaned forward and put her face out.  “What’s the matter Rubber Chicken?” she taunted.  “Afraid to get beat up by a girl?  Again?”
        Out of anger, I took a swipe at her face, just to back her up.  But she didn’t back up.  Courtney expertly ducked under my arm and threw another hook into my ribs.  And then another in lightning succession.  They hurt.  I tried to push her back, but she spun away and slipped out of my range, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet and laughing at me.  “Come on, big man,” she called, pounding her fists against her chiseled pectorals with a heavy thud.  “Come over here so this little girl can show you what real muscles can do.”
        “Courtney—“
        “Are you scared of my new body, Greg?”
        “Courtney—“
        “You should be scared of my new body Greg.”
        “Courtney—“
        “Becky and I fucked on that couch last night, after my parents left.  She made me come more times in an hour than you have in the past four years.”  Now I was seeing red.  Courtney must’ve been able to tell, because she kept talking, leading me on.  “She made me quake with desire Greg.  You never made me quake with desire.” My hands were clenching into fists.  Courtney kept hopping, her big firm breasts bouncing heavily as she did.  And she kept talking.  “And you know what, Greg?  After I kick your ass, I’m going to find her and we’re going to fuck again.  We’re going to do things to each other that you can’t even imagine.”
I roared forward, throwing a huge overhand right at the girl that I love.   And she swatted my haymaker away with ease, showing the timing and precision of a trained fighter.  She laughed and rolled her eyes.  Then I felt her hands clasp behind my neck.  Then I saw the floor as she bent my head down.  Then I saw her muscle-cabled thigh rising up to my face.  Then I was on my back with blood spurting out of my mouth and nose.
        “By the way, I do Muay Thai kickboxing now, Greg,” Courtney said.  “I’m pretty good.”
        I pulled myself to my feet.  The knee to my face didn’t do any structural damage.  But it shocked me.  I was still shocked.  “Three months?” I wondered aloud as I stood up.
        “Yeah Greg, three months.  Three months to turn my boring little all-American cheerleader body into a killing machine.”
        I couldn't believe it.  Courtney had packed her curvy frame with lean sculpted muscles that would make an Olympic athlete turn green with envy, and she had learned to kickbox, and she done it in three months. While taking college prep courses.  “How?” I asked.
        “You know me Greg.  I have willpower.  When I set my mind to something it gets done.”
        Then Courtney landed another hook in my ribs, but I was ready, and launched a counterpunch.  Which Courtney deflected before it got halfway close to her.  She answered instantly with jab that snapped my head back.  And then a high kick that would have taken my head off if her punch hadn’t buckled my knees and made me stoop.  “You just got sooooo lucky,” she laughed.  "I can break cinder blocks with my kicks, Greg.  Lots of cinder blocks."
        I tried punching, I tried dodging, I tried blocking.  But Courtney’s fists, elbows, knees and feet were everywhere.  No matter where I turned or ran, I got hit with one of her technically perfect strikes.  She threaded her punches through my blocks, and her kicks were waiting for me when I dodged.  She was like a tornado of laughter, tears and bouncing tits.  And pain. 
        For most of the fight, the only thing keeping me on my feet was Courtney.  I would fall to one knee, and she would hoist me up again with her sinewy arms.  And then knock me back down.  A referee would have stopped the fight after the first knee to the face, or the first time she bent one of my punches back and countered with an elbow.  Or when she caught my fist in midair and laughed at me.  Finally I landed a lucky punch, a big sweeping hook that crashed into Courtney’s obliques and ribs.  She buckled. 
        I had stopped cold when my punch landed.  I expected Courtney to drop to the ground screaming. But she straightened up, laughing.  “Uh-oh Greg!” she cackled maniacally.  “Uh-oh Greg!  Looks like I’m a lot stronger than you, Greg!  I barely felt that!”
        I was dripping blood all over the living room floor, but Courtney was just starting to break a sweat.  The glistening of her hard angular body as her impressive bosom heaved in her bra was both frightening and arousing.  She was like Bruce Lee and Loni Anderson rolled into one.  I didn’t want to fight her, even when I thought I could beat her.  Now I was afraid she was going to kill me.  “Courtney, please. “ I pleaded. 
        “What’s that Greg?” she jeered.  “Courtney please?  Courtney please what? Courtney please show me how to throw a real punch? “
        “Courtney—“
        “Okay, I will.  Since you asked nicely.”
        I covered up my left side, but she went right, driving her girly little fist into my ribs.  It exploded like dynamite, and I crumbled to the ground.  She had beaten me so badly that my entire body hurt.  She had landed dozens of picture-perfect, muscle-powered strikes in less than five minutes, one after another in an unceasing volley, covering me with bruises and welts.  I was wheezing and coughing up blood.  Courtney dropped out of her fighting stance when she saw me splayed out on the living room floor.  She changed her focus from taunting me to praising her reflection in the living room mirror.  I stared up at her as she began to flex her pectorals, making the soft creamy flesh of her pillowy breasts jiggle in their lacy white restraint.  “I can’t believe he doesn’t like girls with muscles,” she said to her reflection.  “I am fucking hot.” 
        Courtney untied her ponytail and tied her golden tresses up above her head shifting back and forth as she did, to admire the chiseled ribs and abs that had just seconds ago deflected the hardest  punch I had ever thrown in my life.  I didn’t even leave a red mark.  Courtney and I had been together for years.  She always did what I said, and she was always half my size.  Then she met Becky Finklestein.  And now she was the psychotic, muscular, coffee-drinking, sex-crazed lesbian that stood over me, glorying in her own sculpted physique.  “I am going to drive the girls wild with this body,” she laughed, popping her peaked biceps and kissing them, one at a time.  “I’m going to have all the tits I can squeeze and all the pussy I can eat.  And you know what? I think I look hot with mascara running down my cheeks.”
        “I agree,” called a voice from behind us.
        “Who the hell are you?” Courtney demanded, springing back into her fighting stance.
        “I’m Dr. Rachel Finklestein,” the voice answered.  “I’m Becky’s mother.  And you must be Courtney.  Your rear foot needs to be at a slightly more obtuse angle, by the way.  It gives you more power in your punches.”  Rachel walked around to examine me.  She was the most beautiful woman that I had ever seen in my life.  She had fine features, full lips, perfectly coiffed brown hair, and perfectly tanned skin.  Her gigantic breasts were visible in the neckline of her trench coat as she bent over to examine me.  “Although whatever you’re doing seems to be working,” she said with a smile.
        Rachel walked back to Courtney, who was still in her stance.  “How long have you been there, lady?”  Courtney demanded.
        “Long enough,” Rachel said, looking Courtney up and down.  “Your strikes flowed together beautifully.  You were relentless. ”
        “What do you want?” Courtney demanded through gritted teeth.
        “And disciplined.  You could have killed him a dozen times if you weren’t pulling your punches and giving him time to block and dodge.”
        Pulling punches?  Giving me time to dodge?  Did she say Courtney was holding back?  I looked at her.  The pretty, bubbly little A-student that used to be head over heels in love with me was now a girl-crazy madwoman, bulging with perfectly honed muscle and streaked with mascara from bouts of hysterical crying and manic laughter.  She looked dangerous.  Seriously dangerous.  I don’t think she could hold back if she wanted to.  “Lady, if you don’t tell me what you’re doing here, I’m going to break you in half,” Courtney said.
        “I came to see the young woman that my daughter described as the prettiest girl in town,” Rachel smiled.  “I expected you to be beautiful, but I didn’t expect you to be so… remarkable.”
        Courtney blushed, but she was still on her guard.  “What do you really want?” she demanded.  “You’re running out of time.”
        Rachel smirked and walked around a bit, examining the O’Neal’s house.  “Becky isn’t a normal girl, Courtney.  She’s… remarkable as well.  Frustratingly so, at times.  I have to make sure that her social relationships don’t get out of hand.”
        Courtney looked embarrassed.  “You have to protect your daughter, I understand,” Courtney said.
        Rachel laughed.  “What?  No, dear.  I don’t have to protect Becky from strangers.  I have to protect strangers from Becky.  She has an effect on people that she doesn’t understand at her age.  Now put that leg down before I bend it over your head.”  Rachel sauntered up to Courtney and brushed some drops of my blood from her face and smiled.  “And if you’re good, I’ll let you bend that leg over my head.”  Courtney blushed. Her nipples were hardening visibly under her bra.  “How old are you, Courtney?” Rachel asked, squeezing Courtney’s muscle-capped shoulders and nodding with approval.
        “I’m eighteen,” Courtney said, clumsily staring down the neckline of Rachel’s trench coat, apparently mesmerized by the older woman’s massive golden brown breasts.
        Rachel put her finger under Courtney’s chin and drew her face up until their eyes met.  “Courtney, you’re not just saying that because eighteen is the age of consent in this state and you want to squeeze my tits and eat my pussy?”
        “No…”  Courtney said, glassy-eyed and lips trembling.
        “No you’re not lying about your age, or no you don’t want to squeeze my tits and eat my pussy?”
        “I’m… not lying about my age...”
        “Do you want to squeeze my tits and eat my pussy?”
        “Oh God yes,” Courtney panted.
        “You mean Goddess,” Rachel corrected, and casually let her coat drop to the floor.  She was wearing red high heels, a pearl necklace, and nothing else.  She was incredible.  Her breasts and buttocks were unbelievably round and firm, and her waist was impossibly slim.  She was lean and muscular like Courtney, but with curves that even Courtney couldn’t compete with.  And my God her breasts perfect.  Huge and firm and standing at attention as she smiled at Courtney.  “Kiss me,” she ordered.
        Courtney threw herself at the older woman with a scream, but Rachel caught her around the arms.  Courtney winced as Rachel held her off the ground by her elbows.  It would have been an impressive feat of strength for any other woman, but after all, but it’s about what I would expect from Becky Finklestein’s mother.  “Not like that,” Rachel said.  “Not like some overeager animal.  Put your arms around my waist, draw yourself close to me, and kiss me.  And try not to stare at my breasts.”
        Courtney did as she was told.  And when her lips met Rachel’s I saw Courtney’s eyes bug out wide.  She squealed and her body went rigid, and then collapsed.  Dr. Rachel Finklestein had brought my girlfriend to orgasm with a peck on the lips, and she now bore the weight of Courtney’s body easily in her sculpted arms, with her hands cupped under Courtney’s rock-hard buttocks.  She carried Courtney to the couch and laid her down, standing over her, their legs intertwined.  Courtney was dripping with sweat and gasping for air.  “Oh… fuck… me…” she moaned in exasperation.
        “Oh I will,” Rachel purred.  “In so many ways.”  Courtney arched her back and her midsection rippled with rock hard muscle as she began to grind her hips against Rachel Finklestein’s shapely thighs.  Rachel stroked the muscle-wrapped thighs approvingly.  “But we have to be careful, Courtney.  Much like your Muay Thai skills aren’t nearly refined enough to compete with a world-class fighter, like myself for instance, your sexual skills aren’t nearly refined enough to withstand the passions of a world-class lover.  Like myself for instance.”
        Courtney bit her little finger.  “Teach me,” she pleaded, batting her eyelashes.
        “A busty eighteen year old muscle girl asking me to teach her about female sexuality?” Rachel smiled.  “It must be my lucky day. “
        “I want your tits in my mouth,” Courtney moaned.
        “Your flirting is a bit unrefined, Courtney.”
        "In my mouth!" Courtney screamed like a madwoman and curled her torso upward. 
        Rachel’s eyes lit up with desire as Courtney’s abs rippled with incredible hardness.  The young blonde grabbed the older woman’s breasts, her alabaster hands disappearing into the mounds of perfectly tanned flesh.  “You certainly attack your goals with gusto, Courtney,” Rachel laughed.
        Courtney smooshed Rachel’s jugs together, pointing the huge brown nipples inward.  And in a split second, those huge brown nipples were in Courtney’s mouth.  Courtney moaned and growled as she sucked and licked like a wild animal.  I had never seen this side of Courtney, even though I tried constantly to bring it out.  Dr. Rachel Finklestein had turned her into a sex-crazed maniac in a few seconds.
        Rachel purred, but she pressed Courtney away with one index finger against each muscled shoulder.  Courtney’s lithe and powerful core muscles strained, but Rachel held her back with smug ease.  “Courtney, please.  What if your slave boy sees us and learns a trick or two?  You don't want to do something that might benefit a male do you?”
        “I don't care.  I need your tits in my mouth now,” Courtney gasped.  “I need them.”
        “What did I tell you about your flirting, dear?  So unseemly.”
        “I want your pussy on my face!” Courtney screamed, still straining against Rachel’s fingertips, black tears of mascara running down her face.
        “Such enthusiasm,” Rachel said, standing up and throwing Courtney over her shoulder.  Courtney looked up at me as she receded down the hallway.  “Greg we’re breaking up, it’s not you it’s me,” she called as she groped at Rachel Finklestein’s sculpted curves.
        For the next few hours I lay motionless on the floor, my body screaming with pain while just a few feet away Courtney screamed with pleasure.